“I think you give Mr. Jonson too much credit, Fitzwilliam. No doubt, he is an exceedingly handsome man—” A spark of envy darted through Mr. Darcy’s eyes. “—nothing compared to you, of course, my dear, but I do not think he can persuade your aunt to compromise herself; she is far too concerned with maintaining distinctions of class to ever allow that to happen.”
“I think you give my aunt too much credit. You saw the way she looked at him.”
“A look, Fitzwilliam. She will want to have him about like her lap dog. She will want to gaze at him like a beautiful painting. But she is not going to risk the family name.”
“And you are willing to tolerate that . . . that lack of propriety?”
“For the sake of family peace, yes. And what I do not see I do not have to tolerate, which is one more good reason to leave tomorrow.”
“I would feel more assured if I could stay several more days to observe for myself their interactions. I must do this, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth nodded her consent. He suspected she still disagreed with him, but perhaps she did not judge her powers of persuasion to be great on this particular matter, and no doubt she would rather reserve them for future application. Assuming the conversation had reached its conclusion, Mr. Darcy moved to claim his twice denied kiss.
His aunt’s voice sometimes reached him like a mild irritant, but at the present moment its self-absorbed tenor actually caused him to grit his teeth. “Darcy!” Lady Catherine was announcing in the open foyer, certain that the estate’s magnificent acoustics would carry the summons to any room of the house.
“Your aunt beckons,” said Elizabeth. “And, after all, you are the one who wishes to remain at Rosings. Therefore, we should be diligent guests.” She rose and followed the call to the dining room.
Mr. Darcy remained motionless. He sat there, starring at the empty space before him like an athlete who has just had a prize callously removed from his expectant hands.
*
Mr. Darcy observed Lady Catherine and Mr. Jonson surreptitiously but constantly for the next fourteen days. His fears were partially allayed; he was convinced that there was no untoward physical relationship between the two, but his aunt, he knew, had clearly chosen the rector because she enjoyed his handsome appearance and his guaranteed devotion to her.
Mr. Jonson, in turn, was happily divesting Lady Catherine of any number of financial favors, which he dubbed patronage. Whatever the truth was, appearances were worse, and Mr. Darcy again advised his aunt to be on guard for her reputation. She dismissed his warning with a limp wave of the hand and a conceited chuckle, but it did not entirely fail to affect her. By the second week, she no longer invited Mr. Jonson to tea, though Mr. Darcy feared she would probably see no harm in resuming their afternoon tête-à-tête once the Darcys departed Rosings. However, he judged that he had accomplished all that he could.
*
“We must leave tomorrow,” said Elizabeth at last, no longer deeming herself able to submit to her husband’s decision. He had just eased quietly into her bedchamber, which Lady Catherine had chosen for her on a separate floor and in an opposite direction from his own. The plot had been futile; it only meant that Mr. Darcy received slightly more exercise each night they remained.
Elizabeth did not desire a row, but this was growing ridiculous. They had been at Rosings Park for a long while now, and Mrs. Darcy, who had at first urged the visit, now wished to see it brought to an end.
“Must?” asked Mr. Darcy, with a muscular hint of authority in his voice.
“Must?” Mr. Darcy now repeated.
“Yes,” said Elizabeth, rising from the bed where she had sat reading. She crossed her arms in a gesture of defiance. “I am absolutely resolved.”
Her resistance seemed to kindle him, whether with desire or anger, she could not immediately determine. “Are you?” He closed the door and, as a rare extra precaution, turned the latch. It locked with a protracted groan, as though the bolt had never before been urged to wake from its stupor. Who, after all, would dare to seal off any part of Rosings from its mistress? “Well,” he declared, “if we must!”
Elizabeth recognized that Darcy’s consent had been obtained too readily for it ever to have been sincerely withheld. She began to laugh at herself for thinking that she would need to withstand him. She had armed herself for battle, and had found herself standing, as one bulkily clad, before a peaceful, amused man.
That night Rosings, in all its stately yet impotent splendor, stood undisturbed. But the proud silence that, like a noxious gas, had routinely filled its rooms and halls was shattered by a symphony of foreign sounds, a strange but happy harmony that, at its crescendo, would shock Lady Catherine from her complacent slumber.
CHAPTER TWO
“My nephew is always sorry to leave me,” Lady Catherine told Mr. Jonson one afternoon over tea. “His wife virtually had to force him from this house, and were it not for her arts, I am sure he would have remained yet another fortnight. You saw how it was.”
“Indeed I did, your ladyship,” he replied, lifting the porcelain top of the sugar dish with the rehearsed composure of a stage actor. And indeed he had seen how it was. Mr. Jonson was as perceptive as he wished to be; he did not always bother to listen to the cadence of words, but when he thought observation would serve his purposes, he was ever vigilant to draw accurate conclusions. He had determined that Mr. Darcy was devoted to, but hardly enslaved by, his wife. He saw that they acted always in concert, and he knew that to earn the friendship of both, he need only ensnare one or the other.
Mr. Jonson had at first sought to woo the wife to win the husband. His stratagem had suffered a temporary setback, however, when Mr. Darcy confronted him over his inappropriate attentions to Mrs. Darcy. Yet the rector had, he thought, performed a convincing scene of innocent bewilderment. He had issued an eloquent (yet humble) apology for, as he termed it, “having an unfortunate cast of face, which sadly serves to shield my blameless thoughts from correct interpretation and which has often mislead onlookers into drawing erroneous conclusions.” The clergyman now flattered himself that he had set the disagreement aright, and he hoped to make further progress with Mr. Darcy when next he visited.
“Yet he will soon return, I am certain,” Mr. Jonson said, more to encourage himself than Lady Catherine. “For,” he continued, as he dropped a third lump of sugar into his tea, a drink he never could endure without severe doctoring, “he is to inherit.”
“Inherit? My nephew?”
“Yes. Is not Rosings entailed to him?”
“No. Absolutely not. It will pass to my daughter. He might have had it at one time through a union with her. It was my intention, and his mother’s.”
The shock of this revelation was considerable, and yet Mr. Jonson did not so much as let his silver spoon slip. He continued to stir with a casual air, concentrating on the liquid whirls that formed in the cup before him, watching those circles form and fade and form again, as if he were merely relaxed, and not rapidly thinking. Nevertheless, the cogs of his machine-like mind were turning in a maddened frenzy of creation, until at last he felt the perfect product had been formed. “He has chosen the far lesser wife,” replied Mr. Jonson. “Miss de Bourgh has had the advantage of a most excellent example in you, Lady Catherine, and would have made Mr. Darcy a superior bride.” This brief compliment was the moderate sum he had predestined for his praise. It was enough to please the mother, without, at the same time, raising her suspicions.
Excessive flattery of such a sickly creature as Anne de Bourgh would prove too obvious a deception. It might also alert Lady Catherine to his newfound interest in her daughter. For though Miss de Bourgh had no womanly virtue to attract a man of his impressive figure, he had resolved upon a charitable course. He would choose to love her, and was not love a virtue? He would offer the undeserving offspring of his benefactress his very heart, and, in time, he did not doubt, his hand. And if her estate should happen to follow, was that not a much de
served blessing?
*
What but divine intervention could have given Mr. Jonson this present opportunity? He had sought, through his own ingenuity, to secure a moment alone with Miss Anne de Bourgh, but all his efforts had been scattered, as chaff before the mighty wind. Lady Catherine guarded Anne like a burdensome but valuable possession. Anne was her only copy on earth, her hope for the future. Anne would bring forth for her the son she herself had failed to bear. The son was to have been Mr. Darcy’s; no less a father should be chosen to mingle with the blood of the de Bourgh’s, but he had in the end proven weak, more susceptible to the charms of women than to the mating call of duty. Anne had shown her frailty too; Lady Catherine had caught her reading romantic novels, had apprehended her in the very act of forming silly opinions about the proper foundation of a marriage. That misinformation, she corrected, and this time, when Lady Catherine chose Anne a husband, she would allow him no doubt as to his future course and would brook no opposition to her will. In the meantime, Anne must be sheltered from inferior suitors, safe beneath the rigid wing of her vigilant mother.
So it had been impossible for Mr. Jonson to speak to Anne de Bourgh outside her mother’s hearing, but now it seemed as if heaven itself had delivered to him the means. Lady Catherine had uncharacteristically dozed off during one of her drawing room conversations with the rector. He had been recounting to her his Herculean plans for the reformation of the parish, and her eyelids had drooped, and risen, and drooped again. At first he was offended by the social outrage, but when her slumber appeared absolute, he could only regard it as a sign. What, short of God’s merciful intercession, could cause such a refined personage to commit such an indiscretion?
It may seem implausible that Mr. Jonson should be looking toward Providence for the support of his schemes. Yet since monstrous acts of history have sometimes been committed in the name of God, it should come as little shock that those who seek to execute far lesser crimes might also rely upon His approval.
It was not that Mr. Jonson sustained within himself a divided mind. He was not willfully ignorant of his own material motives. Rather, he was merely unaware of their inconsistency with his spiritual well being, unaware that any morality existed that must preclude such a mercenary expedition.
He took advantage of Lady Catherine’s unexpected nap to approach the daughter. Anne had been sitting a short distance away, at an ornate desk, writing to one of her approved acquaintances. She sniffled and dabbed her nose at the conclusion of every line, but when she sensed Mr. Jonson’s presence, she quickly crumpled her handkerchief and hid it between the desktop and her hand
“Miss de Bourgh,” he said, his voice as soft and innocent as that of any child seeking to lure a frightened mouse to be his pet. She gave him no obvious encouragement and instead looked abruptly away, but this he took to be a symptom of love-struck shyness.
And perhaps it was something like that. Anne harbored no secret passion for the rector, but she had not failed to notice him. How could she? One does not stand in the shadow of a rare natural beauty and then fail to gaze upon it.
“Miss de Bourgh,” he attempted again, and this time she turned to him, her eyes struggling to meet his, but falling somewhere closer to his chest. “Are you unwell?”
“I am always unwell,” she said, and then bit her lip, a harmful habit of regret. “I mean, Mr. Jonson, as you know, I am something of an invalid, though I require no attention…” She meant to conclude, “from you.” She wanted to express that she did not desire his pity, that it would be an insult to be treated as an object of care rather than as a human being. Yet she could not finish, could not, somehow, admit aloud how much it hurt her to be regarded as an invalid.
How many women claim to long for a sensitive man, one who comprehends the feminine emotions? But perception is a kind of power, and its consequence depends largely on the man who wields it. “I do not ask, Miss de Bourgh,” he said, “because I dare to think that you have any need of my assistance. A woman of your situation, exposed to such refined society and graced with the highest kind of education, cannot fail to care for herself. I only ask because I noticed that you do not of late take to strolling the grounds, and I do believe the exercise would be a great benefit to you.”
In truth, Anne had not ever taken to strolling the grounds, but she allowed his revision to pass. She might have been inclined, at one time, to tour the park at Rosings, which was beautiful despite its brute technicality. Her mother, however, had insisted that she was far too ill for any kind of regular exercise, and her own daily pains had encouraged her to acquiesce without the slightest struggle.
“No,” she replied softly. “No, I have been quite preoccupied—”
“—With the exercise of your mind, no doubt,” he interrupted. “Yet such a naturally sharp organ need not be so constantly honed; you might condescend to allow yourself an intellectual respite and give yourself the much deserved pleasure of an afternoon stroll.”
If Anne did not respond, it was only because she was too weary to do so. In her heart, she enjoyed his praise, for it was to her a rarity. There had been no suitors of late to offer her rehearsed flattery. She had long ago given up any hope of marrying. She had been bred to believe that she would prove a mate to her cousin Mr. Darcy, and she had been sorely disillusioned when he had married Miss Elizabeth Bennet instead. It was not that she loved him; in the course of her life, she had only exchanged thirty words altogether with him, and she thought him far too reserved and incapable of being pleased. If anything, she feared him. She did not regret the loss of Mr. Darcy; she only regretted the loss of the convenience. Their union had been arranged. It had been understood. It had been spoken; and what her mother spoke, Anne had learned to accept. Now her expectations had been overturned, and she herself knew not where to turn.
All this Mr. Jonson deduced, and all this he manipulated to his advantage. He slithered his way into the girl’s simple trust and coiled himself about her unsuspecting heart. He persuaded her, sickly as she was, to meet with him secretly from time to time in the gardens of the park.
Lady Catherine was astonished by Anne’s desire to set foot out of doors, but Mr. Jonson had been so aloof towards her daughter in her waking presence, that she had no reason to suspect a secret rendezvous. Lady Catherine attempted to dissuade Anne from her newfound love of exercise, certain it would tax the weak creature and afraid that she might lose the pleasure of her daughter's dependence. She was almost jealous to see Anne’s pale face lit with a new liveliness, and she did not understand what had compelled the girl to struggle about the park when she could have more easily rested at home. But she could not persuade Anne to remain eternally indoors. Lady Catherine had not been accustomed to employing even the slightest effort to persuade her daughter. Thus, when her influence was at long last required, Lady Catherine was at a loss to exert it.
So the meetings continued, and Mr. Jonson courted simultaneously the daughter and her mother, in different ways and for different reasons.
*
Mr. Jonson had just come from tea with Lady Catherine, who, after passing the morning as an object of consummate flattery and engaging in a little of her own harmless flirtation, had promised him further patronage. She was helping him to fulfill his magnanimous plans for the parish, which required a considerable outlay of funds. Not all, perhaps, would reach their intended targets, but the rector must occasionally reward himself for the efforts of his ministry.
Now, in the gardens of Rosings, he greeted Anne de Bourgh with a seductive smile. To his consternation, she did not return the favor. Instead, she asked with a shocking expression of demand, which must have required the better part of her strength, “Who was the gentleman who visited your parsonage today?”
“How did you know about that?” His words came tersely, before he had had a chance to filter his tone. He cringed at the sound.
“I overheard one of the outer gardeners,” she answered in a freshly subdued voice.
He smiled down at her and swung his arms behind his back, where he gripped them together casually. He heartily breathed in the scented air and glanced at Miss de Bourgh as though he expected her to commend him for his youthful exuberance, but Miss de Bourgh looked as though she anticipated further details.
He was peeved by this expectation, but he knew he must oblige her. “The gentleman sometimes accepts donations for the support of missionary work. He has an estate in Hertfordshire, and knows I am a generous patron. He called to see if I would assist, and I was only too happy to offer my largess for the needy.”
“How noble of you,” said Anne, and she meant it, for Mr. Jonson seemed to her the most meritorious of men.
She had not known a great many men.
“Miss de Bourgh,” he said, determined to avoid the present topic, “you are looking more tired than usual this morning. Might I . . . would you . . . do I ask too much . . . May I offer you my arm?” Without waiting for an answer, he extended his, and without giving an answer, she took it.
They continued silently for some time until Mr. Jonson ventured to say, “I understand your cousin Mr. Darcy was originally intended for you, and that he betrayed that promise. You must despise him from your heart.”
The Strange Marriage of Anne de Bourgh Page 2