Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife

by Linda Berdoll

  When her brother married Elizabeth Bennet, she was delighted at last to have a sister. Delighted despite the whispers that the Bennet family had questionable connexions.

  Even if her umbrageous aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, had suffered a rather vociferous conniption (one that was but partially vented by throwing both shoes and an empty pint of Geneva at the parlour-maid) over the match, to Georgiana, her brother and his opinions were infallible. Above and beyond that, Elizabeth’s obvious adoration of Darcy was reason enough to inflate Georgiana’s esteem of her to the seraphic.

  The saucy banter and relentless bedevilment Elizabeth inflicted upon the exceedingly formidable Mr. Darcy were initially quite alarming to Georgiana. But witnessing him weather his wife’s liberties with superb humour demanded she re-examine her previous understanding of his sensibilities.

  Indeed, Elizabeth’s lack of prepossession about all things Darcy called into question all that Georgiana had spent a lifetime accepting as incontrovertible.

  Accomplishing the considerable feat of embracing neither condescension nor hyperbole, Elizabeth assured the shy Georgiana that she needed but to be amongst company more to feel comfortable in it.

  “Once there, you must suffer with good grace all the attention and flattery you shall receive as one of England’s true beauties.”

  It was the approbation of a lifetime. Not because Georgiana was naïve enough to believe it true. That someone she admired gave such sentiments with all due sincerity was compliment enough.

  Even holding her with substantially warm regard, Georgiana spoke but once to Elizabeth of her disastrous near-elopement with George Wickham. And then, it was quite obliquely. It was upon the occasion of Lydia’s name coming up in conversation.

  “Do you know Major Wickham well, Elizabeth?”

  Knowing it a captious subject, Georgiana brought it up at some risk. In her quiet way, she managed to learn just who was in and out of favour at any particular time with any particular member of the household. Therefore, she was not unwitting that Elizabeth was irate yet over Wickham’s seducement of Lydia. (Georgiana did not know, however, that Elizabeth was uncertain that she could candidly assess that man’s character without using the word cur.) However, it lay quite undetermined to Georgiana whether Darcy had confided his sister’s near-defilement to his wife.

  Hence, such a simple question incited no little angst. As much as Elizabeth yearned to reassure Georgiana that she was hardly the singular young woman deceived by Wickham’s charm, she could not quite bring herself outright to vituperate the reputation of her sister’s husband (however deserved). Therefore, when she waded into the treacherous waters of character analysis of a member of her family, she said the single thing that came to mind that was neither compleatly condemnatory nor untrue.

  “Mr. Wickham’s keenest virtue seems to be an absolute dedication to his looking-glass.”

  A smile had tempted the corners of Georgiana’s mouth upon hearing Elizabeth’s analysis. It was the first time Georgiana had been able to find any humour at all in any part of her humiliation. She had not lost her virginity, but the debacle left her innocence considerably fissured.

  Whilst falling victim to Wickham’s foul scheme was disastrous to her self-esteem, this violation of the heart was not left uninspected. It provoked a creative eruption within her of volcanic proportions. She wrote of it with passion and fervour, scribbling furiously in her journal. Time allowed these renderings to evolve into verse. And of them, Georgiana was as penurious as a bean counter with the Exchequer. Not only did she not leave them lying about, when they were not in her hand they were locked in the false bottom of the midmost drawer of her escritoire. And if Georgiana was bechanced whilst working upon some sonnet, she took to stuffing the papers beneath her chair cushion, it was difficult for the family not to suspect she was involved in some enterprise that she chose not to share.

  Hence, it was a surprise when one day she did just that.

  “Elizabeth,” she said, thrusting forth several folded pages, “I have a composition that would benefit from your opinion.”

  Literary critique was hardly her long suit, and Elizabeth said so. Georgiana persisted.

  “I value your judgement.”

  Elizabeth perched the pages upon her knees and carefully read each one. Thereupon, she reread them. With great solemnity, she arranged them in order and folded her hands atop them.

  She looked directly at Georgiana and announced, “I have never read anything quite so touching in my life.”

  Georgiana beamed.

  “You must share these, Georgiana.”

  “That I could not. It took all the courage I possess to show you.”

  “Any ambition to publish I shall pursue on your behalf.”

  A conspiracy commenced. In entering into this plot, Elizabeth exhibited substantial daring herself. There was no possibility that Darcy should look upon such an endeavour other than with extreme disfavour. They attempted to mitigate their offence by submitting Georgiana’s work to the Poetic Registry publication. It was not considered a proper occupation for a woman to write novels, but Elizabeth intended to put forth the argument to her husband that society considered poetry less a transgression.

  She practised her entreaties. There were women of consequence in the literary world (Fanny Burney, Lady Montague). But even as she plotted her debate, she did as Georgiana bid and did not yet tell Darcy their plan. She would delay that intimidating duty until the poetry was accepted. No good ever came from borrowing future bother.

  Far more promptly than either expected, Georgiana received a post from the -publisher accepting her verses. It would be necessary to meet with the publisher’s representatives, sign papers, accept payment, et cetera. Georgiana’s initial position was to believe a colossal error had been committed.

  She insisted, “Certainly they have mistaken another’s work for mine. They could not possibly have accepted what I sent them.”

  Convincing Georgiana that her work had indeed been accepted took no little persuasion. Once that was finally accomplished, Elizabeth was elected to the office of intermediary betwixt the poetess and her brother.

  With the publisher’s letter in hand, she went on an intrepid search for the soon-to-be beseeched Darcy. Placing the missive before him, she silently allowed his own eyes to be the messenger of the news. Which had been an excellent tactic, for his indignation thus was directed toward the publishing house and not his wife. At least there was no displeasure bestowed upon her until he heard Elizabeth say she had encouraged and aided Georgiana in her literary aspirations. Emboldened, she told him not just that, but that she favoured publication as well.

  Elizabeth addressed the issue of Georgiana’s station negating any need of an occupation with the argument upon behalf of her self-confidence. Any pecuniary advantage was to be put in the poor box at church. Therefore, the single remaining issue was of propriety. A large issue.

  He stated flatly, “It is inappropriate for a gentlewoman to present herself as a public person.”

  Elizabeth’s preparation paid her well, for she countered, “Fanny Burney is a novelist. Lady Montague, a Shakespearean critic. Both are gentlewomen and have kept their reputations intact.”

  “Lady Montague, indeed,” he scoffed. “A lady should not even read Shakespeare.”

  “You should hear yourself.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “You, sir, read Shakespearean sonnets to me. Is your own wife thought by you as not a lady?”

  He stood looking at her for a full minute, apparently finding no method of extrication from the noose he had fashioned himself.

  As there were no words that could expose his irrational protection of his sister more clearly than his own, Elizabeth chose to remain silent. Defeated, he sat heavily in his chair and glumly put his chin in his hand.

  Taking pity upon him, Elizabeth selected a leather bound volume from the side table and sat herself upon his lap. She opened the book
midmost, moistened the tip of her middle finger, and with a dramatic flourish, turned several pages.

  “Show me,” she inveigled with a tickling whisper against his ear, “just what parts of Shakespeare a lady is not to read.”

  For a man who suffered defeat but rarely, Darcy decided that it was considerably less abhorrent to lose when the conqueror was his wife.

  *

  The invitation from the publisher occasioned the trip much more favourably anticipated by Georgiana, thus, they were quite a merry group when they set off for London. (In truth, Georgiana and Elizabeth were merry; Darcy merely reflected their good humour.) The coaches were laden with manservant, lady-maids, footmen, jewel cases, and trunks. It was thus the family Darcy departed to London for “The Season.”

  34

  The season commenced with Parliament, and Parliament did not commence until after the frost was out of the ground. Only when they could burrow did vixens begin to breed, thereupon releasing the lords from the rigor of the hunt. Every year, government was in wait until vermin sought reproduction.

  Gentlepeople returned to London with the opening of Parliament. However, the true season did not begin until after Easter. Fair weather thenceforward begat a stream of bounteous coaches trailing in from the countryside. It was thereupon that the opera opened its most impressive productions, the theatre its most anticipated plays. Soirées were graced and supper parties attended. And ball after ball after ball lay waste to more than one pair of slippers.

  Owing to their prominence in the first circles, duty demanded that the Darcys make appearances upon these occasions with far greater frequency than practicality might have instructed. Never was duty shirked. Georgiana had been nurtured at the breast of family commitment; Elizabeth was still a novice. Unexamined as he kept his feelings, however, neither was compleatly aware of how very repugnant the entire process was to Mr. Darcy.

  Eager as he was for Georgiana to be out, however, Darcy that year did brave the incumbent pomp more readily. His sister in society and Elizabeth gracing his arm was a duality of pleasure. Moreover, as he was no longer in want of a wife, he was relieved of the discomfiting necessity of deflecting the attentions of young ladies anxious to acquaint themselves with his wealth. An additional gratification would occur at court. For as part of her coming out, Georgiana was to be presented to the king, and by reason of her marriage to Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth was to meet him as well.

  Mrs. Darcy was a bit more apprehensive than was her husband. However happy she was about Georgiana’s formal introduction to the peerage, it betokened her inauguration as hostess to the aristocracy with far greater urgency. They could not entertain with casual affairs using past guest lists. Every family of their station was to be canvassed quite mercilessly to ferret out marriageable young men. Families inhabited by such prospects were to be invited regardless of traits of ill-character and uncongeniality infecting their ranks.

  The “marriage market” was hardly unknown to Elizabeth. Marrying well was paramount at all levels of society. However important it was in Meryton for her mother to marry off her daughters to men of income, in drawing rooms in the West End of London, it was a matter of no less importance than (and in many ways comparable to) Parliament enacting a declaration of war.

  An additional anxiety was the sheer volume of curious looks Elizabeth was certain she would incite upon entering every room as Mr. Darcy’s wife. Unswerving attention would be paid to her dress, her coiffure, her every word. All would be monitored and discussed, and with no particular generosity. She believed she could weather the sniping, but it would be disconcerting to be the cause of such an uproar.

  As her resolve often solidified in the face of intimidation, Elizabeth eventually chose a contrary course. She would not cower in embarrassment upon the arm of her handsome husband. She intended to enter every ball, opera, or drawing room with one single intention: to draw as many eyes, excite as many whispers, and disturb as many people as she could. And try not to trip.

  They arrived mid-afternoon, mid-week.

  It had been long past evenfall when she and Darcy had first arrived in London after their wedding. Thus, as they entered his townhouse that spring, Elizabeth gazed upon its majestic facade with unadulterated awe. Once indoors, she had little time to look about. For they had little more than kicked off their shoes before thither came a maid bearing a tray overflowing with cards. Elizabeth was interested in but one.

  Her experiment amongst the gossipmongers must wait at least a day, for Bingley and Jane were already in London. Their inaugural engagement would be supper with the Bingleys. This, quite naturally, was of considerable relief for an anxious societal neophyte.

  However highly Bingley esteemed the Gardiners and their company, Cheapside was not a hotbed of frivolity. With only the company of the Hursts and Miss Bingley at home (who were carted from residence to residence much like three extra trunks), the Bingleys had been languishing restlessly in town for more than a month.

  At least Charles Bingley was restless. For Bingley was the bellwether of any forecasted festivity and he dearly loved the social season. Not for rank—beatific Bingley could find pleasure within any social strata. He loved bobbery of any nature; hence, he was quite impatient for the Darcys to arrive. Upon their greeting, he literally wrung Darcy’s arm.

  “Now that you are here, my friend, things shall surely quicken. London has been dead as deuces. The horses will not run for another fortnight and Jane and I have been reduced to attending readings to have any pastime at all!”

  Letters were a poor substitute for actual conversation, limited in their ability to convey the nuance of any specific bit of information, hence, supper was a bit of a bobbery itself. For a short interval it sounded as if all talked at once before conversation settled into a low murmur.

  So deeply did they sally into the exchange of news, it is not surprising that Elizabeth’s recent portrait sitting was addressed, for she had written of it to Jane. These details were savoured more assiduously than their meal (for Bingley’s cook came with the house).

  Modesty did not permit Elizabeth to tell Jane in company of how Morland begged to exhibit the painting at the Royal Academy—nor would it keep her from sharing that little morsel once they were alone. Jane would find more pleasure in that honour than did Elizabeth.

  Georgiana took everyone unawares by announcing it herself. So eloquently did she speak of the work, her pride in the honour overrode Elizabeth’s repeated self—effacement. Even Darcy sat basking in the happy glow of contentment, glad Georgiana had relieved him of the duty to crow.

  Proving the bonhomous rivalry he and Darcy had always enjoyed was not abandoned, Bingley announced to the table that Jane was to sit for her own portrait. Attention thus turned from Elizabeth’s compleated portrait to Jane’s upcoming one, and, his mission accomplished, Bingley sat with a satisfied smile. Jane took the coaxed congratulations graciously.

  Not yet satisfied he had stolen all the available thunder, Charles added, “Ours shall be taken together.”

  Inevitable as the rain (and bidding similar consternation), Bingley’s sisters attended their table. When their brother made his addendum, both sisters visibly cringed. They knew that he had just announced their lack of aristocratic ancestry. All young men of illustrious heritage had their portraits hung in the ancestral home by the time they reached majority. As their own fortune had been made only as recently as his father and by West Indies trade, at that juncture, they had yet to form an estate. Had Bingley not embarked upon that search, he would not have let Netherfield Park, danced at Meryton, nor married sweet Jane Bennet. Of this the Bingley sisters thought little, preferring not to dwell upon the mean turns life took.

  No one else at the table made note of Bingley’s lack of his own likeness, certainly not Elizabeth. She was pleased at the notion of a portrait of Mr. and Mrs. Bingley together.

  Wishes be known, she would have preferred hers had been taken with her own husband. However, all of the ot
her subjects in the Pemberley gallery were presented alone, or in large family groupings. Thus, there was a tradition. Through the glow of the candles, she gazed at her husband sitting across the table.

  “One day, when our children have been born,” she thought as she looked upon him, “I shall suggest our own family portrait.”

  She envisioned a canvas containing both their countenances. A gaggle of children with dark hair and the Darcy eyes would surround them, a kennel of dogs lying at their feet. It would be a lovely picture and the vision was a consolation.

  That she had thought of children during the supper, Elizabeth believed was serendipitous. For beautiful, gracious Jane was even more radiant than usual that evening. She did hope that her sister’s glow was due to the delight of Bingley’s more educated attentions, and pondered if her own countenance betrayed a similar luminosity.

  Just moments after leaving the table, Jane urgently drew Elizabeth aside and, sotto voce, revealed that her sister’s suspicion was, indeed, correct. Jane’s glow was from Bingley’s ministrations, not necessarily from the delight, but the result. She and Bingley (motility of deposit having overcome the obstacle of ineptitude of delivery) were expecting a child by late fall.

  In rapt attention did Bingley watch his wife and her sister, much aware that Jane would tell Elizabeth the news forthwith. His was anticipation rewarded, for forthwith of Jane and Elizabeth’s heads in brief conference, Elizabeth turned, caught her husband’s arm and whispered to him. If Darcy was taken unawares by this confidence, only one quite familiar with the shades of that man’s inscrutability would have detected it in the expression of happiness that softened his countenance ever so subtly.

  As the others took their chairs, Darcy stood. With all the dignity and none of the vapidity expected upon such a singular occasion, he held his glass before him and led a toast to the happy couple. Bingley’s face flushed with joy, happy at last to have finally begotten a first to Darcy in something.