Mr. Darcy's Scandal

by Cynthia Porter

  Elizabeth followed him to the drawing room door, where she stood, a little shakily, and watched him take his hat from the butler and leave the house. The butler closed the door on him and it was like a door closing on her life. Not the first time he had walked out on her, but nonetheless she was appalled, disappointed and angry. Her wrath was enough to sustain her as she wrote a note to Henry, commanding him to call on her at his earliest convenience, sent it by a footman and went back to her room.

  “We will not be going out, Maggie,” she said, wearily. “I am expecting Henry.”

  “What about your costume, Miss Bennet? There is so little time if we are to make something…”

  “I do not need to make anything, Maggie. I shall go as a maid. We are of a size—I shall borrow something of yours.”

  “But, Miss Bennet,” Maggie said, appalled, “it is not fitting.”

  “Oh, it is very fitting, Maggie. Mr. Darcy thinks I am a servant, then I shall be one. If he comes to the ball, which I am beginning to doubt, we shall see what he makes of it.”

  “Oh, Miss Bennet!” Maggie cried.

  Darcy strode back to his house. He might have known it would be a waste of time appealing to her; she had once again made him feel inadequate, like a gauche schoolboy. If Bingley had been her friend, how would she have handled the situation? Laughed at it, as she had laughed at him, said boys who aspire to be men were often foolish and must be indulged? Was that how she was brought up? No wonder the Bennets were so irresponsible.

  But even in his wrath, he knew he was being unjust. He had seen her with Henry and it would have taken a blind man not to see the genuine affection in which they held each other and he envied it. He could bear all Bingley’s pranks if only the fellow felt he could come to him, talk to him freely about his concerns. They might even laugh about them together. And that was the rub; there was no laughter between them and that was his fault. As he walked his temper cooled, but not enough for him to turn back and offer an apology.

  He was unprepared for another battle when he returned home and summoned Georgiana to the library.

  She received the news that her meetings with Elizabeth were to come to an end and she would not visit the Gardiners’ house again with floods of tears. “It is not my fault if Miss Bennet’s family behaves like ninnies, is it? It is not fair! I liked going over there. I do not see why I should stop going, just because your friend falls into some trouble.”

  He handed her his handkerchief. “It was time your visits came to an end, Georgiana. I never said they would go on indefinitely, and Miss Bennet has agreed—”

  “Agreed, William? Doesn’t sound like Miss Bennet?”

  “Her words, not mine, Georgiana.”

  “No doubt she said it because you were up in the trees about something. Miss Bennet was kind to me. She wasn’t forever flying into the boughs.”

  “No, if anything she was too indulgent. As I have been.”

  “You, indulgent! Brother, how can you say so?” she cried and went into peals of hysterical laughter.

  He stood watching her, his hands clenched beside him. How had his sister become so willful? Who had taught her to answer back? “Georgiana,” he said, through gritted teeth, “that is enough. I have made my decision.”

  She stopped crying suddenly and wiped her eyes. “You know in your heart, if you have one, that none of this was Miss Bennet’s fault,” she sniffed. “And it was not her cousin’s either. If anyone is to blame it is George Wickham.”

  “Wickham? What makes you say that?”

  “He called while you were taking Bingley back to Grosvenor Street.”

  “And you received him?” Darcy could hardly believe his ears. “Don’t you know better than that?”

  “It did no harm. Mrs. Annesley was present, I did not see him alone.”

  Darcy smiled grimly. “You are never to see that man again, you hear me? Georgiana!”

  “Yes, but William,” she went on, “will you not own you have misjudged Miss Bennet and allow to me visit her again?”

  He had been unjust, he knew that. And he was punishing himself as much as everyone else. “I will certainly speak to her, but as for you visiting regularly, I do not think so…”

  “But, William, why not?”

  “Georgiana, I have said my last word on the subject. Now go to your room and find something useful to do.”

  Sulkily she went. He paced up and down for a few minutes and then changed into riding clothes and went to the mews to have his horse saddled. A good ride to clear his head and then another visit to Elizabeth. Apologizing did not come easy to him, as Elizabeth had not been slow to point out, but he was truly sorry for bursting in on her and accusing her of…what had he said? He could not altogether recall, he had been so angry.

  He was not usually governed by his temper. He was known as a level-headed fair-minded man who listened before making judgments. Why had he suddenly changed? It had happened since coming to London and seeing Elizabeth again, of learning that she had not gone into a decline over him, that she had been managing very well without him all these months. And having seen what a good sibling she had been and how lost and inadequate he felt with his own sister had only served to make matters worse.

  Could it be that he was jealous? He laughed at himself as he turned his horse in at the park gates and set off across the grass at a gallop. This was a powerful horse and had not had much real exercise lately. Being out for nights on end meant he was rarely up early enough to go riding and later in the day, he had been occupied with social engagements and escorting Georgiana back and forth to the Gardiners. Which brought his thoughts back to Elizabeth.

  What did he want to say to her? Was sorry enough?

  Could they recover the ground they had made after that visit to the orphanage which had been so enjoyable? He slowed his horse to a walk and regained the bridle-way.

  “Darcy! Here you are!”

  He looked up from his reverie to find Bingley wheeling his horse to ride beside him. “Hello, my friend.”

  “Why so down? Lost a fortune, have you?” Bingley winked.

  “Not money, no.”

  “Then she turned you down?”

  “Who?”

  “Miss Bennet, of course.”

  “Haven’t asked her.”

  “Darcy, I despair of you. If anyone had told me that you would become tongue-tied over a lady, I would have wagered my best evening coat they were drawing a bow at a venture.”

  “I am not tongue-tied. The opposite is true. I have said too much.”

  “Oh, you told her about the bantling and she is not in the mood to forgive?”

  “I never got as far as that.”

  “Oh, I see.” It was said knowingly. “You have perhaps heard the latest on dit?”

  “What latest? You mean about me being always on Elizabeth Bennet’s doorstep?”

  “Worse.”

  “You had better tell me,” he said grimly. “I shall hear it sooner or later.”

  “I was going into a tobacconist’s in Bond Street the other day, when who should draw up but Lady Ashmead and Mrs. Baldwin. They had the top down and were talking quite loudly, no doubt for my benefit, for I know they had seen me. I was about to turn and doff my hat, but their words stayed me.”

  “Go on.”

  “They have heard about the child. And, according to Mrs. Baldwin, it belongs to you and…” he hesitated, knowing Darcy’s uncertain temper “…Elizabeth Bennet. It appears you and she have been lovers for years, and you are trying to find your lost child and are intent on setting up home with her.”

  “My God! Is there no limit to that woman’s malice?” The words were said quietly but that didn’t mean he was sanguine about it. Far from it. He was on his way to visit Elizabeth, to make his peace with her, but how could he go after this? What could he say? He could not tell her that malicious tattlers were tearing her reputation to shreds and all because of him. He wondered how long before she heard it and wh
at she would do. There would be no more mocking laughter, but misery. The fact that it was all a tissue of lies made no difference, the damage had been done. His plans for telling her he loved her, had always loved her and wanted her to be his wife, had been blown away on the wind.

  But somehow he must let her know how sorry he was, sorry for everything, the rumors, blaming her for Bingley’s scrape, stopping Georgiana going to her, all of it. He could not leave her again with the words unsaid. He would wait until the night of the ball, when everyone would be in costume. Somehow he would find a way of having a private conversation with her.

  “What are you going to do about it?” Bingley’s voice broke into his reverie.

  “I do not know. They must be made to eat their words, and finding that child and his mother is the only solution. Have you made any headway at all?”

  “None. I think I must have shown that picture to every inhabitant of London outside the ton. The lady might, of course, be masquerading in high Society…”

  “No. That child is in the rookeries, I know it. My cousin might already have found them…”

  “I don’t think so. That was why I was looking for you. If my acquaintance is correct, Colonel Fitzwilliam is going to Derbyshire.”

  “When is this to happen?”

  “On the ninth of June, two days hence. We’d best be there.”

  “But I am engaged to go to Caroline’s ball on the eleventh.”

  “Seems to me, the trouble at Pemberley is more important than dancing with your belle amie. Besides, with luck we could have it all sewn up right and tight and be back in time, if we rode post haste. You might be late, but these affairs go on all night, don’t they?”

  It was all very well for Bingley to roast him, but if his cousin was headed to Pemberley, he ought to go. He had intended to go home after the ball, after he had put things right with Elizabeth, knowing it would be the last time he would see her. Now, even that was to be denied to him. He cursed loudly and fluently and returned to Darcy House to make his preparations.

  CHAPTER NINE

  It took Elizabeth and Henry, who had volunteered to be her escort, twenty minutes to get through the crush at the entrance to the Hurst mansion on Grosvenor Street. It seemed as though the whole haut monde was intent on squeezing through the door at once, though some were so heavily disguised beneath cloaks and masks and extraordinary headgear that they were unrecognizable. Elizabeth, waiting her turn in the line for admittance, was sure that many had come without invitations.

  “This is the worst squeeze I have ever encountered,” she whispered to her companion. “Hold on to your hat.”

  His hat was a vast tricorne which went with the much-decorated uniform of Napoleon Bonaparte. She had laughed when he arrived at the Gardiners with his carriage. “I do hope the Duke of Wellington does not put in an appearance or you will start another war.”

  “And if he sees you, he will take you for a serving wench and order you to fetch him a bumper of brandy before settling you on his knee. What mad whim persuaded you to dress like that? You will be sent hither and thither all evening, fetching and carrying.”

  “Do you think I can carry it off that well?”

  “You do everything well, my dear,” he had said, escorting her out to his carriage.

  He was a perfect gentleman and very attentive and she wished, in some perverse way, that she could love him enough to marry him. But she did not and never could and so they continued to be the best of friends. Knowing the ways of the ton, she wondered that the gossips had never breathed a whisper about their friendship, but then it would not be scandalous enough for them. Two mature people of modest means free to marry if they wished, but choosing not to, had little in it to interest them, not when there were juicier morsels to chew on.

  On the other hand, the amours of Darcy were meat and drink to the tattlers. A man of mystery, a superior, arrogant man, and according to them, in want of a wife. Whom would he choose? Why could she not stop thinking about him? Why did every mundane thought and gesture bring him to mind, as if he lived inside her head? Had she not decided that Darcy was a lost cause and that, if he was intent on being objectionable, she was better off without him? Why could she not make herself believe it?

  “At last,” Henry murmured, as they reached the head of the stairs where Louisa Hurts stood beside her husband, waiting to greet them.

  Louisa was dressed in a bottle green satin tunic, baggy trousers and a matching turban, meant to indicate something of Indian origin. Her husband had eschewed costume and was wearing his usual black evening suit. On his other side, Caroline stood demurely dressed in a diaphanous white gown over a white satin slip. It was decorated with swathes of greenery meant to represent a wood nymph.

  Beside Caroline stood Charles Bingley. There was no Darcy.

  All she did know was that she had not seen him or Georgiana since that uncomfortable confrontation. Would he come tonight? Did it matter?

  “Miss Eliza, how charming you look,” Caroline exclaimed, as the couple in front passed into the ballroom and Elizabeth found herself face to face with her hostess. “But I am glad you are not masked; you might have been taken for one of the servants.” And she went into peals of nervous laughter.

  “Miss Bennet’s demeanor will soon disabuse anyone of that idea,” Henry said pompously. “Servility is not to be found among her attributes.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Gardiner,” Caroline said, choosing to ignore his put-down.

  He doffed his hat and swept her an elegant leg. “Good evening, Miss Bingley.”

  The greetings returned, they went into the ballroom, to be met by a cacophony of sound. The dancing had not yet begun and the musicians were still tuning their instruments to the accompaniment of loud voices trying to be heard one above the other, calling each other, making jokes, commenting on each other’s costumes. This, if Caroline had anything to do with it, was going to be the event of the Season.

  Elizabeth and Henry joined in, talking to acquaintances and catching up on the latest news, though Elizabeth was alert for whispers behind fans which might suggest she was the subject of gossip. She found herself glancing now and again towards the door to catch sight of new arrivals. Some were easily recognized, but others were well disguised. Could Darcy be one of those? Why was she looking for him? They had surely said all there was to be said to each other and any more discourse would only add to the hurt.

  When the orchestra struck up the first country dance, she still had not seen him and allowed herself to be led on to the floor by Henry, who then relinquished her to Lord Fairchild for the next dance. And then she stood up with Mr. Stanford who, unlike his wife, was as thin as a pole, and after that more partners for a full hour and a half, until she called a halt through exhaustion.

  The introductions effected, Elizabeth turned back to her cousin and looked him up and down. “You look very fine, Henry, but I am surprised Mr. Bingley has made you welcome…”

  “Oh, he don’t bear a grudge,” he said airily. “Done and dusted. Which is more than can be said for Mr. Darcy.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “The little filly told me.”

  “You mean Georgiana. When did you see her?”

  “At Darcy House, went to offer my apologizes. She said they were all going back to Derbyshire.”

  “When?” The question was out before she had time to think.

  “Almost immediately, I believe. Did Darcy not tell you?”

  “No, why should he?” So, he would not be coming tonight. Disappointment mixed with a strange feeling of relief swept over her. They would not meet again. There would be no more sparring matches, no more opportunities to hurt each other—for she was sure she had been as guilty in that respect as he had—no more sitting in companionable silence while in society. The gossip would die down when it was realized he had left town, just as she had predicted it would. She would go back to being what she was before he had arrived. Was that only a few short w
eeks ago?

  The gavotte had finished and another dance was beginning. She became aware that Henry was bowing again, a broad smile on his handsome face. “Elizabeth, may I have the pleasure of this minuet?”

  “Oh, you are impossible,” she said, laughing.

  “Well, do I have to fight your suitors to dance with you?”

  “No, of course not.” She laid her hand on his shiny satin sleeve and allowed him to lead her on to the floor. “But I do not doubt your friends will find it amusing.”

  “No, for they are consumed with jealousy. Their partners are not so young or so lovely.”

  “Shame on you, Henry!” she said as they made their way down the ballroom in the stately dance. “Save your compliments for those more deserving.”

  “None is more deserving,” he said seriously. “You know I adore you, don’t you?”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes, and I would do anything for your happiness, and if anyone has made you sad, then I will call him out, be he never so lofty.”

  “Oh, Henry, you are a goose. Who is supposed to have made me sad?”

  “Mr. Darcy.”

  “Mr. Darcy?” she said sharply. “Whatever makes you say that?”

  “A little bird told me you have quarreled. And that same little bird is convinced you are miserable over it.”

  “Does this little bird have a name?”

  “Now, do you suppose…Good God! Georgiana!” This last remark was uttered, not in answer to her question—though it could easily have been—but because he had looked up and seen an apparition.

  Elizabeth turned in the direction in which he was gazing and beheld a witch. She was dressed in a black skirt, a long black cloak and a pointed hat. The bottom half of her face was covered by a wax mask with impossibly pointed nose and chin. Only the laughing eyes and the finely drawn brows were revealed, but they were enough to make Georgiana recognizable to those who knew her. She was dancing with George Wickham.