“We must await his answer,” Elizabeth said.
Lydia turned and walked away. The little nurse was standing by the doorway holding the baby. To the girl’s astonishment, Lydia took her daughter from her, pressed her to her breast, and carried her into the sitting room. The girl looked directly at Elizabeth. Neither quit the gaze.
At last Elizabeth asked, “Pray, do I know you?”
“No ma’am,” Sally answered, then seeing her opening, said, “not exactly.”
83
A Turn or Two
The little servant girl with the searching eyes had quite a tale to tell.
It seemed that the Darcys had sorely underestimated the extent of behindhand prattle that came in the aftermath of war. It not only traversed Derbyshire, it made its way to London and beyond. Hence Sally had been very much upon his trail when her path crossed Wickham’s.
When the Darcys supposed that only they were privy to the heinous crimes of George Wickham, they were greatly mistaken. As much as those within the inner circle of their servitors dedicated themselves to maintaining their privacy and abhorred its betrayal, those in more distant positions were not so circumspect. Indeed, the greater the distance, the more injudicious the talk. There may have been only whispers, but they were pervasive.
Much of the talk was birthed in the field hospital in Belgium where Mr. Darcy’s scruples called upon him to aid the wretched wounded as a stretcher-bearer. Whilst initially it was only a matter of curiosity who the tall, aristocratic man was, once one was privy to it, so was every other soldier (at least those whose wounds bade them sensible enough to be told). To have a man such as Mr. Darcy labouring as a stretcher-bearer had been a fine sight indeed, and it arrested the attention of any number of onlookers. The member of Wickham’s command with whom Mr. Darcy spoke in that hospital recognised not only that Mr. Darcy was a man of some means, he knew in what county those means largely existed.
The grenadier who was important enough for Mr. Darcy to comfort became equally memorable. Both names were murmured from one end of the hospital to the other. Upon the return of those surviving soldiers to their home counties, those names were repeated. The means by which the young grenadier John Christie received his wound were recounted and the name of the officer responsible were hissed from one person to the next. These soldiers who surrounded the young grenadier—those near enough and alert enough to be privy to the tale—were not officers. The few men of rank wounded were sequestered upon the far wall, away from the riff-raff which comprised the enlisted men. Hence, the disgrace Major Wickham employed in service to his king remained unknown to those who might take legal interest in such an occurrence. There was but one man who knew both who Mr. Darcy was and heard what John Christie said of his commanding officer. That man was not inclined to speak publicly—far too many men who reported such misdeeds came under undue inspection by the authorities. He spoke his mind in more than one ale-house, but no more.
That man had been but one of many who despised the act but thought little of that oversight, for it was the way of the world. It was only one of the more conspicuous injuries done to the working man by those who comprised their betters in the established order. Indeed, word of such a crime as Major Wickham’s only served to inflame the perturbable masses. What Sally learnt from stealing away to the Darcys’ stables was only a slight variation of the truth. (Even the high-born believed any story worth retelling had to take a bend or two.) It had enough authenticity to redirect Sally’s quest from finding her brother to finding his killer and seeing that if the law did not exact vengeance upon her brother’s behalf, she would. The only thing that stood in her way was the question of whether that officer was killed in battle or had deserted, as some had said.
Sally had always been quick to make friends and that trait served her well at the Pemberley stables. In that she had only brief periods of time to escape Lydia’s watch, it was remarkable that she found Edward Hardin’s wife with such ease. It had been even more astonishing to Sally that when she told Mrs. Hardin that her brother’s name was John Christie, that lady scooped her into her arms and hugged her to her generous bosom.
“I loved that boy as if ’e were my own,” she said.
Hearing that such a kind woman had looked after her brother made Sally all but cry with pleasure.
“Law’, now, gerl,” Mrs. Hardin said, “he was a fine lad. You can be proud.”
That her pride could be extended to her brother’s induction into the grenadiers was added pleasure. That he had given all he had to give to the king upon the field of battle was not. She was not altogether surprised. Not receiving another letter after his deployment made clear his fate. The particulars Mrs. Hardin whispered were of grave importance to her. But these came not in buckets, but in a trickle. With each creep down to Mrs. Hardin’s kitchen, more of her brother’s situation fell apparent.
Learning that her mother had actually once worked as a maid at Pemberley was one of the first surprises—she had always thought it was one of her mother’s tales. Sally explained that John was but her half-brother, but of this Mrs. Hardin seemed already aware.
Mrs. Hardin was shelling a bowl of peas with precision as she talked, expertly inserting her thumbnail into the pods, evicting the peas from their snug home and into her dish.
“Here, gerl,” she said, “make yerself useful.”
Grasping a handful of peas, she dropped them into Sally’s lap. Sally had never shelled peas, but she was observant and caught on in a hurry.
“Your mama worked at Pemberley, did ye know that?”
“Nay,” replied Sally, “I would think that if I worked in such a fine house I would never want to leave it.”
Mr. Hardin looked at her carefully, gauging her words.
“Do you know your brother’s pa?” she asked cautiously.
“I only know that my mama weren’t married to him,” she answered straightforwardly.
Mrs. Hardin barely recalled the events that she related, but filled the holes in her memory as best she could. She was far too loyal to her husband’s employer to pass on those allegations of a youthful dalliance with Abigail that had taken on a life of their own after her death. Word filtered back from the Continent that Mr. Darcy had sat bedside of John Christie’s dying body, enough for some of those in Pemberley’s service to surmise that their connection was of a particular kind. But the Hardins knew better. The last housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds, had put that fallacy to rest for good. Had Sally arrived a twelve-month before, she might have heard a far different story than she did. Because whilst Mrs. Reynolds had squelched that earlier rumour, she had confirmed another upon her deathbed. For those who nursed Mrs. Reynolds in her last hours were privy to that woman’s revelation to Mr. Darcy regarding George Wickham’s paternity. That was one bit of information that Mrs. Hardin thought twice about sharing. At last, her loyalty to the boy whom she had thought of as a son bade her tell his thoughtful sister what was thought to be the truth of his death. She related it in detail, not omitting Mr. Darcy’s overseeing his final hours.
Hence, before Sally left the Hardins’ kitchen, she had obtained a great deal of intelligence. That it all dawned upon her slowly did not make the absorbing of it any less painful. But once she accepted that her brother was dead—killed by Major George Wickham in the act of that devil’s desertion, the rest was only a means to what ends she sought. She knew her brother’s murderer was George Wickham and that he was Mrs. Darcy’s brother-in-law. Mr. Darcy comforted her brother on his deathbed. Mrs. Darcy’s sister, Mrs. Wickham, abided with her uncle, Mr. Gardiner, in Cheapside until her marriage to Major Kneebone. Major Wickham was said to be both dead and a deserter.
“Anybody who knows that scoundrel don’t think for a minute he didn’t run when the fightin’ heated up,” observed Mrs. Hardin.
Sally had but caught a glimpse of Mr. Darcy at Pemberley. She could only tell that h
e was a proud man, given to prideful ways, but she would have liked to shake his hand.
Then, quite without warning, Sally found herself under the same roof as her brother’s murderer. She did not know if it was a boon or not that she had been unaware of it until after the fact. Everyone was in such an uproar, she fancied that she could have leapt upon him and garrotted him before anyone could stop her. It was her intention to take the retribution against Wickham that the army had not. She was still uncertain whether his family actually knew of this Wickham’s deeds. Clearly, Mrs. Kneebone was not witting of the talk. (It was clear she was not because everything she knew and then some came out of that lady’s mouth.)
When her eyes had met with Mrs. Darcy’s that day due to Mrs. Kneebone’s unprecedented claiming of her daughter, Sally truly did not know what to do.
Mrs. Darcy took her aside, asking, “Pray, what is our connection?”
“My brother’s name is—was John Christie.”
With that correction, an expression of sympathy overspread the lady’s face. She first put her hand upon Sally’s shoulder, squeezing it in gentle comfort. But as the first tears that she had shed for her brother since learning of his fate began to pool in her eyes, Mrs. Darcy drew her into her embrace.
“There, there,” was all she said.
In a moment, Sally made herself hush. Mrs. Darcy released her and she stood back.
“He was very brave,” said Mrs. Darcy.
“I don’t know ’bout that,” said Sally, “but I do know that he was murdered by Major Wickham.”
It seemed like the right time to tell all she knew, and discover in return what his kin knew. Mrs. Darcy’s countenance only registered enough surprise to suggest that what had taken her aback was not what she knew, but that she knew it.
“I don’t think Mrs. Kneebone knows that. What say you?” Sally asked with a plain-spokenness unaccustomed by gentlefolk.
“No,” Mrs. Darcy answered. “I know that she does not.”
“I aim to kill ’im,” Sally said, “bein’ as no one else seems inclined to.”
Mrs. Darcy was mildly taken aback once again, but regained her composure quickly. “Not that I disapprove of that man being held accountable for his misdeeds, but I think it best that we leave retribution to the courts.”
“Don’t treat me like I don’t know nothin’, ma’am,” Sally told her bitterly, then thought to add, “beggin’ yer pardon.”
“I did not mean to speak to you with condescension, but I do not withdraw my advice,” said Elizabeth.
“I shouldn’t be meddlin’ in rich men’s affairs, eh?”
Sally knew that she had stepped over a line that few crossed without reproof. She would have jutted her chin in pure stubbornness, but Mrs. Darcy was too kind to insult her. She had to remind herself that she was not in Seven Dials and there were manners to be observed. She knew it was possible that she would be dismissed, but as she had located Major Wickham, Mrs. Kneebone’s temper was not a particular inducement to stay.
“Can you remain at the ready?” asked Mrs. Darcy. “The limb of the law may need your assistance.”
Suddenly, acting as Mrs. Darcy’s accomplice seemed the most important task imaginable. Sally set her vengeance aside—for the moment.
84
The Piper’s Wages
“I am aghast!” exclaimed Jane. “I am aghast, distressed, and vexed.”
Such a pronouncement from his gentle wife was of a sort Bingley had hoped never to hear. But in truth he supposed keeping their imminent ruin a confidence from her was not altogether wise. In his defence, he had kept his financial failings from her not to protect himself, but her. Jane, however, was incensed (or the closest expression of pique of which she was capable).
“Charles, how could you?”
“I did not want to cause you worry,” he explained.
It was a dicey business, protecting his wife’s sensibilities. She despised few things, but being denied the opportunity to assist another in any of life’s travails was amongst them. Bingley looked pleadingly at Darcy, who in return raised his eyebrows in an expression that was both commiserative and an indication of a reluctance to be drawn into what some might describe as marital discord. He had been called urgently from his cousin’s funeral to Bingley’s side for two reasons—both of equal distress to Bingley. The first was to help him salvage some part of his fortune and the other was to stand by him whilst he apprised his wife of their situation.
“Does Lizzy know, Mr. Darcy?” asked Jane.
Darcy did not for a moment believe that that question was indicative of Jane’s being embarrassed by her sister knowing of their ruin. Jane could but be inquiring because she would not want her dear sister to worry upon her behalf.
“Only the smallest share,” he answered.
Jane appeared comforted—as was Bingley. Having finally relieved himself of the catastrophic news that he had been keeping for some time, Bingley felt light-headed and found a wingback chair in which to collapse. Jane rushed to his side, drawing a linen pocket-square from her sleeve and commencing to flap it before his face.
“Nicholls! Come! Mr. Bingley is unwell!” she called to Bingley’s man.
“I am not so unhinged as that,” Bingley replied, holding up the flat of his hand to dismiss Nicholls, who had come hastily into the room.
Bingley stood and motioned for Jane to be seated in the chair. They exchanged places and then Bingley and Darcy began to talk about methods of retrenchment.
“I will sell my jewellery,” said Jane, not a hint of reluctance in her words. “And my father’s legacy—of course—I will assign to our creditors.”
Caroline, Louisa, and Mr. Hurst sat in a row upon a divan, but none could think of a single thing to give up in defence their finances. Darcy turned and looked pointedly at Mr. Hurst.
“I suppose,” that man said, “I could give up my one set of duelling pistols.”
“Not those,” interjected Louisa. “I suggest one of your long guns.”
Finally, disgusted at what little progress was made, Darcy concluded, “I think it is imperative that you give up Kirkland Hall.”
A chorus of dismay erupted from everyone save Bingley. He had resigned himself to that probability.
“You cannot, Charles,” erupted Caroline. “Where will I go? How shall I entertain? I could not possibly stay in town out of season!”
Jane rose and walked to Caroline, putting her hand upon her shoulder.
“There, there, Caroline, Charles will think of something. You must not despair.”
With this sympathy, Caroline attempted to relieve herself of Jane’s comforting hand and leapt to her feet. “Father should have employed a banker to oversee our money, Charles! You have run us to ruin! You are not fit to be a night-soil man!”
She then stomped to the fireplace and began angrily stabbing the ashes with a poker. As far as Darcy was concerned, he hoped she would betake herself from the room altogether. From the mortified expression upon Bingley’s countenance, he did as well. Even sweet-tempered Jane was, in the first time of his recollection, gifting Caroline’s back something akin to a glower.
“I am happy to know your true feelings, Caroline,” Bingley replied, sounding very much like a younger brother.
“I believe,” said Darcy, “accusations are unhelpful.”
Caroline turned and gifted him a spiteful glare, but he cared not. Therefore, neither did he notice the alteration in her countenance as she bethought herself. Darcy had but one goal, to save Bingley from compleat and utter ruin.
“You must free up some capital, Bingley,” Darcy told him. “Time is of the essence.”
He knew that if Bingley did not, he would not be able to pay the taxes on the fortune of crates of fabric that were waiting idly aboard to be unloaded into his warehouse. Nor would he be able to pay ladi
ng costs to the shippers for the cotton waiting equally idly dockside to be loaded. Did he not forthwith, all would either be confiscated or fall prey to land pirates who were even then stealing cargos from other ships unable to unload due to taxes owed. As Darcy saw it, there was little choice. Bingley needed cash—a lot of it. But if he could free up some equity, he could salvage his business. He would not be quite so rich as he had been, but he would not be ruined. Darcy had offered a personal loan several times, but Bingley would accept none.
“I must stew in my own juices,” he had said.
Bingley did see then that Darcy’s plan was his only course. As did Jane. Mr. and Mrs. Hurst sat seemingly stunned, of no use to any discussion. Caroline still fumed from the abhorrence of the notion that she should have to curtail any of her wants.
At last, Bingley agreed, “I will send my card to Sir Howgrave.”
***
Sir Henry Howgrave received his knighthood for recognition of his heroics during the Waterloo engagement. As he was much involved in politics, he had offices in his home near Whitehall. It was with a great deal of glee that he agreed to see the haughty Mr. Darcy. (He did not, of course, dare exhibit any trace of that unseemly pleasure.) Mr. Darcy asking to see him meant that Mr. Darcy wanted something of him. To be in the position to oblige or deny Mr. Darcy as he saw fit was the cherry on the considerable cake of his year. He had never forgiven that man’s cut some half-dozen years ago. Mr. Darcy had refused him, not only to court his sister, but to dance with her as well. Supposedly, Mr. Darcy disapproved of his familial…indecorousness. From the variety of rumours he had heard, he hardly thought Mr. Darcy in a position to point fingers at paternal wandering eyes. Ah, was not life sweet? Society’s leper in one life, society’s darling in another. He withdrew a looking-glass from the drawer of his desk and exposed his teeth, checking for any errant fragments of his dinner. Satisfied, he went to the door and bid Mr. Darcy and his friend Bingley to enter.
Darcy & Elizabeth Page 59