Elizabeth had thought him no worse than an ever-dissipating lecher, so she spent a few moments diligently excavating for some blame for herself that he was not unveiled for the venal rogue he truly was. So relentlessly did she propose herself somehow responsible for the train of events that had unfolded, that she was in danger of usurping Jane’s firmly held office of martyr.
She sat there muttering these opinions to herself and was only distracted from her guilt of omission by Darcy drawing his chair next to hers. They had shared very serious moments of crisis, and she fully understood by his expression that what she had heard might be the worst, but would not be all. And that was alarming.
There was no way to say that Wickham was possibly his miscreant half-brother than just to speak the words. So he did. When he announced it, she almost laughed—but stopped herself—so astonishing was the revelation. Even fully explained, Elizabeth (not having the opportunity of discovery) would have been doubtful of the truth of it, had it not been verified by the independent information of Darcy’s mother’s good friend, Lady Millhouse.
The uncovering of the secret of Wickham’s connexion with the family, of course, revealed the mystery behind the sadness she had sensed in Darcy’s mother’s portrait, but this was not an observation Elizabeth would have bestowed upon Darcy’s already overworked sensibilities. Nor did she tell him of the conversation she had had with her mother over her own father’s coffin. If she truly was to believe what she told her husband about accepting those they love for who they are, there was no point.
Lydia would spend a year happily glowing in widowhood, for Wickham was much improved as a dead war hero than a live philanderer. And Lydia would, eventually, give up claiming access to her sons’ fortune and marry another major in the regulars. (There was an unfortunate incident when, a widow yet, Lydia produced a daughter of uncertain paternity. “That? Well, I couldn’t help that,” was her only explanation when she was scolded for the indiscretion.)
It was doubted her new husband fathered the child, but his new wife’s easy virtue was overlooked by his own easy nature, hence, no true injury was inflicted. Lydia said that he was not quite so charming as Wickham, but he was quite dashing, and that met the only other standard Lydia set for a husband (that and a proposal). What he lost in beguiling wiles was made up for in great, if blind, devotion to his wife, which met the only standard her family hoped for him as well.
True love found Kitty by way of a vicar in Shropshire (nary a swoon came to pass during courtship, but bridesmaid Maria Lucas managed to be felled at the wedding breakfast). Mary was quite content to live a life of introspection under the unrelentingly disapproving gaze of her mother. Mrs. Bennet, however, would never tire of thanking Darcy for making arrangements with poor Charlotte and her unfortunate son for her to live out her life at Longbourn. (Her happiness at residing in Hertfordshire was exceeded only by his in that as well.)
Young Hinchcliffe was one of the Derbyshire soldiers who were left in a grave in France, forever removing from Darcy the opportunity to belittle. Young Henry Howgrave however, came home from war bemedaled and beribboned, was knighted, then elected to Parliament. It was in London that he met an exceedingly beautiful older woman and, thoroughly smitten, proposed marriage. There was talk at first that the lady of French birth was of dubious reputation, which only increased Howgrave’s margin of victory when he was elected Prime Minister.
It was somewhat scandalous that his new wife took such an avid interest in her new husband’s career and politicked for him relentlessly, awarding kisses to costermongers and butchers in exchange for their vote. When accused of relinquishing any claim to respectability by mingling with the coarse masses, Lady Juliette Howgrave merely tossed her curls. She was most happy in her elevated social status, but noted wryly to herself that, except for the currency, her situation had changed not a whit.
Never known to be the snitch to Lady Catherine, Cyril Smeads was given office as butler to Pemberley. But under the stern glare of Mr. Darcy, his guidance of the household became more outwardly circumspect. Goodwin and Hannah never actually found romance either with each other or another. Both remained quite content with continued furtive looks, rather than suffer the insult of sullied reality.
One of the lesser evils with which Darcy had to cope was an unexpected foaling by Boots. Darcy had always wanted to extend her bloodlines, but Elizabeth had not, always keeping her fastidiously in a stall when she was in season. In querying the grooms, it was understood the only horse that had been near her was Scimitar, the night before Fitzwilliam took him to France.
And, indeed, it was exactly ten months later (the precise date of Fitzwilliam’s departure was etched in the Darcys’ memory) when Boots presented without a complication. Elizabeth had insisted upon being called and, clad in coats over respective night-shirt and gown, she and Darcy went down to the stable to witness the birth. It was a beautiful young horse, all wobbly legs and stockinged feet. In want of hiding his pleasure at the sight, Darcy retook his position of opposition that the sire was Scimitar, not Blackjack. He groused about it unreasonably, and Elizabeth understood he did that in lieu of his sister’s husband.
Once Darcy accepted the inevitable, he also admitted that the single man he could find no fault in as a husband to Georgiana was Colonel Fitzwilliam. No ambitions to entailment, after a lovely (but hurried) wedding at Pemberley, they were happy to reside at Whitemore and welcome their new daughter. Georgiana continued to write and reminded Fitzwilliam often how dashing he looked with a patch over one eye.
The colonel’s leg wound did not entirely heal, but he insisted if his good leg was strong enough to lift him into a saddle, Scimitar’s son’s eyes would help him find his way.
So decidedly did he want to reach it, the crest of the knoll loomed before Wickham as precipitous as the cliffs of Dover. His horse’s breathing was laboured, but he knew only that hill stood betwixt him and escape of Armageddon, hence he dug his heels into its flanks once more. The last few strides to the top of the hill seemed to take forever, but finally his mount conquered them. At the crown, Wickham stopped and giddily looked over his shoulder in reassurance that he was, indeed, free.
The cannons below were booming yet. He could see that his company’s position was all but annihilated. A few scattered horses ran about, reins dangling precariously, skittishly trying to avoid the incoming fire. Grenades long expended, none of his men were standing, and only a few moving. Wickham stared at the sight dispassionately, turned, and kicked his horse into an easier lope down the reverse slope of the rise.
Yet in his pilfered corporal’s uniform, he slowed to rid himself of the detestable jacket. The French were taking his flank and British forces ahead. Now that survival was likely, Wickham knew if he could get behind Anglo-Prussian lines without being stopped, there was a chance for compleat freedom. Not once in his life had he made an uncalculated move. It was a point of pride. But it had stayed only in the back of his mind, was he to fake his death, he could not sell his commission, Lydia would.
At the time, it had seemed unimportant. But as he wove his way through British lines toward Belgium, he thought again of what he had to sell or barter. It took him less than a mile of rumination before a scheme fell apparent. He spurred his horse past a plumed hat resting upon a sabre driven into the ground. Picking it up on the run, he pressed it upon his head then tapped it down. A small amusement crossed his mind and forced the corners of his mouth into an unseemly smile.
He rode on.
Have you been to Waterloo?
I have been to Waterloo.
’Tis no matter what you do,
If you’ve been to Waterloo.
About the Author
Linda Berdoll is a self-described “Texas farm wife” whose interest in all things Austen was piqued by the BBC/A&E mini-series of Pride and Prejudice. Four years and much research later, her effort, Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife (originally titled The Bar Sinister) appeared, to the acclaim of readers and the hor
ror of Jane Austen purists. This is Berdoll’s first novel, but she has since published a humorous book of euphemisms. The sequel to the sequel, Darcy & Elizabeth: Nights and Days at Pemberley, is available now in stores everywhere. She and her husband live on a pecan farm in Del Valle, Texas. Although she admits that she eloped in a manner similar to Lydia Bennet’s, to her great fortune it was with Darcy, not Wickham.
Copyright © 2007 by Amanda Grange
Cover and internal design © 2007 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover photo: Portrait of Commander Hugh Clapperton (1788-1827) 1817
(oil on canvas) by Raeburn, Sir Henry (1756-1823)
© Philip Mould Ltd, London/Bridgeman Art Library
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Grange, Amanda.
[Darcy's diary]
Mr. Darcy's diary / Amanda Grange.
p. cm.
1. Darcy, Fitzwilliam (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Bennet,
Elizabeth (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 3. Diary fiction. 4.
England—Fiction. 5. Domestic fiction. I. Title.
PR6107.R35D37 2007
823'.92—dc22
2006100788
Printed and bound in the United States of America
VP 10 9 8 7
Monday 1st July
Have I done the right thing in establishing Georgiana in London, I wonder? The summer is proving to be very hot, and when I visited her this morning, I found her lacking her usual energy. I think I will send her to the coast for a holiday.
Tuesday 2nd July
I have instructed Hargreaves to look for a suitable house in Margate, or perhaps in Ramsgate, for Georgiana. I wish I could go with her, but it is proving difficult to find a new steward to replace Wickham and I cannot spare the time.
Wickham! It is strange that one name can summon up such contradictory feelings. My father’s steward was a man I admired and respected, but his son is a man I hold in contempt. I can hardly believe that George and I were friends when we were children, but George was different then.
I sometimes wonder how it is that a boy who had every advantage, who was blessed with good looks, easy manners and a good education, and who was the son of such a respectable man, could turn out so badly. When I think of the dissipation he has indulged in since his father’s death…
I am glad I have not heard of him recently. Our business dealings last year were unpleasant. When he asked me for the presentation of the living my father had intended for him, he resented my refusal to give it to him, although he knew full well that he had relinquished all claims to it, and that his character made him entirely unsuited for the church.
Fortunately, a sum of money settled the matter. I feared he would approach me again when it ran out, but I have finally convinced him that he will get no more help from me. For the sake of the friendship we once had I have given him much, but I will not help him any more. The only man who can help George Wickham now is himself.
Saturday 6th July
Hargreaves has found a house for Georgiana in Ramsgate, and Georgiana’s companion, Mrs Younge, has been to inspect it. She finds it suitable, and so I have taken it. Ramsgate is not too far away, and I will be able to join Georgiana whenever my business allows. I feel sure the sea air will revive her and she will soon be in good spirits again.
Tuesday 10th July
I had not realized how much I would miss my sister. I have grown used to calling on her every day. But she is in good hands, and I am persuaded she will enjoy herself. I dined with Bingley this evening. He is still in town, but he will be travelling north to see his family next week.
‘I think, you know, Darcy, that I shall take a house for the winter,’ he said after dinner.
‘In town?’
‘No. In the country. I have a mind to buy an estate. Caroline is always telling me I should have one, and I agree with her. I mean to rent a property first and, if I like it, I will buy it.’
‘I think it is an excellent idea. It will stop you racketing all over the country,’ I said.
‘Exactly what I think. If I had a house half as fine as Pemberley I would not always be going from one place to another. I could invite company to stay with me, instead of travelling the length and breadth of the country to find it,’ he returned.
‘Where do you mean to look?’ I asked him, as I finished my drink.
‘Somewhere in the middle of the country. Not too far north, and not too far south. Caroline recommended Derbyshire, but why should I live in Derbyshire? If I want to visit that part of the country I can stay at Pemberley with you. I have told my agent to look for something in Hertfordshire, or thereabouts. I rely on you to inspect it with me when he finds me something.’
‘If you go ahead with it, then I will be glad to.’
‘You do not think I will?’
‘I think you will change your mind as soon as you see a pretty face, whereupon you will decide to stay in London,’ I said with a smile.
‘You paint me very fickle,’ he said with a laugh. ‘I thought you were my friend!’
‘And so I am.’
‘And yet you think me capable of abandoning my plan? Upon my honour, I will not be so easily dissuaded, and nothing will stop me from taking a house in the country. You will come and visit me?’
‘Of course.’
‘And you must bring Georgiana. How is she? I have not seen her for months. I must take Caroline and visit her.’
‘She is not in London at present. I have sent her to Ramsgate for the summer.’
‘Very wise. I cannot wait to remove from town myself.’
We parted after dinner. If it was still the Season, I would not hold out much hope of him fixing on a place, whatever he protests. But as London is empty of female company, then I think he may hold true to his course – unless a young lady in the north should happen to catch his fancy, whereupon he will stay at home until Christmas!
Friday 12th July
I had a letter from Georgiana this morning. It is lively and affectionate, and I am pleased I thought of sending her to the seaside. She has arrived safely in Ramsgate and writes of her pleasure at the house:
It is small compared to my London establishment, but it is very comfortable and it has a pretty view of the sea. Mrs Younge and I are going down to the beach this afternoon as I am eager to make a sketch of the coast. I will send it to you when it is finished.
Your affectionate sister, Georgiana.
I folded her letter away and I was about to put it in my desk with the others when I happened to notice the handwriting on one of her earlier letters. I took it out so that I could compare the two. She has made a great deal of progress, both in her handwriting and in the style of her letters, over the last few years. However, I confess that I find her earlier letters charming, though the handwriting is poor and the spelling atrocious.
As I reread her earlier letter, I remembered how worried I had been that she would not be happy at the seminary, but I need not have been concerned. She liked her teachers, and made a number of good friends there. I will have to suggest that she invite one of them to stay with her in London over the autumn. If I am to help Bingl
ey find his estate, then a friend will provide some company for Georgiana whilst I am away.
Tuesday 16th July
I rode in the park with Colonel Fitzwilliam this morning. He told me that he had been to Rosings and seen Lady Catherine, and that she had appointed a new rector. For a moment I feared it might be George Wickham, knowing that if he had heard of a wealthy living at Rosings he might have tried to ingratiate himself with my aunt.
‘What is the rector’s name?’ I asked.
‘Collins.’
I breathed again.
‘A heavy young man with the most extraordinary manner,’ went on Colonel Fitzwilliam. ‘A mixture of servility and conceit. He bobs about praising everything and anything. He talks endlessly but says nothing. He has no opinions of his own, except an idea of his own importance, which is as ludicrous as it is unshakeable. My aunt likes him well enough, however. He performs his duties well and he is useful to her for making up a table at cards.’
‘Is he married?’
‘I believe it will not be long before he takes a wife.’
‘He is betrothed, then?’
‘No, but my aunt finds it tedious at Rosings with so few people to entertain her, and I believe she will soon tell him he must marry. A new bride will make a diversion for her, and then she will have someone to…help,’ he said with a wry smile.
‘She likes to be of service,’ I remarked, returning his look.
‘And she is so fortunately placed that other people have little choice but to thank her for her advice,’ he added.
We have both had a great deal of advice from Lady Catherine. Most of it has been very good, but all the same I have often been relieved that Rosings is not in Derbyshire, but that it is far away in Kent.
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