Mendacity and Mourning

by J. L. Ashton

“Well, a woman’s disposition for such activities is of course a major share of the conversation. Everyone has a preference.” Richard took a long drink and stared at his reddening cousin. “Do they not?”

  Darcy sipped his brandy. “Tell me about your perfect woman, Richard.”

  “I have spoken enough, Cousin. Tell me of yours.”

  Darcy hesitated. Some small part of him wished to pursue this conversation, to wrestle out his confused thoughts.

  “Beyond books and eyes to read them, and a mouth that speaks words with too many letters, of course.” Richard laughed. “Tell me what I cannot guess about the woman who frequents your dreams.”

  Only Hadley’s cry of victory saved Darcy from further interrogation.

  ***

  Tigers. Wolves. Which was worse? The menagerie was full of foreign creatures, some of them frightening, all of them fascinating. But when Elizabeth saw the tiger pacing in his small cage, he looked less fierce than weary. Trapped, stared at, unable to roam and run the lands from whence he came. Her excitement to see such a wild creature was tempered by sadness that the magnificent animal’s life was reduced to an iron-barred box. Her little cousins shouted and gasped, their excitement not tempered by the crush of awed onlookers nor the dull anger in the big cat’s eyes. She wondered what Mr. Darcy would think of it and when he would bring his sister to see the menagerie.

  Suddenly, the words of Mr. Wickham, repeated to her the day after their encounter at the card party, returned. He and his friend Mr. Denny had gone to Longbourn for tea, invited by Lydia and Kitty. The memory of his visit and their conversation nearly made her shudder, and she remained angry that it had tainted her last day at home.

  She had tried to enquire about his life in the militia and to make observations about the weather and local lore. Mr. Wickham’s interest centred on learning about the neighbourhood families, Longbourn, and Mr. Collins’s prolonged stay. She had spoken few words on the last subject, for the man himself was nearby, hovering over a platter of ginger cake, and she instead let her raised eyebrow express her opinion. Elizabeth wished to learn a bit more about the lieutenant’s statements on Mr. Darcy, but he had waved away her enquiries.

  “I have said too much. Suffice to say, he is a charming but venal man—a man whose bride is dead, whose sister is locked away… Did he dance at Bingley’s ball?”

  “Yes.” His sister?

  “With more than one lady?”

  “Yes. Two, I believe.”

  “While in mourning?” There had been disgust in his voice.

  “Mr. Wickham, I am confused about Mr. Darcy’s sister. You say he has locked her up? How can that be?”

  “Georgiana suffers, as her late cousin did, from a weakness of the mind. Miss de Bourgh was a shy, retiring sort, but Georgiana is a bit…forward in her affections. Darcy locks her away to keep the family safe from scandal.”

  Elizabeth had recoiled in horror.

  “She is a pretty girl but too young to display her arts and allurements. Darcy has failed her as a parent. She is too much like her mother.”

  She had felt sick and infuriated. “Mr. Wickham, the business of the Darcy family is no business of mine. Nor is it of yours to discuss at a card party or while enjoying the hospitality of the families here. We all have sad stories and human weakness, but to air them to the world as you have done is more a disservice to your name than to the Darcys’.”

  Wickham had stared at her, his eyes narrowed. “Are you defending Darcy? Is there more to your friendship with him than you let on?” He leered at her then strolled over to Lydia and Mr. Denny, and Elizabeth had been grateful to be in her own home, surrounded by family.

  “Lizzy! Lizzy! Come see the furry beast!”

  Elizabeth shook off the memory and turned to see her young cousins jumping up and down. Thomas and Henry held the hand of their baby sister, Lily, and they were pointing at a peacock strutting in front of the cage where a great wolf howled at the sky.

  Perfect, a preening peacock and a braying wolf.

  Stubbornly, perhaps stupidly, her sympathy remained with the tiger.

  ***

  The cousins were not able to sit alone again for conversation until nearly a week into Richard’s stay.

  “Hadley is not about, I take it?” Richard asked, pouring them a generous serving of their host’s brandy.

  “Business with his steward.”

  It was time for a conversation about the family, and Darcy broached the topic he dreaded.

  “How is Lady Catherine?”

  Richard frowned. “Damned quiet. She has moved into her town house, and she admits no callers save my parents. She will not speak of Anne.”

  “Will not or cannot?”

  “It seems a choice, as though mourning comes easier if she pretends Anne never existed.” Richard shook his head. “Sometimes it seems she did not. I rarely thought of her once I donned my uniform. She was neither a faithful correspondent nor an eager host when we visited Rosings.”

  Darcy nodded sadly. “She was a shadow of life much of the time, most often when her mother was in the room. Yet she had a brain and wit and asked me for books.”

  “You were of use.”

  “Ha.” Darcy leaned forward in his chair and stared at his cousin. “Did we fail her, Richard? Did I, by not marrying her?”

  “She did not want you. She did not want marriage. Anne’s temperament was often foul and unpleasant, and her health was never strong. You deserve more, far more. She deserved more as well; however, what more that was, I do not begin to know.”

  Darcy closed his eyes and nodded. “Right, then.”

  Richard cleared his throat. “What she does deserve is to have her death announcement printed in the Times.”

  “What?” Darcy sat up in his chair. “Do you mean to say no formal announcement of her death has yet been published?”

  “That is correct. No family service, no funeral, no announcement.” Richard rubbed his jaw. “Lady Catherine ran her household differently than most do, and she is not accustomed to her commands being questioned. But all of this is quite odd.”

  “What are you saying?” Darcy asked. “That Anne died under mysterious circumstances? Of unsavoury reasons? That our aunt had something to do with her death?”

  Richard shrugged. “I do not know. That is why I went to Rosings before journeying here.”

  “You did what?”

  Richard shrugged. “My father was concerned. His sister is obstinate on every issue and refuses to leave her London home, yet she threatens daily to return to Rosings.” His eyes narrowed in disgust. “His instincts were correct. The place is a disaster. Lady Catherine dismissed the entire household. The doors are barred, and I could not gain entry. Whatever happened to Anne, things are not right.”

  “No…”

  “Damned Fitzwilliam women! It is probably best I not marry and curse my wife with my name.”

  Georgiana.

  Darcy’s silence roused Richard from his musings. “Oh, bloody hell, Darcy. I am an addle-pate. Forgive me. I meant no slur on Georgiana or your mother. I apologise. It is all that strain. I should rightly blame the de Bourghs.”

  Richard rarely babbled, so Darcy knew he was sincere. Still, his cousin had roused his deepest fears. He needed to see his sister.

  Chapter Eight

  Within an hour of settling their scheme to ride to London for a meeting with Richard’s father before travelling on and demanding entry to Rosings, Darcy had advanced a new plan. “We shall stop at Netherfield to rest the horses.” He was unable to fully recognise, let alone express, the root of his idea. He never discussed the nocturnal wanderings of his mind and certainly not those that touched on a young lady—such thoughts needed to be locked firmly away from his most inquisitive cousin. All Darcy knew
was that he wished to stop again in that place and learn whatever news there was of Elizabeth Bennet. He had stared at trees and imagined her perched on a branch, a book in hand, the entire time he had spent at Kenilworth. He needed to do something—anything—to exorcise her from his mind.

  After emitting a dramatic sigh, Richard agreed that a night at Netherfield was a fine idea as it was but an easy morning ride from there to London. “Sharp minds and fresh cravats seem a wise idea for the operation we plan. But do not lie to me, Darcy. I know this is all a ruse to see your true sweetheart, the enchanting Miss Bingley.”

  The next sigh, this one from Darcy, was more affected. He had not thought of Charles’s sister in more than a fortnight, a period spent evading younger, less jaded versions of her. In particular, he had worried about Cecilia Hadley’s young cousin, Miss Upton, who seemed to lower her bodice further and place herself more closely to him as the days passed. The manor was smaller than Pemberley and built of a piece with fewer forgotten rooms and hidden nooks. Darcy had found solitude only in his rooms or by riding out until, ten days into his stay, an observant butler showed him the hidden lock on the library door. Netherfield would be far easier; he knew the house and was wise to Caroline’s tricks. Another house, another night, another locked door.

  Behind those doors, he found books could not hold his interest. Instead, he focused his time pondering the question that Richard had planted in his mind. What was his idea of the perfect woman? Darcy knew the kind of lady his friends and family supposed for him: beautiful of face and born to the right family; comfortable in his social sphere and fluent in manoeuvring its demands; able to give him sons, paint a screen, ride a horse, and compliment the right people at the perfect balls she would host because such things were expected.

  Expected. How I hate expectations. His entire life revolved around fulfilling expectations and doing his duty by his family and by society. What of my duty to myself?

  Much as he tried to repress it, there was but one likeness that came to mind when Darcy thought of his perfect woman. One voice that teased and laughed and quoted dead Roman poets. One face that smiled with warmth and wit and exhibited an innocent, intelligent, irresistible charm. She was not born to the right family, did not mix in the right society. He had heard her admire the talents of those who could paint screens, but she preferred books to brushes. She did not like to ride but admired the gentle beauty of horses. She enjoyed dancing even at risk to her toes. She was a tactician there, with her slipper stuffing. He smiled at the memory.

  Yet she did not scheme to place herself in the way of a man like him who could fall in love with her and take her to a new life. She had no need; she had chosen, with all appearance of happiness, her life’s future companion. He should be pleased for her, but such sentiments failed him. For the first time in memory, Fitzwilliam Darcy wanted something he could not purchase with his family’s wealth, earn through hard work, or acquire through use of his rusty charm. He wanted Elizabeth Bennet, and he did not wish to exorcise her from his mind. He wanted to imagine her as his.

  He laughed at himself. I am not in love with her.

  Surely not. Even if his perfect woman would be small and dark with fine, laughing eyes and an impertinent spirit. She would smell like wildflowers, autumn leaves, and sunshine. She would push him to think more deeply and talk of subjects he had long thought uninteresting to anyone else. She would tease him until he quieted her with a kiss. And she would taste of all that was good and be soft and lush and receptive to his words, to his lips and hands. To all of him. There was no woman like her.

  Damn it! He could never tell a soul of his foolishness, and he must remember the company he was keeping. His cousin could enjoy a woman and charm a lady, but Richard would never be vulnerable to a member of the opposite sex, and Darcy could not lay himself bare to his taunting banter. He must forget about Elizabeth Bennet’s future and think of his own.

  ***

  On the following day, Richard ceased his teasing about fawning young ladies when Bingley led them into the sitting room at Netherfield. One lady leapt to greet them while three others looked up expectantly. Darcy would have smirked at his cousin’s stunned response to the ethereal beauty of Jane Bennet, but his own admirer was quick to her purpose.

  “Mr. Darcy,” Miss Bingley trilled. “We are so pleased to have you return to Netherfield. We welcome you as well, Colonel Fitzwilliam.” She slid her arm through that of her favourite and pulled him closer to her side.

  Richard greeted Mrs. Hurst, and he was introduced to Miss Bennet and Miss Catherine. He shot a questioning glance at Darcy, who studiously disregarded him as he busied his energies extricating himself from Miss Bingley’s tight embrace.

  “I regret I did not accompany my cousin here last month.” Richard sat where he could stare at Miss Bennet, apparently unmindful of the frown creasing Bingley’s face. “He neglected to inform me of the native beauty of the region.”

  Miss Bingley’s sharp intake of breath provided Darcy a brief window of opportunity. He slipped his arm from hers and celebrated his freedom by dropping down forcefully onto a chair suitable for one. He readied a cutting response for his cousin’s insolent flirting, but Miss Catherine spoke first.

  “Oh, we have loads of pretty flowers and shrubberies, sir! ’Tis a shame Lizzy is not with us. She knows all the walking paths and the best views, and she can name nearly every bud.” Miss Catherine smiled prettily at the colonel, her expression faltering only when Miss Bingley sat beside him and cleared her throat.

  “Yes, well. There is the rare native prettiness here, I suppose, but I believe a higher quality of beauty can be found in the greenhouses and conservatories of London. Or at Pemberley! There, the beauty lasts the entire year rather than fading and withering.” Caroline turned to Darcy and smiled, and not for the first time, he was struck by the cold and waspish cast to her expression.

  “Yes, the conservatories are host to beauty and are of great value in wintertime,” he replied, “but at the height of the season, nothing is grander than the splendour of autumn leaves or the spring gardens full of colour. I have seen many fine examples here.”

  As he finished his soliloquy on Hertfordshire’s landscapes, Darcy noticed Miss Catherine’s eyes darting worriedly between him and Miss Bingley. Odd. The younger girl looked displeased. He recalled that she admired Miss Bingley’s style and manner of dress. Truly odd. Why would she not emulate her older sisters who dress and act as proper ladies should? Why would a young lady with such fine examples— A sudden vision of his own sister, dulled by loneliness and reaching out for friendship to a chubby-cheeked footman, clouded his thoughts.

  Bingley began speaking about grasses or horses or some such thing, and Darcy’s attention faded. He felt exhausted of conversation and drifted back to examining the pair of Bennet sisters before him. He felt Elizabeth’s absence quite keenly as the discussion of nature changed to one of the militia and his cousin’s adventures on the Continent. Bingley’s angel was a lovely creature if one wished for kind assurance on every topic canvassed. Miss Catherine was a sweet, enthusiastic girl, if rather limited in her interests and objects of admiration. Neither one was a match for their fine-eyed, well-read sister, who appeared to be happily ensconced in London.

  How is it that I can find so many adjectives to draw upon when describing her? When is her wedding? How do I divert the conversation back to her? He sighed quietly as the person he wished not to think on kept intruding. Elizabeth Bennet is so very vexing!

  As had happened to him more than once since leaving Hertfordshire, Darcy recalled the final time he had seen her. It was the ball where, after enjoying the supper dance and her small hand in his, they had continued a merry conversation over the meal about the merits of Boswell and the sights to be seen in the Lake District. It had been, he realised now, the last intelligent conversation he had had with anyone save Hadley.
/>   No! he reminded himself yet again. He must not think of her nor wonder about her marital felicity. Married or not, it simply did not matter. She did not matter. Their separate societies were different and ill-fitting. They might meet again as friends—as brief acquaintances from a month spent in the country. That was all. Despite her perfection, there were flaws in his thinking.

  Their ease with each other resembled a puzzle piece fitting into a carefully carved dissection: with perfect ease, it would help clarify the whole picture being created. But as was clear from even this short visit to Hertfordshire, the piece was truly an ill fit, uncomfortable and rubbing the edges raw from abuse and unhappiness.

  Or was it so clear? Why does thinking of her always make my head hurt? Blast! He had confused himself. He wished she were here.

  “Darcy? Are you with us, man?” Richard’s voice interrupted his reverie. “Miss Bingley was enquiring about Georgiana.”

  Darcy sat up a little straighter. “Pardon me. My mind had drifted to an issue with the harvest at Pemberley, and I recalled I must send a letter to the duke about our change in plans. My visit will be delayed at least a week.”

  Miss Bingley looked pleased by his news. “How is dear Georgiana?”

  “My sister is quite busy with her aunt. During our stay in London, I hope we shall attend the menagerie. In her letters, Georgiana has written of a collection of foreign animals. The tiger and the constrictor are of particular interest.”

  “Oh, Lizzy saw the tiger!” Miss Bennet’s face lit up in excitement. “She said it was quite fascinating, if not a bit melancholy.”

  While Darcy absorbed the happy news and began forming a query about Miss Elizabeth, he heard Miss Bingley titter.

  “A wild cat prone to melancholy? A fierce and bloodthirsty beast such as that has no such feeling.”

  In a cool voice, his eyes fixed firmly on Miss Bingley, Richard replied, “I have seen animals feel many things: fear, excitement, joy. Dogs are happy creatures. Horses love to run, but in the face of danger or loud noises, they are frightened. A wild, untamed creature cannot be happy in the city with the cries of children breaking the peace and the eyes of the multitude upon him.”