by Jessie Lewis
“How have you responded?”
“I have withdrawn all pecuniary support.”
His uncle looked truly shocked. “I had no idea you were subsidising the estate. What effect will your withdrawal have?”
“My assistance has merely eased her present solvency. She will require a much larger investment to prevent its eventual dissolution.”
“Such she had deluded herself into thinking you would provide, of course,” Mrs. Sinclair said.
Matlock puffed out his cheeks and rubbed his eyebrow with his forefinger. “She would push the matter, the stubborn harpy. Now this is a fine mess.”
“It need not be,” Darcy pointed out. “She need only apologise for her threats and accept my choice, and all will be resolved.”
“Only!” Matlock scoffed. “You ask much of her, Darcy.”
“Aye,” agreed Mrs. Sinclair. “You cannot expect her holyship to bless the union that will impoverish her coffers.”
“You are mistaken, madam,” Matlock said. “Catherine is many things, but she is not mercenary. She is concerned for Anne’s future.”
“With good cause,” Mrs. Sinclair replied, “for who else will have the scrawny little thing?”
“And she is worried about the family’s reputation.” He turned to Darcy. “She is convinced this marriage will be a great mistake.”
“Upon my word,” Mrs. Sinclair exclaimed, “Mr. Darcy’s reputation would do much better if she was not in such a rage to discredit him to everybody who would listen. I have heard more whisperings about his choice of wife that have originated from her acquaintances than any other source.”
“Naming a horse lame does not oblige it to limp,” Matlock objected.
“No, but it guarantees no one will bet on it,” Mrs. Sinclair replied tartly.
“To what whisperings are you referring?” Darcy enquired.
“Your aunt is industriously circulating the rumour that you have been thoroughly worked on. I heard it directly from Lady Metcalfe and vicariously from several other of her friends. Presumably, it is the only way she feels she can justify the alliance.”
Darcy felt no fury towards his aunt. It seemed all his anger was spent. Instead, he felt a very great disappointment. He had once believed her to be a sensible woman whose officiousness could be excused as ill-applied interest, but the discovery and dismantling of his own conceit had exposed hers as equally indefensible. “She may circulate whatever rumours she desires. It will not change my mind.”
“It might change your lady’s mind,” Matlock warned.
Darcy smiled slightly. “Elizabeth would not be intimidated by something as transient as society’s indignation.”
Mrs. Sinclair banged her cane on the floor triumphantly. “I was always assured of liking her since I am predisposed to like most things in opposition to Lady Catherine, but it seems Miss Bennet is going to make it easy for me.”
“Much though I should hate to deny you the pleasure of vexing my aunt, I hope you learn to like Elizabeth for her own merits.”
“Have no fear; you shall not deny me that pleasure. I live to vex the vexatious. But I also detest being wrong; thus, I shall have to like Miss Bennet now regardless. For heaven’s sake, do not tell her, though, or she will feel no obligation to please me, and at my age, other than gin, deference and flattery are the only palatable forms of sustenance.”
“Then I must advise you to keep the gin well stocked,” Darcy replied. “For there is every chance you may starve otherwise.”
“I am not that fortunate,” Matlock grumbled under his breath. For the remainder of the visit, he showed no further interest in Elizabeth and made no request for an introduction.
Before he left, Darcy invited them both to dine with him on Friday when Elizabeth, Georgiana, Fitzwilliam, and the Gardiners were also to join him. Mrs. Sinclair accepted with alacrity. His uncle declined, citing the usual excuse of his sore bones. Darcy knew not, and frankly cared less, whether in truth Matlock disapproved of Elizabeth. She was, with good reason, beloved by all who knew her. Those who disdained the privilege of her acquaintance would be the only ones disadvantaged.
***
Thursday, 25 June 1812: Hertfordshire
On clear summer nights when the windows were open and the rest of the house was quiet, Jane could sometimes hear the noise from the kitchen as she lay in her bed. This was such a night, and it was a sound that filled her with happiness, for the supper that was being cleared away had been one of the most enjoyable of her life.
Her mother had invited as many of their neighbours as Longbourn could accommodate, and every one of them had congratulated Bingley and her at some stage. Though modesty prevented her from admitting it, Jane delighted in their enthusiasm. Bingley was just what a young man ought to be—sensible, good-humoured, and lively—and she never saw such happy manners, so much ease, with such perfect good breeding. She loved him dearly and was very happy for the chance to show him off without the constant distraction of her more obtrusive sister and her more illustrious lover.
He was also good looking, which added to the giddiness she felt when she recalled their twilight stroll in the garden and their stolen kiss beneath the willow tree. For all its brevity, it had brought colour rushing to her cheeks and hope rushing to her heart. There had been times of late when she distrusted his affections, but no one could have doubted his attachment this evening.
***
Bingley haphazardly refilled his glass, dropped the decanter back down on his desk and gulped another mouthful of port. His evening had been pleasant enough. Mrs. Bennet had ensured dinner included as many of his favourite dishes as the season allowed, and supper had been almost as grand. Jane’s sisters had entertained him all evening with lively music and dancing. Caroline and Louisa had grimaced their way through the whole thing, managing to offend no one.
Another larger gulp. Jane had bestowed upon him more smiles tonight than in the whole two months since his return to Hertfordshire. He wished they had found more time together, for their solitary kiss had been disappointingly brief and all their attempts at conversation curtailed by one or other of their neighbours. Indeed, every person there had seemed covetous of their attention, and Jane determined to please them all.
He tipped the remainder of his drink down his throat, poured another, splashing liquor everywhere, quaffed half of that, and returned to staring at the sheet of paper in his hand. The blue and orange crayon sketch blurred before his eyes. His head fell back, and the room swam out of focus.
“Mr. Bingley? Mr. Bingley, are ya dead?”
His eyes flew open, and they were greeted by the same sight as that upon which they had closed. “Lizzy!”
“Amelia, sir,” Elizabeth replied, which was confusing to say the least.
He sat up and shook his head—and immediately regretted it. “What are you doing here?”
“Cleaning.”
“Cleaning? What? Oh!” Blast it, the maid!
“Beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Bingley, sir. I wouldn’t ’ave woken you, only I thought you’d taken ill. I think you’ve been ’ere all night.”
“Not at all, Liz—Eliz—Emil—”
“Amelia.”
“Quite.” He ran a hand through his hair, mortified. “It is very good of you to be concerned.”
The maid blushed and bit her lip prettily. “’Tis very good o’ you not to be angry with me, sir.” She curtsied but then seemed to hesitate, regarding him with eyes that felt too familiar for comfort.
“Thank you,” he mumbled then dismissed her before confusion and his pounding head overwhelmed him. The moment the study door closed behind her, his forehead hit the desk. Elizabeth’s crayon eyes stared up at him, one blue eyebrow quirked as though waiting for him to explain himself. He could not and, instead, surrendered o
nce more to oblivion.
***
Friday, 26 June 1812: London
At precisely seven o’clock on Friday evening, Darcy’s carriage arrived in Portman Square to collect Elizabeth and Georgiana. It then continued on towards Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner’s establishment in Cheapside, whereupon the postilion promptly lost his way, having never once ventured into that part of the city. It was, therefore, somewhat later than anticipated that the party of four was delivered to Darcy House.
As their conveyance drew into the gated driveway, Elizabeth stole a glance at her aunt and uncle. They had yet to meet her intended or see her new London home, and she privately suspected their determined reasonableness on the subject of both to be a mote affected. She turned away to conceal a smile when Mrs. Gardiner’s mouth dropped open, and Mr. Gardiner pursed his lips in a silent whistle. She had no intention of becoming proud of her new situation, but there was some satisfaction to be had in astonishing her typically phlegmatic relatives.
Darcy met them himself at the door, expressing his relief to see them safely arrived. She introduced him to the Gardiners, whom he greeted with a humility she comprehended as being recompense for his previous censure. She was only grateful that he should know she had relations for whom there was no need to blush. Divertingly, it could not be said the reverse was true, for Mrs. Gardiner had been in high colour since first setting eyes on Darcy. Not wishing to embarrass either of them, Elizabeth said nothing of it, though she could not help but triumph at having a husband for whom there was every need to blush.
“About time!” exclaimed an elderly lady almost before they set foot through the door of the parlour to which Darcy led them. “I was beginning to despair of having any conversation worth the while. Between Mr. Darcy’s incessant brooding over your tardiness and Thirson’s incessant teasing over Mr. Darcy’s broodiness, my evening thus far has been distinctly underwhelming.”
Darcy’s countenance darkened, and Georgiana was visibly shocked, but a close connection with Mrs. Bennet inured one to brash behaviour, making Elizabeth and the Gardiners far more disposed to be diverted. All three of them laughed.
“May I introduce my grandmother, Mrs. Tabitha Sinclair,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, seeming equally amused. “If I may, Darcy? Grandmother, this is Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
“Pray, call me Lizzy,” Elizabeth offered.
“Call me anything you choose, dear, as long as you are sitting on my right,” Mrs. Sinclair replied. “I am deaf as a post in that ear.”
Mr. Gardiner chuckled, Darcy interceded to perform the remaining introductions, and Elizabeth drew a smile from Mrs. Sinclair by choosing the seat on her left. That put her on the colonel’s right, and she fixed him with a suspicious grin. “Thirson?”
“It is an abbreviation of Third Son,” Mrs. Sinclair answered for him. “His eldest brother was christened ‘Albert’, nicknamed ‘Alby’ within the year, and styled ‘Ashby’ before his second birthday when his father was awarded the viscountcy. I resorted to numbering the rest of them.”
“You are the third son of three?” Elizabeth asked him.
He confirmed he was and took some time sketching his eldest brother’s character and that of his ghastly future sister, the soon-to-be Lady Ashby.
“And your second brother?”
“Was lost at sea.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon!” she exclaimed, mortified to have brought up such a painful subject, even though he was splaying his hands and smiling with the evident intent of reassuring her.
“He was fairly lost when he was on land. He never stood a chance on a boat,” said Mrs. Sinclair. “I always said he should have gone into the Church.”
Thus, the tone for the evening was set, and a vastly enjoyable evening it transpired to be. Darcy was as unreserved as she had ever seen him in company. Despite having come to understand him better, to see him thus amazed her still. It may have been the glass of sherry in which she indulged after dinner, but she rather thought the warm feeling that suffused her as she watched him speaking with her uncle later that evening was her falling further in love with him. He happened to look at her as she thought it, and the intensity of her affection made her suddenly breathless. She held his gaze and mouthed, I love you. His countenance barely moved, but she perfectly comprehended the sentiment behind the small, private smile he sent her.
“Lizzy was wonderful,” Georgiana said to Mrs. Gardiner beside her. “I should have been terrified to be asked so many questions by so many strangers.”
“Miss Darcy is telling me about your trip to the theatre on Wednesday, Lizzy,” her aunt explained. “You were well received, I hear?”
“Well enough. Nobody was uncivil at least. No doubt, I disappointed them all by not being dressed in rags. Oh, but there was one gentleman there whose acquaintance I was particularly happy to make—Darcy’s friend, Mr. Montgomery. He is very amiable.”
“And exceptionally useful, so I understand from Darcy?” Fitzwilliam said.
“Aye!” she agreed, briefly explaining for everyone else Mr. Montgomery’s part in uniting her with Darcy.
“It is so sad that he should be a widower at such a young age, though,” said Georgiana.
“Is he?” Fitzwilliam cried.
“He is,” Darcy confirmed. “His wife died the year after they arrived in India. The man is in an unenviable state of limbo. He has returned to England in possession of a young son with no mother and a considerable fortune with no estate.”
“No estate?” Mrs. Sinclair enquired. “I understood the Montgomerys owned Stortley Castle?”
“His father gambled away every brick,” said Fitzwilliam. “And then died.”
“Not quite as useful as his son, then?”
Fitzwilliam snorted. “Perhaps if Montgomery is in possession of both fortune and heir but wants for land and a wife, he could marry Anne and save me the bother.”
“His uses multiply!” Mrs. Sinclair exclaimed.
“What is this?” Darcy enquired.
“Lady Catherine has set her sights on Thirson now that her preferred suitor has made himself unavailable.”
Other than pressing his lips together very slightly, Elizabeth thought Darcy did an admirable job of concealing his amusement.
“Matlock would never consent to it,” he said.
“I do not know,” his cousin replied. “My aunt likes to have her way very well.”
“True, but Montgomery has had misfortune enough. Pray find another dupe to saddle with such a mother.”
The subject was pursued no further, and the evening then took a musical turn with performances at the pianoforte by Mrs. Gardiner, Georgiana, and Elizabeth. After that, Fitzwilliam and Mr. Gardiner proved a hilarious pairing as they read scenes from Tristram Shandy. Eventually, Mrs. Gardiner begged her husband to take her home before she fell asleep on the sofa, and the exceedingly agreeable evening drew to an end.
Whilst everyone else donned their hats and coats and expressed their anticipation to be reunited at Longbourn for the wedding, Darcy pulled Elizabeth to one side for a private goodbye.
“Before you go, I have something for you.”
He produced a small box, lifted the lid and held the contents towards her. Elizabeth’s chest squeezed with emotion. Within lay a silver and diamond leaf-shaped brooch.
“I preferred you to have one I could be sure would not wither and die.” He lifted her chin with a finger. “For I shall never cease loving you, Elizabeth.”
“Oh, Fitzwilliam, it is exquisite! Thank you.”
“Thank you. Darcy House has never felt more my home than with you here with me. The day I do not have to watch you leave cannot come soon enough.”
The look he gave her branded itself upon her mind and stayed with her the entire journey back to Portman Square and farther—to her
bed and, ultimately, her dreams.
***
Wednesday, 8 July 1812: Hertfordshire
It seemed every man and his dog had decided to call at Longbourn that afternoon and had subsequently been trapped there on account of the imminent thunderstorm threatening to drench anyone who ventured to leave. Mr. Bennet would not have been the least bit troubled if they all got wet, but his wife was adamant they should stay, browbeating them all with reminders of Jane’s fever the previous autumn. Still, not one to miss an opportunity for sport, he observed the simmering discontent in his parlour with some amusement.
Mr. Collins stood as far away from Elizabeth and Darcy as the walls would allow, regaling anyone who would listen with the pitiful tale of his patroness’s wrath, having been chased by it all the way here from Kent. Miss Darcy sat with her hands in her lap and her shoulders folded in, as though trying to make herself small enough to be invisible. Lydia and Mr. Hurst wore divertingly similar expressions of ennui. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst looked as they always did—pained. Mrs. Bennet seemed to be attempting to manoeuvre Kitty into Colonel Fitzwilliam’s field of view—or possibly his lap—it was difficult to discern from where he was sitting. Jane was glancing suspiciously at Bingley, Bingley was stealing furtive glances at Elizabeth, and Elizabeth was directing frequent apologetic grimaces at Darcy. Darcy stood glowering from the window, possibly attempting to scare away the encroaching clouds that they might all be allowed to escape their hellish captivity. Mary very kindly set the entire scene to music as she banged out a discordant lament from the adjoining room.
“Are all your parties this successful?” Mrs. Sinclair enquired from the seat next to Mr. Bennet.
“Sadly, no. I might be tempted to entertain more often if they were.”
“Be sure to give me warning next time. I shall endeavour to have a previous engagement.”
***
Bingley ran a hand around the back of his neck, cursing the insufferable midsummer heat. He would be perfectly glad of a ride in the rain if only he was allowed. Indeed, he fancied he was not alone, for there was nary a person in the room who did not look overheated and irritable—except Elizabeth. She sat calm, composed, and lovely in the midst of the hurly-burly: the very eye of the storm. Mrs. Bennet’s flapping and fretting was not relieving the general malaise in the slightest, and Jane’s strenuous efforts to mitigate her mother’s improprieties were having little to no effect. At last, a sudden and stupendous clap of thunder, which rattled the windows and made Mrs. Bennet wail, heralded the arrival of the storm.