“Mr. Lancaster, I…”
“Please, Miss Bennet, do not answer now. I know you cannot give a favorable answer yet, but think on it, please. We already share similar interests and stimulating conversations. I am not a man who would squander his fortune, nor dishonor his wife. I would care for you, and I believe love would grow. And our estate offers plenty of fields for scampering.” Elizabeth smiled at him. “I do not leave for a week, will you do me the honor of thinking about my proposal?” Elizabeth looked at him; he was a good man. He was handsome, kind, and intelligent, and Darcy loved another. Elizabeth nodded. Lance smiled and kissed her hand.
Hayden slowly raised his head as if it were too heavy for his neck. When they were eye to eye, Matlock spoke firmly. “First, I will not tolerate any harm to my family. Another attack and I will have you escorted into the hands of the authorities. Are we clear?” Hayden knew that attacking the peerage could mean death or transportation for life, and now that his rage had dissipated, he realized he did not want either. He nodded.
“Good. Now, Son,” Hayden looked up surprised, “your father never ceased to love you.” Hayden huffed. “No, it is true.” Matlock nodded, and Hardston handed him a small chest. “Look at this,” Matlock opened it, and inside it held a miniature of Hayden as a lad, a poorly whittled horse that more closely resembled a cow, and another one that looked remarkably like a galloping thoroughbred. Matlock removed mementos one by one, some with seemingly no significance except to the holder, a marble, its only relevance – that it was given to a father by his son. Finally, a packet of poorly written answers to the riddles his father would leave for him in their game of wit, answered by a lad learning his letters.
Hayden’s face softened momentarily and then hardened again. “Those mean nothing. If he loved me, why did he abandon my mum and me when Darcy came along?” He asked with a scowl.
Matlock sighed; this was the hard part. “What do you know of George and your mother’s relationship?”
Hayden glared at Matlock, “My mum was his betrothed until he met a better prospect,” he spat.
Matlock shook his head and sighed. He nodded for the envelope on the mantel. “I can understand your anger if that is what you think, but she was not his betrothed, Son.” Hayden looked up warily. “She was his mistress.” Hayden sucked in his breath, and his nostrils flared. “Before you explode,” Matlock spoke quickly, “look at this.” Matlock held the mistress agreement made between George Darcy and the widow Ellen Mimms.
Hayden’s eyes frantically scanned the paper, and then he leaned his head as far away from it as he could as if it were a viper, ready to attack. “No! No! That is not true.”
“It is true. She was his mistress. You can see the date that the agreement ended. The original agreement was for a year, the affair was longer. So, here,” Matlock pointed, “is the amendment. George increased her settlement and added a new end date. It was the day he fell in love with my sister. George did not even know that you had been conceived until he was already engaged to Anne.”
“It is all a lie! You want to justify what he did!”
“No, I do not seek to justify it. I would never do so, and George would not have wanted me to. He did not seek to justify it either. He felt guilt all his life. He told me on many occasions that he wanted to keep you in his life, Hayden. He tried.”
Hayden shook his head, “No, no, I do not believe you! I will not listen,” he said.
“Yes! He did.” Matlock leaned forward and gripped the arms of Hayden’s chair. “Do you remember that day in the park? The day you threw a rock, a very large rock, that hit Darcy in the forehead?” Hayden did not acknowledge it, but Matlock could see the recognition in his eyes of the already alluded to incident. “That was the day your father decided he had to separate you for the safety of both families. He had tried before by settling Ellen outside of town, but due to the proximity to London and her friends, she kept returning, bringing you along. That day at the park, George knew the separation had to be permanent. He knew that Darcy would grow up, and he did not want hatred to fester between the two of you. He also did not want either of you to harm the other. So, he purchased Creston Hill, and Ellen’s financial compensation depended upon her cooperation.”
Hayden stilled, frowning, and blinking rapidly. “Mum instructed me to throw that rock,” he said almost absently and glanced quickly at Darcy.
“George always thought that was so.” Everyone stilled, when Matlock next spoke, his voice was gentler. “He did not abandon you. He did what he thought was right to protect you both. He purchased an estate, something that would give you freedom, and he found a trustworthy steward. He stayed away because he wanted you to start again in a place where no one knew you. He hoped that you could be claimed as the son of Ellen’s late husband. He wanted you to have a life without the stigma of being illegitimate.”
Hayden sat with a deep frown, his breathing shallow. Matlock waited, no one spoke, no one moved. Hayden looked up slowly. “Do you know what it was like for me? Growing up, I mean?” Hayden looked at them all, tall and powerful, the recipients of privilege and esteem. He shook his head. “Of course not, how could you?” he scoffed. He looked at Matlock and spoke quietly.
“Untie me.”
Matlock assessed him and then nodded to Richard. Once unbound, Matlock opened his mouth to speak, but Hayden held up his hand, “Yes, yes, the same rules apply. I get it; spare me.” Hayden rose from his chair and in a move so reminiscent of Darcy that it caused the other’s eyes to bulge, he went to peer out the window with his hands embracing the frame. Darcy stared wide-eyed at Hayden’s back, while the other gentlemen cast surprised glances at one another.
“Everyone knew I was George Darcy’s son,” Hayden spoke quietly. “My mother was too proud of it, as if I were the son of the King. She crowed it to everyone she met, even though most in our community did not even know who George Darcy was. She delighted in enlightening them of father’s wealth and influence, as if having the blood of the great and powerful George Darcy would erase the bastard stain I bore. It did not.
I was shunned; we were shunned by all the respectable persons in our town.” Hayden gave a derisive laugh, “Their precious little heirs pummeled me as I walked the fields, tied my hands and threw me in streams, hurled rocks at me when I sought to join their games, blamed me for items they pilfered for sport from the local tradesmen. Their primped-up daughters acted as if I were invisible or worse, used me for their first kisses in the woods, only to cross to the opposite side when I walked down the village lane. It was I who was punished, hated, shunned, and ridiculed. Yet, it was often their fathers who refused to pay their debts to the butchers and bakers, their fathers caught sneaking from the widow’s house in the middle of the night, their mothers, the seductresses in the tales of footmen too in their cups to know or care that they besmirched the reputations of their mistresses.”
Hayden shook his head. “I tried to blend, to find a place among the shopkeepers and workers, but I was dross in the silver for the rich and silver in the dross for the common man. I was a lad with land, but no place, a peculiarity, a freak. Creston Hill became a beautiful prison. I knew every vista, every stream, every lonely, twisting path.” Hayden sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “My mother believed it was our right to the truth. I am George Darcy’s son, so she wanted everyone to know it, as if being something entitled one to the benefits, but we know that is only true for the rich,” Hayden sighed. “Father bought me land, but I was a vagabond from the day I was conceived.” He turned around and looked at them. “The land was not enough to erase the stain. Father’s actions may have been forgiven by society, but the result, me, has been forever condemned. So, forgive me if I cannot accept that he loved me.”
The only noise heard in the room was the sound of woodland creatures wafting through the window. Matlock stood and leaned against the mantle. Hardston and Richard took particular interest in their boots, and Darcy gaze
d unwaveringly in his brother’s face.
Hayden leaned on the window frame. His head ached as if a thousand thoroughbreds had galloped through it. He was weary from days in the saddle and a lifetime of hate. He wanted to collapse, but he would not, not here, not in front of them. “What are you going to do with me?” he asked quietly.
Matlock shook his head and sighed, “I cannot just let you go. Your intentions toward my nephew forbid that.” Matlock looked at him, “Hayden, listen, though he attempted to correct it, you have indeed borne the scorn of your father’s and mother’s actions.” Matlock sighed, “But, Son, you must see that Darcy is not to blame. They were not his actions; he did not even know you existed until he arrived here a few days past. If you continue to blame your brother for the actions of your father, well, then you are no better than the society that blamed you. Can you not see that, Son?”
Hayden turned back and gripped the window frame, his shoulders tensed for a very long while before they sagged. Sometime later, he spoke quietly, “I just wanted to hurt him, wanted him to feel what it was like to be me,” Hayden exhaled. “It was wrong.”
Matlock nodded, “That is a beginning. This has been a lot for one day. Hayden,” Matlock called his attention, and Hayden turned toward him, “I cannot let you go until we have finished.” Matlock approached Hayden. Hayden looked haggard, his eyes were hollow and rimmed with dark circles. He was pale, and his shoulders drooped. “It has been enough for today. The cottage is comfortable. You will remain here, under guard. I will send a maid and a cook to tend you.” Matlock rubbed his chin, “I had thought that perhaps you would like to leave England? Start new somewhere else?”
Hayden nodded, “Aye, I have dreamed of going to India. There, a man can be judged by who he is and what he does rather than by the circumstances of his birth.”
“Very good. We will speak more on the morrow. Richard, give instructions to the men. Hardston, you will arrange for others to take their place at nightfall.” Matlock put his hand on Hayden’s shoulder, “Keep your promise of good behavior. You have endured enough, and I do not want to have you restrained in the cellar nor sent to the authorities, but I will tolerate no threat to my family. Understood?
Hayden nodded. After Richard instructed the footmen and soldiers, Matlock, his sons, and Darcy departed. When they closed the door behind them, Hardston whistled, “Whew!”
Alexander was not his son. Darcy sat cross-legged in the chair, feeling bittersweet about the revelation. He had begun to be attached to the lad. He closed his eyes and smiled, warmth flowing through him as he remembered Alexander’s enthusiasm to run and play; his obsession with biscuits, and his sparkling-eyed laughter; however, the warm memories were soon chased away by the cold reality that Alexander was not his son, but his nephew. Darcy’s eyes flew open. He had to admit that he was relieved that he did not have a son to whom he could not give legitimacy, but the foretaste of fatherhood, divorced from all the doubts, when it had just been him and Alexander, had been sweet. It had whetted his appetite. He was eager to be a father, to create a life with Elizabeth. It felt scared, this privilege. He shook his head when he considered how detached Hayden and Francesca must have been to create life, this beautiful boy, for so nefarious a purpose. Unfathomable, he thought, but at least Francesca loved Alexander; that was clear. Darcy decided that he would make sure that Alexander had the best life possible.
The moonlight shining through the window cast shadows in his room. The events of this day reminded him of the pathos in a Shakespearian tragedy! When he awoke this morning, he was sure; Hayden was the villain. After all, Hayden had schemed to deceive him concerning Alexander’s parentage and conspired to kill him, despicable, both. Clearly, Hayden equaled villain. However, now, he was not certain. Yes, though not responsible for his birth, Hayden was still accountable for his actions, but what of his own father? The same applied to him. Hayden would not exist, except for his father’s actions.
And what of society? Why should Hayden be scorned? He had no choice in the matter. The cruelty, rejection, and hypocrisy of society had helped to twist Hayden into the man he had become. Darcy shook his head. It made sense now why his father had taken him, while on the cusp of manhood, to town to see the abandoned little ones, huddled together in the cold – dirty and sickly – hocking useless items for a farthing. Progeny, his father had said, of gentlemen and servants or ladies of the night. They were created in the heat of selfish need; they were abandoned to the cold of society’s scorn. The hypocrisy of holding them accountable for the circumstance of their birth was glaring. His tapping foot stopped suddenly, and he leapt from his chair. I did the same to Elizabeth! I judged her inferior because of her birth, and by extension, I judged myself superior because of mine. Darcy dropped back into his chair and held his head in his hands. When he thought of Elizabeth, or even his brother, Darcy realized just how worthless was the practice of valuing a person based upon their birth, rank, or circumstance. How foolish! I would have missed out on the most precious treasure I have found on this earth, one that I could never hope to purchase with all my riches. Darcy shivered. Then he rose and walked to the window and gripped the frame and looked out into the night.
My brother. It was odd, they were very much alike, eyes, nose, facial structure, even body build: yet different. Circumstances had shaped them into very different people. Hayden was only five or six years his senior, but Hayden bore hardlines across that face that so closely resembled Darcy’s. Darcy put himself in his brother’s place. What would he have done if he had been sent away by his father then rejected and scorned by society? He had only ever known privilege, acceptance, respect. People clamored to him, so often that he wished them away. What if he had been the son of Ellen Mimms? How might it have twisted him to have had society turn their backs and reject everything he is, everything he had to offer, because of his birth? Would he have been like Hayden if he had been scourged by society? Would Hayden have been like him if Hayden had been embraced? He and Hayden were like a mirrored image. Similar but reversed. Darcy shook his head. He could never condone Hayden’s actions, but he had come a long way toward better understanding them.
Darcy stared at the night sky, part of his world had been upturned; but he knew his true north, Elizabeth. She was home to him. Darcy thought back to the night after they had returned from Vauxhall Gardens. Georgiana had skipped to bed, dragging Elizabeth with her, but he, he was too charged, too on fire to sleep. Those moments with Elizabeth, their bodies nearly touching, her eyes fixed upon him, her breath coming in gasps, he had wanted to crush her to him and then run off to find a vicar and get on with it! She belonged with him, and every day he was forced to delay, was one day less he had to spend his life with her. He had felt cheated. He had sat in the library, staring at the walls, his pulse racing, feeling euphoric for having fallen in love with such an exquisite woman; however, he had also felt frustration, fear, and exhaustion, for having to temper such intense feelings that clamored to be released.
Hearing a noise, he had looked up, and there was Elizabeth, in her robe. He had leapt from his chair. She had gasped, clearly expecting to be alone. They had stood there, gazing at one another. He had been mesmerized by her beauty. Finally, remembering himself, he had spoken.
“I beg your pardon. I did not mean to startle you.”
“No, I, I could not sleep. I thought to borrow a copy of Defoe,” Elizabeth spoke rapidly, her eyes darting about.
“Of course, I shall retrieve it for you.” Darcy had walked to the shelves with Elizabeth following behind, but being distracted by her beauty, by her scent, by her…everything, he had walked past the book. He stopped suddenly, causing Elizabeth, who followed too closely, to collide with him.
“Oh,” she had said as Darcy turned – and everything shifted. Their bodies were nearly touching. Darcy had placed his hands on her forearms to steady them, now they stood in a near embrace, both breathing deeply, gazing at one another, and both incapable of b
reaking the exquisite bond that held them. Darcy’s eyes had caressed her face, lingering on her lips, then he had closed his eyes and groaned.
“Elizabeth,” her name was a plea, a longing, a recognition – a surrender. Then the hands that had held her arms slid to embrace her, and he had gasped as he lowered his head.
“Elizabeth? Are you here?” They had leapt apart at Georgiana’s voice.
Elizabeth had cleared her throat. “Yes! Yes! Coming,” she answered as she turned and fled.
“There you are! I could not sleep. I went to your room, but when you were not there, I thought you might be here, reading.”
“Yes! I, I thought to get a book,” Elizabeth had cleared her throat, “but I cannot possibly read…um, now,” she said. “And I no longer have to, for I have you to talk with. Come, let us go to our chambers.”
Darcy had sagged against the shelves and closed his eyes as they spoke. After the ladies left, Darcy had doubled over with his hands to his knees and groaned.
And the next day, in the park, Francesca’s deception had detonated his world. Now, staring out the window, Darcy spoke into the night. “Elizabeth, I love you dearly. No man has ever loved a woman the way I love you. My body and soul crave you. I cannot wait to see you again, to hold you and tell you of this wonderful, frightening love that consumes me. I have endured a great battle, my darling, a great awakening, and I am a better man for it. I will treasure you for the priceless gem you are. Remember me, and wait for me, my darling. I am coming home.”
Men of Consequence Page 37