As if divining her thoughts, Beecher set down his drink and looked upon her.
“What?” he said impatiently. “What?”
“You, sir, ask questions no better than you answer them.”
At that nonsensical response, Beecher stood and walked the length of the room. There, he reached out and imperceptively corrected the hang of the frame for one of his water-colours. Upon his return, he passed by Henry’s perch, and as if doing a bit of divining of his mistress’s thoughts himself, Henry let out a screech and took flight in Beecher’s direction. The tether kept Henry from doing any damage beyond a loss of dignity—at the feather-flapping squawk, Beecher leapt two foot into the air and did not regain his composure gracefully.
“That bloody bird!” Beecher squawked (doing a passable, if unintentional, imitation of Henry). “He does that again and I’ll have him for supper!”
With all her considerable hauteur, Lady Catherine rose to her feet.
“You, sir,” she announced, “have said quite enough! Begone from my sight!”
It had not been Beecher’s design, but being banished from her ladyship’s presence was no great punishment. Indeed, he thought it not altogether unseemly to betake himself from her presence and all the way to London—an atmosphere far more to his liking. There, people of condition were happy for his company.
Unbeknownst to him, however, perched upon the footboard of his coach as he hied for London was the lately unemployed Pemberley servitor, Cyril Smeads.
***
It had long been Caroline Bingley’s habit to troll the matrimonial waters employing the time-tested method of winnowing out eligible husbands by perusing the newspaper’s weekly obituary column. Had she not been apprised beforehand that the death of Darcy’s young cousin left a grieving widower, she would have honed in on him regardless. Other than his relative youth, she was attracted to Lord Beecher for the same virtues as had been Lady Catherine—he was titled and kept a carriage. Of the more questionable of his attributes, she remained blissfully unaware. Had she been witting, they would not have served her purposes as they had Lady Catherine’s. Gambling was a vice that would have troubled her, but a mistress simply meant that was one obligation she would not have to fulfill. (Fertility not only served no purpose for her, it was undesirable.) Caroline wanted only the title (and the yellow livery was quite nice). Indeed, his turn for foppish wardrobe and London society was all she desired in a husband.
When espying Beecher sporting a black band and salving his poor wounded bosom in the card rooms at Almack’s (Boodle’s still held markers for him that Lady Catherine had not yet settled), Caroline made a beeline for him, the recuperation of his heart much upon her mind. Long past her bloom, had Miss Bingley not employed the name of Darcy as one of her connections, Beecher would not have been half so ready to have her be his chief consoler. Quite expeditiously (and with the help of copious amounts of wine), Miss Bingley’s hand was stroking his waistcoat and his arm snaked about her waist. Although it was certainly observed, no one within their milieu actually raised an eyebrow at their familiarity. Although mourning demanded any new alliance be kept in confidence for a full year, society overlooked a husband’s lack of dedication to a spouse’s memory with far greater tolerance than a wife’s.
All might have gone without mishap had Beecher’s vice of gambling not been so intimately intertwined with that of drink. But as a man who clearly did not own the intuitive mind required to be successful in games of chance, luck absolutely fled from his side as well when he was in his cups. Caroline remained constant to him during his trial, for she had been so dedicated to her search for a match that when at last one was at hand, she was not inclined to allow him to slip through her fingers. Indeed, she allowed herself to be escorted to the tables each night, but did not play herself. She draped herself across the back of his chair, but she could do nothing to avert the catastrophe she saw unfold as hand after hand went greatly to the bad.
Although it was a precipitous decline, one particular hand incurred a deficit so substantial that Beecher could not leave the table without writing out an acknowledgement of debt promising several of his prize racing ponies as collateral.
The key to the misunderstanding that came about was whether the horses in question actually resolved the debt or were held in abeyance until Beecher could cover his wager. Beecher had believed them security. Therefore, first he cajoled, and when rebuffed, Beecher begged his creditor to relent. As he held the horses in far greater esteem than he ever felt for a mere wife, the prospect of losing them sent him into a plaintive keen sufficiently pitiable to have unmanned Herod. However the gentleman was not Herod, but Alphonse Parr. He was not a man of sport, but of business. Parr had, without compunction, evicted widows and orphans from his properties. Beecher, however, was unknowing of Parr’s disposition and when the man insisted upon taking possession of the precious mounts, Beecher slapped him across the face with his glove. Unfortunately, he did this in a public hall and all about the room gasped, knowing well what that meant.
Even Miss Bingley exclaimed, “Dear God in heaven!”
At Beecher’s attack, Parr demanded, “Name your weapon, sir!”
From the wavering expression of effrontery upon Beecher’s countenance, it appeared that he may have reconsidered the depth of his injury. As a gentleman, Beecher knew that if he did not appear to defend his honour, his societal death would precede his actual one. Parr’s nose curled just a bit, as if he had detected the odour of fear that was then emanating from the area of Beecher’s spine.
Gathering himself just a bit, Beecher boomed, “Pistols,” with a far greater degree of certainty than he felt.
His choice of gun rather than blade was precautionary—his shooting experience was limited to toting a long gun on his shoulder during the odd grouse hunt. (He had taken out a pistol once or twice, but had never actually shot anyone—he was, after all, a gentleman.) However, he had never wielded a blade of any kind. He thought no better of taking exercise with a foil than he did of those bloody grouse hunts to which he was occasionally coerced. With a gun, he had reasonably presumed that he had at least one chance to hit his opponent. Feint and parry were compleatly foreign to him.
There was the issue of a second. Beecher had not the happy manners that made for fast friendship of other gentlemen. If he had incurred this engagement in the county of Kent, Lady Catherine’s connections would have made it far easier to marshal someone to stand with him. As it was, Miss Bingley had been pressed into service of supplying him one. Caroline had the audacity to think her brother a candidate. She pleaded with Jane to speak to him, but surprisingly Jane refused, citing Bingley’s keeping to his room due to some business he had endured upon the wharves. (Caroline’s memory of her recent denunciation of her brother had conveniently failed her, but Jane’s would not be so forgiving.) Beyond those monetary, Caroline had little time for the particulars of her brother’s affairs and scurried for the more sympathetic ear of her sister Louisa. Mrs. Hurst was happy to dragoon Mr. Hurst to do the job—as being the keeper of the Flask of Courage was an employment that merged quite nicely with his own proclivities.
Mr. Hurst had served his office by plying Beecher with liquid mettle until the appointed hour. But, when Beecher arrived at the appropriately secluded spot, his trembling knees remained unsettled. The bravado he had enjoyed the night before had fled, leaving him with bleary eyes and a fierce headache. Moreover, it was such an outrageously early hour. Indeed, he regretted that he had attempted the few hours of sleep that he had.
“Get on with it, I say!” he demanded.
Parr nodded benignly, threw his cape over his shoulder, and took his position. Impatient and irritable, Beecher shot first and missed. Protocol then gave Parr the freedom to take his own shot. To his credit, Beecher stood his ground to receive his punishment like the gentleman he believed himself to be—temporarily. By the time Parr had taken
aim, Beecher peeked through squinted eyes and was most affrighted by looking down the barrel of Parr’s pistol. In the following moment, Parr drew a bead upon the largest target exposed to him which, unfortunately, was the broad expanse of Beecher’s buttocks as he was making his away. In fortune, that area of the human form is the one most cushioned for such an assault, hence Beecher was taken down, but not killed.
The return trip to Rosings Park was, however, a bit uncomfortable. This, not only for Beecher who had to endure the trip to Kent lying on his stomach and swilling laudanum, but for Caroline’s lap, upon which he reposed. As he was merely incapacitated, not dead, Miss Bingley did not desert him. (Indeed, she was so dedicated, one would have thought she had burnt her bridges everywhere else.) As his closest relative, her son-in-law’s care was remanded ultimately unto Lady Catherine. In that Caroline advised her ladyship of the deep and abiding friendship she shared with Georgiana, she was asked to stay on for as long as she liked. Georgiana, of course, was quite astonished to see Caroline once again—almost as astonished as she was to learn that Miss Bingley still regarded their friendship as a dear one. Although Lady Catherine and Miss Bingley were of similar minds upon many things (not least amongst them as admiration of rank), Caroline’s design upon Beecher became apparent.
Lady Catherine was very attentive to those tenets governing societal behaviour. Unlike her peers in London, she did not turn a blind eye to a widower transgressing the conventions of mourning. Even in Beecher’s compromised health, she saw a romance in progress.
She was most displeased.
92
The Convalescence
Lady Catherine had all but washed her hands of Beecher, giving Georgiana the opportunity to undertake the somewhat thankless office of overseer of his repair. Caroline Bingley was keenly interested in Beecher’s recuperation, but was queasy of illness of any kind and thereby delighted to have her friend’s intervention on his behalf. Fitzwilliam, however, protested, insisting such activity was far too taxing for so new a mother. It was a bit cumbersome to direct Beecher’s care from her own bed, but Georgiana was delighted for the opportunity to employ her store of remedies. Hence, she sweetly but firmly overruled her husband’s objection.
At one time, Miss Bingley had pursued a close friendship with Georgiana (but her devotion to Darcy’s sister had waned once he had married Elizabeth). Of late, they had little in common—for Caroline could no more satisfy Georgiana’s thirst for thoughtful discourse than Georgiana could hers for what colours would be fashionable next season. Having stumbled upon her long-lost friend at Rosings Park, Caroline was quite happy to renew their acquaintance—a connection that she hoped would influence Lady Catherine in her favour.
Recalling the difficult young girl she once knew, Caroline was rightly impressed with both Georgiana’s expertise and her self-possession. Indeed, she listened closely to Georgiana’s instructions and followed the servants as they shuttled back and forth fulfilling them. As her ladyship had made it clear that she was still quite irked over the blossoming of her son-in-law’s unseemly romance, Caroline’s scampering between Georgiana’s bed and Beecher’s accomplished dual purposes. It gave the appearance of dutifulness to her lover and kept her from under Lady Catherine’s disapproving glare.
Although not happy to have his husbandly concern rebuffed, Fitzwilliam’s recollections of Georgiana were similar to Caroline’s. Hence, he smiled indulgently upon her as she issued orders. Despite her niece’s choice of patients, even Lady Catherine (whose parsimony with compliments was of legend) could not be at variance with the conclusion of her niece’s cleverness. Indeed, she insisted that the Fitzwilliams sojourn at Rosings for as long as they liked.
The death of a mother in childbirth was a commonplace event even in Kent. Whilst Georgiana believed that beneath her aunt’s seeming indifference to Anne’s death lurked a wounded heart, she doubted that the usual remedies for such a tragedy would benefit one of Lady Catherine’s disposition. Although that lady had come to admire the Fitzwilliams’ newborn each day, she had not paid the same attention to her own granddaughter. Granted, she issued a number of edicts upon that baby’s care, but she had not once visited her since her ill-advised cribside confrontation with Elizabeth. It was clear that an attachment between grandmother and granddaughter had not been formed. The recognition of that lack of affection gave Georgiana the impetus to pursue her aunt’s approval for bringing Anne’s baby home with their own.
In truth, it was not one, but several seemingly unrelated sentiments that combined propitiously in supporting Georgiana’s suit. The sheer economy of raising two girls together and the possibility that Beecher might employ his parental right to the child held no small sway over Lady Catherine’s opinion. But in the end, it was that the Fitzwilliams would be spending a great deal of time at Pemberley which decided the matter in their favour. Having her granddaughter situated in close proximity to the Darcy heir-apparent pleased Lady Catherine no end. (Indeed, she was quite happy to have thought of it.)
Knowing that the baby would be brought up with love gladdened Georgiana even more.
93
The Wicked and the Just
Wickham did not visibly start at the spectre before him, but his pupils contracted noticeably. He stood, picked up a glove and flicked it nervously against his other palm.
With a remarkably level voice, he said, “I did not expect to see you here, Darcy.”
“No,” said Darcy, “I do not expect that you would.”
Once Darcy’s eyes had swept the room, he stood gravely still—eyes levelled upon Wickham.
To Wickham’s mind the early chill London was experiencing was not significant enough to merit the long coat Darcy wore—that made him even more nervous than Darcy’s sudden appearance. He was troubled that it obscured his figure, thus whether he was armed. He could ascertain only that he did not wear his sword. Darcy was also unaccompanied by a second—that was of comfort. But Wickham’s toe throbbed and he cursed Lydia under his breath. He was happy that he had managed to pull on his boots. He would not have liked to be confronted in his stockings.
“No second?” Wickham smirked, and then quickly sobered.
Initially, Wickham had never quite believed that tale that had travelled the length and breadth of England of Darcy slaying three men. But that unhappy occurrence of being invited to take his leave from Pemberley at the point of Darcy’s blade bade him rethink the matter. This night he thought it best to keep his distance from Darcy—particularly in light of his engaging in clandestine meetings with Darcy’s wife.
Elizabeth, however, was gone, and he was sporting a lump the size of a potato upon the side of his head thanks to the heavy swing she took at him with her gold-filled reticule. Wickham was uncertain what prompted Darcy’s visit—was he there because he knew of what had come to pass upon her visit or because he did not? Elizabeth had inadvertently admitted that Darcy knew nothing of her coming, hence it was possible that he learnt of their meeting and this confrontation was prompted by jealousy. Wickham knew not whether to admire that possibility or despise it.
All these considerations crossed, flitted about, and then abandoned Wickham’s thoughts in the seconds he recognised Darcy stood before him. But then, his fast thinking was one of his keenest attributes—that and fast talking.
As Darcy still stood in silence, Wickham knew that he was being called out in some manner. If not a duel, what? He felt compelled to break the stalemate.
He laughed nervously, then spread his hands and said, “May we talk man to man, Darcy?”
“Any other manner would be curious,” replied Darcy.
It was clear no quarter was to be granted. It was also clear to Wickham that if he were to wriggle out of the tight spot into which he had situated himself, he would have to draw upon all his powers of persuasion. Failing that, he would break and run. He was, even then, calculating his exit strategy.
&n
bsp; “It has been a long time,” he ventured, attempting to stall.
“Not long enough,” Darcy retorted. “Your commanding officers will be surprised to know you are alive.”
Darcy stood between Wickham and the door and it did not appear that he intended to move from his position—one that blocked exit from the room. Wickham was both irked and frightened. Soon, however, fright overcame his pique and his brow began to perspire. He had always despised his propensity to that weakness. As any good card player knows, one must not show one’s hand too early. Impassivity was all if one was to have the upper hand. A sudden twitch began to trouble his left eyelid.
They had stood before each other for a full five minutes and why Darcy was there remained unexplained. Whatever it was, Wickham knew that it could not be good. The lack of promise of situation bade Wickham assess alternate routes of escape. A window was behind him. He believed the shutters were open, but the sash was closed. Damn.
When at last Darcy made a move, Wickham jerked like a startled cat.
“I have here,” said Darcy reaching into his coat, “a document.”
Wickham exhaled mightily and immediately set about to reclaim his composure.
“A document?”
“Yes.”
Darcy then walked purposely to a game-table that stood mid-most between them. He placed his gloves upon the edge and then placed the tri-folded piece of paper in the middle of the chessboard that decorated the lacquered top. Wickham, however, dropped his gloves to that same table, and then strode to the cellaret standing against the wall. He opened the cabinet door and withdrew a bottle of claret and two glasses. He kicked the door closed with the heel of his boot and thereupon returned to the game-table. He placed the glasses and decanter upon it next to the still-folded document.
Darcy & Elizabeth Page 64