That was what worried Darcy too. He did not say that. He spoke to reassure them both.
“I am reminded of the story of the man who killed the goose that laid the golden eggs.”
Raising an eyebrow, she asked, “In this tale, are we the goose or the eggs?”
Other that that drollery, she did not mention Smeads again. As did her husband, she believed it was well and good that the wretch was gone. Darcy saw it as one more distasteful matter to put behind them. Wickham would be apprehended and Smeads would find his own level in town. Whatever satisfaction he might have gotten by having Smeads depart at the point of his sword, he was content to consign such vengeance to his imagination. He would happily leave London and its rats to London. He was satisfied to abide at Pemberley in the bosom of his family for the rest of his days.
Although not readily apparent, happier times were at hand.
Chapter 6
Open Arms
Understandably, Bingley’s nerves had been in quite a state after his forced retrenchment. Indeed, he had not wanted to remain at Belgrave Square at all. No small thanks to Darcy, he still had a country estate.
In arranging the settlement of his debts, it had been worked out that he would exchange estates with Henry Howgrave—giving that man a seat in Parliament and Bingley a step up and out of his financial morass. Rather than dwell upon the unpleasant recollection of being stripped naked by a hoard of angry creditors, he threw himself into the enormous task of moving his family, bag and baggage, scrip and scripage, from Kirkland Hall to Howgrave Manor. That project came to pass with all the chaos, hubbub, and ado that only their singular household could generate. The Bingley children stayed with the Darcys much of this time. Despite their cherubic aspects, the Bingley children were two parts hellion—with a penchant for making signs of derision at each other behind the notice of adults. When at last they were returned to their own beds, everyone toasted the move.
Darcy pronounced, “Five miles of good road is a perfect distance to make the Bingleys excellent neighbours.”
Aflutter with excitement, Jane told Elizabeth, “Mr. Darcy told Charles that it is not Howgrave Manor at all. It was called that only of late. When it was built it was known as Deering Lodge.”
Although Jane was wholly unaware of it, Mr. Darcy was very-nearly as pleased to have learnt that information as had she. He liked the Howgrave name no better than the man—and he despised the man. Speaking Howgrave’s name regularly would have been a test. Elizabeth shared in her sister’s pleasure, for she disliked Howgrave as well. This was in part because Darcy did, but also because Howgrave had contrived to court Georgiana without Darcy’s approval.
“I do hope returning the manor to its historical appellation does in no way offend Sir Howgrave,” Jane worried.
Elizabeth reminded her sister, “I am most certain that if he does not care for the alteration, he is quite free to call Kirkland Hall any name he chooses.”
As everyone else was satisfied with the move, Mrs. Bennet was much in want of someone to scold for it. She decided to find it unfitting to go about renaming ancient homes (and did not care for her opinion to be controverted by the facts involved). In fortune, Mrs. Bennet was unable to deliver her reprimands to Jane in person. She penned missives whilst in repose beneath a stately tree in the park next to Longbourn as the illustrious painter Sir Robert Morland took her likeness. (Indeed, Mr. Darcy’s particular instructions to that man had included the proviso that should Morland find himself unable to hurry the portrait; he would be well-rewarded.) Mrs. Bennet had complained of the painter and his habits unceasingly whilst he was ensconced at Pemberley at work on the Darcy commission. However, she minded her tongue when her likeness was at stake.
As he disliked the general lack of elegance of Longbourn and its cramped rooms, Morland took that as good an excuse as any to take lodgings elsewhere. No one, from Hertfordshire to Derbyshire, was heard to blame him.
With that one obstacle to family felicity settled, the Darcys were happy to take each new modification to their number as they came.
The most astonishing came from a most unlikely source.
To the surprise of all, Georgiana had returned from her unexpected confinement at Rosings Park bearing two newborns rather than the one. They were cousins born but days apart. One baby girl was born to the Colonel Fitzwilliams; the other was the child of the late Lady Anne. (In fortune, Beecher had not kept his threat to name his motherless daughter after Elizabeth—that had been another ludicrous ploy.)
As often bechanced, the baby had been called after her grandmother. Her name was Catherine, but they called her Cathy. Both girls would become lovely little toddlers and good playmates for Janie.
Georgiana’s rescue of Anne’s baby from the cold halls of Rosings seemed to be an equitable ending to that sad event. To those who knew her as a woman demanding to supervise the lives of all those about her (exempting neither kith nor kin), obtaining Lady Catherine’s approval of such a scheme had seemed unfathomable.
When told that her ladyship had, indeed, acquiesced to her granddaughter’s relocation, no one was more astonished than Elizabeth. (Darcy may have been astonished, but it pleased him to believe that all was well.) She was not so certain. There had never been a detail too small for Lady Catherine’s supervision. She gave irrefutable judgements on the clothes others wore, the feathers in their hats, the food they ate, and how many times they chewed it. Indeed, her influence was not limited to her own manor. Cottagers could not have a quarrel over a garden spot without her entering an opinion on the matter.
“Your aunt’s finger is in everyone’s pie,” Elizabeth groused.
She caught herself before she said more. Even in the privacy of their parlour, it was unseemly to speak of her husband’s relation in a spiteful manner (no matter how true it was). She took a deep breath and a less strident tone. (Hers was not to hold her peace, just mind how she spoke it.)
She said, “I find it quite inconceivable that Lady Catherine would leave her only granddaughter in want of her guidance.”
“You fancy that mere miles shall keep her at bay?” he asked drolly.
Raising an eyebrow, she agreed his point was well taken.
All Elizabeth’s motherly instincts were aroused at the notion of Lady Catherine within fifty miles of her children. Georgiana’s kindness put Elizabeth in the questionable position of disapproving of what was nothing less than rescue. Yet, she knew she had good reason to beware. During their bereavement visit to Rosings Park, Lady Catherine had cornered her in the nursery. She had been invited there ostensibly to admire Anne’s motherless child. Instead, she engaged her in a conversation that, although cloaked with an air of cordiality, was nothing less than an ambush.
Initially, Elizabeth believed the poor woman was overwrought by grief. With Beecher leering at her elbow, her ladyship had attempted to employ sympathy over her daughter’s passing as a means to her own ends by coaxing Elizabeth into promising her son, Geoff, to Anne’s newborn daughter. Confounded and profoundly dismayed, Elizabeth had taken her leave from Rosings Park with Lady Catherine’s plot still ringing in her ears.
Perhaps it had merely been the act of a mother desperately desiring assurance of her granddaughter’s happiness. Something about the eerie doings made her believe another, more sinister plot was in the works. Nonetheless, Christian charity demanded that grief not be reproved. Any mother’s heart would be wounded to the quick by their child’s death. Each mourned in their own way. Lady Catherine’s may have been to repair to the most profound aspect of her character—that of harrying her relation.
As it happened, there was even more to that story.
Not satisfied just to rescue Anne’s daughter, Georgiana also spirited away poor Mrs. Jenkinson. Her ladyship’s unkindness to her after Anne’s death was the talk of the back stairs. (Anne had a penchant for lurid novels and when they were found after her passing, Lady Catherine blamed Mrs. Jenkinson). Upon learning that Anne’s beloved com
panion had been banished from the house, Georgiana felt compelled to take her with them too. She and Fitzwilliam hid her away in their coach as they took their leave of Kent, knowing at any moment their deception could be found out. It was all quite stirring to Georgiana. Fitzwilliam, the war veteran, was beside himself with anxiety. No wrath burned hotter than his aunt’s and he preferred not to have his hindquarters scorched by her ire. Georgiana, however, was not contrite.
“What was I to do?” she shrugged. “Mrs. Jenkinson was so heartbroken. I could think of nothing but my dear Mrs. Annesley. Such devotion is to be rewarded.”
Mrs. Jenkinson was to live the years left to her happily overlooking Anne’s daughter at Whitemore. Still, Elizabeth knew Lady Catherine did nothing for sentiment’s sake. Tucking her granddaughter away with Georgiana also kept her out of Sir Winton Beecher’s sway. One thing Elizabeth knew to be true, the child was much more apt to find loving care in Georgiana’s arms than any at Rosings Park.
Who could deny any child that?
Chapter 7
The Guests
As soon as the Bingleys compleated their move to the neighbourhood, the Darcys had planned to honour them with a ball at Pemberley. It took above two years for them to relocate. It was no surprise that other events engulfed them.
———
Upon learning that his wife was again with child, Darcy was quite adamant that they should postpone the event forthwith. Elizabeth would not hear of it. Unused to his edicts being countermanded, he was less than pleased when his wife did just that.
“I fancy we shall not abandon our plans,” she said merrily. “Soaked though I am with nature’s fecund blessing, I confess that I should like to dance with my husband one more time ere I become too unduly corpulent to be moved about the dance floor with any part of grace.”
Mr. Darcy looked at his wife carefully. For a woman of even temper, her moods had been unusually mercurial. It had been his study that when in doubt, it was often wiser to remain silent. Nonetheless, he spoke his mind.
“Allow us to come to an understanding,” he said. “I shall take you in my arms just as willingly when you are great with child.”
Accepting the reaffirmation, she gave him an appreciative curtsy.
He continued, “I do not find emaciation attractive. Ladies who are excessively thin remind me of spiders.”
As he spoke, he gave a slight shudder.
Upon occasion, his compliments could be somewhat clumsy (just as often, they were sublime). This one was so genuine that she was highly diverted.
“In fortune, I am sturdy as a milkmaid,” she told him. “No doubt I shall grow evermore stout with each passing year. If you are as true to your word as I know you are, I am to be assured of your love thenceforward.”
Taking her in his arms, he told her in all seriousness, “I care not if you grow thin as Lady Caroline Lamb. So long as there is enough flesh for me to hold you near me, I shall be content.”
The spell, which had been cast over her so delightfully, was broken when the seamstress was announced. Stealing a hasty kiss, she bid him adieu to face the most evil of all taskmasters—the measuring tape.
Her husband’s speculation in regards to her fluctuating moods was undeniable. She never quite caught him at it, but she had been certain for some time he kept track of her womanly cycle more closely than did she, for he anticipated her in ways that astounded her. Of particular enjoyment was the small spray of flowers that would appear upon her dressing table a day or two before she could expect to become a tad peevish. She knew they were from his hand because they were crudely arranged—and thus all the more treasured.
It was proof that he was much vexed by country, and county political doings, that she had been above three months gone with child and he had not known of it.
Although her coming child had plagued her with morning sickness, she was now in high flutter at the notion of taking the first dance in her husband’s arms. It harkened back to the earliest days of their marriage. Her romantic notions notwithstanding, there were far greater reasons not to abandon the ball.
Most important amongst them was that the invitations had already been posted. Nothing short of a death would be cause to withdraw them. As it was, their family had become a veritable fount of gossip. It mattered not that Bingley had weathered his financial crises with his usual good humour. Bankruptcy was only cause for ostracism if one’s family did not stand behind the bankrupt party. The ball was imperative to show family solidarity.
Moreover, it was out of season to be in the country. Hence, their guest list would consist of more true friends rather than members of the ton. Amongst others, it would be a welcome opportunity to see her friend, Charlotte Collins. Still, she held out little hope Charlotte would come. It was quite a distance to Hunsford and she had never been a good traveller.
Gazing upon her own fulsome figure in the looking glass, Elizabeth recalled how fragile Charlotte had been when last she saw her. The passage of time disposed every figure to some particular evil, be it thickened waist, drooping bosom, or stooped shoulders. The only form to escape the rages of revolving seasons was her husband. Paunch would never trouble his midsection. Each year he stood a little straighter, forestalling maturity through will alone. He remained as impeccably fit as the first evening they met. Just the thought of dancing with him again made her heart leap.
“Is this to your liking, Ma’am?” inquired the seamstress. “If I do say so myself, the colour flatters you.”
She held out her new bisque-coloured gown, seams basted and ready for the final fitting. It was very pretty, if a bit subdued. Elizabeth could hear ladies tittering behind their fans even then of how Mrs. Darcy had lost her bloom. “Vanity, thy name is Elizabeth,” she silently reminded herself.
It was imperative that she cease fretting. If she did not, she knew that she would be beside herself with nerves by the time she stepped onto the ballroom floor.
As was her husband’s wish, she meant to crown her ensemble by donning the pearls he had bestowed her just prior to their wedding. They were a family piece—a double strand with a diamond and sapphire clasp. The Darcy jewels would improve general opinion of any gown she wore.
This was not a spiteful conclusion; it was fact. The crass were always well-represented at any affair.
Whereas the ball was meant to honour the Bingleys, the guest list had to include Charles’s sisters, Caroline Bingley and Louisa Hurst. Mr. Hurst was tolerable in that he over-imbibed and was customarily semi-comatose soon after dinner. Louisa and Caroline were not at all agreeable. They were alternately fawning, demeaning, and outright abusive—particularly to Jane. After Darcy apprised her of their refusal to reduce their own indulgences during Bingley’s retrenchment, Elizabeth’s dislike was sharpened into outright abhorrence. Indeed, she had not a good thought for either of them. The only consolation was that Bingley no longer harboured any misconceptions concerning his sisters’ integrity.
As Miss Bingley was invited, so would be Sir Winton Beecher. Their engagement had been formed the previous year, although they seemed in no hurry to marry. Elizabeth had supposed that as a well-established husband-hunter of unparalleled determination, Caroline was happier to parade a fiancé around the monde of London and Bath rather than a husband. Once they wed, the couple would slide into the semi-obscurity of a married couple.
Jane was apprehensive of the match. Word had it that Beecher was in no way but name a gentleman. Jane (who was in no way a gossip) feared for her sister-in-law’s reputation. Fingers clutching his elbow, Caroline followed Beecher into gambling halls of every sort. Darcy had been quite appalled by the man and took the exceptional step of informing Bingley that he considered Beecher little above a fortune-hunter. Bingley shrugged his shoulders. Caroline had her twenty thousand pounds and could essentially marry whom she pleased. He could disapprove of it, but she held the emotional whip-hand over her younger brother.
In allying herself with Beecher so hastily after
Lady Anne’s death, Caroline had incurred Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s keenly-expressed disapproval. Upon any other occasion, such censure would have sent poor Caroline into paroxysms of fear and despair. Teetering on the brink of spinsterhood, it appeared she would brook castigation long before she would forego a marriageable man.
It was another matter whether Beecher might sacrifice his love for his dear Caroline to the Gods of Credit.
Although it was not her place to make a conjecture about another’s pecuniary situation, Elizabeth was quite certain that Beecher was financially bound to Lady Catherine. If the mood struck her, her ladyship could cut him off without a cent. As to why she had not done so was a puzzlement to some. Every step that lady took was a manoeuvre; every decision she made, a scheme. What Elizabeth suspected was that by having Beecher join the Bingley family fold, her ladyship had another foothold within the Darcy family as well.
These were machinations worthy of Shakespeare.
Another invitation was extended with even less cordiality than to Bingley’s sisters. It was fraught with implications quite of another sort altogether.
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