by Kate Bedlow
“I’ll have my silk shawl, the one with peonies and chrysanthemums.” The exotic article from China had been a gift from Fitzwilliam. She wore it to keep thoughts of him close throughout the day as much as to keep herself warm. Morton went to fetch it, then met her at the door.
“I saved the best for last, madam.” There was a flash of mischief in Morton’s smile. “The source of the great scandal is revealed—how Miss Georgiana got the rag of the tart in her Twelfth cake.”
“Do not tell me it was intentional!”
“Not a bit of it. As we all suspected, it was a terrible mistake, a joke gone awry. But you will never guess the prankster. The entire kitchen is mortified, but none so much as Mrs. White!”
“Understandable, certainly. Mrs. White brooks no nonsense in her kitchen.” A trait Fitzwilliam, and Elizabeth too, valued highly. “I will wager it was Mrs. Crealy.”
“You might think so. But that is just it, madam. The culprit was Mrs. White! She meant to give the rag to Mrs. Crealy, who’s always going on about the men of Pemberley and how beautiful they are.”
“Good Lord.”
“I won’t disagree with her there. Mr. Darcy is not the only handsome face hereabouts, and Mrs. Crealy notices them all. Loudly, and often. According to her lights, Mr. Quartermaine is devilish handsome and sings like an angel. Mr. Bingley is the perfect gentleman and a pleasure to the eye. Mr. Midwinter is like Apollo himself, golden, manly perfection, and—”
“Yes, I take your point. But how did it all come about?”
“Of course. So Mrs. Crealy discovered what Mrs. White was up to, and she slipped the piece of cake with the rag onto the tray meant for upstairs. She never thought about it again until she heard who received it.”
“Poor Georgiana. Poor Mrs. Crealy!”
“Not to worry. All has been set to rights. While I was fetching your tea, Miss Georgiana came into the kitchen and Mrs. Crealy groveled well enough to go on the stage, apologizing from here to Saturday night.”
“I wish I had seen it!”
“Miss Darcy was her usual kind self. She very graciously told Mrs. Crealy she thought Mrs. White’s joke was quite funny, and did Mrs. Crealy not deserve it, being so lusty over the gentlemen all the time?”
“She never!”
“Miss Georgiana knows Mrs. Crealy well. She reminded her of likening Mr. Midwinter to Apollo once before, when he first came to Derbyshire.”
“Does Miss Georgiana spend so very much time in the kitchen?” Elizabeth went ahead into the corridor.
“She comes down from time to time. Picks up her baskets to take round. You know how she is. She was putting one together today for Mrs. Townes.”
“I see.” They stopped at the stairs, where they would part. “Is Hannah well?”
“Very well. She has had her baby, a fine, strong boy. Miss Georgiana has gone to the chandlery with fresh bread, venison stew, and some of Miss Kitty’s orange cakes.”
“As you say, Georgiana is kindness itself. We shall miss her dreadfully when she does marry.”
“Has she accepted the marquess then?”
“I believe we will know the answer before today is through.”
With that, Elizabeth headed down to the breakfast room. She had better be first to tell Mama her news or she would never hear the end of it.
Chapter 22
Georgiana handed the sledge’s reins to a gardener who’d come out of the orangerie to greet her. At church she had learned from Susan Brown that last night Hannah had had her baby. Bringing the new mother a basket of bread and stew along with some fresh fruit provided a very good reason to get away from the great house for a couple of hours.
Away from Lord Somersea.
Inside the hothouse, she selected a basket from those stacked on the shelves against the wall and inspected the orange trees. Searching for the ripest fruit, she thought of the marquess. She had promised to give her answer by tonight, and she still did not know what it was.
Her plan had fallen apart. And such a good plan too! She had meant to visit Mr. Clackston at the rectory after church today and somehow get Mr. Midwinter aside for a private conversation. She would confront him directly. Did he or did he not care for her?
If not, then she would marry Lord Somersea. But if Drake did care, if he only held back out of a misplaced sense of propriety or some wrong-headed regard for their unequal fortunes, then she would tell him how silly he was, that she most definitely did not care about such things.
But after church Mr. Collins expressed his own wish to pay a call on the rector, and so did Fitzwilliam, and the plan was in tatters. She had to get away, had to think, and there was never anything better for thinking than to go out for a drive on the estate, whether in the sledge in winter or in her phaeton when the roads were clear. In truth, she found the dogcart the most useful, even if Fitzwilliam thought it too rough for her. Rough it might be, but the cart had room in the back to carry almost anything she liked when she made her rounds, and nobody at Pemberley thought the less of her for driving it.
She did not think a marchioness could drive a dog cart.
Lord Somersea had offered to live in Derbyshire, near Pemberley, but she would never hold him to that. As a woman’s place was with her husband, a man’s place was with his estate.
She would miss her neighbors and the tenants and cottagers. Yes, she would meet new neighbors, make new friends, but they could never replace those she had known a lifetime. And would she feel as safe driving alone over Kett’s lands as she did here at home? Cousin Carley often talked of outlaws in the woods near his uncle’s estate. Were the forests surrounding Somersea Hall as wild?
The heavenly fragrance of the orangerie made her think of frankincense. In this season of Epiphany, let us consider the many gifts bestowed on our lives…
Mr. Midwinter’s sermon today had been lovely. Taking the gifts of the Magi as his starting point and referring humbly to his own life, he had simply listed all the good things Derbyshire, and Pemberley in particular, had to offer. By the end, the packed church had been vibrating with a sense of happiness and goodwill all around.
Several times it seemed he looked directly at her. Was he sending her a message? Reminding her of all the reasons she would be sad to leave her home? She would have asked him, had she followed through on her original scheme. She sighed and added a couple of ripe lemons to the oranges in the basket.
As she left the orangerie, the very object of her thoughts was standing beside her sledge, handing off his horse to the gardener.
“Well met, Miss Darcy.” He bowed.
“Mr. Midwinter.” She curtsied. Why did his smile have to fill her with such delight?
“I was just on my way to visit Mrs. Townes and saw your sledge. I wondered if you might be inside.”
“What a coincidence. I am going to the chandlery myself, and I thought I would bring Hannah some oranges. But do you not have a houseful of company? I heard several people say they intended to visit Mr. Clackston after church.”
“Not my company. Aunt Charity will receive them.” He blushed. “It is very wrong of me, I know, but I am not much for entertaining on Sundays. After a sermon, I feel the need for fresh air and solitude. I suppose you find that shocking.”
“Not at all.”
“As we are both going to the same destination, will you allow me to drive you?”
“Oh. I…” That would be perfect! But how to say so without appearing overeager…
He misinterpreted her hesitation and pressed on. “I know you are an excellent driver, but a breeze is coming up and a stronger hand with your horse may be more necessary than a gentle one.”
In point of fact, she was not sure there was a breeze coming up. But no need to let that keep her from her purpose, and it was certainly true he had the stronger hand. “Very well, Mr. Midwinter. I thank you.”
He arranged for the gardener to return his horse to the rectory, and they set out for chandlery. How fortuitous! She had promi
sed Lord Somersea her answer, and now she could find out what it was to be. Still, she was a coward and put off raising the subject until near the end of their errand, when it would be easier to get away if the conversation went badly.
“Is everything all right, Miss Darcy? You seem preoccupied.”
They were sitting beside each other, their shoulders touching, and he looked down at her, all friendly-like.
“I am well. All is well.”
She sounded like a babbling fool and was relieved he did not seem to notice. Instead he asked about the vacant cottage they passed not far from the orangerie.
“That is Orange Blossom Cottage. No one has lived there for years.” She fell easily into her guide-to-Pemberley attitude, learned from mimicking Mrs. Reynolds’s tours of the great house when she would relate the estate’s history to visitors. “The last tenant was Mr. George Wickham, the steward when my father was alive.”
He looked puzzled.
“Not… that one. His father. This is where Lieutenant Wickham grew up.”
Mr. Midwinter nodded and moved on. “What a shame the place is so fine.”
“What?”
“I mean, if it were more modest, I would dare to suggest a use for it to your brother.”
“You have piqued my curiosity. Do tell.”
“This dwelling will not do for my idea. I am thinking of persuading my uncle to take on a curate to assist him. Mr. Bonney, in point of fact.”
“Oh. That my aunt will not like.”
“Perhaps not. I am aware of Lady Catherine’s plans for him—though I would say to her face I do not think she has Mr. Bonney’s best interests in mind.”
This was what Georgiana so admired about Mr. Midwinter! He had courage. He had not been afraid to stand up to his uncle for a chandlery girl, and he was not afraid now to stand up to Lady Catherine for a curate.
“I fear Mr. Clackston will never recover fully,” he said. “He can certainly afford a curate to assist him. Still, if he won’t hire Mr. Bonney, I will do so myself.”
“That is generous of you.”
“I have… I have very few expenses. The problem is in finding a place where Mr. Bonney can live. Lambton vicarage is too far. A modest dwelling near the rectory would be ideal.”
“Orange Blossom Cottage is the only one not occupied at the moment. But your purpose is a good one, and I don’t see why Mr. Bonney should suffer in his lodgings merely because we cannot supply something humble enough to meet with Lady Catherine’s opinion of what he deserves.”
They both laughed.
“It is commendable of you to look after your uncle, all the more because…”
“Because?”
“Because he does not treat you very well, in my opinion.”
“He is often harsh in his manner toward me, but I do not blame him for it. I confess I was very puzzled when my uncle helped smooth my way to Oxford and later secured my position at All Saints—until I learned that Aunt Charity shamed him into doing it.”
“Miss Charity loves you very much.”
“As I came to know them both better, I realized how deeply they were hurt by my mother’s death. She was much younger than they and the light of their lives. My uncle looks at me and feels the pain of losing her. But when my aunt does, she remembers the love.”
At the chandlery, they were both welcomed warmly. All Robert’s family and Hannah’s parents were there and Susan too. Everybody was in high spirits, relieved that mother and baby had both made it safely through the ordeal. The love between Robert and Hannah was obvious, and Georgiana was a little envious. They had been true to each other from the beginning, this she knew, and she saw how their happiness had only deepened through sharing their lives together.
After Georgiana delivered her baskets, and Mr. Midwinter ordered a week’s supply of candles to be sent to the vicarage, they both held the baby and pronounced him a fine and handsome boy, then set out to return Pemberley. It would be dark by the time they reached the great house. In the cold and the fading light, Georgiana was doubly glad to have Mr. Midwinter with her.
On they drove, and her courage waned with the sunlight. But when they stopped to light the lanterns which Fitzwilliam had insisted her sledge be fitted with, she knew it was now or never. Drake got the second one going, and as he climbed back into the sledge she blurted out, “Lord Somersea has asked me to marry him.”
Drake started a second, then sat down. He grasped the reins and stared forward, but he did not urge the horse onward. “He seems a good fellow. Your brother appears to admire him, and that accounts for much.”
“Indeed, it does.”
“Have you given your answer?”
“Not yet.”
Mr. Midwinter did not look at her, and he was very quiet. He clucked at the horse and flicked the reins, and continued quiet as the sledge moved forward over the snow. His jaw worked, but he said no more.
“Mr. Midwinter, can you think of any reason why I should refuse the marquess?”
The silent seconds ticked by.
Then he said, “Upon my honor, Miss Darcy, I cannot.”
She wanted to cry. She wanted to make him take it back and say what she had hoped to hear, that the reason she should not marry Lord Somersea was because she ought to marry him. She turned her face so he could not see the tear that spilled down her cheek.
“Do you know him well?” Mr. Midwinter’s voice was quiet and even. She had no idea what he was thinking.
“I first met him when he visited Pemberley one time when I was young. He wasn’t a lord then—and had no idea of ever becoming one either. He was as jolly as he is now, but I did not like him. I had been looking forward to seeing my brother again, and Fitzwilliam spent all his days with Kett and George Wickham.”
“And the boys had no time for a little girl who wished to tag along.”
Drake spoke as if he understood completely, and she wondered if he had ever treated his younger sister in a similar fashion.
“One night when I was feeling very sorry for myself, I sneaked outside to look at the sky. In the summer, there is no better view than from Pemberley’s north veranda. Kett found me there, crying my heart out. He was very kind to me.
“I could not tell him that I was jealous of the boys’ fun, so I said I missed my mama. People always expected that in those days. Instead of giving me the usual comforting words, he said something wonderful. He told me that Mama’s spirit was there in the sky. That the northern lights were her and the angels dancing.
“I was old enough to know that couldn’t be right, but it was very consoling. And so, you see, from then I have always thought of him as a good person.”
“I am glad to know that your husband is a man who will think kindly of you and have a care for your happiness.”
Georgiana then saw two truths before her: she would not marry Mr. Midwinter, and she did desire to marry. She was not like Caroline Bingley, a free spirit. She wanted kisses and companionship and children and her own household. She wanted all these things, and did she not deserve them as much as any woman? And if Mr. Midwinter did not care enough for her to fight for her, then he did not deserve her.
Miserable, and in a fit of spite, she said, “We will wish to be married here at St. Mary’s, my parish, of course. I hope you will perform the ceremony.”
A little color drained from his face. She had meant to hurt him with her request, but sensing that she had hit her mark afforded her no pleasure. In fact, she felt worse.
“Upon my honor, Miss Darcy, I will not fail you.” Mr. Midwinter looked so solemn that she was truly ashamed. “Come what may, I will be there to marry you—that is, to marry you to Lord Somersea.”
Chapter 23
All week long, Pemberley had been a place of constant commotion, but today the great house was relatively quiet. Many of the guests had gone to church, and others had slept the day away, recovering from both Twelfth Night and Epiphany.
After saying goodbye to Jane and Ch
arles and little Tommy, Elizabeth had spent an hour with Mrs. Reynolds going over household matters and making plans for the week to come. Now she roamed the monstrous pile, seeking company.
She heard muffled male laughter as she passed the door to Fitzwilliam’s study. He was in there with Lord Somersea. She left them to their discussion of the future disposition of Miss Georgiana Darcy of Pemberley. She did not wish to know about it. Not yet. The details would be the nails in the coffin of Mr. Midwinter’s chances.
In the library she found Mrs. Annesley nested happily in the overlarge chair near the fire. Like a little girl, she had pulled her knees up under the skirt of her new floral day gown, and she was engrossed in the large volume open on her lap. Clarissa. Gwennie caught her breath, her eyes widened, and a disgusted scoff escaped her lips.
Not wishing to intrude on Gwennie’s pleasure, Elizabeth turned to go and spied a volume someone had left on a side table. She picked it up to return to the shelf and noted that it was one of Fitzwilliam’s favorites, about the Sandwich Islands. She smiled, recalling how the other night she had teased him about his outlandish second proposal in the garden at Berkeley Square. This was the book which had inspired such wonderful foolishness.
Outwardly, her husband appeared serious, even grave, but he had a wicked sense of humor, and he never let what was expected of him interfere with what was right in the circumstances. He coupled discrimination with flexibility and was never rigid about either one. She ought to appreciate that about him, not be so sure her own way was best.
As soon as she saw him next, she would promise to drop all her hopes for Mr. Midwinter and accept Georgiana’s choice, come what may.
In the south drawing room, Lord and Lady Matlock occupied chairs near the fire, books in their laps. Their mouths were open too, but their eyes were closed. Elizabeth picked up Lady Matlock’s shawl, fallen to the floor, and spread it over her lap, then left the two to their naps.
On the stairs, notes from the Broadwood grand wafted down from the music room. There were four musicians whose touch Elizabeth could recognize almost instantly. Her sister Mary’s sturdy hand had mellowed over time into one of elegant strength. Caroline Bingley was all cold mastery at the keyboard—unless the lady was in a fit of pique, in which case she became all fiery mastery. Georgiana’s playing was delicate, lovely, and practically perfect in every way.