Mendacity and Mourning

by J. L. Ashton

  Lydia laughed and ran ahead into the house.

  “Smart lad,” Mr. Bingley agreed. “As an only son, I endured many a tea room conversation centred on lace, bonnets, and proper baby rearing.”

  “Oh, Miss Bingley must know everything about bonnets,” Kitty asserted. “She is so very fashionable.”

  He gave her a stiff, confused smile. “Yes, well, to Caroline, babies are another matter.”

  “I do not like babies and romance novels,” Kitty mumbled. “The first is always sticky and the other always so sweet.”

  “You are wise to discern the difference, sister,” Elizabeth soothed.

  “Kitty, would you be so kind as to investigate whether Thomas or Henry left anything behind in the house?” Jane asked. “I worry a piece of sticky candy or a wooden horse might surprise us.”

  “Oh! Lydia or Mr. Collins may be already searching!” Kitty cried and hurried through the doorway.

  The trio watched her and then turned on a path away from Longbourn and its gardens. They walked in silence for a few minutes. Jane and Mr. Bingley navigated while exchanging smiles, and Elizabeth lagged behind, finding fascinating bits of nature to ponder. Miss Bingley would be proud of my observant eye. I shall tell Kitty, so she might sing my praises to her heroine.

  “I hope you do not mind our slow pace, Miss Elizabeth,” Mr. Bingley said, “or that we leave you no escort. I had hoped Darcy would have returned by now. His business in London is taking longer than I had anticipated.”

  “Quite serious business, Mr. Bingley?” Elizabeth smiled. “It has been but two days.”

  “Is that all?” he replied with some surprise. “Well, yes, it is serious. I believe he had to meet with his aunt and her solicitors about his cousin’s will.”

  The Bennet sisters grimaced at this reminder of Mr. Darcy’s loss.

  “Of course, he also will spend time with his sister.”

  “Oh, how wonderful for him,” Jane said.

  “Yes,” Mr. Bingley agreed. “He misses her greatly, and as her guardian, he worries much about her welfare.”

  Guardian to his sister? The mystery deepens. Elizabeth had spent too much time thinking about Mr. Darcy and his many complexities. Much as she loved the families of Meryton, they held no mystery. One new face with a life and history so removed from my own, and my curiosity is piqued. One new handsome face, she admitted a little reluctantly.

  Noticing that Mr. Bingley and Jane had moved ahead on the path, Elizabeth hurried to follow. Her sister would not mind her lingering; Jane was also curious about the dramas of Mr. Bingley’s mysterious friend.

  “His mood will lighten even more upon seeing her. He has raised Georgiana by himself for these past five years, and a fine job he has done. She is a lovely girl.” Mr. Bingley glanced at Jane and hurriedly added, “Close to Miss Catherine’s age, I believe. She has been spending time with an aunt as consolation for her recent disappointment. She was fond of Miss de Bourgh.”

  “A great loss for her as well,” Jane opined. “Miss de Bourgh must have been a lovely person.”

  Mr. Bingley paused, unable to render an opinion on a lady he had never met. A lonely bloom on a neglected rose bush caught his attention, and he leaned over to snap off the flower. He handed it to Jane and smiled. “I have been pleased to see Darcy enjoy himself here. He always has been a serious fellow and not one to spare a grin when a grimace will do. Of course, that might be because my sisters are around so often.”

  Elizabeth bit back a smile, but Jane held to her manners and overlooked his lapse. “Mr. Darcy cared deeply for his cousin.”

  “Well, yes, he did. Duty and all,” Mr. Bingley agreed. “But I believe he feels relief in some sense.”

  Relief? Elizabeth was puzzled. That she is dead? His betrothed?

  “Miss de Bourgh had been sickly ever since childhood,” Mr. Bingley continued. “I suppose her death was less a shock than an event for which he was prepared.”

  “So, sadness and looming tragedy haunted the two of them?” Elizabeth asked.

  Mr. Bingley looked a bit startled, as though he had forgotten Elizabeth’s presence. “Er, yes, I suppose that is true. He once made mention of a family curse, what with losing his mother when he was but a boy and his father not five years ago. But he is as light in spirit as I have ever seen him—a bit of a surprise since he is in mourning.”

  “I am pleased he seems to be finding so much here to please him, Mr. Bingley,” Jane said.

  “Not near as much as I, Miss Bennet,” Mr. Bingley replied, his eyes earnest upon hers.

  His mother died when he was a boy, then his father, and now his betrothed? It is heartbreaking. I might agree—a family curse, indeed. Elizabeth slowed her step and left the aspiring lovers to their own joys as she wondered further on Mr. Darcy. What did she know of him? He had revealed little of himself besides a love of books and pride in his estate. He had a fine seat on a horse and many family responsibilities, he sang well, he had a younger sister, but he had lost his parents, and he owned a library she could only imagine and envy from afar. Truly, why should she know any more of a man that she had met on merely two or three occasions? It was not her place to question him about such a delicate thing as the death of a lady to whom he was betrothed.

  Even Mr. Collins, who liked to speak at length and with inflated proficiency on nearly every subject, had shed little light on the matter. The glories of Rosings and the wonders of its windows and chimneys were topics on which he could expound for hour upon hour. And he did, which irked even her Aunt Phillips. Elizabeth feared his attentions soon would land on her or one of her sisters, and his much vaunted olive branch would turn into a weapon. She doubted both his fencing skill and his ability to please a woman. Or anyone.

  When the trio returned to the house, they found Lydia and Kitty sitting on the bench. Kitty looked glum, but Lydia had a gleam in her eye.

  Elizabeth spoke first. “Any wooden horses or stockings left behind, Kitty?”

  “Not a one, Lizzy.” She sighed dramatically.

  “La, it will be so dull now that the boys are gone,” Lydia trilled, shooting a sly glance at Mr. Bingley. “What are we to do?”

  The object of her gaze met her eyes and smiled. “Miss Lydia, what say you? Would a ball be a pleasant diversion?”

  ***

  “A ball, Charles! Here? With these people?” Caroline gripped her well-worn issue of La Belle Assemblée and glared at her brother. “What are you thinking?”

  “He is not thinking, sister,” said Louisa.

  “Oh, he is thinking,” her husband interjected. “He is thinking of his happiness and the happiness of some pretty young ladies, and of us, of course. We have dire need to fill these long, dull hours.”

  “That is hardly true, Mr. Hurst,” his wife sniffed.

  “No? These past two days without dear old Darcy have been interminable.”

  The portly man rose slowly from the chair and strolled to the looking glass. He peered at himself then turned to his family. “No one with a taste for billiards. No one with the quiet talent for fishing or shooting.” Charles eyed him, an affronted expression dawning on his face. “No one to flirt with or tease…or to mend pens for. A ball is a happy thing. It requires shopping, does it not?”

  “Here? In Meryton?”

  “Yes, Caroline, in Meryton.” Bingley grimaced.

  “A ball?” said a deep voice. Its owner stepped into the room, brushing dust off his coat.

  ***

  “Mr. Darcy! Thank goodness you are back.” Miss Bingley rose abruptly from the settee and strode to his side. As was her habit, she clutched his arm, and her voice took on a peculiarly wheedling tone. “Please talk some sense into my brother.”

  Her captured prey took a deep breath and scolded himself for not sending a footm
an ahead to scout the territory for unwanted prowlers. “Miss Bingley, this is one of Hertfordshire’s largest estates. A gentleman is expected to host events at his home, and Charles is doing his duty by his neighbours.”

  “But you are in mourning, sir.”

  “No longer,” Darcy replied, extricating himself from his eager shadow and strolling over to the window. He was pleased by Bingley’s news of the ball. He would soon be leaving Netherfield for his visit to the Hadleys; then it was off to Marlbourn to see the duke and duchess. Both houses would overflow with suitable young ladies. Cecilia Hadley would have a house full of sisters and friends, all of them eligible and eager to make his acquaintance. And he knew that the duchess had invited her three younger sisters and a number of her unmarried friends, and she had been disappointed when he had written that Georgiana would not accompany him. Travelling with his younger sister on his search for a wife seemed a terrible idea, and her experience with Pemberley’s errant footman made firm his decision to keep her with family.

  He knew he should be looking to his prospects in the weeks ahead. But at the moment, he was wondering about the proper way to ask an engaged young lady unrelated to him to dance a set. Would her betrothed be there? Did he, a stranger to the man, need his permission? And worst of all, why did a dance with Miss Elizabeth mean so much? It had never once mattered to him to dance with a particular lady, certainly not a young lady from the country who was promised to another man. He had met her but two or three times and conversed for mere minutes. Why does it matter?

  Thinking on the significance of his impulse made his head hurt and reminded Darcy of other duties he should perform, such as reading letters that had arrived in his absence. He was due to play chess with Mr. Bennet in the coming days; perhaps he should look at Netherfield’s board and plan his tactics.

  Tactics—that was it! Yes, he was decided. He would dance with her, say good-night, and journey on his…his “quest for love.” Damn Richard. He hated when his cousin had it right. He knows me far too well.

  ***

  When Darcy and Bingley set out to inspect the estate the next morning, only one stated his intention to visit the Bennet home. The other smiled indulgently, his eagerness hidden deeply under layers of denial. After an hour’s perusal of fence posts and tree lines, it appeared their impending call at Longbourn beckoned more interest than did poor drainage and dangling limbs.

  “I admire Miss Bennet, Darcy. She is so kind, so lovely.”

  “Like an angel?”

  “You know?”

  “I believe I always do.” Darcy glanced at the other man and waved his hand to dispel Bingley’s protests. “You have admired many ladies since we became acquainted, my friend.”

  “She is different, Darcy.” Bingley looked at him, a great depth of feeling emanating from his being.

  “She is indeed a wonderful lady,” Darcy replied gravely. “But she is here. Will you be staying on? You cannot excite her hopes and then hie off to London. How deep are your feelings?”

  “I am courting her.”

  “Well, then…” Darcy stared ahead, the outline of Longbourn coming into view. “After a month in the country and mere weeks of acquaintance?”

  “Yes.” Bingley sighed quietly then spoke in a firm voice. “Love is simple, Darcy, when it comes into your heart.”

  Darcy’s eyes widened as his throat tightened. Together, they rode in silence towards Longbourn’s gates.

  Ten minutes later, they were strolling into the gardens in pairs. Darcy wished to give his friend some privacy with his angel, and he wished to learn more about Miss Elizabeth.

  “Is the walking pace to your liking, Miss Elizabeth?”

  “Yes, thank you, Mr. Darcy.”

  “Good. As chaperones, we must keep pace with Bingley and your sister, but it appears we both tend to a faster stride. Perhaps as admirers of nature and clouds, we can slow our steps to enjoy what beauty surrounds us?”

  “Eh, yes.” She turned away and gazed at the greenery in the distance.

  He gestured with his hand at the cumulus clouds above their heads. “I recall your fondness for the skies. That is as white and happy a cloud as I have ever seen.”

  What the hell did I just say? She thought him daft; he knew it. Here he was, spouting insensible soliloquies on puffy white masses, and she knew Cicero. She appeared…wary. Bloody hell.

  She was evidently too intelligent to reply to his nonsense as she instead enquired, “Will you be staying much longer with Mr. Bingley and his sisters?”

  “Er, no. I’m off to visit friends soon in Warwickshire.”

  “I see. Your mourning period is over?”

  “Two weeks is the accepted length of time for a cousin. It has been three.” Darcy glanced at her and noted that her errant eyebrow was once again acting up. “You understand that Anne’s death was not a shock to anyone save her mother? That she had suffered greatly for years from ailments no doctor had ever adequately treated?”

  “Yes, Mr. Darcy.” Miss Elizabeth frowned. “Again, please accept my family’s sympathies on your loss. I am sure you have had much thinking to do on your altered future as you dwell on your loss.”

  “I…um. Yes? I mean, yes.” He frowned. My altered future? Could we not talk of clouds? He needed to redirect this conversation again.

  “Miss Elizabeth, you too have some alterations ahead? You will not always be at Longbourn.”

  She smiled. “Yes. I should be gone within the month.”

  “Before the ball?”

  “No, sir. A few days after.”

  So soon? “To where?”

  “Why, to London.”

  “Oh. I should offer you my best wishes.” I should but I do not wish to.

  Darcy offered her a fleeting smile and looked at the ground. A gentleman cannot ask a young lady about her engagement. I must speak to Bingley—if I can get him to notice anything besides his angel. Elsewise, this is the best confirmation I shall receive.

  Yet he could probe, could he not?

  “London is where Thomas and Henry live? With their father who was visiting you?” He refrained from asking the more pertinent questions preying on his mind.

  “Yes, I shall be happy to join the family and share in sensible conversation that does not centre on ribbons and dancing slippers. A houseful of sisters can be quite…trying at times. And I have been promised an excursion to Pidock’s Menagerie. The boys tell of a man-eating tiger from India residing there. Have you seen it?”

  Damn, the subject has turned again. She is determined to keep the conversation to less personal matters.

  “No, I have not. My cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam has attended the exhibit. He tells the tale of a fierce cat with teeth the size of his sword, sleeping on its back atop a rock.”

  Miss Elizabeth laughed. “Oh no! Not as fearsome as promised.”

  “I believe my sister was disappointed as well by this disclosure. Still, we are to venture to Pidock’s when I return to London.”

  “Do take care, Mr. Darcy. I should hate to see your name splashed across the newspapers from an unfortunate encounter with a large orange cat.”

  Darcy, struck by the image of a fearsome Caroline Bingley, began laughing. The lady beside him stared at the sight.

  “Pardon me, Miss Elizabeth,” he finally managed to say. “I promise you will not see my death notice as a result of such an event.”

  A shadow crossed his face, and hers, from the reference.

  “Mr. Darcy, I am sorry to have made light of such a serious subject. I am so sorry about your betro—your cousin.”

  Blast! I want to talk of books, music, anything but Anne.

  “I too apologise for making light of such a thing,” he replied quickly. “Truly, might we discuss Mr. Eggleston and his bonfire of book
s? Have you read Defoe or Swift? What think you of Wordsworth?”

  They continued on their walk, talking of books, poetry, and news from abroad while keeping pace with Bingley and Miss Bennet for a good thirty minutes until Miss Bennet became winded and all throats were parched. They strolled to benches in the garden and sent a summons for lemonade. Miss Catherine accompanied the refreshments, and Darcy was prompted by Bingley to tell stories about Georgiana’s delight in naming the horses, cows, dogs, cats, sheep, and even the mice at Pemberley.

  “She seems a lovely girl,” Miss Elizabeth said.

  “She is, indeed,” Darcy affirmed, fondly.

  “What age is she?” Miss Bennet asked.

  “She will be sixteen come March.”

  “As will Lydia, come June!” exclaimed Miss Catherine.

  “Do you know the girl has even drawn lineage charts for their milk cows, horses, dogs, and cats?” Bingley said in amazement. “She has a head for numbers like her brother and draws a pretty line as well.”

  “As do I! I like to draw. Horses are the most difficult things to capture. Their heads are long and their bodies so oddly curved. They often resemble dogs in my drawings. Or cows.”

  Once again, when Darcy stifled a smile, he felt his eyes drift towards those of Miss Elizabeth. She too was biting her lip, but her eyes were glowing with laughter. She is beautiful, he suddenly realised. Her eyes held such warmth and intelligence. He enjoyed her company and conversation, and he would miss sharing it. It was fortunate he would be leaving soon and that she was promised to what he hoped was a good man; otherwise, he might be in danger of feeling too much affection for a country girl without title or connections. He already thought about her more than was wise. He pulled his eyes away and drew inward. It would not do to allow the lady to think he paid her too much notice. He was trying to find a bride, not confuse young ladies or entangle those promised elsewhere. He spoke scarcely ten words more to her that day.

  ***

  That night, Elizabeth found sleep elusive, her mind full of Mr. Darcy.

  His eyes on her during their walk had been a familiar sensation, and she had hoped to puzzle him out. But as they strolled on the grassy lane under the warm sun with a soft breeze blowing, she found herself enjoying whatever direction their conversation led. Now, tucked in her bed, so many impressions demanded her attention.