Mendacity and Mourning

by J. L. Ashton

  “Oh, this makes me sad,” Miss Catherine said in a small voice.

  “It does, indeed,” Bingley exclaimed. “But to see it makes it real and not a creature of myth and legend.” He smiled when Miss Bennet met his eyes and nodded.

  “Yes, Mr. Bingley,” she said softly. “It does.”

  Darcy watched as his cousin’s eyes roved over the couple as though assessing the field that lay before him. Shrugging, Richard sat back and enquired as to the whereabouts of Hurst.

  Mrs. Hurst averted her eyes as her brother revealed that her husband had met a hearty ragout he deemed the finest of his life but lost the battle. Richard chuckled. “He best not be in the militia or the navy if his stomach is so delicate.”

  “Ah, I believe it was the quantity he ate rather than the quality of the dish,” Bingley asserted. “Four servings. And soup, a pudding, and a tart.”

  “He is resting upstairs,” Mrs. Hurst added.

  Richard coughed out a laugh. “Well. He stands tall in my esteem, even while lying abed.”

  “Where is our tea?” Miss Bingley asked abruptly. “Charles, the servants here are negligent.” She stared at her brother as though waiting for him to address the situation.

  Bingley, an uncomfortable look on his face, glanced at the door. “I apologise for the wait. I am sure that any moment—”

  “Finally!” Miss Bingley exclaimed as the door opened. But it brought forth only a footman, a salver in hand, his eyes fixed on the letter it held. He nodded to Bingley and walked towards Darcy.

  “Sir, the express rider said he was re-directed here from Kenilworth.”

  Darcy picked up the paper and stared at the direction inscribed on it. The handwriting was familiar, but he could not place it. He rose, excused himself, and headed to Netherfield’s study. Miss Bingley followed into the corridor, calling after him, “I shall send your tea, Mr. Darcy!” Her voice drifted away as she began questioning the footman about the letter.

  ***

  After the trio disappeared, Mrs. Hurst sighed. “Poor Mr. Darcy. Business with his estate, troubles with his aunt, the loss of dear Miss de Bourgh.”

  “He needs a wife to help him tend all of his responsibilities.” Kitty’s bold statement was met with silence until the courteous colonel came to her rescue.

  “That he does, indeed, Miss Catherine. As do we all. The situation with my aunt and cousin is most lamentable, and we do mourn Anne. Yet as tragically difficult as it is, Darcy was rather fortunate that the supposed arrangement came to naught.”

  Jane’s eyes widened as Kitty shook her head sagely. “So it did. Might Miss Bingley now succumb to Mr. Darcy’s charms? Have you seen how he gazes at her? Will he pursue her now that his mourning is ended?”

  Four sets of incredulous eyes focused on Kitty. The spell was broken when the doors flew open and Miss Bingley entered. Two maids followed with tea trays.

  She paid no heed to the chill enveloping the room and sat down swiftly on the settee. “Mr. Darcy’s correspondent has such beautiful handwriting,” she sniffed, turning to glare at the colonel. “Mayhap yet another lady with fine eyes has tickled his fancy?”

  ***

  Darcy sat down, tore open the envelope, and gasped. “Anne?”

  Cousin,

  I understand that you believe me dead. I am not. Mother has told quite a tale with which to cloak the truth. I am alive, I am married, and I am with child.

  I am so very happy.

  My husband, Peregrine Dumfries, is a wonderful man, a painter who creates beautiful pictures with his hands and brushes. He is dearly handsome and cares deeply for me. None of that matters to my mother—for he is not you. My marriage to Peregrine has ruined her, she says, and destroyed Rosings and my future. I fail to understand why she has denied our marriage and lied about my death. I fear for you and imagine she has berated you quite viciously for your failure to marry me. I apologise that my happiness has caused you pain or tainted future prospects for Georgiana.

  We are residing in the Hunsford parsonage at present. Mother turned us out of the dower house after she locked up Rosings and the stables and dismissed most all of the servants. Poor Mrs. Jenkins is with us at the parsonage, tending to our necessities and our kitchen. I confess, Cousin, that I miss Cook and my abigail, Daisy, who was dear to me.

  I have no access to my inheritance nor do I fully understand the terms of my father’s will. I need and I beg for your assistance, Fitzwilliam. If each of us has failed my mother, then together we must succeed in ensuring some victory. My happiness is enough for me, but I need more than a full heart to provide for my husband and child.

  Your cousin,

  Anne de Bourgh Dumfries

  He folded the pages, slipped them into his pocket, and stared unseeing at the portrait of Mr. Valentine Eggleston, legendary burner of books. After a few moments’ reflection—though, in fact, he could barely think—Darcy rose, poured and drained a large glass of port, and summoned a footman to fetch his cousin. When Richard entered the room, Darcy thrust another full glass at him.

  “Sit. Drink. Read. And then tell me what in hell we are to do.”

  Richard did more than simply read the letter and stare at the wall.

  “Alive!? … Married!? … With child!? … Peregrine! What kind of blasted name is Peregrine?”

  Richard threw the letter to the floor and drained his glass. “That meddling, decrepit cross-patch! She’s more brim than soul.”

  “Anne or her mother?” Darcy asked dryly.

  “One would rather die alone in self-righteousness than show affection and compromise to those she presumes to berate and bully. And she dares to call it a duty of love,” Richard growled, his eyes afire with anger. “And the other? She has been compromised by a scurrilous leech! Peregrine? Bloody hell.”

  “Yes, well, it would seem.” Darcy sighed and sipped from his half-full glass.

  Richard sat up and stared at him. “This is astonishing news: that our cousin could so deceive everyone and her mother could double the bet with layer upon layer of deception.”

  “Your father always says that the apple does not fall far from the tree.”

  “Yes, rotten fruit, bad to the core. He is going to enjoy all the fruity metaphors to be had from this calamity.” Richard shook his head. “You appear oddly calm, almost unsurprised.”

  Darcy set his glass aside and rubbed his hand across his face. “It is simple. I am unsurprised by any of this. Shocked, sickened, and horribly angry. I am, of course, happy to learn that my cousin is alive and well. But Anne’s susceptibility to a clever poacher surprises me less than does our aunt’s web of deceit.”

  “Hmm,” Richard mumbled mirthlessly. “Thus the larger mystery is not Anne’s ‘undeath’ but how our notoriously suspicious relation allowed a scoundrel so near her pride and joy.”

  “Indeed.” Darcy sighed. “Georgiana kept telling me she did not believe Anne to be dead. I recall her words: ‘Anne cannot be dead. She has fled her mother and burrowed in the closet.’ I blamed it on those novels your mother reads, but mayhap she knew something…?”

  He looked over at Richard, waiting for him to refute the notion. Instead, his cousin appeared deep in thought. Darcy sat up quickly, brows furrowed in outrage. “Richard! Are you thinking my sister is in on this appalling scheme?”

  “Good lord, man, of course not! I was thinking that Georgiana spent a week at Rosings last spring when you were on your first round of wife hunting.” Richard was braced for Darcy to strike him, but he paid no attention to the jest. “I would not imagine Anne opening her heart to her, but Georgiana might have seen or heard something.”

  Darcy’s face paled. “Possibly. But she would not have confided in me, not after the incident with the footman.” He sighed. “I frightened her. I was angry, and she felt I was blaming h
er.”

  “Were you not, just a little? She showed extremely poor judgment.”

  “She did, indeed. She was lonely and allowed herself to speak to a servant as she would to a friend, though I do not understand why she did not turn to her lady’s maid or Mrs. Reynolds.” Darcy tapped his fingers against his knee, his tension too great to rein in. “A footman,” he spat.

  “What did they talk of?”

  “Dogs.” Darcy rolled his eyes. “And a rainbow that occurred on a day she was sad.” His frown grew deeper. “They spoke of the disaster on Runton Bridge when she was a little girl. He—the footman—claimed he was witness to it.”

  “It was nothing but innocent conversation until she stumbled on the ladder. He was helping her in the library?”

  Darcy nodded.

  “Then his presence in the room was not inappropriate. Bear that in mind and do not forget the cavernous echoes of Pemberley.” Richard looked down at his boots and sighed. “Rosings is half its size, but Anne was truly all alone and far lonelier than you or I knew.”

  “My sister befriends a footman and my cousin marries a portrait artist. Shall we worry next for the attentions of the blacksmith?”

  Darcy felt himself a hulver head. He had asked so few questions after Anne’s death, and now all was turned on its head. He had been an indifferent cousin and brother. He wished to punch something, to feel pain and punish himself for his stupidity. Instead, numb and angry, he stared at his cousin who was sunk deep in his chair and brooding.

  Once the shock and disgust wore off, Darcy realised their behaviour was entirely too reasonable for two men coping with the problems of a looming scandal that involved a mysteriously alive cousin wedded to a stranger and carrying his child; a lying, scheming aunt; and a less than trustworthy young ward. Darcy suddenly felt exhausted.

  ***

  Elizabeth set aside her book and sighed. London was full of wonders in spite of the October rain. She yearned for the countryside but felt it her duty to help her aunt in these difficult early weeks of her pregnancy. There were months until her confinement, but Aunt Gardiner had been overtired with this, her fourth babe. The children were thriving in the small lessons Elizabeth prepared and the outdoor activities she planned. The boys had a natural curiosity that her father had encouraged in her and had been disappointed to find lacking in her sisters.

  Mary’s interests had narrowed as she grew up and found her sisters and friends shifting their allegiances and attentions; her reading and her Bible remained her only true companions. Kitty flitted about, captivated one month by flower presses and the next by drawing fashionable clothing; now her attentions were settled on her true model, Miss Bingley. Elizabeth repressed a snort, amused that her sister idolised the lady who coveted Mr. Darcy, or at least Mr. Darcy’s houses and social standing.

  What a tangled web of mistaken passions, soon-to-be shattered illusions, and futures thwarted. Mayhap, I should write a romantic novel full of intrigues and impassioned conversations. But what do I know of romance?

  Lydia the Wise and All Knowing would think herself an expert on such a topic as she did on so many things. At least she was one of steady interests: laughing and dancing had always been her fancy. Jane, ever serene, did what was needed and kept her dreams and intrigues to herself.

  Elizabeth kept her secrets quiet as well, confiding small thoughts to Jane and Charlotte but entrusting no one with her deepest concerns and hopes. It would appear to her family that she enjoyed everything and never stopped posing questions and challenges. Her mother would exclaim, “Lizzy, you wear my patience,” and her father would usher her to the chessboard or to his bookshelves. Her uncle had done the same for her and, just the previous day, had shown her On the Modification of Clouds, a treatise on the skies that he had procured for a customer in Devon. The book was to be sent out in a day or so, but before then, Elizabeth was determined to memorise and perhaps teach the Latin names for all the cloud types to her young cousins. She picked up her pen and resumed work on the lists and drawings she was copying from the volume. Who knew there were species of clouds?

  Mr. Darcy did. Suddenly, she recalled a moment on one of their walks with Jane and Mr. Bingley when he had pointed at a group of peculiar, curly white tendrils in the blue sky. “Cirrus uncinus,” he had said. “Like a grouping of fish with their tails flapping.”

  She realised that he must have this volume. He would be just the man to own and read it. She wished they had had an opportunity to discuss it. He would be amused, perhaps impressed, by her endeavour here. But such a conversation was unlikely to occur, and if they met again, it would be at a wedding between his friend and her sister—an event as far away and delicate as the clouds she wished to discuss.

  Clouds. Elizabeth shook her head. I am lost in the clouds. How everyone at Longbourn would laugh if they saw this work. Even Jane and Charlotte would sigh and exclaim, “Oh, Lizzy…”

  And so she was alone in this pursuit.

  Chapter Nine

  At dinner that evening, Darcy spoke barely a word. Neither cajoling by Miss Bingley nor queries about his visit to the Hadleys and the nature of his business in London could pry more than a word or two from his lips. Indeed, it was not until the sexes separated that Bingley—and a large bottle of port—could jar him from his stupor.

  “I say, Darcy. You have gone into a funk. What on earth could have happened? Is everything all right with Georgiana?”

  “She is quite well, thank you.”

  “But your express…? I understand you did not wish to be open with your news at dinner, but you are among friends. Is all well with you?”

  When Darcy remained impassive, Bingley cringed and cried, “Oh no! Was dinner a reminder of Miss de Bourgh, perhaps, with the mutton? I recall a story of her love for mutton.”

  Richard stared at Bingley, an incredulous smirk spreading across his face. “You recall that but not the total yield of your fields nor where you left your favourite waistcoat?”

  His face flush with embarrassment, Bingley admitted the waistcoat—one the colonel had admired a few months earlier—was not missing but rather had been hopelessly stained by gravy and deemed by his valet as unworthy of wear. “It was such a fine shade of grey,” he said sadly.

  Richard seemed to be grasping for some bit of humour to leaven the mood and raised his glass. “Lost to the eternal battle of sloppy table manners.”

  Darcy finally stirred and sighed heavily.

  Bingley cleared his throat. “Apologies, Darcy. Whatever has happened, I do not wish to laugh at your worries.”

  “Would that I could laugh, Bingley.” Darcy waved his hand dismissively. “Anne is alive. She is married. My aunt did not react well to her daughter’s choice of a husband, and she invented a tale to hide the truth.”

  “Good lord, Darcy!” Richard nearly shouted. He turned to Bingley who sat with mouth open and eyes round with shock. “This does not leave this room. Do you understand?”

  Bingley, looking half-terrified, nodded mutely. Richard turned and glared at Darcy. “What are you thinking, telling him our family secrets?”

  Darcy smiled grimly. “I am sick of lies and duplicity. Anne is alive, and that is my focus.”

  Bingley leaned forward to pour his friend a drink. Then, hand shaking, he raised his own glass. “To Anne?” he ventured in a hopeful tone.

  There was no response. Darcy had his own questions, and his disgust at his family—the family that had guided his choices and decisions—behoved him to think selfishly for once. If he closed his eyes, he saw Elizabeth Bennet smiling at him, urging him to share his burdens. He was determined to keep them open and drink more port.

  “Bingley, why is Jane Bennet here?” he asked abruptly. “Why is she not in London with her sister, preparing for her nuptials?”

  Charles laughed. “Whose nuptials?”
Glancing at Richard, he added, “I am courting Jane but not yet betrothed.”

  “Ah, so you finally did take the fateful step and confirmed her attachment? Good man.” Darcy closed his eyes and then quickly opened them to see Richard raising his eyebrows and shrugging at Charles, apparently indicating his disinterest in the topic. Darcy sat up a bit straighter.

  “I did, indeed,” Bingley replied. “Whose nuptials, Darcy? I know Mr. Collins has been…um, hovering about Longbourn and a few other houses. Has there been a proposal?”

  Darcy shook his head and stopped when he realised it hurt to do so. He had imbibed a bit more than was usual. He should stop drinking; he needed to think, not lose himself in endless, angry musings. Clearing his throat, he declared, “Mr. Bennet would never allow Collins to have Miss Jane or Miss Elizabeth. Both are spoken for…”

  Bingley appeared confused. “Miss Elizabeth is spoken for?”

  “Yes, the gentleman with the boys? She is off with them in London.”

  “Ah. Mr. Gardiner. Wonderful man.”

  Is that his name?

  The doors opened and Hurst, who had been absent from dinner, entered to loud greetings and gibes from Bingley and the colonel. The topic of his health was canvassed, which required another serving of port. Darcy nodded to all of it, lost in thought. After he drained his share, he stared into the empty bottom of the glass. He almost laughed aloud. The woman he had been determined not to wed and the first woman he might possibly consider marrying were both taken and tied to men they loved. Men who were definitely not like him—and more than likely beneath him—in social standing for Anne and in everything he could imagine for Elizabeth.

  What man could be good enough for such an intelligent, lively, lovely woman? This “wonderful” Gardiner man, apparently. Darcy hated it. He knew her, while knowing so little. But there was more he must learn before he could dull the pain of knowing he would not see her again without a band on her finger and a bonnet on her head. All that beautiful hair covered up by a dowdy marital cap…