Darcy's Match

by Kate Bedlow

  “Sensible man,” Miss Grenway said. “At what limit, may I ask, would you consider a future bride too young?”

  “Five years younger than myself.” He could not keep himself from glancing in the direction where he had last seen Miss Darcy. He was rewarded with a glimpse of her and smiled involuntarily. “Six, I suppose, were I lovestruck.”

  Miss Grenway followed his gaze. “Have a care, Mr. Midwinter.” A dagger of ice informed her tone. “I do believe a god of love is among us, and an arrow is nocked in his—or rather, her—bow.”

  The allemande separated them for too short a minute, and Drake stole another look at the lady he would prefer were his partner. In all things, if he were honest.

  Miss Georgiana Darcy had danced the first number with her brother and now stood on the sidelines among several members of her family and Miss Lydia Bennet—dressed as Cupid, as Miss Grenway had noted.

  Drake’s heart twinged. Miss Darcy was so very lovely! And so sweet and kind that none could compare. She made Drake feel there was pleasure in being alive. Cupid’s arrow had already found its mark.

  Lord Matlock was speaking with his son, Lord Farley, and in this Drake saw the means of his escape from Miss Grenway and her rather off-putting proprietary air. It would be quite natural to approach his benefactors with compliments of the evening. Indeed, good manners required he do so as soon as this number concluded.

  The last strains played out, concluding the set, and he returned Miss Grenway to her mama. Before Mrs. Grenway could learn of his prior engagement for Wednesday and suggest another evening, he made his escape.

  “Do pardon me.” He gave her his most disarming smile—the one Aunt Charity always warned him against using—and bowed curtly. “I must deliver my compliments to my patron.” He did not wait for an answer.

  Mrs. Pruitt was right, he must marry soon. At the least, it would be a relief to be removed from the chase! And it would be another step toward establishing a respectable and satisfying life here in Derbyshire.

  He had not expected to like this country so well. Upon becoming ordained, he had assumed he would find a living somewhere near Manchester and Aunt Perpetua and Amy. But not only was this beautiful country, he found that he liked its people.

  He did not know his official patron well. The earl was elderly and disengaged from the world, more so since the death of his eldest son. The current Lord Farley, the earl’s second son and now heir, was a man of intelligence as well as action and Drake’s patron in practice. He admired Lord Farley as much as he did Mr. Darcy, though for different reasons.

  It had been gratifying when Lord Farley requested he perform the marriage ceremony between Colonel Quartermaine and Miss Mary Bennet. Being trusted that way had enhanced his sense of belonging to the neighborhood.

  He adored living so near Aunt Charity. The Whittles were a genial family, and Falcon Whittle very good company. Drake and Mrs. Pruitt rubbed along very well indeed, and to his great delight, he had discovered that he cared for his parishioners and found contentment in ministering to their needs, sometimes spiritual, more often temporal.

  Even had Derbyshire not contained one lovely person in particular, life as the vicar of Lambton was far more amiable than he had ever expected.

  He paid his compliments to Lord and Lady Matlock, which were politely received, though the earl and countess both seemed a bit tired. Being the objects of much interest and curiosity must make gatherings like this more work than recreation. Yet another reason to appreciate his simple life.

  Seated beside Lady Matlock was her husband’s sister, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and Lady Catherine’s daughter, Miss Anne de Bourgh. Lord Farley was now speaking with Miss Caroline Bingley, another heiress, sister to Mr. Darcy’s brother-in-law, Charles Bingley, who possessed a goodly fortune of his own.

  Nobility. Immense wealth. An august gathering! These were Georgiana Darcy’s family and most intimate friends. She was an earl’s niece. Her mama, now deceased, had been sister to Matlock and Lady Catherine. Her brother was one of the richest men in the kingdom. How had Drake ever dared, even momentarily, to think of her?

  In principle, of course, he was not inferior to these people. His mother had been the daughter of a gentleman, and his father had been the son of a baron, albeit a second son.

  In practice, however, they might as well live on different continents. He was poor, and money changed everything. Those who had wealth lived, breathed, thought, and dreamed differently to those who did not. A fortune, or the lack of one, shaped and colored the very reality of one’s life.

  His was not an inferior world to Miss Darcy’s, but it was most assuredly a different one.

  He chided himself for an impertinent fool and once again put her out of his mind. He could not satisfy Miss Grenway’s hopes, but he must open his eyes, and his heart, to another lady. He turned away, thinking to fetch a cup of punch for Aunt Charity.

  “Mr. Midwinter, there you are! Come here! Come to us at once!”

  Drake froze where he stood. The lively, cheerfully demanding, voice behind him belonged to Cupid, Miss Darcy’s good friend and Mrs. Darcy’s sister. Miss Lydia Bennet had been a witness at the Quartermaine wedding. Then yesterday, she called at the vicarage, as if they were the best of friends, bearing the costume he wore tonight.

  I am in charge of all our costumes for Twelfth Night, and I have run out of men. Do be a darling and wear this to make my tableaux vivant complete. Do not fear! It is nothing naughty. I simply must have a Prince Arthur.

  She had been a whirlwind of plans and excitement and flashing smiles.

  Georgie will love it!

  He did not pointed out that she had said Prince Arthur rather than King Arthur. At all events, he had acquiesced. It solved the problem of obtaining a costume on his own. His earlier resolve to wear his clergyman’s white stock and black cassock had met with disapproval from Mrs. Pruitt.

  Now, with his first good look at Miss Darcy’s fancy dress costume, the feeling came over him that he had been used—to what purpose, he did not know—for he recognized Georgiana’s gown.

  It was from a Fuseli painting he had once seen in London, during an exhibition at Pall Mall. Now he understood his own attire. The painting had been called Prince Arthur and the Fairy Queen, and Drake’s costume looked very similar to that of Prince Arthur on the canvas.

  Miss Darcy looked flushed, as if she too had made the connection and was embarrassed by it.

  What was Lydia Bennet up to?

  Chapter 10

  Lydia Bennet adored being up to no good. She looked from Georgiana to Mr. Midwinter and back. In her most innocent manner, she said, “Georgie, you remember the exhibition we saw in London at the Institute, do you not? I thought tonight we might have tableaux vivant.”

  “Oh… No, I…” Georgie took in the clergyman’s costume and blushed, as expected. “I couldn’t.”

  “Oh well then. That settles that.”

  Lydia had known all along Georgie would refuse to pose in a “living picture,” for the very purpose of the game was to be stared at—anathema to her shy friend. But enacting tableaux had never been Lydia’s object. She shrugged at Mr. Midwinter as if to say I tried.

  By his expression, he was not having it. She had been caught out.

  Zooks, who would have thought a country clergyman would know any Fuseli painting, let alone the particular one she had used as a pattern for their costumes? She had thought the reference too subtle for anyone but Georgie to notice. What were the odds anyone in Derbyshire had seen the same art exhibition?

  Perhaps there was more to the fellow than she had credited him for. But what a lark! Her little trick was working perfectly. In fact, it was even better the vicar realized he had been “put in a painting” with Georgie. Lydia could observe his reaction as well as her friend’s.

  In London when Georgie spoke of kissing Mr. Midwinter, despite all protestations to the contrary, it was obvious she harbored feelings for the gentleman. Ever sinc
e, Lydia had been dying to know how deep those feelings ran—and whether the vicar returned them. She had almost broached the subject at Mary’s wedding on Wednesday, but luckily she had kept her head.

  “I am sure the guests would prefer dancing to tableaux,” he said now. “It is a rare delight to be in such a ballroom and with such fine musicians.”

  Lydia blinked. She had not noticed before, but the vicar’s smile was as honest as that of Charles Bingley, and in this setting he carried himself with the unconscious confidence of a peer. Why, he could easily pass for one of the young bucks who frequented the ballrooms and drawing rooms of the ton—and the fact he seemed unaware of the fact made him more attractive. Until he smiled at Georgiana, Lydia had not appreciated how very handsome he was.

  Of course he could not compare to Lord Somersea, that dark and smoldering mass of muscle and mystery. Until she got to know Kett, anyway, and discovered that he was full of fun, with never a bad word for anybody. This vicar was the marquess’s opposite, all bright light and golden ease. If she had known, she would have dressed him as Apollo, to contrast with Kett’s costume.

  Indeed, if Mr. Midwinter had money or rank to go with his quite amiable person, he could easily give Kett a run for it.

  She looked around. His lordship must still be upstairs, dressing. She had overheard Mrs. Reynolds and Lizzy’s maid, Morton, discussing his late arrival. La, so disapproving! Perhaps it had been naughty of her to encourage Kett to travel all this way from London, but the thought of getting him together in the same room with Georgie and the kissing vicar had been too delicious an idea to let go.

  She pushed aside a teeny tiny twinge of guilt and told her better angel to be quiet. Georgie would thank her for this prank in the end.

  “You are right. Dancing is never the wrong choice,” she said. “And there should be no short supply of partners tonight for anybody.”

  “Perhaps one of Cupid’s arrows will bring Kitty and Mr. Whittle together,” Georgie said.

  “Perhaps.” But Lydia doubted it. “Poor Kitty never does anything for fun anymore. I believe she would rather be at home, teaching farmers’ daughters how to make cakes, than at this splendid affair.”

  “My friend Whittle would be grateful for Cupid’s encouragement, I can assure you.” Midwinter spoke of Cupid but looked at Georgiana. “I have heard him mention his admiration for Miss Kitty Bennet once or twice.”

  “La, I like that! My mama will be glad to hear it. She is very keen to get Kitty away from Beau Bon-Bon.”

  “Perhaps baking cakes makes her happy in the way creating a new bonnet does you,” Georgie said. “I think we should all be allowed to pursue our heart’s desire.”

  “That is quite profound, Miss Darcy,” Mr. Midwinter said warmly, which of course elicited blushes from Lydia’s friend.

  So far so good. Georgie often expressed fear of becoming an old maid, yet she would not accept any of the many suitors who would be delighted to cure that condition. In Lydia’s mind, it was because Georgie’s heart was confused between Kett and this vicar. This little prank was not meant to cause Georgiana discomfort, but rather to force her to confront the choice before her.

  Of course, Georgiana Darcy was no Lydia Bennet. To this day, Georgie still had no idea how to secure a dance partner, let alone a suitor. Fortunately, Lydia had been there to accompany her friend through the maze of obstacles and delights that was the London Season. She protected Georgie from predators and encouraged her with the harmless fellows. Lately Miss Darcy of Pemberley had begun to display a modicum of ease and self-confidence in company.

  Lydia could not have been prouder of her protégé, for that is how she thought of the shy girl.

  Then Lord Somersea had entered the fray. What a marvelous bull of a man! All action and gaiety and hunger for the fun in life. And not a hint of unkindness or stupidity about him. There could be no better companion for her dear friend, for though his lordship was somewhat daring and at times excitingly male in his attitudes, without fail he treated Georgiana with the highest respect.

  Lydia soon came to believe that with Kett (which he insisted they call him) by her side, Georgie would feel safe in society wherever she went and would never fall back into the clutches of the blue devils that had taken hold of her after the business with Wickham. Lord Somersea was too strong and happy and alive for that; he simply would not allow it.

  Still… his lordship’s strength was not entirely endearing. There was no stopping Kettering Corby when he set his mind to something. Nor managing him, either with subtlety or outright direction. He wanted what he wanted when he wanted it. Happily, he made it no secret that he wanted Georgiana.

  Georgie need only accept him, and all would be well.

  To Lydia’s amazement, Georgiana had dealt with the handsome, rich, fashionable, and exceedingly self-assured lord like a proficient. She had allowed him to come closer than any other London swain, but he had still not quite managed the final distance. Lydia could not account for it—until she heard the tale of the kiss.

  And then it all made sense. At one time, Georgiana must have been in love with the Derbyshire vicar. Despite her denials, she must still be a little mad for Mr. Midwinter—for who would refuse Lord Somersea if they were in possession of their senses? The way forward was clear.

  If the memory of the vicar’s kiss was keeping Georgie from making a decision, then seeing the two gentlemen side by side should make it obvious who was the better man.

  “Not to put too fine a point on it, Miss Bennet,” the clergyman said now, “but you do know Cupid is the son of Venus and Mars?”

  How she wished she had dressed him as Apollo!

  Georgie laughed. “Miss Bennet never lets a fine point hold her back from doing what she likes.”

  Lydia had got the idea for her costume after persuading Kett to come to the ball as Mars, intending that Georgie should come as Venus. But Miss Darcy of Pemberley would keep to her traditions. She must be Queen Elizabeth as the faerie queen and nothing else. Whence the scheme with the Fuseli painting.

  The musicians signaled the beginning of the next number, and Lydia showed her little bow and arrow to Mr. Midwinter.

  “Will you ask my friend to dance, sir, or must this Cupid strike you with her arrow?”

  “No man requires Cupid’s arrow where Miss Darcy is concerned.” Mr. Midwinter gave Georgie another smile. Not so less confident as the others, but more endearing. “Would you grant me the pleasure of this dance?”

  Lydia watched the pair find a place in the lines. Mr. Midwinter really was a handsome fellow. Were he rich or a lord, he might have a chance—but he was neither. By the end of the set, Georgie would surely realize that Kett was the man for her.

  Lydia sighed for her friend’s conundrum—then laughed at herself. She pity Miss Georgiana Darcy of Pemberley? How funny life was! How contrary! Before knowing the heiress, to pity her would have been impossible.

  In the eyes of the old Lydia Bennet, the girl who lived before death changed her life and poverty threatened her happiness and she found out that a man in a red coat could be a traitor to everything he was supposed to hold dear—in the eyes of that naïve girl, Georgiana Darcy was every perfect thing: rich, of excellent rank, and also lovely, adored by all her family, especially her stuffy and old-fashioned brother, who was her perfect guardian.

  Although, Lydia would allow, Mr. Darcy had mellowed somewhat after he married Lizzy. Happiness always cures a tendency to stuffy disapproval.

  But though her brother had tempered, Georgiana was yet governed by the severest guardian of all: her own sense of propriety. Therefore, as between the marquess and the vicar, any gambler—and Lydia was one—would wager on the marquess.

  No matter how handsome and pleasant was Mr. Midwinter, Lord Somersea’s wealth and title made him handsomer and pleasanter, in all ways a better fit to Georgiana’s station. His suit must win in the end.

  “Good Lord! Can that really be your hair?”

 
His lordship had arrived without her noticing. She whirled round to face a resplendent, bemused Roman in senator’s toga and war helmet, bearing a spear and shield.

  “You look like a Greek boy,” said he.

  “Oh, I am very much a girl, Lord Somersea, make no mistake!” Lydia laughed heartily along with the marquess. It was marvelous fun to shock everybody with her daring short curls. “But did you creep in without being introduced to my sister? You must acquit yourself well with Mrs. Darcy, you know, for you can find no better ally in securing Georgiana’s regard.”

  “Excepting yourself, I would imagine.” Kett took her teasing in stride. Then, all serious, he pointed his spear toward the dance floor. “I say, who is that fellow with Miss Darcy? Do not tell me I have a rival.”

  “Pfft! You have many rivals, my lord. Do you never see the many swains who attend my friend at every ball and soirée in Town?”

  “I have seen none worthy of her.” His eyes narrowed “I don’t like the look of that fellow.”

  “Or how Georgiana looks at him, more like.”

  “Your shorn locks have rendered you cheekier than usual.”

  “Ah, this is good. You tend to think too highly of yourself, my lord. A bit of competition will keep you on your best behavior. But worry not. Mr. Midwinter is but a country vicar.”

  “Never underestimate a worthy rival, Miss Bennet.” Kett kept his fine dark eyes on the country vicar. “A man’s rank is rarely the measure of his value.”

  “Now you have turned philosopher.”

  “Not a bit of it. I have always been a practical man. All my life I was dismissed as a nobody. Now I receive far more deference than I deserve due to a title and wealth I inherited entirely unexpectedly.”

  “And your point, regarding Mr. Midwinter? He will inherit no titles, I assure you.”

  “My point is that I know what I was worth then, and it was not to be measured by those things. I see this Midwinter’s value registered by a more perfect gauge—the regard in Miss Darcy’s eyes.”