Darcy's Match

by Kate Bedlow

  She was blessed. She could happily stay in Derbyshire, at Pemberley, all her days. Why should she ever go to London again?

  Entering the ballroom, she took a deep breath as her natural shyness welled up inside. Lydia had been right. It was already a crush. But she quickly calmed, recognizing so many friendly faces.

  Gwennie and Lydia waved to her from a group that included Mrs. Bennet, Kitty and Mary Bennet, and Cousin Carley.

  The local magistrate, Sir Alan Whittle of Oak Haven Hall, was just entering at the opposite end of the ballroom with Lady Whittle, their daughter, Clara, and their son, Falcon, who broke away to join the group with Kitty Bennet.

  Georgiana’s aunt and uncle, Lord and Lady Matlock, were seated near the fire, listening to Aunt Catherine’s animated conversation, while poor Cousin Anne sat at the edge of their circle, looking bored. Cousin Richard was just walking away, weaving through the crowd toward Caroline Bingley, who pretended to ignore him.

  Georgiana smiled behind her fan. It was a real puzzle why Miss Bingley resisted Richard’s pursuit, now he was Lord Farley and heir to the Matlock earldom. Surely he possessed every quality she had ever professed to admire in a gentleman: excellent manners, plenty of conversation, malleable style, manly good looks—and above all, the rank and fortune Caroline appeared to value above all things.

  And Lydia was right—for some reason known only to the man himself, Richard liked Caroline. That, too, was a mystery for the ages.

  Speaking of inscrutable gentlemen, it appeared that Mr. Midwinter had not yet arrived. He had mentioned this morning on parting that he intended to call at the rectory before coming to the ball in order to accompany his uncle and aunt to the great house, as Mr. Clackston had not been well of late. Drake was ever so considerate of others.

  Mr. Midwinter. She mustn’t think of him as Drake, even in her thoughts.

  “There is Commodore Harrington.” Fitzwilliam nodded toward a weathered but handsome middle-aged gentleman who now maneuvered toward the Hertfordshire group. “Ready to embark upon his Twelfth Night campaign.”

  The retired naval officer had taken Netherfield Park after the Bingleys gave it up, and he had become smitten with Mrs. Bennet, whose husband—Elizabeth and Lydia’s papa—had died of pneumonia before Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth were married.

  “I am glad to see he is wasting no time,” Georgiana said. “I do wish him the best of luck.” In truth, she envied the commodore—and Cousin Richard and Falcon Whittle too. They knew what they wanted, and they were making progress toward securing it.

  Perhaps it was a mistake to spend so many sighs on someone who had no interest in her. But what of her own interest? Her pulsed quickened at the thought of Mr. Midwinter and raced in his company. Not so with Lord Somersea, nor any other gentlemen she had ever met.

  Excepting George Wickham.

  And there was the rub.

  How could she trust her own feelings on the matter when once upon a time they had led her into such a disaster?

  “Get ready for a surprise,” Fitzwilliam said. “I shall return shortly.” He left her with Mrs. Reynolds and Mr. Rook and disappeared into the crowd.

  Fitzwilliam must have caught the band leader’s attention, for a fanfare rang out and the guests slowly quieted. Underlying excitement bubbled through the young people eager for the dancing to commence. Would there be a waltz? (There would, the sixth number. Elizabeth had arranged it with the band leader.)

  Georgiana planned to be indisposed at the time. She had submitted to the waltz at Almack’s, and though she had survived unmortified, it was only because Lord Somersea had been her partner and had taken no advantage. She had to allow, he had been a real gentleman that night.

  Oh no, she did not care to waltz, not even with Mr. Midwinter. In fact, the mere thought of engaging in such an intimate proceeding with the vicar, and in public, took her breath away.

  But she was eager for the less scandalous dances. Her own feelings matched the excitement in the air. One was never more alone with a gentleman than at a crowded ball when dancing a set. No chaperone listened to the conversation. Safe touches, and being touched, were allowed. There was so much to feel and learn from a caress, a glance, a word whispered close to the ear.

  Or the opposite: the crushing blow delivered by stiff formality, cold politeness of phrase, and a hasty getaway as the last stanza faded, leaving the abandoned partner to their disappointment.

  Georgiana could be formal, coldly polite. She had delivered such disappointment on many an occasion. She may be shy, but she had been brought up a lady of the ton, and she was a proficient in the art of being cruel to be kind, of never giving a hint of false hope.

  As Lizzy had suggested, in London there was no shortage of would-be suitors for the hand of Miss Georgiana Darcy of Pemberley. When Mrs. Bennet joked about Lord Somersea, she had had no idea how near she was to the truth. The marquess was the most aggressive of her pursuers. Coincidentally, he was also the match most likely to please her family. Fortunately, tonight he was in London, safely well away from here.

  She relaxed a little further. Pemberley’s Twelfth Night celebrations featured a hunt for the tenants, but for her it represented freedom from a different kind of hunt, where she was always the prey, dogged by the grabbing attentions of the young bucks of London society. Men like Lord Somersea. The lack of would-be suitors in tonight’s crowd was refreshing. She would dance and enjoy herself without fear of hurting anybody’s feelings—since Mr. Midwinter had none for her.

  Unless he did. Tonight she would find out once and for all when they danced together. Surely he would not neglect to ask her to dance! She would gauge the depth—or the absence—of his feelings for her. If there were none, there would be an end on it. She had some pride! She would once again forget him. This time forever.

  It was an excellent plan.

  The musicians played another fanfare, this one sounding more exciting as the cavernous room was nearly silent.

  “Your attention, please!” Fitzwilliam stepped into the center of the ballroom, smiling, bringing Cousin Carley and Mary with him.

  Was this the surprise? Could it be…?

  “Thank you all for coming tonight, and on behalf of Mrs. Darcy, Miss Darcy, and all of Pemberley, may I offer you our very best wishes for a healthy and prosperous year to come.”

  There was applause, but Fitzwilliam was not finished.

  “Before we begin, I have a very happy announcement. On Wednesday of this week, my cousin Carlton Quartermaine and my sister-in-law Miss Mary Bennet were wed at All Saints church in Lambton. Would you all please join me in raising a glass to Mr. and Mrs. Carlton Quartermaine. To the happy couple!”

  “The happy couple!”

  How wonderful!

  “And now I give you Lord and Lady Misrule.”

  In the person of Lady Misrule, Mrs. Reynolds chose Cousin Richard as her partner for the first dance, and Mr. Rook, as Lord Misrule, chose Elizabeth. Lovely. All was right with the world. A ball at Pemberley was so much more pleasant than one in Town, no matter how crowded. And here she would not have to dash into an alcove or hide behind a potted plant to avoid Lord Somersea asking her for a third set.

  The music began, and she and Fitzwilliam paired up to join the first square on one side, with Garrett and Morton on their opposite end. How striking they appeared in their costumes! And unless Georgiana was mistaken, Queen Cleopatra and Mark Antony were very much enthralled with each other.

  Was the whole of the world in love?

  The square became one in a sea of handsome gentlemen and beautiful ladies as more and more dancers formed their own squares for the quadrille.

  Then she saw him. Mr. Midwinter entered the ballroom with his uncle on his right and Miss Charity on his left arm. The three looked about, as people do, surveying the room, looking for friends.

  But wait. A dreadful thought seized Georgiana and would not let go. Mr. Midwinter was not a eunuch. What if he has found someone else? Was h
e looking for someone in particular at this moment?

  He was a young man, vital as any (more than most), and it was a truth universally acknowledged that any single gentleman of means—especially one so handsome and pleasant and… and vital—must be in search of a wife.

  True, Drake had come to the county a poor curate, hardly in a position to marry. But he was now a vicar and, after the death of poor Mr. Hanson, had been given the living at Lambton. This was nothing compared to Georgiana’s fortune and a drop in the ocean compared to that of her brother. But Mr. Midwinter was a gentleman, and the living at All Saints would support a wife and children in comfort if not in luxury.

  And he was so kind and good, as everybody acknowledged. His smile was brighter than that of Charles Bingley! The kitchen maids called him a golden Apollo, and well they might, with his golden hair and cornflower blue eyes. Many a young lady would be only too delighted to become Mrs. Midwinter—and it would be considered very bad manners for a vicar in possession of such an income to remain single long. Preferably, he would choose one of the neighborhood daughters, many of whom were in the ballroom tonight, dressed to showcase their finer qualities and positioned to catch the eye of every eligible gentleman present.

  Even now, Alice Grenway hastened across the room to advance upon him as if conducting one of the commodore’s campaigns. Lizzy had mentioned something about Mrs. Grenway pushing her eldest daughter at poor Mr. Midwinter during a dinner at Pemberley only last month.

  Georgiana had never hated anybody in her life, not even George Wickham the day she realized he had wanted her only for her fortune. But at this moment, like a devil on her shoulder, the green-eyed monster whispered mean things into her ear as she watched Alice Grenway lure her object away from Miss Charity.

  On the dance floor two squares over, Miss Grenway smiled as if she were the happiest of women and eagerly held her hands out to her prize.

  Chapter 7

  With the final notes of the first number, those who had chosen partners for the sake of tradition either broke away to find new ones or wandered off the dance floor in search of refreshments. Elizabeth politely escaped Lord Misrule, Mr. Rook being a better butler than dancer, and scanned the ballroom for Mr. Midwinter.

  While dancing with Lord Misrule, she had worked it all out. She would complain to Mr. Midwinter that she wished to dance with her husband, unfashionable as that may be, but that Mr. Darcy was presently dancing with his sister. Would he help her by asking Miss Darcy to dance?

  Georgie and the vicar would stand up together for two dances, as was the custom. They would have forty minutes together before that Lord Somersea ever had a chance. Elizabeth had only to find the vicar in all these people.

  She was congratulating herself on her capital scheme when Fitzwilliam came up behind her. “Might I have the honor of the next dance, Mrs. Darcy?”

  “Oh dear.”

  “Good Lord! Your lack of enthusiasm is disturbing. Oh, I understand you. Pay me no mind; I am only your husband, after all.”

  She laughed. “You wretched, neglected thing. Come then, and let us dance. See how I take pity on you?” Her scheme would hold for another opportunity.

  “Oh, no. Do not let me interfere with your purpose. Perhaps you wish to remain free to dance with Lord Somersea yourself when he comes down. As I recall, ladies find him quite handsome.”

  He was teasing, but she sensed something else beneath his words. Perhaps Fitzwilliam envied his friend’s gregariousness—she was well aware how he admired his cousin Carley’s ease with people—but he could not possibly envy another gentleman’s looks.

  “It is unseemly to feign jealousy you cannot possibly feel, for you are by far the handsomest, most desirable gentleman in the room everywhere you go. On that, there can be no—oh drat!”

  The second number had begun, and she saw Mr. Midwinter line up with Alice Grenway again.

  “What is it, my dear? Are you unwell?”

  “Mr. Midwinter is standing up a second time with Miss Grenway.” She sounded like a petulant child. Her dignity suffered further when her bicorne dipped to an even more bizarre angle.

  “Ah, I see.” Fitzwilliam smiled knowingly. Righting her hat, he leaned close. “I advise you to give up on a match between the vicar and my sister. You will only be disappointed.”

  “Actually, my dear, I am quite tired suddenly.” She did not like the direction this conversation was taking. Perhaps it was convenient, but she truly was unsteady. She had forgot that early in her first pregnancy it had been the same. She was constantly exhausted. “I believe I need some air.”

  Before she finished the sentence, Fitzwilliam had closed the space between them. His arm slipped round her waist, and he deftly guided her off the dance floor, past raised eyebrows and indulgent smiles. It was well known that even after several years of marriage Mr. and Mrs. Darcy still lived in each other’s pockets. Society wondered by what trickery the lowly Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn had caught the lofty Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley. Their friends knew the truth of it: they loved each other.

  Fitzwilliam guided her into an alcove whose opposite side opened onto the wide stone veranda on Pemberley’s north face. He opened the doors, and she breathed deeply while a reviving blast of cold January air filled the room. She wondered if being with child always made one feel unnaturally warm. Fitzwilliam sat down with her on the alcove sofa, concern in his gaze.

  Perhaps it was unfair not to tell him about the baby. Jane had announced her condition right away, and the news had given the family such joy! But once done, there was no going back. Elizabeth wanted to extend her freedom a little longer.

  She knew her husband. He professed to admire her headstrong nature and independent opinions, but when it came to her safety and well-being, he was an unstoppable force. The moment he realized she was in an interesting condition, she would become a delicate object in his eyes, allowed no behavior he considered risky until well after the child was born. It was endearing—and so bothersome!

  Ugh, her hat was too heavy as well as too hot. She removed it, uncaring how her half-pinned hair must appear, and looked back at the ballroom in defeat. The chance of putting Georgiana and Mr. Midwinter together before the marquess came down might have already slipped away.

  “I have heard that Lord Somersea has been in pursuit of Georgiana all this Season. Mama says it has been in all the newspapers.” One could hardly call The Morning Tittle a newspaper, but causing Georgiana’s name to appear in even one story would not endear his lordship to her husband.

  “Kett and Georgiana.” Fitzwilliam looked more thoughtful than upset. “That must be why he has come.”

  “But Mr. Midwinter…”

  “Yes, well, faint heart and all that. My dear, if Midwinter has missed his chance, he can blame no one but himself.”

  “And yet they do care for each other. I am sure of it.”

  “For whatever reason, he has chosen not to pursue her. And for that matter, so far as I recall, she never mentions his name. If you would know the truth, I am relieved. A vicar with a modest living from a village parish—much as I love Derbyshire—cannot compare to a marquess with a prosperous and well-managed estate. Come to think of it, Somersea’s house in Town is in Berkeley Square, just across the green from Darcy House.”

  “Surely if Georgiana prefers the Derbyshire vicar, you will not forbid it. And as to his fortune, there are the rumors of his inheritance.”

  “Which is not likely to account for much.” Fitzwilliam took Elizabeth’s hand in his. “Of course I would not forbid it, with or without this rumored legacy. Midwinter is a gentleman, good company, and clever. No doubt he will make bishop one day, if he is that ambitious. But come, Elizabeth. You must allow those two have shown no interest in each other for the past year at the least, and… well, to be quite frank, Georgiana is not getting any younger.”

  This conversation was not at all pleasing!

  Fitzwilliam hesitated, then said, “I do not d
eny that I like Midwinter. I invited him to join our shoot this morning, did I not? But I know my sister. Georgiana is mindful of her duty to Pemberley and the family.”

  “In other words, she will bend to your will, as always. She is not allowed to know her own mind.”

  “Her own mind! You mean that she has not come round to your view of the matter.”

  The ball felt far distant as they sat silent in the alcove, each unhappy to disagree with the other, yet each unwilling to change position. Had Fitzwilliam Darcy’s infamous intractable pride returned? If he could not see reason, it might ruin Georgiana’s chance at true happiness.

  He removed his highwayman’s cape, and she allowed him to wrap it around her, more for his ease of mind than her comfort. She did not feel the cold.

  “You are not an obedient wife.”

  She chuckled and kissed him. He had spoken not in accusation or even complaint, but more in mystification. “We once agreed you loved me for my impertinence.”

  “Yes, I remember. I called it your liveliness of mind.” He returned her kiss, capitulation of a kind. “Are we friends again?”

  “We are never enemies, my love.” Elizabeth pressed her highwayman’s gloved hand to her cheek. “But I will not give up on Mr. Midwinter.”

  “I would expect no less of you.” It was no surrender; there was amusement in his eye.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Merely that you may champion Mr. Midwinter all you like. But as I see it, he has pressed no suit, where Lord Somersea apparently has. And I will tell you this: Kett was always determined as a hound. Once set about the chase, he will never stop until he pins down his object.”

  Not wishing to discuss Lord Somersea’s persistent nature, Elizabeth leaned into Fitzwilliam’s embrace and looked away from the ballroom, out at the night sky. “The northern lights are rising.”