The Knights of Derbyshire

by Marsha Altman

  “She’s almost ready for a nap, I think,” Lydia said. “She just doesn’t know it yet.”

  “Well, I never much understood baby-speak, so you’d best tell her.”

  Lydia did succeed in getting the baby to sleep. They checked on Brandon, who was still sleeping, and Julia was with one of the Bingleys’ nurses. “Lydia,” he said, as they took the seat by the window; it was only December and Derbyshire was deep in snow. “You know what I’m going to say.”

  “I must apologize to George.”

  “If not for George’s sake – though he does deserve it for himself – then at least for the family at large.”

  She frowned. “I cannot take back what is true.”

  “George was born respectably after you married Mr. Wickham. What of it now, almost twenty years later? Why harp on such a small thing when you knew it would devastate him?”

  She turned away. “You don’t understand. You weren’t there.”

  “And neither was George! He barely knew his father – he says he only has a vague memory of his father taking him to see the soldiers march, and then the funeral. Why should you make it weigh so heavily on him?”

  “Everything weighs heavily on him. You know that. You have one good eye that can see quite well that he’s sick,” she said. “But oh no, they never speak of it. No one ever talks about the Darcy illness – ”

  “ – Most people don’t talk about uncomfortable subjects,” he said, “if they can manage it.”

  “ – Instead they throw money at him and leave the raising to us. And I’m told not to send him to a doctor; that it will only make him worse. Do you know what he said to me last summer, when he had that fever from – ”

  “I was there, yes.” Now it was his turn to deal with uncomfortable subjects he didn’t want to discuss. Fever or illness loosened George’s tongue, and strange things came out: conspiracies against him, theories about the universe; the ravings of a madman. “He doesn’t remember, and it means nothing. He did not mean what he said. That is why he doesn’t need to apologize for it.” He sighed. “We raise him because we’re his parents. You’re his mother and for all purposes, I am his father. If he doesn’t have us, then all of his wild thoughts that he shares only under the influence of illness might as well be true. Life is not perfect for anyone, Lydia. Think of the very wealthy Darcys and their grand estate and their hereditary madness. Or the Bingleys with their wild children. No family is perfect.”

  “That doesn’t excuse George.”

  “Excuse him from what?”

  “You don’t understand.” She raised her eyes, filled with tears. “You can never understand.”

  Then, she made a successful retreat while he sat there, dumbfounded.

  At that precise moment, Maria decided to start crying. Wherever Lydia had gone, it was far enough away for her to not hear it, or choose to ignore it. It was Jane Bingley who entered the room. “Mr. Bradley.”

  “Mrs. Bingley.” He hurried to his feet. “Excuse me.” He picked up his daughter and took her into his arms. A nurse appeared, but he shooed her away. “She just needs to be rocked. That’s all.”

  “I saw Lydia – ”

  “I know.” He sighed as he tightened his grip on his daughter, rocking her back and forth. “I – she can’t forgive George.”

  “Which George does she mean?”

  Realization dawned. “Oh God.”

  Jane’s face, usually so relaxed and calm, tightened. “I’ll find her.”

  “You don’t need to – ”

  “She’s my sister. Yes, I need to. Mr. Bradley.” She curtseyed perfunctorily and was gone, leaving him alone with his daughter.

  ******************************************

  Jane Bingley had her limits. She was understanding when her husband had some wild notion of Oriental mysticism that he wanted to tell everyone, or when her eldest daughter came back from “walking in the forest” with more cuts and bruises than she could explain. Even when her younger daughter complained that she had every right to be out if Georgie was out and didn’t even want to be, or Charlie got into trouble messing around with his sister and his cousin. She was understanding when Edmund tried to copy his older brother in a stunt he was not big enough for, or when the family pet destroyed yet another dinner display by consuming half of it and stomping in the other half before it could make it to the table. But if there was one thing she would not stand for, it was the mistreatment of any of the children in her family. They were children, and had to be protected, no matter how old they got and how much clothing they grew out of and what they did with their hair. Especially a mature child who had done more than his share to protect his sister from their own mother’s mechanisms – for mistreatment of such a child, there was no excuse.

  “Lydia,” Jane said when she finally found her sister in the sitting room, trying to concentrate on a knitting project. “We should talk.”

  Lydia looked up at her with pathetically pleading eyes. “Can a mother not have some peace?”

  “Not when she behaves like a wicked witch and not a proper mother.” Lydia’s face reflected her shock at Jane’s severe tone “Lydia Bradley, you cannot blame George for his father’s failures anymore. He is not a target for your anger simply because he resembles his father. Mr. Wickham seduced you when you were innocent no matter how willing you were, Mr. Darcy made it possible for you to have some kind of life, and Wickham died of his own folly. If you can’t make peace with that, at least spare George the brunt of it.”

  “What he did to me – ”

  “ – was twenty years ago, and if he had the power to apologize when he was alive, he has none now. So curse his grave all you want and be done with it, and leave your son alone.” She did not soften her tone. “George is not well, physically and mentally, and most, if not all, of his pain is your doing. Forget the Darcy curse and what you consider the guilt money he gave to your children. This has nothing to do with that. Of his own volition George saved his sister from ruin, just as his uncle did, and you would curse him for it! What must he do? Dye his hair and put on glasses? Will that redirect your irrational anger?” Jane sighed. “If you want to carry a grudge, that is your business. Do not make him carry it as well. He knows his father was a man of scorn. Nothing you say will surprise him. That does not mean you have the right to say things that you know will hurt him. For God’s sake, he’s your son! I would never willingly hurt my sons! I can’t think of another person in this family who would! You will march back to Pemberley, say whatever you must to the grave of George Wickham, and then tell your son that you love him and you were foolish enough to misdirect your childish anger and your greed onto the person most wholly unworthy of it!” If that was not enough, she pointed to the door and shouted, “Now!”

  She did not quite need to stamp her foot, and Lydia was gone. She was still poised to do so when she said, “I see you there. You are not the eavesdropper you think you are.”

  Georgiana Bingley poked her head around the corner. “Sorry, Mama. Still – ”

  “Not a word of this.”

  Her daughter for once appeared a bit intimidated. “Of course, Mama.”

  ******************************************

  “Tomorrow night is Christmas Eve,” Isabel Wickham said, staring out the window as her brother shaved. He still had not left his room, but was at least responsive. “Are we supposed to stay here? Should I go to Chatton House?”

  “If you want to,” George said, tapping the razor against the basin to get the suds off.

  “I won’t leave you.”

  “You should. If it’ll upset Mother – ” Before he could finish his sentence, the door creaked open.

  “Mama!”

  Isabel’s surprise could only mean one thing. George rose and numbly bowed to his mother as she came into the room, but said nothing.

  “Leave us, Isabel,” Lydia said, and Isabel scurried out, leaving mother and son alone. George wiped the last of the shaving cream
from his face and faced her. “Hello George.” When he still offered her no greeting, she turned to the window. “You can almost see the graveyard from here.”

  “I suppose.”

  She turned to him, putting a hand on his fresh cheek. “You do look like your father.”

  “I know, Mother.”

  “There’s no easy way for a woman to admit she was foolish in her youth, but I was taken in by his charms – and his smile. If only you would smile, I’m sure you would have the ladies at your feet like he did.” When he squirmed, she stroked his hair. He had long sideburns, like his father. “It’s not a curse to have his good looks. It’s how you use them. And if your father had not misused them – well, I wouldn’t have you, or Isabel, or Mr. Bradley I suppose. Do you know how he died?” She didn’t give him time to respond. “He died in my arms. You know the part about him saving his half-brothers’ lives by sending Dr. Maddox off. After years of neglect and –” She stopped herself. “But you don’t want to hear this. You don’t need the burden of your father’s issues. He made you and somehow, despite the stupidity of both of your parents, you are a brilliant son. Everyone has only the highest expectations of you because you’ve given us every reason to believe in you. Even when I made a mistake with Izzy, you were there to stop me.” She smiled through her tears. “I’ve never done anything in my life to deserve a son like you.”

  When she fell into his arms, he wrapped his around her, his first real response to her presence and the only one that fulfilled its needs.

  ******************************************

  “Papa! Just one?”

  “No dear,” Darcy put his hand on the shoulder of Cassandra Darcy, his youngest daughter as he closed the letter from Grégoire, wishing them all well. “It’s not Christmas yet.”

  “Then at midnight?”

  “At midnight we have church.”

  “After church?”

  She was too big for him to easily lift, so he leaned over and kissed her. “After church we sleep. Presents are for the morning.”

  “Just one? The one I just got from Uncle Grégoire? Please ...”

  He sighed. “Alright. Just the one from Uncle Grégoire.” She screamed in delight and opened the box that had come from her uncle, which contained a little jewelry box made of wood. He was getting better and better at carving things. Darcy smiled at his nephew, as George was then assaulted in a similar manner by his own half-sister Julia, who had already opened her gift from him.

  “George! Help me put it on!” She held up the beaded necklace he had quickly purchased for her at Lambton.

  “All right.” He helped her with the latch in the back.

  “Thank you, George!” she said, hugging him before running off. “Mama! Mama! I found where George hid his presents for everyone!”

  Geoffrey chose that time to enter, passing Julia on the way in. “I’d like to know where George’s secret present hiding place is. Maybe I should follow her.” He poured himself a glass of the brandy his father and cousin were sharing, and raised it in a toast. “Father. George. Happy Christmas.”

  “Happy Christmas,” they said in unison, and agreed that with a reconciliation between all parts of the family that brought them into each other’s easy company, it was a happy Christmas indeed.

  Chapter 7 – Barefoot in the Snow

  It was not the easiest Christmas ever, but it was a relief to everyone that Lydia and George were getting along. Words had been said that could not be unsaid, but the rift between them had been closed a little, enough for Pemberley to be opened to the Bradleys and the three families to enjoy the week’s festivities together.

  Letters arrived from all of their relations wishing them well, including one from Dr. Maddox wishing George especially well. He was relieved to hear (when he finally did hear and had time to reply) that George had returned to health, and offered to help set a date for entrance exams to Cambridge, where he was a professor, so that George could have special permission to enter midyear. Darcy was pleased by the offer, but even more by the prospect of George attending Cambridge. Of course, he expressed this only to Elizabeth: at Cambridge, George would have a protector and advisor in Dr. Maddox.

  The trickier situation lay with Isabella Wickham. Though she did not openly say so and neither did her parents, there would be some awkwardness in returning to London with them, though it had been her home all her life.

  “I want to live with George,” she told Elizabeth in confidence, “but I know that’s not appropriate. I love my parents, but...” What was left unsaid was that her loyalties lay with the person who protected her in her hour of need, not the ones who encouraged her down the road to disaster.

  The Darcys conspired to take the Bradleys aside and inquire as to whether Isabel might benefit from spending some time in the country, as there would certainly be gossip about her flight to Gretna Green. In London, she would have to endure it, while if she was out of sight, people would soon forget about it and move on to the next mild scandal.

  “Isabel is my darling,” Lydia crooned, but Mr. Bradley put his arm around her.

  “It would be better for her reputation,” he said, “if her presence does not feed the scandal.”

  The solution came when the Maddoxes offered to take her in. They had a country house in Chesterton, but a few miles from Cambridge, where Dr. Maddox had his professorship. She would live there while George sat for his spring term, and then they would return to London for the season, where George would (and this part remained unspoken) keep an eye on his sister and make sure she was less forwardly put out to society.

  It was all negotiated and settled by New Year’s, at least on the surface. But Lydia had no qualms about storming into Darcy’s office a few days before she was to leave and saying otherwise. “I know you’re all conspiring to take my children from me.”

  “Your children are going to places where they will have the best possible advantages for their future happiness,” Darcy replied with his customary tone of dismissal.

  Lydia stormed off in search of other prey, but Elizabeth was not easily moved, either. She responded, “Every year I send my son away to Eton for his education and it breaks my heart to see him go. Nonetheless it is a necessary part of his development. George will do well at Cambridge and Isabel will do well in the country for the winter. They will both be back in Town for the Season.”

  Her avenues of complaint exhausted, Lydia did not attempt further disruption of the plan. She experienced some loss of composure when it was time for the family to part again, George and Isabel to the Maddox house in Chesterton, the Bradleys to Cheapside.

  “I’m sure you’ll do well at Cambridge. All of that reading couldn’t have been for nothing,” she said, which was about as good as she got at complimenting George. As she embraced him one last time, she whispered, “Take care of your sister.”

  He responded, “I promise.”

  ******************************************

  With the Wickhams and the Bradleys gone, this time to safe harbors, a breath of relief passed over Darcy’s part of Derbyshire. The wind that brought relief was also accompanied by a snowfall unparalleled in anyone’s memory. And then another one. And another one. There were many dark, cold nights that winter, when Darcy closed up most of the wings of Pemberley and kept alive only the study, the library, the family’s chambers, and the servants’ quarters. There were days when passage between even Pemberley and Chatton House stopped completely, and the post was also held for weeks at a time, arriving in large bundles with multiple letters with different dates on them.

  Derbyshire was suffering. Those who could not afford coal risked death, and with higher grain prices, lower wages, and the roads un-cleared for basic deliveries, Darcy knew it was a dangerous time. Bingley’s holdings in Derbyshire did not extend past Chatton House’s grounds, but Darcy was a landlord, with tenants and workers, and he saw to them all. He went out himself more than once to deliver coal and bread to his poorer ten
ants. Mrs. Darcy, who regularly visited the poor, did her share, but sometimes the roads were simply too dangerous, and only the most daring adventurer would wander outside. Darcy found, but would not admit, that he could no longer carry a full bag of coal, even with a walking stick, as he could in his younger days, and his joints bothered him when it got especially cold.

  “You’ll learn to stay by the fireplace,” Mr. Bennet said. “You seem to like it so much anyway, always staring into it and playing with the fire.”

  What little winter game there was to be had was being quickly consumed by Derbyshire’s imported wolf population, existing thanks to a misguided baronet who had thought they were dogs and let them breed. Their numbers did not grow wild because of infrequent but necessary wolf hunts, but none had taken place recently. In the winter the wolves grew more desperate, causing mothers to worry about their babies, even though no one in their right mind would leave their child on the front steps, especially if the front steps were barely clear of snow and ice. An expedition of huntsmen to shoot the wolves nearly ended in disaster, saved from freezing to death only by their stumbling into Pemberley’s quarters, and they all shambled home a few days later with bad colds and no wolf hides.

  More than one tenant braved the snow to ask Mr. Darcy personally for an extension on the rent due, with the price of coal and food so high, and he readily granted many extensions, recording them all. On the grounds of Derbyshire that belonged to the Duke of Devonshire, himself safely in Devonshire in the south, people were ill or dying left and right, of either starvation or exposure, and Darcy personally wrote the Duke to apprise him of the situation.

  “And if he doesn’t respond?” Elizabeth asked.

  Darcy shrugged. His charity that winter was extensive in his own lands, far beyond the norm, and Pemberley was beginning to get stretched thin, not for the more expensive items, but for the basic ones they used every day, like firewood and grain for bread. They were never short of anything, but Darcy kept a close eye on his own stocks.