Mendacity and Mourning

by J. L. Ashton

  The earl leaned over and patted his wife’s hand. “Anne wanted the best for her son. She wished him happiness. As do we.”

  “Good, good,” Richard said. “Darcy and Elizabeth are perfectly formed for each other. One more thing they share in common is difficult relations,” he added slowly. “Darcy has Lady Catherine, and Cousin Anne has never been easy…”

  “And you, of course,” Robert said, chuckling in the way that so annoyed a younger brother. “By the by, thank you for finally taming that forest over your lip. It was a fearsome thing, that moustache.”

  Richard turned beet red. “Regulations and such, dear brother,” he muttered.

  Their mother eyed her younger son strangely but cut to the matter at hand. “One uncle is an attorney, another is in trade. You have told us this before, Richard. Is there more?”

  “A loon in the attic, perhaps?” Robert laughed at his joke. No one joined him.

  “Her mother is boisterous but sets a good table, and her father enjoys books but not his estate duties. Her sisters are admired by their neighbours.”

  “I sense a ‘however’ is dangling, dear,” Lady Matlock said.

  Richard grimaced. “Father, do you recall that clumsy cleric, Collins? The one who prostrated himself to you at Lady Catherine’s.”

  “Who could forget that obsequious little toad. Why do you ask? Will he perform the vows?”

  “No. He is cousin to the Bennets and holds the entail to their estate, Longbourn.”

  “How dreadful to be father only to daughters.” Lord Matlock shook his head as if faced with the greatest tragedy of his life.

  His wife reacted wistfully. “I should have liked a daughter. Richard will be my favourite son when he makes his marriage to a kind, gentle, witty, and wealthy lady.”

  “Mother!” Robert groaned. “Must you always strive to be so kind to my half-wit brother?”

  Richard, recognising that his family could be slow and his father could react violently, set out to explain matters in a deliberate manner. “Just as we have had to accept an unlikely new relation in Peregrine Dumfries, Darcy will have two new brothers.”

  “Yes, yes.” Lord Matlock said carelessly. “His friend with the fortune made in trade. Charles Bingley seems a pleasant fellow. Always has made Darcy laugh, and that alone gives the man value.”

  “You spoke of two brothers,” Lady Matlock commented. “These two Miss Bennets have three sisters. Another is to marry?”

  “Yes. The eldest three will marry next month, including the third sister, Mary. She is to wed Collins.” Richard looked dolefully at his father. Thankfully, he was holding no glass, nor were any sharp implements within reach.

  “The toad-eater parson?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  His father remained silent. This is not good.

  “Our Darcy is to be brother to that awful little man?” his mother cried.

  “The one who referred to my nephew as a cuckolded stallion?” The earl sat down hard in a chair. “How can this be?”

  Richard grimaced. “Your shock and dismay rivals that of Darcy and Elizabeth. She loves her sister, and her sister appears to care for the parson. But you should know that neither love nor the Bennets’ desire to retain the entail led to this engagement. There was a mendacious matchmaker.”

  His mother gasped.

  “You know his name, I fear: George Wickham.”

  “Wickham, the rutting goat of renown?” Robert looked appalled.

  “That boy the maids called ‘Peaches’?” cried the earl. “I always knew he was a worthless mutton monger.”

  ***

  All thoughts of rotten fruit and mendacious matchmakers were forgotten moments later when the butler announced the arrival of their guests. Lady Matlock, the family’s quickest learner, immediately took to Elizabeth Bennet and her relations. Georgiana’s happy telling of her visit with the Gardiner children and their joy in welcoming a “golden princess” as a cousin softened any gruffness left in the earl. Witnessing the adoring looks exchanged between the betrothed young couple brought a shamed blush to Robert’s cheeks and hastened his hearty congratulations. He vowed a swift ride home to his wife.

  “You look well, Richard,” Darcy said, staring at his cousin’s face. “Have you given up drink? You look different, but I cannot quite capture what it is. More…something.”

  “I believe it is less, my dear,” Elizabeth said, smiling at the colonel and steering a confused Darcy off to join his uncle’s conversation.

  Richard chuckled, pleased by the quickness of the ladies in his family. Before he could hide his expression, another lady came to his side.

  “I think your moustache looks most dignified, Richard,” Georgiana said slyly. “Its smaller shape is quite becoming. Kitty learned much about fashion from Miss Bingley.”

  He could do no more than sigh in surrender. He truly was dim. Thank the lord that I am the charming one.

  Lord Matlock rarely shrugged off his glower long enough to reveal his silver-haired charm. Pretty ladies, however, were a weakness. From afar, of course—he loved his wife and feared her ire should he ever dwell too long on another’s allure. Yet he found the Bennet sisters a lovely pair—one beautiful, one beguiling—and was chagrined that his younger son had missed his chance with such fine ladies. Of course, it was for the best as they brought neither fortune nor connection to marriage. Neither mattered to his nephew, but it mattered greatly for a second son. The earl sat back in his chair, sipped his tea, and learned some particulars on Darcy’s courtship of Miss Elizabeth from her aunt and uncle.

  “A book on clouds? Darcy?”

  “Oh yes,” Mrs. Gardiner replied. She smiled and glanced over at the rest of the party.

  Lord Matlock contemplated his nephew, standing just behind the chair where Miss Elizabeth sat speaking of lace or kittens or some such to his sister, Georgiana, and an enthralled trio of Fitzwilliams. Understanding dawned as he gazed on the fine-eyed, perfectly formed lady and the besotted young man who towered above her.

  Ah, the Fitzwilliam blood bubbles to the fore. He smiled with no little satisfaction. Darcy, too, is a breast man.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The engagement between Darcy and Elizabeth had lasted but three weeks, long enough to dampen rumours about the supposed scoundrel, his dead bride, and the local lass whose heart he had broken. And it was long enough to clarify the truth about various matters of the heart, beginning with the belated news of the wedding of the mistress of Rosings to a celebrated portrait artist. Of course, of especial importance to those with the need to know, discuss, gossip, and ruminate over such things was the reading of the banns of marriage for the eldest three Bennet sisters. Praise, wonder, and tongue clucking ensued around Meryton’s sitting rooms and kitchens. However, the one actual marriage stirred fewer conversations in London salons than the Fitzwilliam family had earlier feared.

  The family name had taken a dent or two but bore no lasting scratches or scars. Lady Catherine had been little seen in London since her husband’s death and little liked before it. Her recent removal to the family’s Scottish estate was scarcely noticed, and her nearly unknown daughter’s marriage to a man familiar only to a few admirers of his work was perceived as advantageous, if a bit odd. All in all, few commented or cared about the news. Other personages stirred far more curiosity.

  Although gossip had settled down, the past and present of the future Mr. and Mrs. Darcy was of high interest during those weeks. Twenty-one days had done little to dampen the couple’s ardour or their private demonstrations of affection. Whispered asides and titters were confined to ladies sighing at the romance playing out in front of them and to the servants at Netherfield and Longbourn, any number of whom had espied a flushed Mr. Darcy with his cravat askew or Miss Elizabeth’s hair looking not quite as it had
mere minutes earlier.

  An assembly the week prior had found all eyes riveted to the Bennet ladies. Their mother preened under the attention; no one dared look untoward and question the reasons for Mary’s hasty wedding when the eldest girls were marrying fine gentlemen with houses in town, impressive carriages, and access to the finest shops and salons. No one could miss the looks of affection that passed between those two couples; the awkward but well-meaning conversation between Mary and her betrothed went unnoticed beneath the glare of her sisters’ great love affairs. All was as it should be, Mrs. Bennet thought to herself when she was not saying it to her neighbours. Not all shared her point of view.

  “Young love,” muttered Mr. Bennet, staring out the window at his daughters and their swains. Jane and Bingley sat on a bench, staring into each other’s eyes and speaking of topics Mr. Bennet was certain would be of little interest or substance. “‘Gooseberry or blackberry jam? We must think as one in our love of jams.’ Bah!”

  He shook his head and moved his eyes to the beehives, where Mary stood listening to Mr. Collins expound on whichever bit of knowledge he had deemed best suited to the day’s theme. “Ecclesiastes or Deuteronomy, today’s dinner or tomorrow’s dessert?” he grumbled.

  In the distance, he could make out Elizabeth and her betrothed gesturing at the sky above and clearly debating the significance of some cloud before coming to agreement and sealing their intellectual felicity with yet another quick, furtive kiss. Mr. Bennet’s eyes narrowed.

  “These empty-headed lovers have full hearts, but it is all quite a trial to one’s patience. And here I thought Mr. Darcy would be my favourite.”

  ***

  Mary’s wedding in her new husband’s “most glorious parish” brought neither surprises nor new and unwelcomed suitors for Lydia and Kitty. While the elder sisters had been away in London shopping for wedding clothes, Lydia had enjoyed her father’s need for company in his library and her mother’s desire to shop. Kitty, meanwhile, had determined that Miss Bingley’s advice and fashion stylings lacked wisdom and taste. Among other events, she decided Samuel Lucas was not beneath her notice. Although she could admit that his appearance was nothing to the dignified handsomeness of Mr. Darcy or the ever-present smiles of Mr. Bingley, Kitty now thought that Mr. Lucas’s faded freckles and kind expressions were of great interest. His work as a law clerk and hopes of advancing himself also proved worthy of admiration. After one especially engaging conversation on contracts, she found enjoyment in sketching the details of a land dispute, and she determined that a talent for drawing trees, logs, and rock formations could lead to an improvement of her skills as well as be of use to the legal profession.

  Even better, Miss Darcy had mentioned the lovely views at Pemberley and, with her brother’s permission, extended an invitation to Elizabeth’s sisters for a summer visit. Kitty was determined to avail herself of the opportunities offered by at least two of her soon-to-be brothers. There was no advantage to be gained in Kent from Mary’s betrothed, although she was interested to learn that a painter of some renown was newly married to Darcy’s cousin there.

  In spite of his ill-conceived first meeting weeks earlier with the Dumfries, Mr. Collins had since worked diligently to insinuate himself into the graces of the new mistress and master of Rosings. Influenced by Mary’s example of patient fortitude, he endeavoured to admire rather than admonish, praise instead of preach, hold his tongue rather than hold forth. His patrons’ appreciation was made easy by their own mutual felicity.

  The spindly, petty, and unpleasant Anne de Bourgh had blossomed into the plump, rosy-cheeked, and exultant Anne Dumfries. Her mother seemed a forgotten ghost, and all traces of her existence at Rosings were disappearing as new colours, fabrics, carpets, and paints transformed the manse. All, it seemed, had been renewed at Rosings, and Anne had seized upon her new responsibilities with some alacrity.

  She had been quick to take to Mary’s company when Mr. Collins’s wife-to-be arrived to tour her future home and even quicker to invite Mary’s family to stay at Rosings for the wedding.

  “We will be family,” she had said, seizing on the idea of her Peregrine, her cousin Darcy, and her parson all being brothers of sorts. Anne congratulated herself often for having begun the happy revolution in her family. Weddings and babies would be the rule, and she marvelled at the thought of Darcy, the man whose heart had seemed untouchable, succumbing at last to Cupid’s arrow.

  Mixed with her wonder was frustration as Richard refused to reply to her questions about Darcy’s betrothed, and Peregrine declined to join her in speculation about the beauty or character of another woman. “Such a thing would be unseemly,” he whispered as she lay prone beneath him. “Sinful and stupid would be the man who gazed at anyone but you, my dear.” Giggling with satisfied joy, she rubbed her rounded belly and counted on learning much during the family’s evening at Rosings, where all were to spend the night prior to the Hunsford wedding.

  ***

  Elizabeth and Jane arrived with the Darcys and Richard; the Bennets, including the bride, followed. After the ladies retired to their rooms to refresh themselves, Richard took Darcy aside to assure him that the trees were well stocked with bottles of brandy and port and, mindful of future visits, provided him some guidance as to where a few of the estate’s largest hollow trunks could be found.

  The cousins took a moment to appreciate the changes inside the house. Lady Catherine’s rooms were being stripped of their gaudy baroque furnishings. New paintings populated the walls, most by Peregrine’s hand. Yet while Darcy had found his aunt’s taste appalling, he thought her son-in-law’s art to be indecent and wished for his future bride to avert her eyes in every room.

  “Is that a nipple?” he muttered, leaning closer to a painting hung just outside the music room.

  “That is incredible,” cried Richard. “A true work of art! Look at how he has detailed the small bumps on her aureola.”

  “‘Aureola’ is the radiant cloud surrounding a celestial being,” Darcy replied. “You refer to the areola.”

  “You and your damn clouds,” Richard growled. “The nipple is a celestial being worthy of worshipful attention. Thankfully, you soon will be married and rid of all of this frustration.”

  Darcy sighed.

  “Such attention to realism.” Richard leaned closer to the enormous painting. “Father would appreciate this one.”

  Darcy stepped backwards, attempting a fuller view of the work.

  “My lord.” He seized his cousin and pulled him away from the painting.

  “What the hell has got into you?” Richard glared at Darcy.

  “It is Anne.”

  Richard followed Darcy’s red-faced gaze upwards.

  “Bloody hell. Bloody, bloody hell.” He stepped back, aghast. “In a public area. The servants…”

  “Thank the lord that your father is not here. He would forever forget his credo as a breast man.”

  “Mine may yet be forever marred,” Richard said in a low voice. “I believe it is time to crack open that first bottle.”

  ***

  Even prior to his encounter with the many portraits of Anne, Darcy had been helpless to forewarn Elizabeth about Peregrine. She had heard Richard’s jokes, which he had tried to temper with helpful asides about the man’s appreciation for Anne and his skilled eye for proportion. Yet the rumours and mumbled asides laid a groundwork that Elizabeth was happy to tread in the hour or two before her family arrived and while Jane and Georgiana rested. As it was, she quickly determined Peregrine to be nothing more than a fastidiously powdered version of Sir William Lucas: always pleased and always happy to please others. Only his artistic sensibility and sometime indecorous glances at his wife set him apart from Meryton’s Most Illustrious Citizen.

  Darcy and Richard hovered at Elizabeth’s elbow, grimly supervising the conversatio
n and paying close attention to where Peregrine’s gaze fell. Whether mindful of his company or simply more of a gentleman than the cousins had anticipated, the painter was a gracious if overzealous conversationalist.

  “Miss Bennet, I would like to capture your eyes in oils. I hear much of the beauty of Pemberley, its lands, and its galleries. It cannot be called the finest home in England until your portrait hangs on its walls.”

  Elizabeth smiled, more primly than her usual wont. Darcy tensed. Richard growled.

  “I would be honoured to paint your portrait, and those of your future children. After all,” he added, “we will be family in mere weeks.”

  Anne laughed. “Oh yes! Look about Rosings and see what my Peregrine has done! He has kept me captive in his studio. Have you seen my portraits?” She leaned forward and peered closely at Elizabeth. “You must let him capture you, my dear. You have such lovely eyes.”

  Elizabeth felt a slight shudder in the man seated beside her. She placed a hand on Darcy’s arm and gave him a gentle squeeze. She did not like him to be anxious. “You honour me with your wishes,” she said placidly to the eager couple. “Your cousin and I lack your artistic sensibilities. Fitzwilliam is liberal with his kindness and good humour but conservative in his management of his family’s estate and his legacy.” She smiled at Anne. “Choosing a wife who brings him happiness but does little to enrich his holdings or enlarge his lands is quite daring, as you know.”

  The Dumfries nodded in harmonious agreement. “A thing in common,” Anne said, beaming at Darcy, who shifted uncomfortably under her intense gaze. “My cousin and I always have been of like mind.”

  Elizabeth slid her hand down Darcy’s arm, tenderly tracing his wrist and intertwining their fingers. He squeezed her hand in return. “Yet he has long run his own estate and overseen yours, so he already has ensured that he will follow the family mandate handed him by his father.”