Mendacity and Mourning

by J. L. Ashton

  Had he ever anticipated a visit with the Bingleys with such eagerness? He would lock the door to his rooms, close his mind to Caroline’s mewling, quell—violently, if necessary—any slander on Elizabeth and her family, frequent every shop in Meryton, and stroll every lane in Hertfordshire. He would pay any price necessary to have Elizabeth Bennet on his arm with neither of them promised to anyone else—at least until she was promised to him. Then he would speak to her father. He laughed at his giddiness. Was this what it felt like to be Richard, smiling and joking and weak in the head? How long would it take for his face to ache from the smile that even his manservant had noticed? It was the first time a smile had ever caused Smith to pull back his razor and awkwardly request a return to his master’s normal impassivity.

  He needed to get to her and say another farewell; last night was not enough. He had held her hand, kissed her fingers, and gained her smile, but it was not enough. He was not sated of Elizabeth Bennet, and worse still, he needed more affirmation. Confirmation. She had given him no indication that she shared the strength of his feelings, but she had ceased fighting his expression of them. She wished to see him at Longbourn. Those were positive signs in his favour, were they not?

  He was a wealthy man who had never been greedy, but he had never before been in love. How was he to focus on crops…and tenant issues…and water rights…and his breakfast when he needed to think about a beguiling dark-eyed woman? Could not the master of Pemberley—a man who could not manage to free himself from family responsibilities and ridiculous bride hunts—reclaim time to think on the most pleasing subject of all?

  Of course not. As a man educated at the best schools, Darcy should have known better and understood that the never-ending Fitzwilliam Family Saga would have at least a few chapters left. He nearly cringed when a note was delivered to him from Richard, and he sighed at the sight of his cousin’s scrawl on the paper lying open by his breakfast plate. It was nearly as awful anticipating the man’s appearance before the first meal of the day; it never boded well. Darcy perused the brief note and sighed again. Doctor Percival Dumfries was in town, and Richard was bringing him to Darcy House. He took a last bite of toast. This was going to take some fortification and patience. Blast! He had some place he wished to be…needed to be. Instead, he told the footman to expect the colonel’s arrival and headed for his study. He would keep their meeting brief and then ride straight to Cheapside.

  Honestly, he had had his fill of Richard’s teasing. The man could be glaringly sincere when necessary and horribly galling when the mood struck. Such a mood and a few too many tumblers of brandy had hit last night after his guests’ departure, and his cousin had enjoyed ruminating over the beauty, intelligence, and manner of one Elizabeth Bennet.

  “She is nothing like your true love, Miss Bingley, nor your previous devotees. Miss Bennet is a refreshing change but perhaps too lively for a dull, bookish old man such as you.”

  “Dull?”

  Richard’s eyes had gleamed as his barb finally roused the bear. “Your Miss Bennet seems as inclined to debate Dante in the original Latin as she is to challenge you to a game of mumblety-peg or beat you at a game of Graces.”

  Darcy had scoffed. “And these would be bad things?”

  “Such interests make her equally suitable for a rough and tumble sort like myself.”

  “Hmm,” Darcy had growled. “Rough and tumble, in spite of your bad knee?”

  While some men might have been alarmed at such a challenge, Darcy had seen—he always saw—the grin lurking under his cousin’s alarmingly bushy moustache. Would he never trim that thing? Likely not. Should I tell him that the lady reads Cicero? No.

  “First, Richard, I wonder whether any lady is willing to risk a close encounter with whatever is growing above your lip. Elizabeth is certainly no fool there. In fact, I believe you were cowed by her wit and her sure knowledge of both Cowper and Bach.”

  “Ah yes. Your Elizabeth is both pretty and smart; thus, she is no match for you, as you are far prettier with those dark eyes and cleft chin; ask any lady in town.” Richard had roared with laughter. “Sadly, you are not as pretty as the fine Peregrine Dumfries, so it is a good thing that Anne snared him first.”

  Yes, his cousin was an ass of the first order. Darcy looked forward to his first tumble into love; the man could tumble into ladies’ beds but one had yet to enter his heart. He promised himself he would tease Richard only a little when such an event did occur. After all, he was as close to a brother as he had. When Darcy had been a boy and made sad by the babies his mother lost, he had sometimes wondered whether a brother would have been as he was: quiet and studious, equally fond of books and nature, tall and dark like the Darcys. Family members differed—this he knew—especially those of opposite sexes. Like him, Georgiana was tall, fond of dogs, skilled in maths, and unsettled by spiders; but opposite to him, she was light haired, unsure of herself, excited by novels, and averse to exploring woods and nature. Richard and his brother shared a devil-take-it approach to life; he might have enjoyed experiencing such a bond, though not at the expense of losing his beloved sister.

  Georgiana had been so happy last evening. Darcy recalled more smiles and laughter in these past few days than he had seen from her in weeks. She likes Elizabeth, and Elizabeth clearly cares for her. I shall have to be honest with my sister about my hopes when I tell her we leave for Netherfield rather than Marlbourn.

  Such thoughts ceased as his cousin strolled into the room, trailed by a rotund man wearing spectacles.

  “Darcy, we were fortunate,” Richard said quietly. “The good doctor left his card, which I seized before my father saw it. I brought him over as soon as I could. The earl would have too many questions and accusations.”

  He glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice another notch. “He seems a normal sort…nothing like his brother.” He cleared his throat and gestured to the man to step forward.

  “Cousin, I give you Doctor Percival Dumfries.”

  It was as if his earlier thoughts had taken on the form of scientific enquiry, and the Dumfries brothers were Exhibit A. Unlike Peregrine, whose sharp features were softened with powder, accented by a beauty mark, and framed by waves of blond hair, the older brother was wide, dark, and hirsute, a bear of a man with paws for hands. Percival Dumfries certainly did not have the delicate hands of a painter or a doctor. He did, however, share Peregrine’s fluid movements and quick mind.

  “Mr. Darcy, as I told your cousin, it is you I hoped to meet, but I had failed to gain the location of Darcy House.” He looked around the room with its globe, shelves of books, and neatly rolled maps. “Peregrine tells me you are the least fearsome member of the family.” The doctor glanced at Richard, who looked fairly placid beneath his great moustache and furrowed brow until he caught the insult.

  “Pardon?” Richard said, clearly annoyed.

  In spite of the delay the doctor was causing him, Darcy thought he might grow to like the man. He sent his cousin a warning glance and gestured for them to be seated. “What is your business here, sir?”

  The doctor sank into one of the chairs Mr. Gardiner had so admired, and he began to tell them of his earliest meetings with Lady Catherine and the treatments his father—and then he—had provided until her husband’s death eight years prior. “Last year, she requested my presence at Rosings with certain medications, some of which had been prescribed for her late husband.”

  The doctor looked straight at Darcy as he continued. “She wanted them for what she called a ‘preventive’ for Anne.”

  He went on to express his belief that the lady had been dosing her daughter for years with watered-down versions of the remaining medicines. Peregrine—notorious in the family for saving small creatures—first wondered about it and then became her rescuer. The doctor straightened in his chair and looked from one man to the other. “Do not doubt my
brother’s love for your cousin. He is not a perfect man, and he has his eccentricities. I grew up desiring to fix what was broken, to create curatives and salves to heal people and animals. Peregrine cares deeply as well but in ways that are different from mine.”

  “How different?” Richard growled.

  Dumfries shrugged and waved his large hands. “He likes to tame creatures, create beauty, and capture moments and images in paint. Almost always, he sets things free or moves on to a new challenge, so marriage will be a test for him. But he does love your cousin.”

  “Marriage is for life. It is a chain that cannot be broken or unlocked,” Richard growled. “We shall not see her hurt or her name sullied.”

  “Nor will Peregrine. His name and reputation as a painter matter to him.”

  Darcy rolled his eyes. “You do recognise that the de Bourgh and Fitzwilliam names already have been sullied?”

  “I understand.”

  “Your brother appears unwilling to distinguish that fact. He does not appear to be a serious man.”

  “Well, yes,” Dumfries agreed. “His appearance and affectations belie his manhood.”

  Richard guffawed while Darcy frowned. “Are you aware our cousin is with child? That she was compromised?”

  “I am, though I question the reference to a compromise. Their thoughts came together rather swiftly, and their bodies followed.” The doctor stared at his red-faced host and glanced at Richard, who made an odd noise in his throat.

  “Peregrine has asked me to care for Anne.”

  “How? You are a physician in Surrey,” Richard said sharply. “If Lady Catherine goes to the dower house and is near her daughter, must we worry lest she influences her local surgeon to treat Anne as once was done?”

  “I left word with Doctor Cummins that he is to consult with me.” Dumfries’s expression pinched when he said the man’s name. “Peregrine and Anne have little money until this situation is sorted out, but my brother has assured me that Anne will take no medicines until we have communicated by express.”

  “When did you last hear from him?”

  “Yesterday. He said that, thanks largely to you, all should be in place by tomorrow for them to move into Rosings.”

  “Good.” Darcy glanced at the mantel clock and groaned. Elizabeth would be leaving in a quarter hour. He might not make it there in time but a message could. He summoned a footman and handed him the sealed note he had written before breakfast.

  Richard eyed Darcy and smiled. “Love is detected everywhere we look,” he muttered before adding that he and his father were likely to make the journey to Rosings to ensure the smoothness of the transition. “Darcy wishes this disaster to end. He misses the country and wishes to return north to his estate.”

  The doctor appeared affronted. “While events have been unfortunate and the circumstances made worse by high emotions, neither my brother nor his bride would consider their marriage and child to be a ‘disaster.’”

  “Then they are the luckiest people in all of this,” Richard said gruffly. “The rest of us must restore the lustre to the Fitzwilliam name. Not to mention, we must paint our cousin’s wedding and impending motherhood as occurring on a path that was planned and celebrated by the happy family, and we must determine whether these circumstances demand my aunt be led off to Bedlam!” He shot Dumfries a bitter look. “And those are among the smaller of the complaints.”

  Darcy waited for the doctor’s reply, but when none came, his annoyance rose. “Your brother, my aunt, and my cousin have done a fine job of breaking things and creating havoc. Peregrine may believe he has rescued Anne, but he did so without consideration for her family. With neither a letter nor a meeting with my uncle, the colonel, or me, he determined that he knew best. Marrying her was a rash move, and marrying a Fitzwilliam without speaking to a male relative is not a rational act. I wish your brother well when he meets my uncle.”

  Dumfries’s eyes narrowed. “As do I, sir, but do ask yourselves why it took my brother to see clearly what the family had overlooked.”

  “Anne has been sickly since childhood, always racked with fevers and coughs,” Richard said glibly. “There was nothing to overlook.”

  Darcy stood, indicating the doctor’s dismissal. “Your brother noticed something of grave importance but informed no one in his wife’s family. That is hardly a responsible or rational act. His lack of common sense has required all of us to set aside our own duties and attend to his and Anne’s self-made troubles.”

  He walked to the door and opened it. “I appreciate the intelligence you have given us, and I hope you and your brother keep us aware of any changes. Excuse me; I have other business to attend to.”

  The two men watched Darcy move quickly through the entryway, grab his hat, and disappear through the front door.

  “He will never make it in time,” Richard muttered. He turned to Dumfries. “God save Peregrine if his mess further muddles Darcy’s plans.”

  ***

  As the hour of her departure from Gracechurch Street neared and Mr. Darcy had not yet appeared, Elizabeth had wondered whether she had been correct about their starting a new chapter on the same page. Now, back at Longbourn and experiencing the hysterics, worry, anger, and laughter surrounding the news of her impending proposal from the odious Mr. Collins, she could only wonder whether she and Mr. Darcy would ever have the opportunity to read from the same book. Elizabeth most certainly did not wish to turn pages with her cousin, and she was feeling impatient for Mr. Darcy’s return.

  She had read and re-read his letter. While he was cautious and gentle in his expression—and his words were couched carefully with pronouns or initials rather than names to protect his family—his feeling for her shone through. He was clever in his telling, using the letter to recommend a “novel” whose metaphorical plot clearly laid bare details of his tense relationships with Lady Catherine and her daughter and revealed that Anne was living a life straight from the pages of a real and lurid novel: married in secret, with child, banished from her home, and declared dead. “The landowner,” as he referred to himself in the letter, felt no shame for his family, just frustration and anger.

  “One’s happiness owes much to family, but one does not owe family one’s happiness.”

  Even more important, he said, was how news of Anne’s “death” had both freed him from one household’s expectations and burdened him with another’s hopes. That burden, and his desire to simply be away from his family, had prompted him to set out on what he admitted was little more than a quest for a wife. Meeting her, the beautiful, intelligent daughter of a country gentleman, had irrevocably changed his outlook and, he hoped, the direction of his future life.

  “My happiness is centred on and owes much to you and the feelings you have evoked in me. You warm my heart. I desire only to earn some small place in your heart and to bring you equal happiness.”

  The man who had talked to Elizabeth in Meryton as he might a man, who pointed out clouds and debated passages of Milton, could write a love letter of unimagined passion. His sentiments shocked and thrilled her.

  “Our moments of shared thought and laughter warmed me; it was then I knew how cold I had been. I wish for a lifetime filled with such moments.”

  How could she not read such a letter over and over again? There was more, unwritten on paper, that she nevertheless read between the beautifully inked lines. “A lifetime filled with such moments”…with you. With him. She had never had such a declaration; he had expressed similar sentiments now on two—or was it three?—occasions. He was an ardent lover, a man who had been misunderstood and maligned as mendacious. And he was in pursuit of her heart. How would she explain his intentions to her family when she could scarcely grasp his passionate devotion? How could she broach the subject of their nearly secret friendship with Jane, whose foot was beginning to tap in imp
atience for Mr. Bingley’s proposal? Her sister and Mr. Bingley seemed well matched, but Elizabeth had wondered at times whether their mutual bent towards steady politeness might be rather dull. Mr. Darcy had done little more than touch her hand, and he gave her shivers and goose flesh. Did Jane have those feelings, those sensations, with Mr. Bingley?

  I love my sister, but I wonder whether, in this as in many things, we are more different than alike. Jane might be more frightened than thrilled.

  She was rather enjoying the tumult of emotions Mr. Darcy prompted in her. They had made each other laugh until laughter gave way to deeper feelings; then hurt and confusion set in. But trust was there as well as a strong belief in his goodness.

  Elizabeth would heed his concerns about her family’s friendliness with Mr. Wickham. He said little but referred to a life of scurrilous waste and reckless, venal behaviour, and he revealed the man’s banishment from all Darcy properties. Darcy did not trust his childhood friend and did not want him near those he loved and respected.

  Those he loved. Elizabeth recognised Mr. Darcy had no improper feeling, merely a surfeit of it and an untried manner of expressing his emotions. Small wonder that his former friend could smear the oils on the portrait she and others were painting of him. Now, however, she knew Mr. Darcy’s outlines, and she was growing to understand his colours and shadings.

  A note—just a few lines hastily written and delivered nearly as her carriage pulled away from Gracechurch Street—had only re-affirmed her new confidence in the man.

  Apologies, I am delayed by an unexpected visitor: the brother of my cousin’s new husband. My absence is one only in body, not in spirit. If I fail to reach you in time today, trust that I shall be with you within the week.

  —FD

  His feelings for her were clear. She had to determine her own and decide whether his, however genuinely felt, were of the moment. He had been wrestling with family crises—loss and duplicity, anger and frustration—and he was in need of some happiness. She had diverted him and provided that happiness. She feared his feelings for her were ephemeral, his happiness fleeting. She could not judge him too severely; the heart was a strange and uncertain thing, and his recent life events bore similar description. In fact, Elizabeth knew she liked him a great deal, but did shivers and admiration mean love?