Both sat there for some time, until Darcy perceived Elizabeth’s fatigue and insisted she return to her own bed. He, however, kept watch upon Mrs. Reynolds throughout the day, reporting her deteriorating condition to Elizabeth. It was late evening when the old woman truly began to fail. Again, he drew a chair to her bedside, this time reaching out to hold her knotted, spotted fingers as she endeavoured to speak.
“Take care, Mr. Darcy.”
He assured her he would, and, expecting that was a good-bye, attempted to blink away the tears that stung his eyes. He thought it strange that in all that he had witnessed, death moved him not less, but more. All her qualms were not settled, however. She said a queer thing.
“But what of Wickham?”
Wickham? The last words upon her lips were of Wickham? That was an astonishment. Darcy could not fathom it, for Mrs. Reynolds despised Wickham nearly as dearly as did he. Endeavouring to reason such a blasphemy, he conjectured her wits had fled her waning body. She, however, looked so clearly in wait of an answer, he truly did not know what to say. Thus, he did not speak and merely waited for her possibly to reclaim her senses.
She spoke once more, but only the single word. “Wickham.”
It took him a moment to realise she was gone, for her eyes, yet in enquiry, stared at him. Reaching out to close them, he called for the doctor to pronounce what he already knew was true. The room soon filled with weeping house servants, several covering their sobbing faces with their aprons. Reluctantly, Darcy left to tell Elizabeth of her passing. As he ascended the stairs his steps slowed, then came to a halt. A coldness descended upon him that was not reflected in the clamminess that claimed his armpits. He stood very still, as if frozen in place.
Wickham.
That despised name reverberated in his enfeebled ears. Again, he questioned himself as to why Mrs. Reynolds would inquire of Wickham upon her deathbed. For the first time since he had first heard and thereupon, in disgust, cast it away, he recollected what Roux had said about his father having a bastard child.
Wickham?
Not Wickham. Even if such abomination were true, he meant not Wickham…that simply could not be possible. Wickham was the son of old Mr. Wickham, Mr. Darcy’s steward. He lived in the house with them after Mr. Wickham died because…his father was fond of him. Keenly fond of him, to have him live with his own son. In the upper floors of Pemberley.
Darcy took another few steps and stopped once again. Thereupon, he turned and went to his library. It was late in the day, but light had not quite quit for night. He looked out upon the long shadows across the grounds and thought. He thought of everything he could remember spoken of Wickham’s circumstance at their home. Would not his father have told him had he a brother? He could not answer uneviquivocally. For howbeit his father had always been keenly aware of and suffered not gladly the foibles of men, he had remained true to the unscrupulous George Wickham regardless. Was that from a sense of contrition?
It should not have been a surprise to Darcy that his thoughts turned to John Christie. He queried himself relentlessly as to what he would have done had he continued to believe that John was his own bastard son. If he were truly honest with himself in his inspection, he would have to acknowledge that, although he might unkennel that he had begat a chance-bairn to Elizabeth, it was unlikely that he would have had the courage to admit it to his sister and the world at large. There would have been small likelihood that he would have given him the name of Darcy, but he knew too that he would not simply dismiss him.
What would he have done? Taken him in to live in Pemberley? Seen to his education? Grant him a living? Most likely. Just as his father had done for Wickham.
Yes, that is exactly how he would have found compromise. Duty met, but the rules of station followed. Precisely as his father had done?
Briefly, he endeavoured to recollect a sketch of Mrs. Wickham’s face. He could not. There was no face to attach to the memory of the mother of Wickham. The mistress of his father as well?
In the hours he sat in contemplation, he allowed the possibility of shared heritage to transmute into a reality. However, Darcy could not find time to inspect his heart for room to call Wickham his brother. But if it were true and Wickham (despicable Wickham) was his brother, thereupon John was not his son, but nevertheless, blood kin. Darcy’s impetuous move to have him buried under the name of Darcy seemed suddenly serendipitous.
Filial pride was one of his keenest conceits. Among his dearest duties was never to disgrace his family or lose the influence of the Pemberley House. Elizabeth had once refused to be his wife by reason of his excessive pride of circumstance. However scrupulously he had endeavoured to prevent it, Elizabeth had suffered grievously from the necessity of producing Darcy progeny. He closed his eyes and almost snorted a laugh out loud. For Wickham may well be Darcy progeny. Wickham was issue. Was Wickham posterity? He prayed not.
After all the suffering he had witnessed and the reckoning he had dealt, once home at Pemberley with Elizabeth and their babies, he had once again fallen prey to the comforting indolence that compleat domination over one’s circumstances provides. But it had been enjoyed for far too fleeting a time. Even Georgiana’s considerable indiscretion seemed but a peccadillo upon a landscape that included Wickham as a bastard brother.
It would remain unknown if his opinion upon this matter would have been different had not Elizabeth just awarded him with an heir. As it was, he had no time to consider that, as confused as he was about every belief he had ever held dear. Darcy had always cherished his parents’ marriage an inviolate ideal, and honoured his father above all men. Were things not as they seemed? Understanding that it all might take a lifetime, if forgiveness was demanded, he hoped he would one day be able to determine for whom it should be asked.
Not for a moment did Darcy consider Wickham to know of his connexion, for even he would not seduce his own sister. Too, had Wickham any knowledge or intimation that he was son to Mr. Darcy, he would have played his blackmail card long ago. No, Wickham did not know of this.
The single bit of mirth that Darcy could manage was in contemplation that cowardly, murderous Wickham had never learnt just how close he stood to the riches for which he had so eagerly yearned.
For Darcy knew that he would not deny Wickham. He would never trust him with any part of Pemberley, but would be honour-bound to give him another living, and when that was squandered, another after that. Thinking of having to readmit Wickham to the family was abhorrent and he reminded himself that Wickham was reported dead, not deserted. Yet Darcy felt that strange sick feeling of uncertainty, which stayed with him for some time.
It was only a day after Mrs. Reynolds was laid to rest that Darcy had an unusually long and private conversation with Lady Millhouse in his study. And, in time, Darcy did what Elizabeth thought was the unthinkable. He set up a trust for Wickham’s children. He had not told Elizabeth; the information came from Lydia. Her sister’s gratitude for this act of generosity was limited. For it was seen to that Lydia would have no access to these funds. It would not be released to her children until each reached their eighteenth birthday.
“Lizzy, can you not say something to Darcy? I have only Wickham’s pension, my father’s fifty pounds, and the money you and Jane send me. I am always a bit short and could so use more.”
In answer, Elizabeth only closed her eyes, pursed her lips, and slowly shook her head.
Elizabeth did not query Darcy about this, nor inquire of him where he went upon a day-long pilgrimage soon after they had returned. As he had not offered, she did not inquire. But it came upon the heels of her compleat explanation of the circumstance of that unfortunate altercation with Lady Catherine.
Until then, Elizabeth had only remarked upon the encounter most jovially. She had implied that the entire matter fell to Lady Catherine’s assertion that Darcy was dead. Knowing he would be decidedly displeased to learn that his aunt threatened to throw his wife out of his home was he not to return, she wa
s taken unawares by his response.
“Why did you not tell her?”
“Pray, what? I told her emphatically to take her leave. What more could I have done sir, than, as I did, take aim upon the woman?”
“I would have taken great delight in knowing that you told her that she had only thought herself displeased in the past. For I thought you knew, Lizzy,” he said.
When she looked at him in obvious ignorance of his reference, he told her, “I thought you knew. Had something bechanced me, regardless whether we had children, you would receive more than the Right of Dower. Beyond just one third of the income from Pemberley land, I had my solicitor see to it that you would be mistress of Pemberley House as long as you live. Lady Catherine has no rights over you.”
“But…” she said.
“Lady Catherine has no rights over you,” he repeated firmly.
The matter was dropped, and Elizabeth was slightly miffed that, howbeit he had smiled at her description (her compleat description) of Lady Catherine’s hasty retreat from Pemberley, he did not show the indignation at that offence that she would have properly expected. As to where he went upon his excursion, had it not been for Georgiana, Elizabeth might never have learnt. Had it not been for a series of seriously amused servants, Georgiana might not have learnt it to tell her. For her brother had paid a visit to their aunt.
It was a surprise to Elizabeth, who had been sitting at her dressing table, when in ventured Georgiana. Her sister-in-law had never once come into her dressing room, hence, Elizabeth knew to belay her toilette. Georgiana did not call a greeting, but crossed the room and whispered directly into Elizabeth’s ear.
She said, “’Tis only a rumour, of course, but I understand my brother visited Lady Catherine week last.”
Elizabeth did not turn around but obtained Georgiana’s gaze in the looking-glass. She continued, “’Tis said he told her if she should bother his wife again, he would see to it (‘Make it his mission in life,’ I believe were his exact words), that she would spend the rest of her days partaking of gruel, locked in a cell at the Lyme Institute for the Indigent Insane.”
Georgiana said nothing more. Elizabeth could scarcely contain her smile until she left the room.
Hearing the distant cry of her babies, Elizabeth awakened early that day. Darcy lay asleep and was not awakened by her leaving, for it had become quite routine for her to go to them. Each day after the babies’ break-fast, she had taken to bringing them by turn into the bed whilst he was yet asleep, and laying one upon his bare stomach. She waited for him to feel the tiny squirming body and awaken. She could not imagine a grander sight than to watch her husband open his eyes and look down upon the baby. For he would then draw it up until it was under his chin and kiss it upon the top of its head. He could always determine which baby it was upon beholding the crown of each head. Gerard Geoffrey’s had a slight curl and grew in an orderly spiral. Jane Georgiana’s had no rule to it at all.
“Just like her mother,” he was wont to say.
That day she chose another course, for there was something to which she had to attend. The new mother intended to embark upon a seduction.
It was both a boon and a bother that Darcy’s return had coincided with the culmination of her laying-in. Had she not been with child, their lengthy separation would have ended with their leaping into each other’s outstretched, libidinous arms. That would have been an ecstatic moment, but its heat might not have allowed them the time they would need to adjust to the many alterations within their lives. With the babies literally betwixt them, their reunion was one that, by necessity, was not over-come by passionate longings.
But those longings simmered all the same. As trying as her still-birth had been, a timetable for re-establishing connubial congress post-delivery had not truly been affixed. Thus, the matter dangled about an absurdly long time (it did not truly dangle, for favours were dispensed and kindnesses abounded during periods of hockling about). Ultimately Elizabeth realised it fell upon her to ascertain, and thereupon announce to her husband, when her nether-regions were ready for unabridged, amorous embrace.
With this in mind, after tending the babies, she crept into her boudoir and dressed.
In time, Darcy lay half-awake, thus allowing his fragile ears to hear a skirl of a whistle. It was not a loud whistle. As it happened, it was of a puny wind, but it was a whistle. He rose and walked to door of the balcony, then over to the edge and looked down. There was Elizabeth, in a pair of his trousers, not side-saddle, but astride Boots. She was not looking at him, but at her fingers, in an effort to determine just what placement was needed for a louder whistle. She endeavoured once more with not much more luck.
Catching sight of his having spied her, she turned up her collar and called to him, “I dare you, Mr. Darcy, I dare you,” and walked beneath the balcony towing Blackjack. She saw him laugh and shake his head and return inside. That perplexed her. She wondered if he would not come to a woman in men’s pants, riding astride a horse and taunting him.
She had little time to spend on the query, for he reappeared doing a strange little hopping dance upon the balcony. Finally, he stopped hopping, put his boot against the top of the rail, and drew it hard onto his foot. Thereupon she saw he had put on his trousers and taken time only to tuck in part of his shirttail, and now booted, swung his leg over the rail as he waved her closer with Blackjack.
Climbing both feet over the wide stone rail, he sat upon the top briefly as if contemplating how to leap onto Blackjack without injury to his person. Gingerly, he dropped onto the saddle. This done, she handed him the reins.
“When you came for me, I came as I was.”
“That is well enough for you, Elizabeth, but I shall not ride this horse without my breeches,” he retorted.
At that, she suddenly kicked Boots and left Darcy and Blackjack standing. He responded immediately and she was but a half-dozen strides ahead of him, then she kicked Boots again to gain a few more.
He intended only to persuade her not to ride too aggressively so soon after giving birth. However, allowing another horse to outrun Blackjack was not in his nature, and any solicitous regard for Elizabeth’s health was swamped by the spirit of competition. He spurred Blackjack forward, yet could not overtake Boots. It had been some time since he had enjoyed a race, but if he could not overtake a nursing mother astride a mare, he thought he would be most unhappy. The chance of which prodded him to urge Blackjack over a stone fence.
She made a hard left through the gate and, by virtue of his ignorance of their destination, he had to circle Blackjack to find her direction, thus losing what little he had gained. Frustrated that she was able to get out of sight so hastily, he wished he had brought his crop. As she had hers, he believed that was an unfair advantage.
They were far south-west of the house, upon the edge of a wood, when Darcy rounded the corner and saw Boots riderless and wheezing. He came to a skidding stop, called, “Lizzy, Lizzy,” and dropped his own reins as he jumped down, turning frantically to locate her.
He could not imagine where she lay, for she was not within his sight. Then he heard that same feeble attempt at a whistle. He turned toward the sound. It came from the wood.
Seeing a figure disappearing quite fleetingly into the trees, he abandoned apprehension and reclaimed the chase. It took him little time to catch up to her once they were both on foot. Seeing he had heard her, Elizabeth ran with as much dispatch as she could in the languid grass able to find sun enough to grow betwixt the crowd of trees. He reached her just as her foot caught a sagging cuff and she fell.
Their momentum carried him down with her and they lay in laughing exhaustion a few moments, catching their breath. Thereupon Elizabeth sat up and leaned back against a tree. Darcy turned upon his side to look at her, resting his head against his hand. He lay still so long, just looking upon her, that Elizabeth became uneasy. She had successfully lured him to this spot, and wondered if she would have to be even more forward and say in w
ords what she wanted of him.
Sooner than she expected, she found her answer. He reached out, grabbed her foot, and drew her to him. He rose upon his knees, yanked his shirt off over his head, and tossed it aside.
“You never cease to astound me, Lizzy.”
“Pray, you have said you favour me coming to you.”
“Indeed, I do. That is not of what I speak.”
“Pray, what then?”
“Never once,” he reached out and grasped both legs of her breeches, “have I attended to the removal of any trousers but my own.”
“But husband,” she smiled quite fetchingly, “these are yours.”
In the next half year, the few letters Darcy had managed to hand to someone to carry from Belgium would betimes find way their to Pemberley, tattered, weathered, but intact. When the first one arrived, Elizabeth came upon it first, read it, and thereupon brought it to show him, thinking he would be amused he had found home first. When she realised it pained him to be reminded of that time, she notified the help to be certain if any more such posts arrived to bring them directly to her.
For she read and kept every one. It was through the letters that she eventually understood the peril and desperation that was endured. Darcy had forgotten that he had written to her when John died. He had forgotten that he had written of Wickham’s treachery. Possibly, it was best he had, for Elizabeth surmised it unlikely to hear it from his lips (not in defence of Wickham’s newly unsullied memory, but repugnance of speaking the name at all).
Hence, it was Elizabeth who addressed the subject, aghast at what she had read, and it gave Darcy momentum to tell her everything he had uncovered and believed. It was true. Wickham was a venal rogue who had murdered John to desert. The only uncertainty was whether he survived.
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