B006O3T9DG EBOK

by Berdoll, Linda

“I was told that you swooned. You never swoon,” he fretted.

  “My swoon—had I one—was due only to the vagaries of wretched relations,” she assured him.

  His displeasure did not ebb.

  She reminded him, “I have had the distasteful task of exposing a pair of rutting swine in the second storey linen closet. You, my dearest, have a more daunting obligation.”

  She then gave him a more explicit account of what came to pass. Repugnance fought anger as his foremost emotion. From his expression, she could not tell whether his thoughts remained upon the event she just described, or that he realised what duty demanded he must do.

  Hence, she asked, “Shall you tell Bingley of his brother-in-law’s infidelity?”

  He said, “I shall speak to Major Kneebone before Bingley. Of the many injured parties, I believe his sensibilities have been wounded far more than Caroline’s.”

  A thought struck him, “Neither of the lovers have serious designs on the other...?”

  She shook her head, for she did not know. She then spoke of what she hoped to be true.

  “I should think that their affair is nothing but a fancy of convenience.”

  The adulterers did not even have the excuse of love—Elizabeth was sure of that. Regardless, it was necessary to ask Lydia to leave Pemberley post-haste. Such animalistic behaviour could not be condoned, most especially when the eyes of their children were there to witness it.

  When told of her banishment, Lydia pretended great contrition. Clearly, it had come to her that Major Kneebone might not take her back.

  She whined, “Where shall I go, Lizzy?”

  “If your husband does not cast you out, you have a fine house in Chelsea,” Elizabeth told her. “I fear not only for your marriage, Lydia, but your soul as well. You betray your husband with all the insouciance of a harlot. If you do not alter your course....”

  Lydia put her hand up, palm out, saying, “Spare me your lectures, Lizzy. What do you know of want, you with your riches? What do you know of unhappiness?”

  “Unhappiness is not solely the domain of the poor, if indeed you think yourself poor. We all suffer misfortune and sorrow,” Elizabeth reminded her.

  Lydia cried, “I have suffered too! You forget that I have lost my dear husband....”

  Elizabeth interrupted, “And an admirable one he was. You should now hope that you have not lost your second through your own stupidity.”

  Having had her fill of reproach, Lydia did not attempt to tarry. In a half day’s time, she had laden a coach with her children, nurses, lunch baskets and luggage. Major Kneebone, however, was nowhere to be found. Once she realised that he might truly have left her, remorse had begun to bother Lydia. She waffled over whether she dared face him at home or hie to the safety of Longbourne.

  “As you wish,” said Elizabeth dispassionately. “When you decide, tell the coachman.”

  Elizabeth’s only true fear was that Major Kneebone might have chased Beecher down. They soon learnt that Beecher had betaken himself back to Bingley’s house, no doubt cowering under a bed fearing the Major might to do him mortal harm.

  The truth of the affair was not long kept from the Bingleys. It came from Lydia, however, not Elizabeth. She wanted Jane’s sympathy before Elizabeth could muddy the way. Finding some good in everyone was Jane’s special gift. It was far more difficult to excuse Lydia’s impenitence than the adultery. Jane was perplexed.

  “If one was denied love, it could be understood. With such a devoted husband as Major Kneebone, we cannot reason why,” Jane said. “Lydia is Lydia and we cannot ask more of her than she has to give.”

  As they waved their youngest sister on her way, Elizabeth told Jane, “I care little of what befalls Sir Beecher, but I do not want Major Kneebone to be hung for it.”

  It was all quite troubling.

  Elizabeth said, “It is as if one sees a monstrous storm upon the horizon and can do nothing to prevent its destruction.”

  Chapter 72

  Chatter Amongst the Chaps

  As she weighed whether to stay in town and await Darcy, or go to Derbyshire after him, Juliette sought diversion. In her husband’s circles, this was difficult.

  The single gentleman within his coterie of political cronies who was not entirely in want of wit was Alistair Thomas. It was he who dared tease her about Jacobin leanings when she complained of their tiresome tirades over the national debt.

  Walking on the periphery of yet another political meeting, she pouted, “The only wager of any interest is laid upon whether that tiresome Prinny shall be murdered before he can wrench the throne from the mad King’s cold, grasping hands.”

  Looking fretfully about, Alistair attempted to caution her.

  With urgency, he said, “I implore you. Your French birth makes you suspect by these madmen. They see inkle-weavers as assassins and old women as spies. Your ladyship must take care upon whose toes she treads.”

  Certain of her place, she replied haughtily, “I am a French noblewoman who escaped the guillotine. I am much beloved in England and can speak as I want without fear of reproach from peer or ironmonger.”

  He gave a low bow, apologising, “Of course. I am in want of nothing but your safety. If my remarks were unwelcome, please blame my apprehension on your behalf.

  As gallantry was sorely wanting in all quarters just then, Juliette allowed him to grovel a bit and then forgave him. Once again, she took his arm and he escorted her out of earshot of the tedious speeches. As the evening progressed, his limp became more pronounced.

  “Your wound must trouble you,” she said with unusual forthrightness. “I believe that your sacrifice to your country has not been well-rewarded. We should all be in your debt.”

  “I allow that fallacy,” he said with a laugh. “In truth, mine was a trifle scuffle, nothing more.”

  “Indeed?”

  He nodded, but did not elaborate, only saying, “The telling of it would take longer than the event itself.”

  In the political sphere, wit and self-deprecation were rarely seen singly, much less inhabiting one being. She was very nearly charmed.

  She smiled, “I would believe it far more likely that you were a casualty of a lover’s quarrel than a battle.”

  Feigning great offence, he gasped, “Your Ladyship, how could you believe that of a gentleman?”

  Due to rising tensions, Howgrave had banned her from dining with her previous circle of friends. Alistair’s company was, indeed, the best she could manage. His rank was several tiers beneath hers and his flattery was hardly ingenious. Her esteem of late had been a bit battered, so his pretty words were well taken. It pleased her most particularly to have a flirtation with him right beneath her husband’s nose. Howgrave was easily riled. Any hint of waywardness on her part would have enraged him. She truly doubted her husband had the audacity to draw a weapon on someone. Nonetheless, the prospect of bloodshed had inflamed many an affair. The possibility that her stubby husband might stick a dagger between Alistair’s shoulder blades made an intrigue with him all the more titillating.

  No doubt Alistair was quite witting of the precariousness of such an infatuation. By speaking to her in such a loose fashion, he could lose more than his situation. Not otherwise occupied, she meant to keep his interest keen. To do so, she employed every device known to her (a considerable arsenal) to keep him at arm’s length, but allow him to believe that he might just beguile her yet.

  Eyes cast down, fan fluttering, she said, “I understand that my husband is in want of you to go to Derbyshire. I shall miss your company.”

  “What!” he squawked. Clearly surprised, he hastily becalmed himself, saying, “Have you heard something I have not?”

  She replied, “It appears that I have.”

  She had not meant to discompose him so compleatly.

  “Am I to be another ‘Oliver the Spy’?” he mumbled.

  “Pray, not,” said she. “Even I am aware that charade did not go well.”

&
nbsp; “It was an unmitigated disaster,” he said, shaking his head.

  The political ramifications of sending a spy northward were still reverberating.

  Turning to her with great solemnity, he said, “I must speak to Howgrave, for I truly cannot go there. I shall be recognised.”

  His alteration from distingué to discombobulation was astonishingly abrupt. She was amused.

  “Why would you fear being recognised?” she inquired.

  “I have relation in Derbyshire. They might guess my mission.”

  He then altered the discourse with great fluidity.

  “What is this?” he brushed her cheek with his fingertips.

  That was a great impertinence. The sudden tenderness, however, touched her.

  She said, “I stumbled gaining the carriage.”

  “And this?” he pointed to another, less obvious bruise upon her chin.

  “I stumbled gaining the carriage.”

  “What of this lovely purple one just here?”

  “I stumbled gaining the carriage.”

  “I thought perhaps you stumbled against your husband’s hand.”

  With a heavy sigh, she admitted the obvious, “He is a beast.”

  “How can you stay with him?”

  She said with prim cynicism, “I have solaced my wretchedness with a sumptuous new carriage and the promise of a house in Manchester Square.”

  “Surely, a woman of your savoir-vivre would not be without a design of some sort,” he cajoled. “You are far too venturesome.”

  “I am to give him a child and he is to give me a generous allotment and a....”

  “A regular beating?” he bid. “Or is that just a tawdry rumour?”

  A chill overtook her. Her countenance did not reflect her apprehension. The care she took not to reveal her discomposure included masking a great revelation. Not only had her husband beaten her in the privacy of their chambers, he must have boasted of it to his friends.

  No doubt details of their sexual conduct had been tittered about in every gentleman’s club in London. The coarse laughter echoed in her ears even then. His was the worst kind of betrayal—far worse than flagellation, or even the back of his hand. She had never believed Howgrave struck a particularly fine figure, but neither did she expect him to be such a dishonourable wretch.

  She had little left in the world but her vanity. Now she was robbed of that as well. The world at large was witting, not only of her humiliation, but the worst of his character. Therefore, she would be unable to pillory him herself.

  “It was my intention to give my husband a son, take his money, retire to Marseille, and write my memoirs. If he was generous, it would not be necessary to be explicit. If he was not, I was to recall every scandalous detail of his peculiar peccadilloes.”

  “Extortion,” Alistair smiled.

  She corrected him, “Not extorsion, mon ami, a roman à clef. He would be seen as a buffoon—a laughingstock. He would rue the day he raised a hand to me.”

  Her voice was flat, emotionless.

  In an attempt to raise her spirits, he said, “Such a book would still be well-taken. It might not carry the same weight with those who were witting of his perversions, but their wives would certainly be entertained.”

  She said dejectedly, “I am left with only one way of escape.”

  He awaited her elucidation.

  “I must birth a child.”

  Alistair furrowed his brow with engaging inauthenticity.

  “Despite his proclivities, surely your husband attends your bed properly. No man could withstand your allurement. No one suggests Howgrave buggers boys.”

  His sentiments were not expressed with great élan. Seldom, however, were words better timed. She staunched any remarks unbeneficial to her very tenuous situation. Alistair was no naïf. Clearly, he knew of flagellation. To Howgrave, the whip only inflamed his desire, not requited it.

  “His diligence often goes unrewarded,” she said glumly.

  Alistair queried, “Have you considered... a proxy?”

  She looked upon him coyly, “Are you offering your services?”

  “I dare say that it sounds as if her ladyship has no spate of offers. Unless you enlist a draft, gentlemen may not be aware that the post is vacant.”

  She said, “Your concern does you credit. Nonetheless, I have chosen a surrogate. As you can imagine, it is a matter of some delicacy.”

  Juliette was even more determined to have her revenge against Howgrave. Nothing would injure that under-hung weasel’s self-possession more than being unmanned by the very repository of aristocratic arrogance, Mr. Darcy of Derbyshire. Granted, she had promised Darcy compleat discretion. However much she was in want of keeping her word to him on that, circumstances had altered. Now it was her all-consuming desire to throw it all (the affair with and child by Darcy) in her husband’s face. This, of course, would be only after the transfer of funds had been made.

  Chapter 73

  The Dog Will Have Its Day

  At one time, Cressida followed her master and mistress from room to room. Of late she had grown too enfeebled. The poor dog had not the strength to climb upon the bed. Rheumy-eyed and half-blind, she thrashed in her sleep, chasing after rabbits only in her dreams. Neither of the Darcys could fathom consigning her to the kennels. That was how it came about that Graeme, a stalwart young man with a kind face and gentle hand, was consigned to be Cressida’s sole caretaker. Graeme alone was to see that the dog was carried from one room to the next.

  When alone in their bedchamber, however, Elizabeth did not call for Graeme to attend Cressida.

  Mrs. Darcy was disinclined to meddle with the operation of a household that had been in place for centuries. It was her particular wish not to be tended by housemaids and footmen once the Darcys had retired for the night. That had been her single request, a preference initiated upon the Darcys first night together. (Her humiliation upon being found naked in the bed with the master of the house was no longer recalled with abhorrence, but it was hardly forgot.) They re-pledged themselves to decorum due to their children’s habit of prowling about.

  That meant their time-honoured tradition of consigning the dog to the corridor once connubial pleasures had commenced, had remained in place. The only adjustment was that Cressida no longer took leave under her own power. As Cressida had been a great comfort to her in Darcy’s great away, she was happy to help the dog. When Cressida clawed at the bed-skirt, she meant to lift her herself. Darcy was quick to stop her.

  “Dare not, Elizabeth! She is far too heavy!” Darcy said. “Either allow me, or have a footman collect the dog. Pray, do not exert yourself in such a manner.”

  She acquiesced, saying, “One day, you may be shoving your wife aboard this bed.”

  “With more pleasure, I assure you, than I do the dog,” said he.

  Once ensconced on the bed, Cressida laid her muzzle on the counterpane and dolefully eyed him as Darcy read a letter from Bingley. Brushing her hair, Elizabeth inquired if there was news.

  Glancing up, he said, “Bingley’s gout is much improved. He is in great hope of soon wearing his boot.”

  Cressida’s tail whapped mournfully against the bed, her large eyes begging only to be petted. Tossing her brush aside, Elizabeth walked over to the dog and ruffled the soft fur behind her ears. She was rewarded by a contented whine. Seeing his wife unattended, Darcy came to her. He wrapped a shawl about her shoulders, giving her a kiss on the side of her neck for emphasis. Before he could step away, she leaned against him and nestled in his arms.

  “I love it here,” she said. “A veil dropped over us and we are left with our true selves.”

  “Are our true selves so different from those we present to the public?”

  She placed her hands behind her and, after briefly caressing his thighs, she gifted him a tweak on the buttock. Taken unawares, he flinched. Then, he hastily wrestled her onto the bed.

  “You are quite correct,” she teased. “We have no
public facade.”

  He kissed her again.

  Quite unexpectedly, he released her and sat up. Then, he rose and stood by the bedpost, an expression of unease overspreading his countenance. She gazed at him quizzically. Something was certainly amiss. They had not spoken much of Lydia’s most recent (and far greatest ignominy). Elizabeth hoped that Bingley’s letter had not reignited those recollections. Scandal followed Lydia constantly. When she did not find shame, she manufactured her own. No amount of money or finery would make a lady of her. She had remained unabashedly and whole-heartedly impenitent. Elizabeth did not want to speak of Lydia just then.