by Kate Bedlow
“Oh, she is an obstinate girl, Drake! She is putting herself on the shelf.”
“I am only eighteen!”
“Perhaps you will be more eager to take a husband, niece, if I leave everything to your brother and you with no fortune at all.”
The threat had been toothless, and they all knew it. Amy’s trust was irrevocable, and the trustee, a Mr. Clark of Thomas Coutts & Co, could not be replaced. Aunt Perpetua had designed it that way to protect the money from her brother, Amy’s uncle, but the end result was the same: Amy was secure in her inheritance no matter what.
Even so, Drake sided with his aunt. He would rest easier were Amy settled in her own establishment with a husband to protect her.
“Why do you attend so many balls if not to find a husband? Have you not seen one gentleman whom you like well enough to please your aunt a little and yourself a great deal more?”
“I am exceedingly fond of dancing, brother. But why should I risk all the perils of marriage, surrender my very will to a husband, for the privilege of giving him all Aunt Perpetua’s money while I spend my days continually breeding the next generation?”
Over Aunt Perpetua’s shocked my dear girl! Amy had glared at him in reproach, as if he had turned traitor.
“I do hope there is a man in the world I could risk all for, Drake. As yet, I have not met him.”
He could not deny his sister’s point. As a clergyman, he was not blind to the darker side of human nature or the dangers to women in even the happiest marriages. He understood the disconcerting paradox underlying some women’s attitude toward men and matrimony. Ladies loved to dance, but even their often (shockingly) lusty delight in male company struggled against fear and contempt for the absolute power a man had over a woman once she was his in the eyes of God and the law.
Perhaps it was better for all concerned that ladies kept hidden these conflicting ideas of what men were. There was truth in his sister’s complaint against marriage, but not the entire truth, one hoped. Not regarding every husband.
Was this why Miss Darcy had yet to marry? She certainly had no need on financial grounds. Like Amy, her fortune was secure. And her brother was a gentleman in the best sense. Drake had seen the easy companionship and high regard Darcy and Georgiana had for each other, much like Drake’s relationship with Amy. Darcy would never persuade his sister to enter a union she did not desire.
Georgiana must be waiting, like Amy, for a fellow to come along whom she truly cared for. One for whom she could risk all. A fellow like Somersea.
“Sir, will you come inside?” The footman at the front door looked down his nose at the lout, lost in thought, who was allowing the cold to rush into the entry hall.
“Sorry.” Good Lord! Drake really had to put away such thoughts. Georgiana Darcy was not and would never be his to think about. He hurried across the threshold, eager to get inside and near a fire.
He was surprised to be taken not to the salon but to a drawing room upstairs where the gentlemen only were gathering. Drake’s host was good enough to notice him and call him over. Fortunately, Mr. Darcy and his friends were standing before a roaring fire. Unfortunately, the group included the gentleman who must be Lord Somersea.
It was one thing to accept another man as Georgiana’s intended. It was quite another to be pleasant about it.
“Midwinter, glad you could get away from the rectory.” Lord Farley spoke as if they had not seen each other since last night’s ball. “I trust your being here means Mr. Clackston has improved?”
“Mr. Gowan prescribes bedrest for a week, and then he will know more.” Drake could not imagine a reason to hide being down in the kitchen, but he had no call to question Lord Farley’s clandestine schemes. He turned to Mr. Darcy. “Aunt Charity sent me with her regrets.”
“And if I know Miss Charity, no doubt she expects you to bring back reports on the ladies’ fashions.” Darcy smiled, then turned to the stranger beside him. “Kett, may I present Mr. Drake Midwinter, the vicar of Lambton? Midwinter, this is Kettering Corby, Lord Somersea. He and I were at school together—it seems a lifetime ago.”
“An honor to meet you, Vicar.” His lordship’s smile was friendly and disarmingly genuine.
Against his will, Drake was instantly put at ease. “I cannot think why an honor, my lord, but I am happy to make your acquaintance.” Confound it all. The fellow was geniality itself.
“We have a mutual friend who sings your praises. There was a time I quite envied her regard for you, I admit.”
Drake derived both delight and despair from those two sentences. Delight that Georgiana had sung his praises—for she must be the friend referred to. Despair in Somersea’s inference that this no longer made him jealous. Why no longer?
He should have remained, even in hiding, skulking without honor, until he’d heard for a fact that Miss Darcy and the marquess were engaged. It would have been better than learning of it here, having to dissemble in front of Darcy and Lord Farley. Instead, he had been a coward, running from the truth like a child, as if that would make it disappear.
It made him a bit mad to imagine Georgiana with any—but he must think of her as Miss Darcy again—to imagine her with any other man. What could he do? He was in no position to compete with the likes of a marquess. At all events, he had already decided for her sake not to try—had he not?
“Good evening, Mr. Darcy. Gentlemen.” Mr. Collins insinuated himself into the circle. “How interesting to separate the ladies from the gentlemen before the meal. No doubt this was one of Cousin Elizabeth’s schemes.”
The fellow was accompanied by Mr. Bonney, who had been so helpful last night with Mr. Clackston. Drake nodded to the curate, but Collins was not finished.
“And Mr. Midwinter. Well met, sir. I did not have a chance to speak with you last night. I trust you are holding up well at All Saints.”
Collins was two years older than Drake, two inches shorter, and had a tendency toward heaviness. He was dressed in a well-tailored, charcoal cutaway, and the stiff points of a standing collar poked at his full cheeks. A wine-red waistcoat embroidered with gold fleurs-de-lis completed the picture.
Nothing stanched a rush of self-pity better than being engaged by a gentleman one simply did not like.
“I have no complaints, sir.”
Drake had many complaints, but none he wished to share with this fellow, whom he had first met just after the death of his predecessor at All Saints. The rector had shown up in Lambton at the request of Lady Catherine and insisted on presiding over Mr. Hanson’s burial, which Drake had resented on his parishioners’ behalf. None of them had ever seen Mr. Collins before.
But Lady Catherine was sister to the Earl of Matlock, and the Lambton living was in her brother’s gift. Collins was her protégé, and she had wished to install him as the new vicar then, just as she meant to grab the living at Bolehill for him now. If she had got her way, Drake would have remained at Lambton, performing all the attendant clerical duties, but as a curate and at a fraction of the pay.
She had not got her way. Drake didn’t know the particulars, but he suspected he had Mrs. Darcy to thank for both the living and his elevation to vicar.
Now apparently, Lady Catherine meant to try again with Bolehill and with Mr. Bonney in the role of wretched curate. Drake had learned all about it last night from Bonney himself.
What benefit could Lady Catherine de Bourgh of Kent derive from such an arrangement in Derbyshire? Collins, not she, would receive the vicar’s income. It must be the satisfaction of exercising influence, the feeling of power over other people’s lives.
What a contrast between her ladyship and Mr. Darcy! With no thought for the consequences, she moved people about like pieces on a chessboard, unaware of the effects of her play upon those pieces. Mr. Darcy, on the other hand, quietly kept a constant eye on the denizens of his estate, from highest to lowest, with regard for the welfare of all. Perhaps Georgiana was not so unique in her kindness. Perhaps care for others
was intrinsic to the Darcy bloodline.
Drake laughed at himself inwardly. He was a lost man! His thoughts invariably led to Miss Darcy, even when they began with the likes of Lady Catherine or Mr. Collins.
“No complaints, sir, but I do have a problem,” he said. “I must find someone to preach at All Saints tomorrow while I stand in for my uncle at St. Mary’s.”
“Indeed.” Collins’s eyes darted this way and that, as if he feared he would be asked to perform the task.
Never!
It had been clear at once that the church was but a means to an income for Collins. He was the ultimate absentee rector, his inherited estate allowing him to live in the manner of a country gentleman while he added to his income by collecting livings. But Collins was more interested in the fabric of his next waistcoat than counting chickens and collecting tithes—odious tasks better left to a curate. Drake was not overly-fervent in his vocation, but he had a care for his parishioners’ time of a Sunday.
“I had hoped Mr. Bonney might be up to the challenge.” He looked at the curate. “You would be needed not only tomorrow but likely Sunday next. You are welcome to stay at the vicarage for the duration if it is convenient. And there will be remuneration, of course.”
Bonney would receive something for his trouble if Drake had to pay it himself.
“An excellent suggestion,” Mr. Darcy said quickly, staving off Collins’s part in the conversation. “And I shall provide Mr. Bonney’s compensation.”
“Sir, I presumed no such a thing.”
“But I insist. St. Mary’s is Pemberley’s parish church, and I will not have its needs cause extra expense to others. You know, Mr. Midwinter, for some time, I have suggested Mr. Clackston take on a curate to assist him. Perhaps now we can convince him of the sense in it.” Mr. Darcy’s attention was diverted to the door, where his man Garrett had just appeared. “Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, it appears I am wanted elsewhere.”
Lord Somersea and Lord Farley moved on to speak with Bingley and Quartermaine on the other side of the room, and Drake was left with Mr. Collins and Mr. Bonney.
“I am sorry this request comes on such short notice,” he told the curate.
“Think nothing of it,” Bonney said cheerfully. “It is Epiphany. A sermon on the gifts of the Magi would be just the thing. It will write itself.”
“Very good then. I shall take you to the vicarage tonight. My housekeeper will extend you every hospitality, and no doubt you will be invited to dine once or twice over the course of the week. It is a fine parish.”
“I thank you, Mr. Midwinter.” Mr. Bonney glanced at Mr. Collins. “I will enjoy the week to come I am sure.”
Of course! The flash of insight made Drake smile. A week free of Collins, and not to mention Lady Catherine, would be a holiday indeed.
“I take it then that Mr. Clackston is truly ill,” Collins mused, as if to himself. “If, heaven forbid, the living becomes vacant, no doubt Mr. Darcy will desire someone connected with his family for the position.”
The audacity! Surely Collins did not mean to propose himself for St. Mary’s, and while Drake’s uncle still lived! “I understood you were being put forward for Bolehill, sir, despite that you live in Hertfordshire.”
“Bolehill yields a fair income, but nothing to compare. And my patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, has often mentioned her wish to see me with the living at St. Mary’s—when the time comes, of course.”
Collins was oblivious to dancing on Mr. Clackston’s as-yet-unfilled grave. “And do you see yourself living at the rectory when the time comes?”
“Oh my dear fellow, is that what concerns you? Not a bit of it, I assure you. I am quite settled at my own estate, as you must know. But there will be no difficulty finding a curate for St. Mary’s.”
“Naturally. So many ordained clergymen are in want of positions.” Drake did not add while others possess multiple livings. He would not insult a guest of Mr. Darcy in his drawing room.
“Of course, a vicar would be more suitable,” Collins said meaningfully. “And presumably one would like to keep one’s aged aunt in the home to which she has been so long accustomed. Mr. Darcy respects you, Vicar. I have heard him say so. If you would say a word in my favor, I would be predisposed to install you at St. Mary’s, and Miss Charity need never be disturbed.”
Odious man! Grabby and ungenerous. Drake did not like to make an enemy of Collins, but the man went too far.
“My aunt will always be welcome at Lambton vicarage, and I would never presume to tell Mr. Darcy how to dispose of any living in his gift.”
Collins’s greed was off-putting and his assumption of Drake’s assistance irksome. Mr. Bonney seemed a decent sort, and unlike St. Mary’s, the living at Bolehill was actually vacant. If good reports were forthcoming this week regarding the curate’s work at Lambton, Drake would mention as much to Lord Farley. It was always better a living go to a resident clergyman.
Both Farley and Darcy would agree, Drake was in no doubt, and planting seeds of the idea now would bear fruit later. Farley was occupied with his cousin and friends, but Darcy was alone with his man at the door. Drake excused himself to Collins and Bonney.
Full of self-congratulation for his good deed to come, Drake headed for the door feeling much better. Doing good for others was always the cure for self-pity, he reminded himself. It got him out of his own head and made the world a better place, which in its way was a selfish act.
He chuckled at his circular thinking, and just as he reached the door, Mr. Darcy closed it in his face.
Chapter 17
“Mr. Rook says dinner is served. Mrs. Darcy says the ladies are ready for the gentlemen.”
Garrett had been unusually sour this morning and practically wordless all day. By his abrupt manner, apparently nothing had changed. Darcy moved out of the drawing room into the hallway and shut the door behind him.
“Why this mood? You are not one to overindulge, even on Twelfth Night, but otherwise I cannot account for you.” More than master and servant, the two had been friends for over a decade. Garrett was one of a very small number of men Darcy felt comfortable enough with to tease—and one of the smaller number who grasped his dry humor.
Garrett waved him off. “Could be one thing. Could be another.”
“Your eyebrows are twitching. What is it you do not wish to talk about?” Come to think of it, Elizabeth had mentioned her maid was in a similar temper. “Did you and Morton fall out?”
“You might say so. Nothing to bother you with.”
“For heaven’s sake, man, don’t be daft. I would not invade your privacy but for the fact Mrs. Darcy and I goaded the two of you on last night. My wife has long been convinced Morton fancies you—and in truth I had rather thought you were of the same mind on the subject.” Indeed, Garrett always called her Miss, when a lady’s maid should be called by her surname alone.
“It does not signify.”
“Garrett?”
“There may be some… fellow feeling between us. I have done my best not to encourage it.”
“But—”
Only Garrett could look at him that way, as if he were an idiot. It was usually amusing, but for some reason not this time. This time, the man was serious.
“Sally Morton is lady’s maid to Mrs. Darcy of Pemberley. That is a rare privilege, and she takes pride in her position.” Garrett paused, then, “There is no future in it for the likes of myself and Miss Morton. Surely you can see that.”
Of course. Darcy chided his idiocy.
Garrett was not a servant in the technical sense, but Elizabeth’s maid was. And servants did not marry. Oh, there were always flirtations and dalliances, to which a good master turned a blind eye, but anything that might blossom into real love must be snipped off at the first budding for the good of all concerned.
“You put me to shame.”
“I would not go that far.”
But there was a wistfulness in his friend’s smile Da
rcy had never seen before, and it nearly broke his heart. He dropped the matter, for now.
“I’ll bring the gentlemen down to the salon.”
Garrett stopped him at the door. “There was something else. Something you should know… unless you have heard it?”
“Apparently not. Go on.”
“I did speak with Miss Morton earlier. There is gossip among the female servants. Last night Lord Somersea and Miss Georgiana went into a ballroom antechamber and closed the door. They were alone there for above a quarter of an hour.”
“Good Lord.”
“The word among the servants is his lordship made an offer.”
“He had damn well better have. And is there word as to her answer?”
“Speculation is she has not yet given it, either way.”
“Hmm.”
“I imagine your sister wishes to speak with you first.”
“It would have been better had Kett done so.”
“He was never one for the niceties, as I recall.” Garrett also had known Kettering Corby at Cambridge.
“Quite. Thank you for the warning. Inform Mrs. Darcy we are on our way, if you please.”
Darcy returned to the drawing room to collect the gentlemen. Kett was in the corner with Charles and Quartermaine, chatting away cheerfully.
“Gentlemen, I am told that dinner is served and the ladies await. Shall we go down to the salon?”
As the men filed out of the drawing room, Somersea motioned him over to a corner and asked for a private word when convenient. So the rumors were true.
“Tomorrow after church will do, in my study.”
The fellow stifled his disappointment well, while inwardly Darcy chuckled. Somersea was no Garrett and did not know he was being played with. Putting Kett off a day was a way of making him suffer for his bride. Any brother worth his salt would do no less to his future brother-in-law.
He and Richard helped Matlock down the stairs, each taking an arm to keep the elderly earl from taking a spill. Darcy rejoiced in his certain triumph. Elizabeth must be aware of last night’s meeting between Georgiana and Kett if her maid was. She would now be forced to acknowledge that her darling husband had known what he was about and could finesse a match with the best of them. Surely, knowing what she knew, Elizabeth would have Kett take Georgiana in to table, and at dinner the truth of the engagement would be written on his sister’s face.