Mendacity and Mourning

by J. L. Ashton

  “So Miss Elizabeth is soon to marry this Gardiner?” he asked, his voice as dull as his mind. “Will they be in London?”

  “What?” Bingley sputtered. “Miss Elizabeth is not betrothed. Mr. Gardiner is her uncle.”

  Darcy looked at him, shocked. “Her uncle? The man with the boys?”

  “Yes, yes. He is her mother’s brother, the one in Cheapside. Mrs. Gardiner had been hosting her sisters and their daughters at her home while they purchased wedding clothes, so he was here with their sons.” He smiled wryly. “You know, to escape the happy noise of excited ladies choosing lace.”

  “But Elizabeth is now with them in London?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Gardiner invited Miss Elizabeth and Jane to visit after her relations left. Jane chose to remain at Longbourn.” A blush rose on Bingley’s cheeks.

  Darcy gazed at him, slack jawed and unaware of his cousin watching him closely.

  “You thought her betrothed to her uncle?” Bingley asked, laughing a bit. “Were words ever exchanged to create such a wrong impression?”

  Darcy sat still. How had he so convinced himself that she was spoken for? Because he saw her familiarly engaged with the man and his sons? Or because it made him safe from considering her as…as more? As a possibility for himself? He knew he was vulnerable to her with her wit and her walking and her shining intelligence and lovely eyes and… Oh damn! She was his perfect woman. He was already in the thick of it.

  “I…there was some confusion in my interpretation,” he said quietly.

  “Obviously,” his cousin supplied in an amused voice.

  “Well, she was certainly confused about you as well, my friend,” Bingley said. “In fact, the whole town is rather confused. It seems harmless enough to tell you now, given your latest news.” He glanced furtively at Hurst. “Do you know that all of Hertfordshire thinks of you as the Grieving Groom?”

  ***

  An hour after the tin soldiers were packed away in the nursery on Gracechurch Street, Elizabeth was overjoyed to receive three letters from Longbourn. She choose to first open Mary’s letter, determining it would contain less news than admonitions and reminders of ways she could best spend her time and enlighten the children. Instead, she found a terse note.

  Sister,

  Mr. Collins has left us to return to his parsonage. My mother had given me notice that I might expect a courtship with my cousin, but it was for naught. He is gone, with few words to explain his hasty departure.

  I would wish to be with you at Gracechurch Street and forget my loss.

  Your sister,

  Mary

  Elizabeth shook her head in disbelief and again read the short missive, all meaning and emotion in four scant lines. Mary sounded heartbroken, expressed in the manner that only Mary could. Oh dear. Her loss is painful but, over time, considering her escape should lessen the hurt.

  She turned next to Kitty’s letter, anticipating small drawings of barn creatures and flowers and mentions of bonnet trimmings and young men. Her disappointment was hardly felt.

  Lizzy,

  Disaster has struck! We are free of the terror of Mr. Collins, but he has set forth ghosts and fears all over Hertfordshire!

  The man lurked where he should not have, and he eavesdropped when I told Lydia what Miss Bingley overheard a footman tell a maid that Mr. Darcy told Mr. Bingley: the long-dead Anne de Bourgh is speaking from the grave as a ghost or a vengeful spectre!

  Miss Bingley, whom you know I consider a friend and counsellor in my striving to be a more thoughtful person of style and art, says rumours of Miss de Bourgh’s return to the living are untrue. She denies that Mr. Darcy tried to murder his cousin and that the poor lady is in hiding. Miss Bingley is furious, and she has declared the servants at Netherfield to be thieves and liars.

  I know not what to think. Lydia consulted with Mr. Wickham, and he expressed no surprise at the story. Did you suspect Mr. Darcy of such nefarious doings? You danced with him and were friendly with him. I would think Mr. Collins capable of bad things, but Mr. Darcy is so handsome. Not so much as Mr. Wickham, but I think him a finer looking gentleman than any around Meryton, even Samuel Lucas, who is beneath my notice. Miss Bingley advised me so.

  Mr. Collins deemed himself a protective knight and said he must return to Hunsford to assist his patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. He left us this morning.

  Mary is sad. Mama is angry. Papa is amused. Lydia is greatly relieved. She felt Mr. Collins’s eyes lingered too long on her neck and below. It is true, Lizzy. They did linger, as did his odour. He smelled of fish and sweat. I am relieved that Aunt Gardiner, who is especially sensitive to such offenses, was not here to faint.

  Please write as you may with your news and advise me on how best to think on these matters. Also, do you agree that Samuel Lucas is beneath my notice? He smiles at me a great deal.

  Your sister,

  Catherine

  Elizabeth set down the letter and drew a deep breath. A new crop grew in Hertfordshire: insanity. She turned to her final envelope and pulled out the page.

  Dearest Lizzy,

  I live in a madhouse. Truly, dear sister.

  Mr. Bingley has revealed a startling truth about Mr. Darcy. He thought you betrothed to Uncle Gardiner!

  Further, Mr. Collins has left, declaring himself necessary to the aid of Lady Catherine and her daughter, who is rumoured by Mr. Collins and at least one footman to be alive!

  I wonder whether this means that Mr. Darcy will now be married to Miss de Bourgh? Or has he found a new bride on his estate visits? He and his cousin were recently at Netherfield, pausing on their journey from Kenilworth to London. The cousin, a Colonel Fitzwilliam, indicated that Mr. Darcy had been relieved not to wed Miss de Bourgh. They were gone before the news had spread of her supposed re-emergence among the living.

  As Mr. Bingley and I are courting, I hesitate to ask too many questions of him. I confess, I have not spoken to him about the gossip Mr. Collins perpetuated and which has so angered Caroline.

  With our cousin gone, the whispers about Mr. Darcy’s friendliness towards you have quieted a bit. Mr. Darcy did ask after you; I believe he missed your conversation. Did he never question you about your supposed nuptials? It is a puzzle, Lizzy, though his mind has been much occupied with his mourning. Unless his betrothed is alive.

  Mr. Bingley’s sisters have little tolerance for gossip. They fired the footman and at least one lady’s maid and requested to return to London. Mr. Bingley assures me of his plans to stay on at Netherfield. I am confident enough in his affections that his concern for his friend worries me not. If Mr. Darcy requires his aid to sort through the confusion in Kent, Mr. Bingley has my blessing. And, Lizzy, he has my love. There—I have said it. I do love Mr. Charles Bingley.

  You and he are my stalwarts. I hear Mama calling for her salts and Lydia laughing in relief. Kitty remains in thrall to Miss Bingley, and Mary is quieter than is usual. I found her in the garden today, staring at the beehive. I wonder whether she had some affection for Mr. Collins.

  Oh, Lizzy, I have gone on so long. Do write to me and tell me of your adventures.

  Your loving sister,

  Jane

  Elizabeth sank back into the pillows. There was much to think on. Jane loved Mr. Bingley, and he appeared to love her. Miss Bingley was a spying shrew, with Kitty her worshipful acolyte. Lydia was confiding in Mr. Wickham, and Mary was staring sadly at beehives. Mr. Collins was gone—his truth-twisting and dastardly aspersions with him—and only two in the Bennet household were bereft.

  Miss de Bourgh might or might not be dead. Mr. Darcy might or might not be a murderer or a grieving groom, but he was most certainly a simpleton. He thought me betrothed? To Uncle Gardiner? He is indeed an idiot, or Mr. Bingley was confused in conveying the information.

  Unable to determine an e
vent or conversation with Mr. Darcy that would have created such an impression, she preferred to think the latter. Mr. Bingley is a kind man, but he is prone to misinterpretation and susceptible to his sisters’ opinions. He is mistaken in his understanding.

  Then another thought occurred to her: perhaps Mr. Wickham was right about Mr. Darcy and his motives. He was ever friendly to her in spite of thinking her promised to another. What was that about? He had trifled with her, and he was careless with her emotions and reputation. Then he returned to Netherfield and asked after her. How singular.

  She pulled her knees up under her gown and rested her chin on them as she measured what she knew of the man. A valued and helpful friend to Mr. Bingley. A skilled chess player whose conversation was enjoyed by her father. A hearty voice in song, a learned dancer and reader. And a man determined to find a rich, young, well-placed wife. He was handsome, vexing, and possibly—perhaps likely—badly behaved. And he was no longer bereaved if Miss de Bourgh was indeed alive.

  Unless he had truly hoped her dead.

  ***

  Anne was alive and married. Elizabeth was not attached and within reach. The shock had worn off more quickly than the effects of the port. Darcy found himself unable to sleep, overwhelmed by thoughts and emotions, and unable to think of anything beyond the lady whose existence posed a problem to be delicately addressed—and the other whose existence was now the forefront of all that truly mattered.

  He was aggrieved at his stupidity, but he could forgive himself for being too preoccupied with the not-quite-true death of one young lady to fully think on the marital status of another. Of course, it appeared everyone else in town was equally confused about him.

  The Grieving Groom, indeed. How mortifying.

  He was accustomed to deference and respect wherever he went; why would he pay heed to the way a handful of families in a provincial town perceived him? Or imagine that they thought him betrothed, bereft, and boasting of the burdens of seeking a wife? At least Elizabeth was sensible. They had conversed and learned about each other. She knew he was a good, honest man, not one rebounding from a loss by charming young ladies for sport.

  Elizabeth was in London. He could find her there; he must find her there. Duty, he acknowledged painfully, tugged at him. He had neglected to fully oblige his family duty when the news of Anne’s “death” first arrived. Now he and Richard must seek out answers, and they must assist Anne, the man she called her husband, and the child she carried.

  Anne, with child. Good lord! Darcy rubbed his temples. He had never imagined Anne employed in the mechanics of coupling. His mind shifted easily to thinking of Elizabeth and imagining her beauty and liveliness gracing his bed. He had much work to do if he was ever to see her there.

  She is not attached and thought me in grief over my own attachment. I am a fool. But far worse, to her, I appear careless in my affections.

  The first thing to do—when he returned from this godforsaken journey to the ninth circle of hell—would be to seek her out. Society be damned, there had to be some way to see her. She was his friend, and he wished her to think well of him. More than well—he wished her to admire him as he did her.

  ***

  The cousins slowed their horses and stared at Rosings Park. The grounds, always trussed and tamed into some approximation of a French estate, now showed signs of falling into a native wildness with odd stalks and stems growing out of topiary ears, wildflowers and weeds emerging from between cracks in the mortar, and what appeared to be a herd of deer enjoying a patch of clover.

  “It has been but seven weeks,” Darcy mumbled. “The land is reclaiming the place.”

  “It is reasserting the natural order of things,” Richard replied, staring at a large squirrel. “See that? In her absence, her enemies are encroaching. Lady Catherine despises deer and rabbits, any and all manner of furred creatures.”

  “Vermin, every blasted one.’”

  “Except for the dead ones wrapped around her neck.”

  Darcy shook his head, an all too common physical response to his aunt’s behaviours. He hated being here, hated Rosings and all the memories it held and the burdens it placed upon him. Burdens and mistruths, lies upon lies. Occasionally, when his aunt behaved especially awfully, he would wonder how his mother, the loveliest, kindest lady who ever lived, had considered Lady Catherine such a sweet, dear sister. Had she prevaricated, hoping not to sully her son’s ears with tales of sisterly malevolence? It must be that—his mother had not been stupid. After all, she would remind him to hide his cat when her sister paid a visit.

  The cousins rode on to the dower house where they dismounted and made a circuit around it, knocking on and rattling doors and peering in windows.

  “It is as tight and closed off as our dear aunt’s mind,” Richard growled. “There are spiders overtaking both houses. It is October; why are they not all dead?” He shuddered and climbed on his horse. “Anne said they were turned out of here. Let us be off to the parsonage.”

  They were less than a mile away from their final destination. After leaving Netherfield, the men had stopped briefly at Matlock House to divulge the contents of Anne’s letter to Richard’s parents. Darcy’s aunt was speechless, his uncle apoplectic. In a voice hushed only by his son’s reminders of the eager ears of hovering servants, Lord Matlock demanded to lead the investigation at Rosings. Then his wife broke her shocked silence.

  “Anne fears you, Peter. She always has. Her cousins are her friends. Let them meet this Dumfries and choose whether he deserves a welcome or a sound thrashing.”

  Darcy was darkly amused that the voice of reason was, as usual, not a Fitzwilliam by birth.

  When the men resumed their journey to Rosings, Darcy was full of regrets. He missed his sister and had had time only to inform her of the urgency of his journey, make promises to return within the week, remove her to Darcy House, and visit the menagerie. At Richard’s urging, he had refrained from revealing the truth of Anne’s life among the living until they knew more. Through a well-formed query, Darcy had discerned that his guileless sister knew nothing about Anne having a friend or suitor.

  “I spent all my time in the music room or riding, and Anne kept to her rooms,” Georgiana had said. “I saw her rarely. She preferred her solitude.”

  “Solitude, indeed!” Richard laughed.

  Suitor, Darcy thought bitterly as guilt and frustration warred within him. A title I did not want with Anne and failed to earn with Elizabeth. He was heartsick over his misunderstanding of Anne’s character, and he censured himself over his missed opportunities and stupidity with Miss Elizabeth Bennet. He was an idiot. He was a tight-lipped one as well and avoided answering any of the constant questions put to him by his amused and curious cousin. Darcy would not speak her name until he had sorted out his feelings and his future actions.

  The newly wedded couple greeted them at the parsonage door.

  “Cousins, welcome!” Anne’s face was alight with joy. “Please come meet my dear husband.” She stepped aside to allow them entry and turned to smile at a figure approaching from another room.

  “Peregrine, these are my cousins, Richard Fitzwilliam and Fitzwilliam Darcy.” She stared adoringly at a slightly built man. His thick blond hair was arranged excessively and rather oddly, and his jutting chin was marked by a prominent mole. (Or perhaps a beauty mark, Richard would later ruminate at length, at least until Darcy threw his boot at him.)

  The two men, tired and still aghast by their aunt’s behaviour, did their best to maintain decorum and school their manners. The couple tested their patience and exuded smug satisfaction, though the smudges on their clothes, their unkempt hair, and the cramped accommodations belied their attempt at full contentment and cleanliness. Clearly, the parsonage had not been well cared for under Mr. Collins, but with his removal went the few servants assigned to do even the simples
t tasks, such as wiping the table, rinsing the privy bucket, and washing the linens. A dull stink hung in the air, prompting Darcy to fling open the nearest window.

  “My brother recommended fresh air, but Annie is affected by the blowing dust,” Dumfries said.

  “What dust? There are puddles on the ground; there is no dust.” Richard looked closely at the couple. “Or is it the damp that affects her? Anne, you are much swollen.”

  “Damn it, Richard!” Darcy glanced at the lady. “Forgive him, Anne.”

  “My good sir! You speak of my wife!” Dumfries face was red, his eyes narrowed.

  “She was my cousin before she was your wife,” Richard responded, glowering, “and none of the current situation sits right on the pot.”

  “She is my wife and the mother of my child.” Dumfries smiled at the cousins, not grimly, as they did at him, but with an odd dash of insouciance. He peered closely at Darcy and gave a quick nod before extending his hand. After a long moment, he clasped Richard’s as well. It was, the good colonel would later say, the dampest handshake he had borne since leaving the Continent.

  “I am so happy for my family to meet at last,” Anne exulted, her eyes fixed on Dumfries. Neither cousin had ever seen his erstwhile sickly relation look quite so…pink. Buxom and glowing with health and happiness, Anne was near giddy. She kept stealing glances at her husband and then would peer curiously at her cousins as if seeking their approval. Instead, they stared in shock as she sighed and leaned into the fancy man at her side, prompting Dumfries to speak in a quiet, singsong voice.

  “My dearest, after all of this agitation, it is time for you to rest. Let me escort you upstairs and speak to the gentlemen, and then we shall take our tea.”