B006O3T9DG EBOK

by Berdoll, Linda

  Having had high hopes for a profitable way to dispose of the mines and their blessed ponies (and thereby restore his wife’s happiness on their behalf), this was not good news—especially for a man already taken down by a very painful toe.

  Said he, “My present agent says that they are quite profitable and I should keep them. Perhaps goats could pull the coal waggons.”

  “I would rather do with a thousand less a year, Bingley,” Darcy said.

  “Well, you can say that as you have many more thousands a year than do I.”

  Darcy understood Bingley’s finances better than he did and was not taken in by his uncharacteristic fit of petulance. Bingley was not the richest man in England, but he was solvent. That was more than many a gentleman could say.

  “Be well, my friend,” Darcy said as he rose to go. “I suggest you sell the mines. Have a clear conscience and an appeased wife. You owe her that.”

  “I must have you stay for supper....” Bingley said.

  Darcy advised, “You best take your rest whilst your children are not here to play on your bed.”

  Seeing the wisdom of that, Bingley offered himself up to sleep. Darcy crept from the room and met Jane, now composed.

  “He shall recover soon,” Darcy assured her. For Jane’s sake, he was much in want of believing it.

  Few men weather infirmity with any part of good humour. When his hearing had been all but absent, Darcy knew that he had been unforgivably petulant. He could not think of his misbehaviour without abhorrence.

  He asked, “What does the physician claim will cure gout other than time itself?”

  Jane said, “He told Charles that no one who lived upon sixpence a day ever contracted gout.”

  “That is an easy remedy,” he assured her. “Deny him wine and meat.”

  She promised, “He shall live on bread and tea until his toe improves.”

  It occurred to Darcy that Jane might be in want Elizabeth’s assistance with Bingley.

  As if reading his thoughts, Jane placed a restraining hand on his forearm, saying, “Do not speak of this to Lizzy. I shan’t want her to see Charles in his unfortunate condition.”

  He agreed to her wishes.

  Then she said, “Charles must get well. We must return to the country. Town is becoming untenable. Mrs. Aubrey lives just across the way. Her servants were attacked merely because they were situated with someone of station. It is said that no one is safe. I believe it is so. It is almost dark, Mr. Darcy. You must be wary.”

  This time, words of warning were accepted with the same generosity that they were given. They were not necessarily well-taken. Darcy was more concerned over what would befall them down the road, not around the corner. Moreover, if Bingley could not be a good owner, Darcy hoped that he would sell his mines to someone who would. Bingley was a good man, but simply too hasty to be a good overseer.

  Another fear bothered Darcy. Had he his wishes, Bingley would be lucid enough to be cautioned about his loose tongue. Bingley was given to conversing with strangers with compleat abandon. Jane was correct. Contingents of finger-pointers filled the streets seeking an excuse to accuse someone of treason. Even soft-spoken Georgiana was at risk. She was far too vocal in criticising the mines and the ponies. When he returned, he would speak to her about her openness. There was insurrection about and the streets abounded with louts who would not think twice about assailing a lady (and the horse drawing her carriage).

  There was no doubt that gangs of men wandered the streets just looking to throttle a gentleman or two (some for the principle of it, others for the valuables they carried). By the time he left the Bingleys, the streets were fast becoming deserted by coaches bearing crests and carriages carrying persons of rank. Used to going where he liked, he did not exercise caution himself. Fortunately, he travelled from Bingley’s house in Belgrave to his own house in Mayfair without incident. When he reached his stables, he might have given a small sigh of relief. If he did, it was inaudible to the stable boy who took his reins. For the boy took the horse and disappeared with great dispatch into the stable. The mount was in need of a good rubdown. Thinking that was an admirable end of the day for man or beast, Darcy walked towards his house.

  It was upon the approach through the garden that he noticed someone stood just inside the property fence. He had a choice to either to face the intruder or make for the back steps. It was not in his nature to run—even when it might be prudent. An improvident act or not, he knew no other way to respond than to confront that which threatened him.

  As he waited for the figure to make a move, he stood his full height.

  A voice range out. In the night air, sound carried quite clearly.

  “Mon cheri, I have waited for hours.”

  Chapter 60

  Disharmony All Around

  When the Darcys at last reached Chiltern, darkness had fallen.

  The conversation in the coach thither from the site of the mishap had been stilted. That lack of cordiality did not influence him to renege on his promise to Jane that he would not tell Elizabeth of her situation. In all good conscience, he could not keep such information to himself. He told her of the severity of Bingley’s gout and Jane’s insistence that Elizabeth not come. Still, Elizabeth agreed that he had been right to tell her—even if it was against Jane’s wishes.

  Said she, “After all, one must weigh the importance of the information. One has a duty to honesty. Although Jane does not want to trouble me, I can at the very least offer them my prayers—and be prepared should the situation alter.”

  The coach then drew to a stop, thus disallowing Darcy the opportunity to be as forthcoming about the rest of his time in town. He peered out the window. Even in the gloom of night he was not happy with what he saw (as he had decided to despise the lodgings sight unseen, this was of no great surprise). Looking about, he very-nearly sneered.

  His voice pinched with hauteur, he asked his wife, “What, pray, is the name of this inn you have taken? Is it not the ‘Gutted Goat’ or some sort?”

  Quite witting of his impertinent tone, she answered him with exaggerated pleasantness.

  “There is indeed an inn nearby called the ‘The Drunken Goose.’ Our lodgings, however, are at the Chiltern Inn.”

  The establishments were quit dissimilar. The ‘Goose’ was no more than a haven for inebriates. The Chiltern Inn was quite respectable. The distinction of hosting such illustrious personages had left the innkeeper breathless with anticipation. Knowing of the many needs of the rich, he had cleared the place of other guests and meant to glean the surrounding countryside for a bevy of milkmaids and farm hands to serve them. As it happened, whatever extra help the innkeeper might have forgathered had been at the site of the overturned coach. Their absence was well and good. The Darcys own servants took over the place with great efficiency.

  After town, Darcy enjoyed the quiet, but at times the country was not always amenable to his desire for tranquillity. Oftentimes small hamlets were short on amusements. He had known cottagers to quit their ovens and fields to come to the village for no other reason than to admire his livery. Moreover, many common folk displayed all manner of servile tics and peculiarly reverential bows when they saw him. Darcy was quite used to the absurdities of obsequiousness, but never enjoyed them. He would have paid the publican an extra sovereign to keep word of the stay from being known. (Elizabeth would not know to do so.) Unfortunately, the melee on the road had precluded anonymity.

  Whilst Darcy fretted about their privacy, Elizabeth instructed Hannah to see if the inn had such a thing as a large wash tub.

  Her husband inquired, “For you or the children?”

  She looked at the offending hem of her skirt and was unperturbed.

  “If my sloth offends, sir, I shall put my own toilette above that of your children.”

  The Darcys’ exchanges had become disharmonious. Elizabeth endeavoured to quell her growing irritation lest it was overheard.

  After the baskets, satc
hels, and trunks were unloaded, Hannah bid a footman to see that water was drawn. In the kitchen, a pot of stew was warming over the fireplace. Even for a man whose taste in all things was discriminating, it looked rather good to Darcy. The serving wench, however, was not. Standing guard over the stew was a toothless woman in a begrimed apron. The publican’s stout wife shooed her away and scurried to serve Mr. Darcy a large pewter bowl of stew. Beside it, she laid a half loaf of bread. He tore off a piece of bread, stuck a corner of it in the stew and popped it into his mouth. As it was still hot from the pot, he had to resort to some unflattering facial contortions to keep his tongue from being scalded.

  Notwithstanding the irregularities of his countenance and the stew’s origin, he found it uncommonly delicious. It was good, wholesome fare. To admire rusticity simply because it was fashionable to do so was unacceptable. Nonetheless, it was exceedingly good ragout—good enough for his children. He motioned for Mrs. Heff to have a tray carried up to them.

  Despite Darcy’s implied aspersions, he conceded that the inn was clean and tidy. It was, however, little more than serviceable. There was an inn of estimable merit at Meryton. He surmised that Elizabeth had good reason to let apartments twenty miles away. That was not a subject he chose to broach (as he was of the opinion that their distance from Longbourne was a gift he was not in want of questioning). Once their coaches had crossed paths, he expected to stay no more than the night in Chiltern. The ledger showed that Elizabeth had taken their rooms for a week. Her design, had she one, was obscure to him.

  Darcy took the stairs to their room in hope of finding some privacy therein to make peace with his good wife. His son, however, awaited him. His eyes looked troubled. This time, Geoff had not escaped from Margaret. She had brought him to his father.

  “Beg your pardon, sire,” said Margaret. “The boy seemed so worried I knew you would want to talk to him.”

  Darcy nodded to her and waved her on her way. She did leave, but waited just beyond the doorway. Darcy bent down upon on one knee and drew his son to him.

  “What troubles you?”

  The boy inquired, “Is it true, Papa?”

  “Is what true?”

  Geoff’s voice trembled.

  “Body-nappers—do they steal our teeth?”

  In the past months, two of their cousins had lost their baby teeth. That had made the talk of grave-robbers all the more real to Geoff. His father firmly believed that the horrors of stealing corpses should not plague one so young. The very thought angered him. Drawing the boy tightly against his breast, Darcy patted his small back. There was no such talk at Pemberley. The boy was clearly too young to be trotted about the country subjected to morbid talk and rooster attacks. Thank God above that Janie had not been struck by the same fear. Of the two, Geoff was the worrier. His place was already weighing upon his shoulders.

  “Do not fear, son,” he crooned. “You are safe. I am here.”

  Not entirely placated, Geoff’s voice quavered as he asked, “What of William? Did the body-nappers steal him?”

  He did not want to place undue importance on it lest the child’s fears be multiplied.

  He stood him down, saying, “No, they did not. Fear not, for I am here and I shall protect you always.”

  Vowing it would be so, he beckoned Margaret Heff.

  “Sleep well, son. Papa is right here all night.”

  To Margaret, he said, “Should the boy....”

  She nodded. Taking Geoff’s hand, they walked across the hallway.

  From beyond the doorway, Elizabeth watched the tender scene with a divided heart. Her husband’s quiet reassurance of his son was touching. Although she was not surprised, she was still pleased that a man as proud and reticent as Mr. Darcy did not hold himself above issuing such comfort. Yet, she could not help but feel that in doing so, her husband censured her as a mother. He had, after all, believed her wrong in taking to the road without him—and was most displeased that she had then allowed the children to leave the safety of their coach to observe what excitement had transpired.

  No doubt he thought that she had behaved unwisely—even rashly. (If she was at fault for any of it, she had to admit that she was curious about the overturned coach herself.) The incident was unremarkable. They had not sustained any injury. Until Duff’s wild stories, it had been a bit of an adventure. Accidents befall the best laid plans.

  As she bethought the matter, she became evermore indignant.

  Clearly, Darcy exaggerated the entire event. After inflating the danger, he accused her of placing her children in harm’s way. Indeed, his words came perilously close to a reproach. He could not injure her more grievously than to criticise her as a mother. Just thinking of it left her all but quivering with outrage.

  Taken as a whole, she believed he had treated her with utmost disrespect. The only repair for such an indignity was for him to withdraw his accusations (falling on his knees and beg her forgiveness would be helpful, but highly unlikely). In order to obtain his apology, fractious words might be exchanged. Unlike Pemberley’s vast rooms, the walls of the Chiltern Inn were not impenetrable. If they were to speak contentiously, she did not want to be overheard.

  She meant to betake herself from their room altogether, but before she could pass him by, he caught her hand.

  He said, “Allow Hannah to see to your needs....”

  With a near-violent twist of her wrist, she wrung her hand from his.

  “I want,” she said, “A pint of ale.”

  Her request astonished him. He caught himself before he laughed. Hers was not a jest.

  “My love....”

  She whirled and in a harsh whisper, said, “You use me cruelly to improve yourself.”

  An expression of injured incredulity overspread his countenance.

  He said curtly, “I here beg leave to apologise if I have, in word or deed, wounded you in any fashion.”

  That was apology by rote, not one truly meant. Did he think her a simpleton?

  She whispered urgently, “You accuse me, not in word or deed, but in your thoughts—with your eyes.”

  “Of what do I accuse you?’

  When she spoke, it was not what she meant to say. Nonetheless, she believed it true.

  “I am condemned for my vulgar relations.”

  Her recent visit to Longbourne and the ill-behaviour it harboured was very much with her. Unfortunately, it did not occur to her that she was the author of this accusation, not her husband.

  He responded, “I am quite certain that none of us can best the other when it comes to ill-mannered kin. This, I have admitted freely. Surely, you suffer from a higher injury than that.”

  Her chin quivered, but she did not weep—despite how deeply she was offended. When she spoke, she still did not tell him what she had inferred from his talk with their son. Perchance that was best. Rather, she spoke of another grievance, one that festered in her breast long before they came to Chiltern Inn.

  “We shall not be happy unless I am enslaved by our designing friends—to sacrifice what we have to the caprice of their inclinations.”

  Still confounded, said, “I do not take your meaning.”

  He truly did not.

  “Am I to have a child to please others? Shall that please you? Is that what you want of me?”

  He was rendered speechless. She was not.

  “I am in want a pint of ale and I shall have it.”

  Chapter 61

  Purgatory Holds On

  It fell apparent with great haste that Chiltern was not to be the idyll that Elizabeth had hoped—or the night of rest that Darcy had supposed. If he was confused by his wife’s anomalous actions, she was in a spin of her own.

  As she made for the door, Darcy called to her.

  “Lizzy!” said he. “Where shall you go?”

  Upon occasion, Mr. Darcy spoke firmly, but he rarely raised his voice. Hence, she paused. She did not, however, gaze in his direction. Nor did she answer. In truth, she was much i
n need of finding a place where she could sit and think with pleasure of her own ill-use. The drinking establishment below their rooms looked quite acceptable to engage in a bout of self-pity.

  “I shall accompany you,” he said, claiming his coat.

  She knew that she was nearing compleat want of conduct. Marching into a public room of a public house in any manner was exceedingly ill-advised under any condition—certainly not alone.

  She was not so foolish as to refuse his offer—nay, his insistence—upon escorting her. Still, she did not wait for him. She hurried on her way, but by employing two long, purposeful steps, he caught up with her. Although she hastened her pace, she could not stay ahead of him. Indeed, he was all but stepping upon the back of her mud-caked slippers as she walked.