A Will of Iron

by Beutler Linda

  Deciding a bench in the flower garden sufficiently private, Elizabeth alit there with the second volume. She opened it randomly to 28 January 1812.

  Oh, Mama… She is at me to write to Darcy to extend the de facto invitation for Easter. He hardly needs such a letter. It is a tradition of many years standing, and he wrote at the New Year to confirm that Alex was granted permission from General Bailey to join us. Mama states that Darcy would read some deeper romantic reason in my taking the interest. Nothing changes; she is ever urging me to encourage him. I laugh to myself; he would know my writing could only be done under duress. He would be rightfully certain she had stood over me with a cat-o’-nine-tails since nothing short of that would induce me!

  How he has changed since taking on Pemberley and further still by this trouble with Little G. Such a charming boy he was. I looked to him then as the example of affability and cleverness. He was most pleased with the arrival of Georgiana. I recall how ready he was to love the little mite. My last memories of Lady Anne were her smiles as she sat on a chaise watching Darcy carry the wiggling infant with such tender care. As his mother began fading away, so did his withdrawal from joy. I shall never forget his countenance when we arrived for the funeral. He stood so solemnly next to his shattered father, better able than Uncle Darcy to keep up the appearance of greeting us properly, and it was to Darcy’s fingers, not her father’s, that a tiny Little G did cling, giggling and barely walking. The pain in Darcy’s eyes was heartrending. There he was, just turned thirteen, forever altered. I shall never forget it.

  At his father’s funeral, little had changed except his age. He wore his self-confidence as a shield, and I never saw him cry although the elderly Kympton vicar said Darcy’s grief had touched him as he had ne’er seen such in so young a man. As the years passed after Uncle’s death, Darcy did seem to lighten, and after our private confessions—lack of more than familial feeling on his side, and for my part, knowing I could never be happy in so cold and remote a county as Derbyshire with an equally cold and remote spouse—we were easier with each other even as Mama became more determined and ridiculous. Once apprised of my feelings, Darcy took her hectoring with better grace. When I came into the de Bourgh fortune last year, he encouraged me during his Easter visit to restore the London house and keep myself in the city. But London is a sickly place. I never feel anything but poorly there.

  I suppose it is his nature that everything changed for the worse after Ramsgate. The pain of yet another of life’s betrayals was plain enough for any to see, but Mama could not see—would not see. Her ceaseless prattle must have grated more than ever, or might have were Darcy not completely occupied by the guilt tearing his nerves to shreds. Then there was the further burden of preventing Alex from doing anything that might disgrace his uniform. Had Little G’s virtue been truly lost, I think neither Darcy nor I nor any in the Fitzwilliam family could have succeeded in preventing a duel—or outright murder. It is for the best that Mama is obsessed that the business remain undiscovered.

  Lives there such a woman who could ease the spirits of Fitzwilliam Darcy, who could unearth the affable boy he was and reveal the amiable man? He and I are of one mind in that he must marry. Certainly, each new Season presents him with ample selection. There are many ladies with connections sufficient to tempt him; certainly, some of those might be tolerably handsome enough for his manly needs, yet he remains above the marriage market, so Alex writes. Neither of us can imagine what keeps him from a great alliance and the getting of heirs. He is not the sort to allow grief to keep him from his duty.

  Could it be he seeks a love match and awaits a lady to ignite his passionate regard? I can hardly believe it. —A de B

  A shiver of presentiment travelled the length of Elizabeth’s spine. “Lives there such a woman…to ignite his passionate regard. …Tolerably handsome enough for his manly needs.” It was only the sound of a carriage on the road and the slamming of the vicarage side door that distracted her from a sad headache.

  The Darcy carriage slowed unexpectedly as Mr. Collins bowed deeply before it. From her seat beneath the sheltering but not yet blooming hollyhocks, Elizabeth could hear Darcy speak. She expected some ungracious reply to her cousin’s obsequious welcome, but the subdued quality of Darcy’s voice gave her heart a mighty squeeze.

  “Greetings to you, Mr. Collins. Let me thank you for the consolation I know you have so generously and abundantly offered to my aunt.”

  There was only the vaguest whisper of irony in Darcy’s comment. Elizabeth could not believe her ears and adjusted her posture to peek at the road from amongst the leafy stems. She saw her cousin draw breath.

  “I look forward to a longer conversation with you, sir,” Darcy said, silencing the vicar, “but for now, pray excuse me as I must offer her my own sympathy and regret straightaway. Good day, Mr. Collins. I trust we shall meet again soon.”

  “G-good day, Mr. Darcy,” was all her cousin could stammer as he bowed before the carriage rolled away.

  Her observation could not completely restore Elizabeth to her former dislike of Darcy, or anything near it. She felt a sinking sensation. There had been no doubt she would see him again, but with Anne de Bourgh’s insight and the forlorn gentlemanly tone of his voice, she found within herself naught but forbearance and a desire to comfort. But her primary urge was to return the journal to Charlotte’s sitting room and repair to her bedroom to engage herself in a letter she had hidden there. “Lives there such a woman…?”

  “Apparently not,” she absently murmured aloud. She had an ill-formed sense of having failed at something. It was a decidedly foreign sensation and most unpleasant.

  Darcy stood before the front doors of Rosings and steeled himself for what he knew was to follow. Affixed above the carved heading stones was the de Bourgh funerary hatchment created for his uncle, who had died some sixteen years previously before the birth of Georgiana. Darcy removed his hat at the sight of it. Lower down were two smaller versions hastily rendered to announce the demise of the de Bourgh heiress, one on each door and each surrounded by a wreath of raven feathers. Darcy shivered in disgust. He knew he was about to learn, amongst other unpleasantness, how many birds had died to supply the gruesome embellishment to the more suitable marks of mourning.

  Upon entering the house, he nodded to the footman to open the door to Rosings’ largest drawing room. He expected harsh words delivered with a resonating magnitude, and was therefore taken unaware by the narrowed studying eyes of his aunt accompanied by silence. After some moments, she languidly held up a hand, which he bowed over. Still silent, she flicked a finger at the chair upon which she wished him to sit.

  “Nephew, you did not spend the winter holidays in London? You came into Kent? How many times?” Lady Catherine questioned him accusingly. “You left my niece alone and unguarded in London to carry on your assignations here? No wonder Georgiana fell victim to near ruination in Ramsgate; she has not had proper guidance.”

  Darcy’s head tilted with a frown. “I never left London, as you must know from your brother. Georgiana and I were seen at many festivities, and were rather constantly at Matlock House. Where do your questions tend?” Never had his aunt seemed more indirect and ridiculous, and not just a little menacing. Was this some strange manifestation of grief?

  “You may choose to be circuitous, Nephew, but I shall be direct since you are the cause of Anne’s death.”

  Darcy was on his feet. “I am what?” He realised the implied threat in his stance and turned to pacing.

  Lady Catherine mistook Darcy’s confusion for some admission of guilt. “It was your dalliances, your incautious pursuit of your own pleasure that brought her end.”

  “Of what can you possibly be speaking? I cannot take your meaning except that you accuse me in the vaguest yet most insulting manner possible.” He spat the words out slowly, trying to keep from having his wits become as addled as
his aunt’s were.

  “However insincere you may choose to be, you will not find me so.”

  Darcy could only stare.

  “Selfish boy. This is not to be borne.”

  “Of what does your ladyship accuse me? I am at a total loss.”

  “Yes…” Lady Catherine’s eyes narrowed again. “What gentleman would admit to the arts and allurements you must have used to have your way?”

  “My way?” Darcy’s countenance was severe.

  “It makes no sense to me, Nephew, why you would despoil your cousin before settling a betrothal and making it known.”

  “Madam, have you been taking strong spirits? Did the doctor suggest you drink laudanum?” He began to gain some apprehension of her indictment though it had precious little logic.

  “Why not simply arrange for a speedy engagement, affix a date, and then proceed?”

  Darcy stopped, agape. As his aunt seemed about to speak again, he held up a staying hand and sent her a fierce glare. “You accuse me of seducing my cousin? A lady I have not seen since last July?” He came near to laughing, and so turned to the window to gather his aplomb, muttering, “Even I do not presume to be as virile as that—”

  He was surprised to receive a slap of his aunt’s fan to the back of his head.

  “Obstinate, headstrong boy!” She reared back to smite him again. “I am ashamed of you!”

  Darcy easily caught her wrist and twisted her towards her favourite chair. “Dearest Aunt… We shall have no more of this conversing at cross-purposes. Why ever would you accuse me of defiling my cousin? Was she so misused?”

  Lady Catherine was breathing heavily. She rang the servants’ bell at her elbow and said nothing to Darcy until it was answered and tea requested. When the footman withdrew, the lady spoke again. “Will you promise me that you never entered into an illicit affair with her?”

  “A gentleman does not reveal himself, but she is gone and must be made blameless. I never laid a hand upon my cousin or attempted to lure her into any misbehaviour. She and I had agreed between us that we were not suited.”

  “Aha! Were you not alone with her to conduct such a conversation? If you were sensible of your own good, you would confess everything.”

  “There is nothing to confess except our foreknowledge that we would have made you deeply distressed by conspiring never to marry one other. And Mrs. Jenkinson was present.”

  “That bloody, bloody woman…” she muttered.

  “Lady Catherine!” For all her tantrums, Darcy had never before heard his aunt curse.

  A gasp and the upheaval of a tea tray made it clear the entering footman had heard it all. As if this were not turmoil enough, the butler appeared and glared at the scrambling footman before announcing, “Dr. Roberts, your ladyship.”

  The physician entered the room, but he was brought up short by the presence of Mr. Darcy. “Excuse me, Lady Catherine. Should I return at a later time?”

  Lady Catherine glared down at him. “No, my nephew ought to hear what you have to say since this may all be his fault.”

  Darcy grimly shook his head at the floor.

  The physician seemed uncertain. “I believed you would not allow it, but I returned yesterday with Mrs. Spiggotson…”

  “And she is…?” Lady Catherine asked.

  “The best of the local midwives, your ladyship.”

  Darcy’s head came up abruptly.

  Lady Catherine’s fury was felt by all in the room, but none more so than by the physician, for she boxed his ears. “You odious charlatan! What can it say for the reputation of this house that you would bring such a creature here?”

  The physician ignored the question, rubbing the sides of his head before explaining, “It was my estimation that a more knowledgeable person than I should examine your departed daughter, and she confirmed my fears. Your daughter died from complications of being with child. We believe Miss de Bourgh to have conceived in January. Mrs. Spiggotson suspects the babe was not seated properly in the womb. No doubt your daughter died in great pain and distress, unless Mrs. Jenkinson dosed her with sufficient strong spirits, which I believe she would have done.”

  Darcy was struck dumb. He stared as his aunt chased the doctor from the house, his awe giving way to curiosity.

  Poor dear Anne…Who was the father? Who has so wantonly seduced her? She had mentioned no one to me but perhaps to Alex? Would she confide in him rather than me?

  “See what you have done with your wilful selfishness?” Lady Catherine panted as she returned.

  Darcy turned to her, speaking in the coldest possible manner. “Do please stop being ridiculous. I have been nowhere near Kent since leaving you in late July. Do attempt some rational thought. Have there been strange men about the Park or in Hunsford? Could she have been”—he paused at the discomfiting thought he was about to suggest—“forced?”

  Lady Catherine turned away muttering, “We must presume Mrs. Jenkinson knows, and she is now gone. The doctor knows, and this ‘Spigot’ person, and perhaps even Anne’s little lawyer.” She glanced at Darcy. “If it was not you who has done this, how do we preserve her reputation? My reputation? What of the family?”

  Darcy drew in a heavy breath before responding. “This is your first concern? Reputations? Your daughter has died amidst great pain and suffering. Why are you not prostrate with grief?”

  “She is dead, Nephew. My tears will not return her. And now I learn she died in a disgraceful condition. What have I to mourn?”

  Darcy stared unblinking.

  Under his steady displeasure, Lady Catherine merely shrugged. “I have written the Archbishop and hope to have an express from him soon.” She sighed loudly and strode to the window, musing, “Pity we have not more time for the arrangements.”

  “You would chide her for dying in April rather than December?” Darcy asked, growing more disgusted as the minutes passed.

  “How many carriages were in your father’s cortege?” she asked abruptly.

  “Ten.”

  “What? Only ten? I seem to recall there being very many more!”

  “No, only ten. It was but three miles from Kympton to the family vault at Pemberley. We did not wish for the cortège to meet itself coming and going.” Darcy spoke solemnly, reminded of the painful loss.

  Lady Catherine’s eyes narrowed. “Pity there is not time to have the mutes from Pemberley sent down. The stable master claims we have enough for only five carriages, each with four horses, though it is likely the Archbishop will supply his own. I want no vulgar clip-clopping and no clinking bridles.”

  Darcy looked doubtfully at his aunt. “What need have you for carriages? The men will walk the distance to the de Bourgh crypt in the churchyard. There is no need of more than two, or three at most, as the mourners will return here after the burial.”

  “Your father was the master of a great estate, and yet the neighbourhood could muster only ten carriages? We had many more for Sir Lewis. Now there was a man of consequence, of influence… But you would be too young to remember.”

  Darcy turned away to hide the rolling of his eyes. My father always said my uncle’s influence arose from threats of forcing men to dine with my aunt at Rosings if they were disagreeable in some matter of politics…

  “Anne was his heiress. She will have at least as many carriages as her father.” Lady Catherine spoke with authority.

  Darcy tried to remember the funeral of Sir Lewis de Bourgh, and was not at all sure he was made to attend. No…of course… My mother was ill from a miscarriage.

  “Lady Catherine, surely you recall there were no Darcys at my uncle’s funeral. My dear mother, your sister, was not well.”

  Lady Catherine muttered, “Most ill-timed, that…” She wandered out of the room.

  Darcy shook
his head in disbelief. His mother’s misfortune was ill-timed? “Old she-devil…” he muttered in return. He stood by the windows with his hands behind his back, gazing along the vista from a sweeping lawn to the fields of sheep. As he watched, the figure of a young woman moved into the scene, walking along the hidden watercourse that comprised the Rosings ha-ha. His chest tightened.

  Elizabeth Bennet did not look towards the house, but Darcy knew her all the same. She was a hundred yards away, but her shape and saunter, the tilt of her head, and the sweep of her arms as she bent to embrace a clump of wild spring vetch were all forever etched upon his heart. Better I see her again from here. For a few moments, he watched in a kind of enchantment before his worries intruded. Did she read the letter? Did I say enough? Will it save her from Wickham? She wandered away into the trees, and Darcy felt himself breathe again. I have seen her, and I do not appear to love her any less than I did seven days ago. Yet I know myself better, and her too. I must see her happily settled, if not with me, perhaps with Alex; they appear to have been friendly from the start. I shall speak to him when he arrives.

  Friday, 10 April 1812

  Rosings Park

  Colonel Fitzwilliam and Georgiana Darcy arrived late in the morning, and they were immediately ushered into the small summer breakfast parlour for a light luncheon as Lady Catherine knew the colonel did not care to stop at The Bell to break the trip. She disapproved of his habit even more when he was accompanying Georgiana. Lady Catherine considered her niece nearly as delicate as Anne had been, though any other observer would have laughed at the notion of the tall, well-formed Georgiana being sickly. She was shy but by no means frail.

  Lady Catherine approved of Georgiana’s black lace gown over a white petticoat and the colonel’s dark frock coat. At least he had spared them his red regimentals.

  The arrival of an express from the Archbishop of Canterbury drew Lady Catherine from the room. Not moments later, the butler entered with three missives on a salver. “Sirs, Miss Darcy, these are from the local attorney, Mr. Steventon, for each of you.”