Pemberley Chronicles

by Rebecca Ann Collins

  The evening proceeded in an entirely predictable fashion, with the Hursts paying much more attention to Mr Darcy than to Elizabeth, and Caroline Bingley’s asking so many questions about Pemberley that one would have been forgiven for thinking she had a personal stake in the property. Indeed, so bewildered was Mr Hurst by the extent of Caroline’s interest that he fell asleep and snored rather loudly. Fortuitously, the timely interruption enabled Mrs Gardiner to change the conversation and ask Miss Bingley how she liked living in Bath. “Very well,” she replied, with a rather false brightness, “Oh, I like it very well indeed. One gets to meet so many people of real quality, and there is always something worthwhile one can attend.” Elizabeth glanced at Darcy, who did not appear to be listening, being intent on pouring out some wine. She was, therefore, very surprised when he responded to Miss Bingley’s question, addressed, as it was, to Mrs Gardiner.

  Recalling that the Gardiners had left London to move to Derbyshire, Miss Bingley had remarked pointedly that they must surely miss the convenience of living close to their business premises in Cheapside. Before either of the Gardiners could reply, Darcy, who had returned with a glass of wine for Mrs Gardiner, intervened in a polite but cold voice, “That is hardly likely, Miss Bingley, since most of the business has moved West to the Midlands, and the port of Liverpool rather than London is fast becoming our chief trading centre.” Miss Bingley raised her eyebrows in mock astonishment.

  “Why, Mr Darcy, you seem to be exceedingly well-informed on matters of trade,” the inflection in her voice suggesting that trade was surely a subject far beneath Mr Darcy’s attention. Her attempt to insult his guests infuriated Darcy. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “And why should that surprise you, Miss Bingley? I do not deny it. Considering that your brother and I have been partners in Mr Gardiner’s Commercial Trading Company for several years and have been recently joined by Colonel Fitzwilliam, it would surely be far more surprising if I was not,” adding, “I confess I had a great deal to learn—Bingley had the advantage over me there.” Darcy was too much of a gentleman to remind her that their father had been in trade himself, but the implication was clear. “But Mr Gardiner has been a most patient teacher, and I have found it a most engrossing subject. It is, without any doubt, the key to the future prosperity of our nation,” he concluded.

  Caroline Bingley was the kind of woman who never seemed to know when to leave well alone. Her attempt to insult the Gardiners with references to their background in trade had obviously backfired and angered Darcy into what could only be seen as a rebuke. Elizabeth met her aunt’s eyes and knew she was fighting to keep from smiling at Miss Bingley’s embarrassment. She remembered well a similar incident in this same room, when on a visit to Pemberley before her engagement to Darcy. Miss Bingley, who was also a dinner guest, had tried to humiliate her with a reference to Wickham and had hit the wrong target, upsetting Georgiana instead. On that occasion, too, she had stupidly angered the very person with whom she was trying to ingratiate herself.

  Miss Bingley tried again, “But what made you choose Derbyshire?” she asked, this time, turning to Mr Gardiner, who began to explain that his wife was born and raised in the county. Once again, Mr Darcy intervened quite deliberately, “Mrs Gardiner and I had the good fortune to grow up not five miles from each other in what we both agree is the best of all counties in England,” he said casually, and as Elizabeth and her aunt and uncle listened, hardly believing what they were hearing, he went on, “I was aware of Mrs Gardiner’s great attachment to this district; we had spoken of it often and of the family’s hopes of returning to the area, which was why I suggested that Mr Gardiner take a look at Oakleigh Manor, when it came up for sale. As for the rest, I am quite sure Mr and Mrs Gardiner will gladly tell you how happy they’ve been since moving there.” As the Gardiners nodded and smiled agreement and Elizabeth could barely conceal her delight, Miss Bingley’s confusion was complete. Despite the best efforts of the kindly Mr Gardiner, who tried to keep the conversation going, there was little more for Caroline to say. Mercifully, Mr Hurst snored again, and as if on cue, the footman brought in the candles. The Hursts and Miss Bingley decided it was time to retire; they had to make an early start, but not before they witnessed an affectionate leave taking between Elizabeth and Darcy and Mr and Mrs Gardiner, with promises to meet again soon.

  Once their guests had retired, Elizabeth said not a word to her husband on the subject of Miss Bingley’s humiliation, intending to let the matter drop, believing that would be his wish too. She was therefore more than a little surprised when Darcy said quietly, “You can stop pretending now, Lizzie; you may laugh if you wish.”

  Elizabeth did laugh but not at Miss Bingley’s discomfiture alone; she was also laughing at herself, “And to think that, when I first met you, I thought you had no sense of humour,” she said. Darcy smiled, permitting himself a small degree of satisfaction. He knew that despite her reticence, Elizabeth was delighted with what had transpired that evening. Recalling the many occasions on which Miss Bingley and her sister had either insulted or patronised Elizabeth, before she became his wife, Darcy was happy to have been able to even the score. Standing at the window beside him, Elizabeth thought of Caroline and Fitzwilliam. From the bottom of her heart, she wished them happiness. That they loved each other dearly was not in doubt. If they could find within themselves deeper sources of that joy, they would be happy indeed.

  As if reading her thoughts, Darcy remarked, “If Fitzwilliam and Caroline are as happy in five years’ time, as we are tonight, they can count themselves truly fortunate. Do you not agree, my dearest?” And of course, she did.

  The birth of a son to Georgiana and Francis Grantley, in the spring of 1822, took Darcy and Elizabeth to Oxford, for his baptism. At the University, the movement for reform was gaining support, despite the draconian laws enacted to muzzle dissent. A new generation of writers and artists had joined the political agitators in calling for reform. These were more liberal minds with dreams of democracy and equality. The poets Shelley, Keats, and Byron were replacing Wordsworth, whose conservatism was regarded by the young as a betrayal. They, like Pushkin, Balzac, and Victor Hugo, who dominated the European scene, used their artistic reputations in the political struggle. The Greek war of independence fired their imaginations with romantic, often unrealistic aims, for which some Englishmen were ready to die. It was an exciting, if uncertain, time to be alive.

  Dr Grantley and his charming young wife had around them a circle of artistic and academic friends, whose company, far from overwhelming young Georgiana, had served to stimulate her interest in a range of new ideas and activities. In addition to singing and playing the harp and pianoforte, Georgiana began to take an interest in teaching music. She expressed a hope that she might, one day, find time to study how to teach young children to perform and appreciate music. Elizabeth and Darcy continued to be amazed at the blossoming of her once shy and diffident character. “If anyone had told me two or three years ago that my young sister would host a soirée with such aplomb, I would not have believed them,” he declared. Elizabeth agreed and added, “What is most pleasing is the way she seems to enjoy it all so much.” Darcy believed that Georgiana was responding to the environment in which marriage to Francis Grantley had placed her. “The richness of experiences offered by such a centre of artistic and intellectual activity is a very exciting prospect, even if one is not directly involved. Georgiana is clearly enjoying it.”

  The Grantleys frequently attended chamber music concerts and operatic recitals with the Continis, with whom they had developed a particular intimacy. On this occasion, they invited Elizabeth and Darcy to accompany them and spent a most enjoyable evening with the Italian family, who had a sumptuous villa at Richmond, as well as their town house in Portman Square. Their sincere affection for Georgiana was quite obvious. Rich gifts of plate and crystal had arrived for her wedding, and now her son was showered with presents.

  The Continis travelled frequently to Eur
ope, and from them, Darcy and Elizabeth learned a great deal about events taking place there. The French appeared to be teetering on the edge of chaos, with revolution followed by monarchy, followed by further revolution, while in their native Italy, liberal, nationalistic movements had been crushed, and young patriots were looking for new leaders.

  The Continis had a serious interest in music and were keen to endow a scholarship for the study of English music. They pointed out to Darcy and Elizabeth that much of the music being performed and composed in England was German in character. The Court had extended its patronage to composers like Bach, Handel, and Mendelsohn. “All very wonderful musicians but not very English,” said Signora Contini.

  “Who is composing or playing English music?” asked her husband. It was a question that did not admit of an easy answer, because if the truth were told, apart from the country people, who held to their old traditions, those who would be a part of the “elegant society” sought to cultivate the style of European art and manners.

  Dr Grantley and Georgiana invited Darcy and Elizabeth to consider the proposition of allowing such a scholar to spend a part of the year at Pemberley using the resources of the library, with its collection of art, literature, and music, to study and compose. “Have you a particular person in mind?” asked Elizabeth, interested enough to want to know more.

  “Yes, indeed,” replied Dr Grantley, “there are two likely candidates at least; one is a very talented young theology scholar, who also composes and helps with the choir, and the other is an older man—already in Holy Orders, but keen to study and compose sacred music.”

  Georgiana pleaded, and Elizabeth knew it would not be long before Darcy acceded to her request. There was hardly any occasion on which he had refused his young sister anything.

  Elizabeth made her own contribution with a comment that such a person might be a good influence upon Cassandra and William, who were approaching an age when more formal teaching in music than their mother could give them was needed.

  It was clear that Darcy was going to allow himself to be persuaded. He raised no objection and listened most attentively to all they had to say. Finally, he said, “Well, Francis, we will leave the selection in your hands, but I shall insist that Elizabeth have the final say on who it will be, after she has met them. Since the person you choose will live in our neighbourhood and be a frequent visitor to Pemberley, which is our home, I must insist on it.” It was generally felt that this was a most reasonable condition, and so it was agreed that a selected scholar would start work in the Autumn. Lodgings would be arranged for him at Kympton, where the curate’s house lay vacant.

  This was the manner by which a young theology student, Mr James Courtney, came to live in the village of Kympton, worship at the church, and ride over to Pemberley each day. He was the first endowed scholar of English music to work at Pemberley.

  The people of the parish of Kympton were delighted. The arrival of a young, active man, even if he were only a student of theology and not a proper curate, as they said, would add interest to their church activities, which, since the departure of the last curate at Kympton, had depended upon the generosity of the incumbents of neighbouring parishes. They hoped that young Mr Courtney would use the opportunity to do something for their parish, which had felt rather neglected since the living fell vacant. Mrs Gardiner, who together with her daughters had put a great deal of work into the little school at Kympton, was doubly pleased to discover the special interest that James Courtney had in music, since the school could do with some help.

  As for his work at Pemberley, both Darcy and Elizabeth welcomed him and urged him to apply to the housekeeper for any assistance he may need, but so overwhelmed was he by the wealth of material he found and the quality of the collection, that he would scarcely leave the library all day. Mrs Reynolds complained that he hardly ate the food that was set out for him in a little ante-room, so engrossed was he in his work. Quiet and studious James Courtney was a very keen scholar indeed.

  The Summer of 1822 saw many children born to the families, whose stories are recorded in the Pemberley chronicles: to Kitty and Huw Jenkins, twin daughters named Elizabeth Anne and Maria Jane; to Kitty’s friend Maria Lucas, now Faulkner, who already had a daughter, Katherine, a much longed-for son, Daniel. News also came of the fourth child born to Lydia and Wickham, another son to bear his father’s not particularly distinguished name. By now, even Mrs Bennet had grown bored with Lydia’s confinements and could not be persuaded to travel to Newcastle for the event. She claimed to Jane that she was tired of the rattling coach and the dusty roads, but Elizabeth and Jane agreed that their mother was more probably tired of prattling and wailing grandchildren, who had long lost their novelty for her.

  The happiest news of all came in the Summer, when it was confirmed that Mr and Mrs Gardiner would soon be grandparents. Caroline, who had spent a good deal of time helping Fitzwilliam with his campaign to collect the petitions for reform, had not admitted, even to herself, that she longed for a child. Yet, when after almost two years of marriage, she was still childless, her cousins could not fail to see the longing in her eyes as she played with their children.

  The news that she would be a mother in the Autumn brought a great rush of joy to all her family and friends. For her husband, whose ambitions she had supported while she hid her own disappointment, it was a special time of happiness. The love and loyalty she had so selflessly given him, he repaid tenfold, and they appeared to have that special talent for sharing their happiness around, with a bright, infectious optimism, born of conviction and hard work. They looked forward to their child as to a blessed gift.

  But, even in the midst of life, we are in Death.

  Two unrelated events happened almost at once, changing the hopeful mood of the Summer of 1822 to one of sadness and, in some quarters, despair. The suicide of Castlereagh, now the Marquis of Londonderry—an aristocratic statesman and a patriot, a man more loathed than he deserved to be—was probably the lowest point in the nation’s descent into political chaos. Fitzwilliam brought the news. He had been in London, lobbying for the repeal of the AntiCombination Laws enacted at the height of the Napoleonic wars, when repression was accepted as a necessary evil. Calling at Oakleigh to see his in-laws and collect his wife, who had spent a few days with her parents, he appeared grave-faced and not at all himself.

  Caroline, who had helped with preparing some of his material, asked quickly if anything was amiss. She feared he had been unable to see anyone in the Parliament. Was it disappointment, or, worse, had he been refused a hearing?

  Passionately involved in the struggle to repeal the laws that prevented working men from forming associations or unions by declaring them to be illegal, Fitzwilliam had gone to London to meet with men like Francis Place and the Radical Joseph Hume, but to his great consternation found the place in chaos, as the news of Castlereagh’s death spread like wildfire through Westminster and the city. It seemed inconceivable that such a distinguished man, apparently at the pinnacle of his career, should take his own life. The news, when Fitzwilliam succeeded in breaking it gently to Caroline and her parents, shocked and horrified them. That a man who had devoted so much of his life to the practice of government and diplomacy should die in such a manner was impossible to comprehend. Widely hated, especially by the younger Radicals, the Foreign Secretary had yet been, in the last few years, a peacemaker, working hard to prevent another conflagration in Europe—as the Greeks fought for their independence from Turkish tyranny.

  Fitzwilliam told of the confusion that reigned in Westminster. “No one could understand his motives, unless it was the agony of frustration and a kind of personal rage against the world,” he said, still rather shaken and welcoming the respite afforded by the Gardiners, whose wholesome goodness and consistency contrasted with the anarchic atmosphere of the city he had left behind.

  Later that year came worse news, with the drowning of the poet Shelley in the Aegean Sea. He had gone with fellow Rom
antic Byron and others to help the Greeks in their struggle and was lost at sea. Caroline wept, when the news came. She, having transferred her loyalty from Wordsworth to Shelley and Keats, was distressed to find that they were so short-lived, dying tragically, within a year of each other. It seemed as if the young lives of those who could be called upon to fight for reform and enlightenment were being wasted.

  “Can you not see that we are losing the best?” she cried, when Elizabeth, who loved her young cousin dearly, sought to console her.

  “I can, and I share your sorrow for their passing, dearest Caroline, but remember there will be others. Fitzwilliam is sure that the mood is changing; people are demanding change. It must come.” While her cousin’s words and presence served to comfort Caroline, they did not convince her that circumstances were about to improve. From her experience of helping Fitzwilliam over the last two years, she knew how difficult the political struggle could be. For a while, it seemed she would be inconsolable, and her parents worried about her health. But Nature reasserted her own power.

  Later that year, when in the final month of Autumn her son was born, the change in Caroline was so remarkable that it was difficult to believe she had been so despondent but a few months ago. Her mother’s support and excellent common sense, combined with the unswerving love and care of her husband, brought her through a difficult birth, and soon she settled into a comfortable domesticity, from which she had apparently no desire to be emancipated—for some years at least. A daughter, born a year later, brought even greater delight, and it was hardly possible to recall that this thoroughly contented young woman with her delightful children was the same girl who had wept inconsolably for Keats and Shelley.