Jane Austen's Pride & Prejudice Sequel Bundle: 3 Reader Favorites

by Linda Berdoll

  Regardless, she asked, “Pray, has Wickham departed?”

  He nodded.

  Overcome with relief, Elizabeth rushed to her husband, grateful his fury over Wickham’s advances was not lethal. Clutching him to her, she began to babble, “The unmitigated gall…how could that man believe…what brass cheek…”

  But she trailed off when she realised his arms hung woodenly at his sides. The colour had drained from his face and his chest still heaved with rage. She looked at him, but he waited a moment, perchance allowing himself to tether his temper, before he spoke.

  In the clipped intonation that he always used to announce his displeasure, he asked a nonquestion, “You invited Wickham here when I bid you not?”

  Trembling, she endeavoured to keep her countenance.

  “I did send him a post, because I believed he should know of his son. I did not invite him to come here.”

  “Your letter was invitation enough. When I bid you to desist of the matter, I expected you to follow my wishes, not contact Wickham clandestinely. There are things of which you do not know, Elizabeth.”

  “I did not contact him in secrecy,” she insisted, certain at that moment she had not.

  “You did not do it openly. Anything other is furtive.”

  Of course, he was right. She had not meant to act surreptitiously, simply independently.

  It ended badly. Before she was ready to concede that point, she accused his own secrecy, for if there were “things of which she did not know,” he had kept them from her.

  “If you expect me to follow your wishes implicitly, you must make them known. Pray allow me the privilege of knowing your motives if I am to understand.”

  “Is it not enough that I ask it of you? Must I share of everything? Some things are too harsh of which to think, much less palaver them incessantly.”

  The magnitude of her inadvertent injury to his meticulously guarded amour proper was evident, even if she was not quite witting of just how she had brought it about. She reached out to him, but he stepped away. As he stood with his back to her, she observed that his shoulders rose and fell yet in the shudder of anger.

  In a voice more bitter than resigned, he said to her, “If you will excuse me, I must take my leave. Because of Wickham’s visit to this county I must now canvas the shopkeepers in three villages to see what debts he has incurred that must be discharged.”

  When he quitted the room, he did not look back. Elizabeth reached out behind her to seek a chair and gratefully took the first one she found. He had never, in the life of their marriage, left her company so abruptly. Her chin quivered and it angered her that her own countenance was questioning her too.

  As for Wickham, she thought of what Lydia said of him that eve in Hunsford and thought her not so senseless as she had once been accused. Lydia was heedless and marriage had bestowed her no restoration of character, but no woman deserved such a husband.

  Forlorn, Elizabeth pondered the life Lydia had chosen, but her sympathy was not overly employed. She saved the greater part of it for John Christie, for that hapless lad had no voice in what lot he was assigned.

  In time, her thoughts turned to what she believed were the mundane. Cook would need to reappraise the supper preparations. A nice poularde, perhaps. Some damsons. Mr. Darcy favoured brandied damsons.

  These alternative dishes were not to placate an angry husband. Nothing quite so coquettish as that. It was more medicinal. He had only just begun to devour his food again. Intuition told her his appetite was again going to need some coaxing.

  Elizabeth was certain that she had never been warned that tribulations came in pairs.

  As to why Pemberley had the misfortune to receive a visit from Lady Catherine de Bourgh directly upon the heels of Wickham’s unceremonious departure was an outright bafflement.

  For it was only a few days more than a week later when Elizabeth’s rewarding afternoon amidst the conservatory directing the repotting of a particularly healthy growth of aspidistra came to a disharmonious end.

  She heard the rattle of a coach. Expecting more felicitous company, she discarded her gardening smock and made a dash back to the house to see to her hair.

  She flinched involuntarily at the sight of Lady Catherine’s chaise and four at leisure in the courtyard. Because Lady Catherine had not once visited Pemberley (nor stepped one tasselled toe into the county of Derbyshire) since their wedding, Elizabeth presumed the good lady’s presence was not of simple sociable congeniality.

  Whatever her reason for being there, Elizabeth was happy it would fall to Darcy to deal with her.

  Howbeit she knew him about the property, he was not coming to the house directly. Yet, Elizabeth avoided the lobby by way of the postern stairs, uncertain she could muster enough civility to greet such a disagreeable visitor. Her attempt to camouflage her entrance was foiled (with her escape so imminent, she had one hand poised upon the stair rail) by a servant anxiously beckoning her.

  “Lady Catherine de Bourgh here to see you, madam.”

  Elizabeth made a mental stamp of her foot at her stymied bolt for freedom, but could not fault the servants if they dared not reply negatively to Lady Catherine. It was poor luck and added bother that Pemberley had ridded itself of a pest only to be sent a plague.

  Much to her surprise, Elizabeth learnt that Lady Catherine had come, indeed, not to seek audience with her nephew, but with her nephew’s wife. Elizabeth entered the lobby with no undue reluctance and curtsied politely. Thereupon, she led her into the increasingly infringed-upon drawing room. Lady Catherine did not acknowledge her curtsy with so much as a nod and somehow managed to find her way into the room ahead of her hostess.

  “You honour us with your visit, Lady Catherine. I hope you and Lady Anne are well. Is she with you?” (It was a fair question. Sometimes that young lady’s sickly chest demanded she wait in the carriage.)

  Waving away her enquiry with her walking stick, Lady Catherine seated herself with fatuous regality. As that lady arranged her considerable…self upon her chair, Elizabeth allowed herself an involuntary roll of her eyes. Expeditiously, she found a seat a respectable, if distant, ways from her. Thereupon, she sat in determined silence, hands folded primly in her lap. If that mimicked her demeanour with Wickham, she did not recollect it.

  With an arch of one eyebrow, Lady Catherine announced, “You, of course, know why I am here.”

  “No, I cannot account for your visit,” was the honest reply.

  Before that disavowal left her lips, Lady Catherine initiated her assault.

  “I cannot undo the most unfortunate marriage my nephew has made, but it is my duty to make certain there is no room for misunderstanding. It is because of your impecunious birthright that the name of Darcy will be stricken from these halls into perpetuity.”

  She paused, but as Elizabeth sat in open-mouthed astonishment, she continued, “Darcy is an only son. He must have a son to carry the name. It has been five years since you worked your wiles upon him. Five years you have denied an heir to Pemberley. Twice you have failed. I knew no good would come from his alliance with such an inferior and I have been proven true. For God has sought penance from you by denying you a son.”

  Elizabeth was astounded by her pronouncement. Not because the woman accused her of tarnishing the halls of Pemberley because of the Bennet’s middling familial connexions. That insult had been hurled more times than Lucifer’s dinner. Nor was she astonished to hear Lady Catherine admit to finally accepting the fact of their marriage (albeit that was a considerable surprise). But she was very much interested in knowing how the Lady of Rosings Park had come to have intimate information about the workings of her reproductive organs.

  The stillbirth was public knowledge, but no one knew of her miscarriage, not even Jane.

  “Yes, yes,” Elizabeth said impatiently. “Sullied the halls of Pemberley, worked my wiles, inferior of birth…a sorry tune that has been played many a time. But I dare say I am all astonishment to learn th
at God Above seeks personal vengeance upon behalf of even so illustrious a person as yourself, Lady Catherine.”

  “Impertinent young woman! I am not accustomed to such disrespect!”

  “Nor am I. If you have only come here to wound our misfortune, Lady Catherine, you must be advised your visit is not welcome.”

  Elizabeth stood. But Lady Catherine did not. She snorted a laugh so mocking, Elizabeth understood her tirade had not yet subsided.

  “Our misfortune you say? Our misfortune? Indeed! ’Tis no fault of my nephew!”

  She stood and raised a fist at her announcement. Elizabeth might have been more intimidated by the gesticulation had not Lady Catherine inadvertently mimicked a familiar depiction of Moses Upon Mount Sinai by de Vos the Elder which adorned the Book of Genesis in her Bible. She strove to concentrate upon the matter at hand. But, because, save for the tendrils, she realised Lady Catherine was, indeed, indistinguishable from Moses, it was difficult to do so.

  Unwitting that her niece’s thoughts had wandered from her diatribe to her earlocks, Lady Catherine continued, “I have learnt that Darcy is father to a son. A babe born this year! My nephew’s loins have not failed him. You are the barren party! Was it not for your shrivelled womb Darcy would have several legitimate sons by now and Pemberley would be assured of its lineage.”

  That regained Elizabeth’s attention forthwith.

  The sheer heartlessness of the censure and the severity of the slander that spewed forth from Lady Catherine was reprehensible (the gravity of which was mitigated ever so briefly when Elizabeth realised the woman had, rather indelicately, referred to Darcy’s loins). Quickly though, any reaction other than outrage evaporated and Elizabeth’s indignation exploded.

  “My husband has no such son! He shall be here directly. Should you favour repeating your accusation to him? I think not! No doubt he would cast you body and bonnet from his home!”

  Elizabeth knew her countenance betrayed her astonishment, thus allowing Lady Catherine to believe she had found her trump card. Hence, the lady lowered her voice to a harsh whisper.

  “I see you are unawares your husband has not been faithful to your bed. Of course, he would not speak of it to you. It would not be something of which a gentleman would speak. He has forsaken your fallowness for a more fertile womb.”

  Elizabeth’s mouth opened to speak, but Lady Catherine cut her off.

  “I speak no mendacity! It is common knowledge! I have my spies. This nurseling was born before Candlemas right under your nose. That male-child is proof that it is you who has deprived Pemberley of an heir, not my nephew!”

  If Lady Catherine had been a cat, she would have licked her own nose.

  Veritably shaking with anger, Elizabeth endeavoured to calm herself and said, “You shall importune this house no longer. You must take your leave. I shall watch you quit this house, and thereupon I shall think of you no more.”

  “No more denials? You are not so certain of my nephew’s devotion as you profess. I do not intend to visit these halls again. In time, my nephew shall know the righteousness of my position and see you for what you are, undescended in rank and inferior of birth.”

  The lady started out but paused in the doorway to remind Elizabeth, “When I first learnt of your ambition to marry my nephew, I told you I was most seriously displeased. You can believe it of me now.”

  She turned and without further comment repaired to her carriage.

  In trembling, righteous indignation, Elizabeth shook her head in new appreciation of Lady Catherine’s considerable crust. She began to pace the floor with quick angry steps anticipating Darcy’s imminent return.

  Silently, she replayed Lady Catherine’s invectives in preparation for repeating them verbatim to him. Upon hearing an explicit account of his aunt’s visit, his own wrath would bring vindication. And however Elizabeth might deny it, she needed his exoneration. Lady Catherine’s words stung her more than she could ever admit even to herself.

  Barren. She despised Lady Catherine speaking of her womb, fallow or otherwise (or for that matter, Darcy’s loins), but the word “barren” was painful. For that was the fear that haunted her.

  Repetition of the accusation against Darcy echoed annoyingly in her head. It brought her disquiet. Initially it was not under even the briefest of consideration as to whether Lady Catherine’s allegation was true or not. Of course, it was a falsehood. However, vindictive as she was, Lady Catherine was never known to bluff.

  Her design may have been to inflict injury, but she must truly believe herself privy to an infidelity by Darcy to say it. Intrigues and liaisons abounded even in the country. Was some rumour about? But everyone knew Darcy despised men who dishonoured their wives. Did they not?

  However, she did not understand just how Lady Catherine might profit in telling her such a lie, or for that matter, such a truth. The answer was the same for both. Nothing. The only possible thing she could glean was grief. For Lady Catherine that alone might be motive enough to send her upon a trip across three counties.

  Scheming shrew! No, she refused to allow herself to be drawn in by Lady Catherine’s ploy. She refused to be baited. Her trust in her husband was implicit. Questioning his fidelity would play right into the evil provocateur’s scheme. Indeed, when she uncorked Lady Catherine’s temper by marrying Darcy, she had loosed a serpent. The more she thought of it, the more irate she became and angry tears welled up in her eyes.

  Which made her even more irate, for she hated that she cried when she was angry.

  Seated in the library, Fitzwilliam had, unbeknownst to Elizabeth, been waiting for Darcy to return for the better part of an hour when he heard the unmistakable skirl of his aunt’s voice.

  Having no more inclination than the average person to bask in the glow of his aunt’s trying company, he tarried, feigning great attention to a very boring book. Once Darcy’s hitherto grey funk had lifted, Fitzwilliam had once again become a fixture about Pemberley. Howbeit unspoken, his attendance bespoke a return to the norm. The reclamation of Darcy’s hearing did not alleviate his solitary treks, but it was accompanied by better humour and appetite. Of this, all were roundly relieved. Darcy’s disturbances bid house-wide disruption. Fitzwilliam could not bear to witness Elizabeth’s distress, regardless whence it came.

  However, during these abundant visits it had not been betrayed once, in word or action, the yearning he suffered for his cousin’s wife.

  Under Fitzwilliam’s stern regulation (a family trait, it would seem), it simmered quietly beneath the confines of his heart. Only upon the occasional witnessing of some covert touch or look betwixt Darcy and Elizabeth did it begin to seethe. Because of this, he chose to frequent Pemberley only as a sort of test, as if to prove to himself he was stalwart enough to do it. This reasoning, of course, allowed him to gaze upon Elizabeth and avoid further introspection. For had he examined himself more closely, even he would have had to admit he had entered into a pattern of self-torture.

  It might have been easier to eschew Derbyshire compleatly. There was ample opportunity to find the company of other ladies had he stayed in London. Whatever he was of a mind, be it circumspect courtship or a little helmet polishing south of Bond, town was thick with ladies, by turn virtuous or of accommodating morals.

  Marriage should have been a temptation for Fitzwilliam. Although he was but a second son, his family was illustrious. Therefore, he was considered an exceedingly desirable match for a lady who had her own fortune but sought prestige. His chief reluctance in taking a bride was the eternal vexation that she would not be Elizabeth. For that lady and no other had the beauty, vivacity, and wit that he believed was the absolute perfection of womanhood. Elizabeth had not only withstood near ravishment and bandits, she was the only lady who hitherto had dared to stand up to his exceedingly intimidating aunt. It was unconscionable to take a wife when his mind had seized upon another.

  Elizabeth’s bravery in the face of his aunt was that of legend. Even Darcy simply avoi
ded Lady Catherine when he could. Perchance as then. His aunt’s intonation was of a sort that carried. When she was in ill-humour (which was not infrequently), it was even more distinct. Hence, if he could not make out all of what she said, he could certainly hear the contempt in her voice from down the passage-way. Unsure as to just whom she spoke so uncivilly, curiosity got the best of him and he entered the corridor just in time to see her as she stormed out. From the doorway, he realised upon whom Lady Catherine’s considerable truculence was directed. Albeit she was turned away, it was unmistakably Elizabeth who appeared to be standing alone in the drawing room. Fitzwilliam saw her knees begin to buckle and made a mad dash for her. She righted herself before he got farther than the doorway.

  From thence, Fitzwilliam gazed upon the woman he had loved from afar. Courageous Elizabeth. Weathering a vicious assault from the dowager supreme of Kent, she was in desperate need of comfort then. No other decision could be made. He went to her.

  Hearing someone else enter the room, Elizabeth turned toward the door. The subtle expression of disappointment she birthed gave him a twinge, for it told Fitzwilliam she expected Darcy. Tears had just begun the trip down her face. When she caught sight of him, she immediately turned her face away and blotted her cheeks with the back of her hand, feigning composure. For Fitzwilliam, her tears invoked the agonising recollection of her abduction. The abduction for which he carried guilt yet. And his self-reproach had ebbed not at all. But that horror was in the past; the distress Elizabeth suffered then was immediate.

  He crossed the room, “Pray, is there anything I can do?”

  Her face turned from him, she shook her head. He reached out and took her trembling elbow, turning her to face him.

  “I shall never forgive my aunt.”

  She opened her mouth to respond but began to cry instead, stamping her foot in frustration.

  “It is absurd to be in such disorder at Lady Catherine’s hand,” she said. “She is an irredeemable shrew.”