Charlotte seemed quite pleased to have Elizabeth visit (if she was not, she put on a decent air of welcome despite it). When last they saw each other, Elizabeth had still been in the throes of those conflicting humours of new mothers which were largely comprised of fatigue and unmitigated joy (with a dollop of self-disgust and a dash of pique). There were so many callers, they had little private conversation. Of her friends, Charlotte had seemed to be least influenced by her elevation in station. (To not have to suffer toadying or snobbery was a considerable relief.) Their discourses had remained those easy chats of their girlhood, with Elizabeth largely unwitting that Charlotte’s regard of her had been wavering between pity and resentment.
This day had begun no differently. Indeed, their conversation was garnished by a few speculations that could be considered gossipry. Primarily amongst these conjectures were those that often surrounded the death of the well-born such as Lady Anne. An alteration in a household always meant an alteration in servants. Speculating upon which servants would receive their dismissals and which would obtain a legacy entertained not only those amongst the staff, but the community in general. Upon this occasion, conjecture did not favour Mrs. Jenkinson. This talk of Lady Anne’s passing, however, reminded Charlotte of a particular point of unhappiness.
“That churchyard is a compleat disgrace,” she exclaimed before Elizabeth had taken a bite of her sweet-cake. “It is inexcusable of Mr. Pratt to ignore it so. It certainly was better cared for when Mr. Collins saw to it.”
In that single sentence, Charlotte answered several of Elizabeth’s questions. She was certain Mr. Pratt neglected nothing that Lady Catherine did not approve. She also saw that it was folly to entertain the hope that the new vicar might replace the old in ways other than in the pulpit. Charlotte clearly kept notice of his failings. That was more the pity, for Elizabeth had never quite given up hope that one day she might find happiness. Eventually Elizabeth would learn that certain souls did not seek happiness, but merely to be left to themselves. Regrettably for Charlotte, every step she took in the direction of peaceful seclusion gifted her too towards relentless torment.
“Our vicar does not like his cottage and envies me ours,” Charlotte said with satisfaction; “they are identical but for the improvements I have made.”
Elizabeth was happy she had not brought up the subject of the vicar. He seemed to be a sore spot with her. She did not want to irritate her unduly. Charlotte was not only thin, she was very nearly emaciated. She had a haggard look about the eyes that Elizabeth had seen the beginnings of at Pemberley. At the time, she had attributed it to her being a notoriously poor traveller. However, the true source of this emaciation was revealed not a quarter hour into their visit.
As Charlotte had kindly inquired of their health, Elizabeth was happy to relate the latest antics of her toddlers. She had just begun her account of them when Chauncey Charlemagne Collins marched into the parlour, picked up a miniature trumpet and stood before his mother and let loose with a sputtering blatt into his mother’s face. Even in the face of what she had witnessed of him previously, this impudence stunned Elizabeth—but only by half of what was to follow.
He threw down his instrument and commenced to stomp his feet and simultaneously scream at such an ear-piercing level that Elizabeth was forced to cover her ears. Charlotte neither attempted to correct nor to chastise Chauncey. Indeed, an expression of defeat overspread her countenance. Chauncey then betook his considerable bulk upon her lap and began to unbutton the buttons adorning her bodice with his chubby little fingers. Ignoring the intrusion of her person, Charlotte sat with a mortified expression upon her countenance whilst he exposed her breast and began to suckle. She took her shawl and tossed the end of it across her child and exposed breast, but he refused it, swatting it away without interruption of his feeding.
“Perhaps I shall return at a more convenient time,” said Elizabeth, rising to go.
“No,” said Charlotte, “please stay.”
She spoke mildly, but behind her eyes was a plea. It was heartwrenching to Elizabeth, and she could not deny her.
Charlotte attempted to explain her son’s effrontery. “His dinnertime is half-past two. He can be very determined.”
“Yes,” agreed Elizabeth.
It was unfortunate that in avoiding Lady Catherine’s table, she had intruded upon Chauncey’s. In smaller cottages, she knew well the inhabitants were more dedicated to the noon hour for their midday meal. She was not pleased to have imposed upon Charlotte. Her imposition was not, however, Charlotte’s worst. That had to have been the behemoth of a child perched upon her lap. Elizabeth certainly could have weathered the child’s temper and ill manners, for he was but five years old. Many sins could be forgiven in so young a child. She had made a point of not criticising another’s child lest her own children’s misbehaviour be fodder in return (if, indeed, they were ever to misbehave). It had been her observation that she and Darcy were like every other parent who sits about watching their children’s antics and fancy themselves delighted. Charlotte, however, did not appear delighted whatsoever. She looked to be afraid and drained—literally. Chauncey’s enormous bottom covered Charlotte’s diminishing lap, his feet nearly reached the floor. It reminded Elizabeth of the cuckoo-bird she had read about in one of her father’s wildlife volumes. The mother cuckoo would lay an egg in a sparrow’s nest and when the enormous cuckoo baby hatched, it shoved all the other sparrow eggs out of the nest and the poor mother sparrow would drive herself to an early death feeding the huge and demanding cuckoo baby. Elizabeth looked at Chauncey and all she could see was a huge pin-feathered cuckoo baby—bearing Mr. Collins’s countenance. She was all but sickened. She simply could not leave without making some effort to save poor Charlotte, not from Chauncey but from herself.
“Have you considered weaning?” Elizabeth ventured.
“Oh, no, I could never do that,” she exclaimed with no little vehemence. “I could not bear the poor child’s disappointment if I were to deny him.”
“I see,” replied Elizabeth, and surely she did see.
“I must take my leave,” she announced, rising. “I must ready myself to return to my own children.”
Suddenly, that desire became ever more intense. Her own circumstances, not those of wealth, but of those riches of the heart—a loving (if occasionally maddening) husband and adored children—made her extraordinarily blessed. It was a bittersweet observation in the face of Charlotte’s unappetising lot. Charlotte always had been a bit of an odd duck; pragmatic, but kind. It had always been her desire for nothing more than a comfortable home. She had to believe that Charlotte now saw that to be needed could be a satisfaction in and of itself.
“Please, Lizzy, do not take your leave before you see my new gander,” she begged. “Chauncey, be a good little man for Mama now. We must show Mama’s friend our lovely poultry house.”
Remarkably, Chauncey immediately released his mother’s teat and arched his back and slid to the floor, wriggling like a happy puppy. He took Elizabeth’s hand, calling out some unintelligible instructions. Elizabeth allowed herself to be towed outside. It was there in the sunlight, carefully making her way amongst the fowl that Elizabeth was able to lose a little of the uneasiness of her visit. A tour of Charlotte’s handsome garden, boasting hollyhocks and daffodils, still did not allow her to forget her mind’s-eye picture of mother and son.
“I hope you can forgive my interference, Charlotte, for you have been a mother longer than I have,” she said. “But you must know that your son must be weaned sooner or later. If you do not soon, you may be forced to sit on his lap to nurse him.”
Elizabeth smiled, hoping that her little jest would soften her criticism. Charlotte did not exactly return the smile, but she did not appear offended. Indeed, as Chauncey ran wildly about the garden after a rabbit loose from its hutch, she nodded as if to accept the truth of Elizabeth’s observation.
“His school-mates, no doubt, would be unforgiving.” Elizabeth laughed as well, but she hoped her point was not lost on Charlotte.
“You are right, Lizzy, but sometimes,” Charlotte said quietly, “the need to be needed is very strong.”
Elizabeth said, “Sometimes the greatest gift that we can give our children is to teach them not to need us.”
At first Charlotte appeared alarmed at the notion. Presently, her expression softened. Before she could respond, Chauncey ran to her, crying that the rabbit had escaped through the hedge.
Elizabeth bid them good-bye and gave Charlotte an especially generous kiss. She returned to Rosings with renewed hope that Charlotte’s spirit would rally.
She had but gained the postern when she was met by Lady Catherine’s servant with a letter in his hand, much as had been handed to Darcy earlier. She took it more eagerly than she intended, hoping to see it from Bingley. She had already begun to compose in her head the anticipated contents—it was all a mistake, all was well, Darcy need not come, Bingley is not ruined. Once she had it in her hand, she attempted to mimic her husband’s nonchalance as she took the stairs, but her excitement made her hurry the last few steps. To have Jane’s house saved and her husband returned made her very nearly euphoric. When she gained her room, however, her mood altered decidedly.
This letter too was marked “urgent.” It was not, however, directed to Darcy, but to her. It was not from Bingley.
It was from Lydia.
***
When the black-edged missive arrived announcing the death of Mr. Darcy’s cousin, Major Hugh Kneebone insisted they impose upon the Darcys’ hospitality no longer. Lydia was disappointed, but she allowed her new husband to inveigle her to return to London in the very fine equipage sporting the very fine livery of Pemberley. Under those particular circumstances, she was happy to return to what her new life as Mrs. Kneebone had to offer. A house in Chelsea, courtesy of his aunt, was a very good enticement.
“I shall regret leaving the apartments afforded us there,” Lydia recollected upon the road back to London. “The prospect from my window was quite pleasing!”
Major Kneebone ducked his head slightly and reddened, mildly mortified at his wife’s ribaldry. Her high spirits had intrigued him from the very beginning—it would be unfair to expect other of her after he had made her his wife. The prospect of which she spoke betokened a particular statue of a nude male. He was uncertain of the sculptor, but it was an excellent rendering. The artistry, however, was lost upon his dear wife. She could but point and titter. In fortune, such silliness imbued Lydia with an impish voluptuousness that requited his every marital hope.
The Darcys were fine, fine people. Like the Gardiners, he saw that Lydia’s kin were of the best sort. Why Lydia did not think she could have found assistance from such a well-placed sister could only have been attributed to sweet Lydia’s desire not to be a burden to her kin. Lydia’s unselfish devotion to her family was commendable. She had been excessively unhappy to leave her mother. There was an impenetrable bond between them that a mere man could never fathom. It was a beautiful thing to see. Mrs. Bennet could occasionally be a tad…high-strung, but her likeness was so very similar to his adorable new wife, he could but love her in the same measure as he did his dearest Lydia. One day, perhaps, life would be so kind as to have that lovely woman come live in his home, thus allowing him to enjoy both their lovely smiles each day. He smiled even then as he thought of it.
He rapped lightly up the roof of the coach. “Hurry on, sir! Our new abode awaits!”
By the time Major Kneebone introduced his lovely bride and her infant daughter to their new home, they were so weary from their travels, they were ready to take their rest. First, however, Lydia had to admire every room and every accoutrement therein. Whilst she enjoyed them all, Kneebone withdrew to the nearest bell-pull to call for tea. However, sitting in (appropriately) their sitting room was a guest. Major Kneebone had thought to have a housekeeper open the windows and place fresh flowers to welcome them home. But he had given no instructions as to allowing admittance to any manner of unknown persons. As Lydia went trilling about, Major Kneebone introduced himself to his caller. Major Kneebone was unalarmed, for he could see by the cut of his coat and the leather of his boots that the visitor was clearly a gentleman.
The caller stood, then bowed with exquisite form. Before he had opportunity to introduce himself, however, Lydia did it for him.
She also shrieked, then fell to the floor in her first bona fide swoon—just after she uttered the invective, “Wickham!”
75
Motherless Child
Lying in an unfamiliar bed under the eye of servants wholly unknown to her, Georgiana was a bit out of sorts. The doctor had given instructions for her to lie flat, and under no circumstances was she to attempt to rise.
“Simpleton,” she accused him silently, her emotions were far too stirred to lie still.
Indeed, she was thoroughly exasperated with the worthy doctor. Dearest Elizabeth had been of far greater service to her during her labour than the intestinally compromised Dr. Brumfitt. They had both been astonished that Lady Catherine had allowed him to return to her premises in that Lady Anne’s care had been less than a stellar success. (Indeed, understanding Lady Catherine’s temperament, it was an astonishment he had not been hung from a gibbet upon the nearest crossing.) The more Georgiana thought of him, the more indignant she became over his incompetence. Any country midwife would have been preferable. Indeed, he had been as useless as—what was that crude expression farmers use? Oh, yes—more useless than teats on a boar.
She laughed inwardly at the thought of what her gentlemanly husband might say if he were witting that she had even heard such a coarse term, much less employed it. So far as she was concerned, he would never learn of it. She could never affront his sensibilities in that manner. There were strict rules for a lady’s comportment. She knew them well. Indeed, at one time, those rules were the guiding force of her life. She clung to them when she had no will of her own. Having thrown off that yoke so thoroughly (she considered herself to have been to the wars as certainly as any soldier), she wondered if she would ever be happy again with calm country pursuits and amusements. Although she fully intended to retain her respectability with all due diligence—for both her husband’s and her brother’s sakes—she knew it would be an impossibility for her to compleatly abandon her interest in the healing arts.
Because of that interest, Georgiana had been more keenly attentive to the particulars of Lady Anne’s demise than the average curiosity seeker. However, her own unexpected accouchement had not allowed her to learn just what led to Lady Anne’s passing. It was the general consensus that Anne fell victim to what most frequently took a mother’s life during childbirth—that of bleeding out. It grieved her that she had not been by her cousin’s side to suggest to the surgeon the application of cobwebs, for they were known to have a coalescing effect.
Indeed, her remedies were many and now that she had been enfolded into the exclusive league of ladies who had experienced childbirth, Georgiana was thrilled to know that she too could attend the labour of others. A surgeon with his dirty hands and brusque manner would be rendered unnecessary. She knew not which blessing she admired most—loving husband, beautiful daughter, or the future good she would do. She could not have been more delighted had she had another book accepted for publication. Even then, she was fast on the subject of her next piece of writing. After her marriage, she had largely abandoned her fledgling writing career. At one time literary composition had been her most comforting pursuit. Of late, she had found other, more gratifying means of satisfaction. But she thought in due time she might want to explore the possibility of a work incorporating two of her great loves—writing and the curatives.
“Perhaps a treatise upo
n the Therapeutic Advantage of Bloodletting,” she mused, “published under a pseudonym, of course.”
“My dearest,” said Fitzwilliam, “you have awakened.”
Georgiana only then realised that her husband sat in a side-chair just beyond her reach. As Fitzwilliam rose and approached the bed, so did a nurse bearing her freshly arranged newborn. Georgiana attempted to raise herself upon her pillows, but two servitors hurried forth and plumped them for her. As soon as she was situated with her daughter tucked in the crook of her arm, Fitzwilliam inched forward so as not to miss a moment of the presentation.
As the baby squirmed and threatened to cry, Fitzwilliam leaned over and kissed the single ginger curl that protruded from her tiny cap.
“I daresay, Darcy, I know not who is more beautiful—my wife or my daughter.”
Darcy had entered the room, but remained near the door as if to protect the couple from his intrusion. History had instructed him that this was to be a moment of uncommon intimacy for them. Georgiana, however, spied him there and held out her hand to him. Only then did he walk forward and take it, kissing her knuckles. For a moment, his countenance was threatened. But he quickly reclaimed himself.
Said he, looking upon the tiny bundle she held, “It appears, my dear sister, that search beneath the gooseberry bush was a great success.”
As all three had been told at one time or another that beneath the gooseberry bush was where babies came from, both she and Fitzwilliam laughed appreciatively—both at the nature of the jest and that her staid brother attempted to make one.
“If you can possibly spare me,” Darcy continued, “I must away briefly to London.”
Georgiana was busy fussing with the baby and acquiesced to her brother’s departure with a smile. Fitzwilliam, however, rose and accompanied him to the door, curious as to what urgency might have precipitated such an abrupt departure.
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