The Last Waltz: . . . another pride and prejudice journey of love

by Pat Santarsiero

  “It is no secret, Miss Bingley; I am writing to Elizabeth Bennet.”

  “Oh? Miss Eliza? Why, I had no idea the two of you corresponded. And what news does she convey? Does she inform you of the newest trends in country attire?” Caroline brought her hand up to cover the smirk on her lips.

  Bingley gave his sister a disapproving frown, which she willfully ignored.

  “We converse on many subjects, Miss Bingley.”

  “Yes, I am sure that the goings-on of Hertfordshire society are most intriguing.”

  “While she does not speak greatly of social events, I find that she has a talent for expressing her views most entertainingly. In this letter she speaks most warmly of her excellent stallion, Florio.”

  They were in the library of their London townhouse, and Darcy had tried to conceal his interest in their conversation, but now he looked up from his book. He was pleased that, despite the unpleasant circumstances of their parting, Elizabeth had continued her correspondence with Georgiana, and he found he was just as eager at each new letter’s arrival as was his sister.

  He and Georgiana would reside in London for another fortnight to attend a few social obligations, but they were both looking forward to returning to Pemberley. Though she adored the concerts and plays that being in town afforded, being of a shy nature, his sister was not one that particularly enjoyed the bustle and fast pace of London society.

  Caroline had insisted that her brother accompany her to London so that she might attend yet another season; it would be her fifth. As she had for the past four years, she would again attend the many parties and balls that would expose her to society’s most eligible gentlemen. But it seemed even the rumours of her considerable dowry—rumours she had made sure were spread throughout the ton—did not seem to tempt any viable suitors. Hopefully, this year would prove more successful.

  Bingley had agreed to her demands, opening up their London apartment, but made it quite clear that as soon as Mr. and Mrs. Hurst arrived in town to act as chaperones, he would return to Netherfield and his beloved Jane.

  Darcy glanced up at his sister, and he gave her an encouraging smile as Caroline continued to express her unsolicited opinions regarding Elizabeth Bennet. “I must admit, I’ve never understood the fondness one has for one’s horse. After all, it is merely a means of transportation. But I suppose when one has nothing else to occupy one’s time, it is a comfort of some sort.”

  A small smile appeared on Darcy’ face as he imagined what Richard’s response might have been upon hearing such a remark. It was his cousin’s opinion that a good horse was worth his weight in gold. He had often heard him comment that he had more faith in his trusted mount, Lightning, than he did in most acquaintances.

  His regret that he and Richard still had not repaired their rift lay heavy on his mind. They had not been in each other’s company since Rosings, and the last he had heard, Richard would soon be accompanying Colonel Forster’s regiment to Brighton where he would participate in training maneuvers. It was most likely they would not meet anytime soon.

  “And what exactly does she write of him, Georgiana?” Bingley asked, saving Darcy the trouble.

  Georgiana’s whole demeanour immediately brightened. “She writes that even though she is looking forward to her tour of the Lake Country with her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner this summer, she shall miss Florio very much. The weather, she claims, has been so accommodating that she has ridden him daily for the last fortnight at least! She also confesses to having spent nights sleeping in the barn near his stall, unbeknownst to her family, on evenings when the temperature was especially warm.”

  Relating this last particular bit of information brought a broad smile to the young girl’s face, but it quickly faded upon hearing Caroline’s derisive snicker.

  “Go on, Georgie,” Darcy encouraged. “What else does she write?”

  She turned to look directly at her brother. “Oh Fitzwilliam, she speaks of him with such affection that I cannot help but think of my own beloved Satan.”

  It had been years since Darcy had given thought to the young stallion she spoke of, but he knew his sister remembered him well. The horse, along with a small handsome carriage, had been a present that he had personally chosen for Georgiana’s tenth birthday. She had named the horse contrary to its docile nature, and had thought it quite amusing that such a tame creature should bear such a menacing appellation. As an added tease, a likeness of the horse’s namesake had been etched on the carriage’s side in place of the family crest.

  “You know how much it pained me to have him put down, Georgie, but it was for the best. You would not have wanted him to suffer further.”

  It had been almost six years since the incident occurred, and its timing could not have been worse as it occurred only days after their father’s death.

  Upon returning to Pemberley from their short stay in London to attend George Darcy’s memorial service they had discovered Satan in his stall, lame and in much pain. Dried blood remained caked on his leg as proof of the grave extent of his injuries. Darcy had made the only humane choice in the matter as Mr. Donohue, the veterinarian who had been summoned, informed him that the horse’s left fetlock had been so severely damaged that there would be no coming back from such a grievous injury.

  Darcy had always suspected that George Wickham had been the culprit behind the incident, but he had not been able to find any proof to support his suspicions. He had immediately ordered every inch of the estate scoured in search of him, but the only evidence his men could find of Wickham’s activities were at an old hunting lodge where remnants of a dying fire in the hearth and some empty whiskey bottles were discovered. Darcy had heard rumours of Wickham’s use of the abandoned cabin to sleep off his drunken routs; that, and to practice his iniquitous predilections.

  “Oh, I do not blame you, Fitzwilliam. You did what had to be done. But I shall always remember Satan as the most wonderful horse,” she stated as her eyes filled with unshed tears. The two siblings held each other’s gaze and shared a moment of understanding.

  “Really, Mr. Darcy, do you think it wise to allow your sister to correspond with someone whose letters cause her such distress?” asked Caroline.

  “Her letters do not distress me,” Georgiana quickly retorted. “I have many happy memories of Satan, and I am grateful for the chance to share them with someone of such similar sensibilities as Elizabeth Bennet.”

  She observed her brother’s look of deep contemplation, and she was suddenly fearful he would take Miss Bingley’s words to heart. The longer he remained silent, the more her worry increased.

  But it was not Miss Bingley’s comment that had Darcy meditating on their conversation; something else, some illusive unease was gnawing at him that caused his brow to furrow. He looked up and saw the troubled look on his sister’s face. “It is all right, Georgiana,” he quietly reassured her. “You are free to correspond with Miss Elizabeth for as long as it brings you pleasure.”

  She graced him with a smile, but noted his concerned look had not diminished. “Is something bothering you, Brother?”

  “No, Georgie, I think I am just a bit restless tonight.”

  “Perhaps we could visit your club, Darcy,” suggested Bingley. “I believe I could use some diversion myself.”

  Caroline quickly gave her bother a censorious look. “I was hoping we could play a game of whist this evening, Mr. Darcy. It has been so long since we have partnered.”

  Darcy kept an impassive expression on his face. He had no desire to indulge either suggestion, but if he had to choose between the two . . .

  They headed down St. James Street and arrived at White’s just after ten, still rather early for the exclusive gentleman’s club. Darcy and Bingley decided to forgo a table and stood at the bar as they ordered their drinks.

  “I wanted to thank you, Bingley, for your assistance in complying with all of my recent requests.”

  “It was my pleasure, Darcy. After all the good deeds yo
u have done on my behalf, it was the least I could do. Will I ever learn of their purpose?”

  “I believe my intentions would be better served if their purpose remained undisclosed. Suffice it to say, it was an enterprise of a personal nature and leave it at that.”

  Bingley shook his head in exasperation and exhaled a sigh. “As you wish, Darcy.”

  Yes, Bingley had performed his assigned tasks well, and Mr. Miller, Darcy’s business associate in London, had set up all the financial support needed for Mr. Engel, the cobbler in Canterbury, to proceed with the project for which he had been commissioned. They had all done their jobs extremely well.

  Darcy still had one more undertaking to complete: a revisit to Dr. Graham, as he had one more favour to ask of him. Once that mission was accomplished, he would leave the rest in the hands of fate.

  Another round of drinks was ordered, and as Darcy brought his newly refilled glass to his lips, he heard his name bellowed from across the room.

  Both Darcy and Bingley looked up and watched as the boorish, amply-sized William Arden, Baron of Alvanley, lumbered towards them. “Darcy! Decided to give the ladies of the ton a treat? Mighty decent of you, ol’ man. Perhaps this is the season you will finally succumb. How you’ve managed to avoid the marriage mart this long is remarkable.”

  “Good evening, Lord Alvanley. A pleasure to see you again,” said Darcy, his voice attempting to disguise his low esteem of the man.

  “You might as well take the plunge, Darcy. There is still life after marriage you know. Look at me; hasn’t slowed me down one bit,” gloated the baron.

  No, it certainly hadn’t, for the man’s extramarital exploits were known far and wide. His current mistress, an opera singer of previous renown, was waiting for him at this very moment in their London love nest, wearing a practiced smile and little else. But despite the baron’s boasts regarding his sexual prowess, rumour had it that the former diva had yet to reach a crescendo while in his intimate embrace.

  “I’ve heard that old man Cromwell’s daughter is on the hunt for a husband this season. Now that is a marriage worth making, Darcy! She might not be the most appealing young woman, but what she lacks in beauty she more than makes up for in land. The word about town is she will inherit the lot of it, all fifty thousand acres. Once she bears you a male heir, you can always ship her off to the country and enjoy the many amenities of living in town.”

  An image of Elizabeth came to him unbidden, and just the thought of her caused his heartbeat to quicken. He could picture the amber lights in her beautiful brown eyes and the lips that had haunted him both day and night since her painful rejection. If she were his, would he ever grow tired of her and wish to abandon her to the country? Would he want to spend even one night away from her bed? No, he could not imagine such things. If she were his, he would fervently demonstrate his passion for her nightly, and she would awaken each morning with a smile as she gazed into eyes that adored her. The memory of her hands enticingly exploring his body as his mouth consumed her lips had him suddenly reaching for his glass of brandy.

  Having no desire to prolong this topic of conversation, Darcy made no attempt at a reply to the baron’s vulgar remarks. Besides, he knew it would do little good to voice his disapproval. The baron’s attitude was quite common amongst his peers, and such sentiments were constantly being bandied about. After all, in his society, it was considered fashionable, if not mandatory, to marry with the purpose of strengthening one’s assets while finding one’s pleasure elsewhere. However, tonight Darcy was finding it difficult to keep the look of disgust from his face. Surprisingly, it was Bingley who spoke up.

  “Excuse me, Lord Alvanley, but as a man who is soon to be wed, I find your views on marriage rather disturbing.”

  Lord Alvanley let out an amused chuckle. “Is this young pup a friend of yours, Darcy?”

  “Pardon my oversight, my lord. Lord Alvanley, my friend, Mr. Bingley.”

  Curt greetings were exchanged.

  “So, Bingley, a love match is it?”

  “Yes, my lord,” responded Bingley with no little contempt in his voice.

  “I assume then that your betrothed brings nothing of import to this marriage?”

  “She brings much to the marriage, my lord; her goodness, her decency, and her generosity are to name but a few of her exemplary qualities, not to mention her beauty both inside and out. It is my greatest hope to devote the rest of my life to her happiness.”

  “Well, I daresay, a few years of marriage will cure him of that! Eh, Darcy?” responded the baron with a raucous laugh, as he slapped Darcy on the back in a gesture of camaraderie.

  Again, no response was forthcoming from Darcy, other than the perturbed look on his face. The baron, disappointed that he could not get a rise out of the Master of Pemberley, downed the last of his whiskey. With his broad smile still exhibiting his amusement, he fastidiously fitted his gloves to his hands and wished both gentlemen a pleasant evening.

  “Oh, and Mr. Bingley,” he offered as he turned to leave their company, “I should love to hear your views on marriage again in . . . shall we say . . . a year from now?”

  With that, the baron tapped his hat down on his head and plodded his way towards the door, not waiting for a reply.

  Silence prevailed as Darcy stared down at the amber liquid in his glass. Reluctant to meet Bingley’s eyes, he felt discomfited that Lord Alvanley had expressed his opinions regarding love and marriage so coarsely, so ruthlessly. But were not Lord Alvanley’s opinions similar to his own? Had he not always reasoned that love was a sentiment he had complete authority over and not a requirement for his happiness? But perhaps he had never met a woman worthy of loving before.

  “Surely your opinion of love matches is not as severe as your friend, Lord Alvanley’s,” said Bingley. “Or do you regard me as big a fool as he does?”

  Darcy looked up from his drink. “Lord Alvanley and I are hardly friends, Bingley, and I would like to believe my opinions were not as crude as his. I have never objected to others wishing to marry for love. It was my own heart that I was unwilling to put at risk. I assure you, I do not think you a fool.”

  “Was unwilling?” Bingley asked as his eyebrows rose two inches, the way they always did upon hearing something surprising, and this was nothing short of astonishing. “Are you saying that you might be willing to take such a risk now?”

  The question hung in the air for several moments as Bingley eyed his friend with anticipation.

  Darcy blew out a breath. “I . . . I confess that I have given the prospect a good deal of thought lately.”

  After years of hearing his friend profess himself above such a common emotion, Bingley could hardly contain his amused curiosity. “Well, coming from you, Darcy, that is a concession of monumental proportion. And just who is this virtue of perfection that has managed to alter your attitude?”

  But just as Bingley suspected he would, Darcy refrained from further comment on the subject. Hoping he might wheedle some further information from his taciturn friend, Bingley ordered another round of drinks.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “Oh, Harriet,” cried Lydia. “I can scarcely wait for our trip to begin!”

  With Brighton now only a sennight away, Lydia Bennet’s anticipation was mounting. With each passing day she became more and more vocal on the subject, flaunting her fortuity before all her siblings. She had thought it a good joke that she, the youngest of them all, had been singled out by Colonel Forster’s wife, as her particular friend, to join them at Brighton where the officers were to be encamped for the summer.

  As she now stood in the parlour at Longbourn House, where Colonel and Mrs. Forster and several of the officers had been invited for a luncheon, her enthusiasm knew no bounds.

  “Lizzy has offered me her best bonnet. I shall, of course, take it with me to see if I can make something better of it, but I shall buy at least two new ones as soon as we arrive,” Lydia gushed.

  “I was
thinking perhaps I should also invite Elizabeth to accompany us to Brighton,” said Harriet.

  Lydia displayed a look of horror. “Why in heaven’s name would you do that? Lizzy, I am sure, has no interest at all in seeing the officers. It is only to Jane’s credit that she was persuaded to come below stairs to take tea with them!”

  Harriet took care to hide her duplicity. “I was hoping she could be convinced. I thought she would welcome some diversion for the summer. And it is very possible she might find someone among the officers to her liking.”

  The young and pretty Mrs. Forster had been barely seventeen when she had married the colonel, a man of more than twice her years. And although the match had been considered an advantageous one, Harriet Forster had soon grown discontented with married life. It did not help that it seemed every young man in her husband’s regiment cut quite a dashing figure. Her flirtations with the officers were an amusing diversion from her boredom, and the recent attentions and compliments of the flamboyant George Wickham had easily charmed her to do his bidding.

  “Well, I shall save you the trouble of asking, for I know what her answer will be,” said Lydia, her voice conveying her anxiety. After all, what fun could be had if Lizzy was there to monitor her every movement? “Besides, she has already made plans to tour the Lake Country with our Aunt and Uncle Gardiner for the summer.”

  “But maybe— ”

  “Oh, Harriet, do not spoil our fun. You and I will make such a lively pair, just the two of us!”

  Across the room, Wickham gave a self-assured smile in Harriet’s direction as he made his way towards the two young ladies. However, as he approached, his confident smile faded as he observed Harriet’s almost imperceptible headshake and her apologetic expression. Obviously, he would have to find another venue in which to perpetrate his seduction of Elizabeth Bennet.

  “I have been admiring your lovely faces from across the room.”

  Both young ladies blushed prettily.

  “Why Mr. Wickham, I believe you could easily charm the birds from the trees, sir,” cooed Harriet.