She had never quite resigned herself to his unforthcoming nature, no matter how conscientiously he practised it. Hannah believed him perhaps uncertain in the company of a woman, possibly reticent and shy. As it happened, she even harboured the notion that Goodwin was truly of the same temperament as his employer. Hannah was well aware that Mr. Darcy was considered proud and aloof. Hannah, however, knew too (rather than only guessed, as did the rest of the servants) that Mr. and Mrs. Darcy had an exceedingly passionate marriage. It followed (at least to Hannah’s supposition) that Goodwin’s still waters ran as deep as did Mr. Darcy’s.
As she watched him move about his duties, she often thought of that and could not help but admire his small hands and the fine hair upon them she could see just below his ruffled knuckledabs. It did not trouble her mind to wonder why, as such a big girl, she was attracted to such a meagre little mite of a man.
Passion aside, their respective positions denied them (had Goodwin been inclined) any kind of romantic involvement. The office of lady-maid and manservant were occupied only by unmarried persons. Hannah was not so certain of Goodwin’s possible intrigue as a paramour to risk her employment. (There was far greater pleasure from imagining Goodwin ripping his shirt from his body and drawing her and her heaving bosom to his chest than to learn belatedly that he had not the strength nor the chest to do either.)
Thus roundly unrequited in romance and much in admiration of it, Hannah was probably far more susceptible to flattery than another might have been.
When Cyril Smeads did the unlikely by complimenting her disposition, she ignored previous warnings she had received in regard to liberties he had taken with the London maids. (And if she disregarded those warnings, she hoped no one noticed the spontaneity with which he was rendered from demonic to celestial to her through the very mildest of flattery.) She had noticed that one of Cyril Smeads’s more reliable traits (aside from rather impressive temper fits) was an uncanny ability to locate the most vulnerable of feminine opportunity. She did not consider herself particularly vulnerable, but could assign herself thus if it served her greater good. Hannah decided that if Goodwin happened to see her giggling at one of Cyril Smeads jokes and did not approve, that was just very unfortunate.
*
Goodwin noticed Smeads’s guile toward Hannah more sharply than did others. He took notice too of Hannah’s giggling. He protested not, however, abhorring the possibility of divulging more interest than provident. Normally he might have discussed such unseemliness with Mrs. Reynolds, but in this specific instance he knew his own influence with the Pemberley housekeeper had not the weight of the London houseman. Thus, as cousin to her son, he kept his silence and watched in trepidation as Hannah was enticed his by wiles, her allurements to him suddenly more pronounced in light of another’s interest.
Hence, flirtations became more vested and tensions a little greater when Cyril Smeads was in visit. Hannah was the not-unknowing pawn in a subtle game of influence. Into this delicate but intricate web of flirtation came the unseemly intrusion of adultery and deceit.
Indeed, if the origin of this infidelity and deception was a little muddled, it was fathomable. For Elizabeth Darcy often became so entwined in problems within her family, she did not remember that their private lives were not all that confidential. Hannah was trusted implicitly. Goodwin as well. But when she went upon her rides seeking to determine of her husband’s fidelity, it was not in the privacy she thought. The Darcy household was centre-stage of the entire county. When one of their household made any visit or spoke any comment, it was noted. It was noted widely. When Mrs. Darcy’s routine of visiting the ailing altered, it was scrutinised. The cessation of these visits was scrutinised more profoundly than whence they had commenced. Because she had finally become accustomed to the intrusion of servants and they with her disinclination of assistance, she thought herself unobserved.
She was not. Nor was she mindful that she was generally admired amongst the population, as much for her unassuming manner and good deeds as the fairness of her face. But that admiration did not belay whispers about her activities, it merely incited more curiosity by the public. Darcy, having been born into his position, had a greater appreciation of the interest he held. He even knew that he was thought a rather unfriendly, proud man. Knowing that there were far more dishonourable appellations bestowed upon men of his station by the populace, he accepted that pronouncement as not untrue and was happy to be known also as a man of his word.
Darcy had no interest in his reputation beyond the concern that his name not be brought to ridicule. Having not had the same upbringing, it was impossible for Elizabeth to think of herself in the third person. If she thought of her persona, she knew herself to be who she had always been, she was simply a wife also. She had a fair notion of the public regard of her husband, but none of her own.
She was well aware, even appalled, at the level of romantic indiscretion amongst ranking members of society. So prevalent was the phenomenon, it had been cheerfully euphemised as “gallantry.” Thus, of course, those who dabbled in it and those who made it their life’s work could eschew that unsavoury little word “fornication.” The ladies and gentlemen of the royal court held the dubious honour of being thought of as the least chaste and most gallant in the country. Of course, these of the aristocracy gave themselves absolution by reasoning that most married to unite fortunes, not for love. Their lessers knew this as well, hence it was as much a scandal to them when Mr. Darcy married Miss Bennet as had he taken a mistress. They were viewed a bit of an oddity yet as a couple, if not in countenance, at least in circumstance. Some of all levels of society looked upon them in admiration, just as some believed them nothing other than anomalies.
Had it not been widely known the Darcy marriage was one of mutual love, Elizabeth might have been inundated with any number of invitations for adulterous affairs. Wholly unconscious of this, she certainly did not miss what she did not seek. But had she been, she might have understood that in Wickham’s proposal of liaison, however distasteful, he was operating upon a less unlikely presumption than she understood.
It took less than a day for every man and woman, and half the children, to know Mr. Wickham had been invited to take his leave from Pemberley at the point of a blade. Just what led to this was wildly speculated upon, for who could resist such intrigue? Beautiful people, great wealth, the threat of death. It was the greatest point for gossip since the time Mr. Darcy slew ten men simultaneously in a duel protesting his wife’s honour. (There had been a bewildering variation of explanations as to the exact nature of this event, but the fundamental facts varied not at all: ten men, killed single-handedly by Mr. Darcy’s sword. Some more hardy souls even made a pilgrimage to The Strangled Goose, ogled the bloodstained floor, and stood in awe of the blade.)
Given this level of interest, the manner of George Wickham’s departure was speculated upon as well. Particularly since there was that other matter about Abigail Christie’s boy. There was great interest in her assertion upon the eve of her death that she had once bedded with young Mr. Darcy because it was the only time anyone in the county could actually have almost first-hand knowledge of such an occurrence. There had been many rumours, mostly about someone who knew someone who had been with Mr. Darcy. In the light of no hard evidence, it had begun to be believed that Mr. Darcy rarely dallied. Talk of him soon abated, for no diversion is found in integrity.
Therefore, when Elizabeth began to take her rides each day, abandoning the county’s sick, it did not go unnoticed. It was noticed where she went as well. If it was confused that the man who visited the house that Mrs. Darcy watched was Mr. Darcy, it was understandable. What other rich man would Mrs. Darcy follow? Thus, it was quite logically surmised that the baby from that woman was begat by none other than Mr. Darcy. Why else would Mrs. Darcy adopt him? Mr. Darcy had no sons. He must have one to entail Pemberley. There was no other explanation. In the time it took for word to reach Bingley’s woman requesting the adoption
of the baby, it had come full circle back to Pemberley that Mr. Darcy had an illegitimate son.
It was chatty Cyril Smeads who announced it to Hannah. He said he knew it was true, for when Mr. Darcy had lived in London before his marriage, his coach made regular trips to a bordello (he had used the term “House of Lewdness”). Hannah should have liked to hear more about this “house” in London, but she was so indignant over Smeads’s accusation of Mr. Darcy, she could only sputter her protestation.
“What Mr. Darcy did when he weren’t married means nothin’ now!” she said hotly.
Cyril Smeads looked upon her with an expression he often used in recognition of the ignorance of a lesser and said, “Were you more in knowledge of gentlemanly pursuits, you might understand that age and circumstance do not alter one’s proclivities.”
Hannah thought Cyril Smead’s proclivities were most probably shrivelled from disuse and he had no business speaking in an unsavoury manner about Mr. Darcy’s. This, of course, remained a thought and not a comment, for Hannah was incensed but not so irate as to jeopardise her position. Simultaneously, Cyril Smeads as a romantic feint was rendered obsolete. She simply folded her arms and watched him waddle (there was no kinder way to describe his large-bottomed walk) up the corridor.
It was only thereupon that she noticed Goodwin across the landing. He was quite openly eavesdropping upon their conversation. Hannah might have allowed her anger to spill onto his obvious snooping had he not stood mimicking her exact stance, arms folded, brow furrowed, and jaw clenched. It was the very first time Hannah knew that she and Goodwin had an utter meeting of the minds. They might have found additional duplication of emotion had they heard Smeads stop upon the stairs just as a woman was leaving an interview with Mrs. Darcy. A quidnunc of unparalleled curiosity, he punctiliously inquired of her business within the household. The woman told him she was seeking a position as a baby nurse. Cyril Smeads did not query her more, but his raised eyebrows told the woman that the baby in question was of notorious origin.
Hence, if there was doubt in Derbyshire whether it truth or rumour that the baby that was to come to live at Pemberley was Mr. Darcy’s, it was decided in favour of truth at Cyril Smeads’s silent but unmistakable instruction. But if he remained mute at Pemberley, as he hied to London he was not so inconversable. Indeed, he took a short excursion into Kent. But he tarried neither at the Hunsford Inn nor at the home of Mrs. Darcy’s late cousin’s wife.
*
The woman who sought the situation of nurse was none other than Mrs. Hardin’s sister, Bessie.
Forthwith of her employment interview (and thus proving herself indisputably a truly good sister), Bessie made haste to Mrs. Hardin’s kitchen to give an accounting of the entire episode. Ignoring her cook-pot, Mrs. Hardin settled in to hear her sister tell the particulars regarding the infant come to stay in the House of Pemberley.
When Mrs. Hardin learnt from Bessie that the young woman who had the glaring fall from grace was the very one she had eyed for John Christie, she was undeniably vexed. Although neither Mrs. Hardin nor Bessie said a further word on the matter, they exchanged significantly indignant looks. Their attempt at discretion, however, was for naught. Quite beyond their notice, the disapproving discourse incited the avid interest of John Christie, who sat at the far end of the table seemingly in rapt attention to a bowl of bread and onions.
But he had taken notice. Keen notice. For what Mrs. Hardin foretold had truly come to pass. This time, however, Mrs. Darcy was there to save the baby Mr. Darcy begat and cast aside. This ruined woman had it easier than his own mother. Her death would be swift. Not a long, slow descent into the bowels of hell. Mrs. Darcy should be avenged of her sorry husband. If he had a sword like Colonel Fitzwilliam, John fancied he just might be able to do it. Especially if he had that red cape as well.
For the first time in his brief life, John had found a duty strictly of himself. And he wondered, when the time presented itself, would he ever have the courage to do it?
59
It was uncustomary for Fitzwilliam to spend the winter months in town and even more peculiar for him to return to Derbyshire just when London society was in full bloom.
However, after his confession of love to Elizabeth, to London he went. And there he endured months of tortuous, self-imposed exile. When he returned in late May, as one might suspect, his reason was of the utmost importance. He had an announcement to make, and much to his mother’s displeasure, it was matters political, not matrimonial, that brought him home.
The day of Fitzwilliam’s very impolitic baring of soul to his cousin’s wife, he had come strictly because he had heard of Wickham’s call upon Pemberley and that man’s near violent ouster. Gossip was rife about the event, thus he wanted to hear a first-hand accounting of it from Darcy. Of course, that conversation never came to pass. He aborted his call and hied to London, his tail cupped protectively betwixt his legs.
Elizabeth’s terse comment as he removed himself that day assured him of her silence regarding his stupendously ill-conceived declaration to her. She would not divulge a word of it to Darcy. A considerable relief. For even as well as he knew him, Fitzwilliam could not say unequivocally that Darcy would not call him out for such an act, tantamount to blasphemy. Had it come from any other man, a presumption of attempted cuckoldry might be taken without question. Fitzwilliam was not so certain of Darcy’s temper to believe himself beyond such condemnation regardless of the strength of their friendship.
Free of such censure, Fitzwilliam concentrated upon mortification. His dignity was humiliated beyond redemption to have suffered such a lapse in self-restraint. And he wavered betwixt worrying that Elizabeth thought him a lascivious cad and regretting the loss of the easy acquaintanceship they had enjoyed. He simply could not face her again. Her opprobrium would be unendurable.
Though he fled from Elizabeth, he would not compleatly rupture his relationship with Darcy. This, the outcome of two understandings. The first was a rationale, the second a matter of platonic esteem. If he severed his connexion with his friend utterly, it might invite enquiry and Fitzwilliam did not want to have to account for a discontinuity betwixt them. Additionally, and most importantly, breach himself if he must from his home county, he could not weather the loss of Darcy’s friendship. Particularly as a result of his own dishonourable feelings. Hence, he bartered himself a compromise by maintaining communication by post.
Endeavouring to accomplish his arrested visit to Pemberley by letter (what he should have done in the first place, he scolded himself), Fitzwilliam carefully composed a missive. Making only the most cursory attempt at remarking upon the mundane (roads, weather, his boots, and the poor state of all three), he thereupon inquired specifically of Wickham and the call he paid to Pemberley.
Darcy’s reply was prompt but succinct, which was the way of all letters betwixt them, thus betraying no knowledge of any indiscretion upon Fitzwilliam’s part. (Had he been angry, his response would have been more eloquent, always a flag of displeasure in Darcy’s correspondence.) With Darcy supplying the gist of Wickham’s visit, Fitzwilliam was able to glean the truth of the matter. And that it involved Wickham and bastardy was not an astonishment.
Darcy’s retelling did not, however, include Wickham’s advances upon Elizabeth. Had it, Fitzwilliam’s perplexity over the subsequent visit of Lady Catherine would have escalated into outright bafflement. He might have leapt to the same incorrect conclusion as had Elizabeth, believing the two occurrences were not coincidental. His rescue from misconception was unbeknownst to Fitzwilliam. Thus, he could not reap any comfort from it.
Consolation he needed in abundance, for his misery was very nearly making him ill. In desperation, he forsook his exceedingly advantageous assignment with the Household Cavalry and took to loitering about the Horse Guards building in Whitehall reading the latest missives about the doings across the Channel. Most of these were penned by Wellesley, whose defeat of Napoleon’s marshals in the Iberian Peninsula
demanded a dukedom. Hence, he signed his dispatch announcing Napoleon’s banishment from France as “Wellington.” (So exalted was Wellington’s reputation in England, one might have believed the duke had personally annihilated Napoleon’s battalions upon the frozen Russian tundra himself.)
With their French nemesis exiled in despotic petulance upon the tiny island of Elba, Fitzwilliam’s cronies revelled in the victory. However happy they were to have Napoleon upon his knees, few were quite ready to forgo all chance of glorious rencontre and many groused about their spate of medals.
Fitzwilliam, however, fretted, “That slyboots has two strings to his bow. He cannot be counted hors d’combat until we see his head on a spike.”
Prophetic words.
After the initial triumph of Napoleon’s expulsion, the successive dispatches from the continent were of a tiresome political nature, nothing at all to excite an Iberian veteran. Fitzwilliam and his Whitehall colleagues read each of the increasingly tedious reports with dispassion. They had most probably reached their apex of monotony upon the day of the arrival of the improbable (to the point of hilarity) news that Napoleon had escaped and was marching upon Paris with an army only six hundred strong.
To those not quite willing to give up the sword, interest, to say the least, was piqued. As each subsequent day brought new revelations (and less jocularity), the number of officers who listened in disbelief at the Horse Guard Offices grew into a jostling, -impatient mob.
Most promptly, news arrived that Napoleon’s discharged army officers (unhappily thrust into civilian oblivion with only half-pay) had developed sudden amnesia of the Russian debacle they had experienced at their former emperor’s command and flocked to his leadership once again. If he was to be stopped, immediacy was all.
Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife Page 56