Georgiana nodded silently, and Elizabeth could see her jaw clenching as she grasped for this inner determination Elizabeth claimed she possessed. “I needn’t do all of it, Elizabeth?” she ventured. “Only what a mistress might—as my mother did? Surely Richard, and your uncle for now, and the steward, they will manage the rest?”
“That seems appropriate,” Elizabeth smiled.
“And… perhaps we may still be merry from time to time? I should hate to prove a disappointment to Lydia. It seems to have cheered her some to be here with us.”
“Naturally, we may. Did you and my sister have some particular activity planned?”
“Oh, yes! I wanted to take Lydia about the grounds now that the weather has improved.”
“Well, then,” Elizabeth mused, “perhaps if the weather is fine enough, we shall take the air together and perhaps even make a picnic of it. Tomorrow.”
29
Matlock House, London
The Earl of Matlock was lounging comfortably in his drawing room, his newspaper in one hand and a warm brandy in the other. By his side rested the last note from Richard, detailing the goings on at Pemberley, and it was this that had set his father to drink.
“The flocks! A new harp! That is what my son writes of. No mention of his plans for marriage, of bringing Georgiana back to Town. He does not even speak of the marriage announcement, and I am certain he has had my letter by now! Egad,” the earl snatched up the letter again, “he writes more about the stables than his future bride!”
“Father, you are concerned for nothing,” comforted his eldest son. “Pemberley shall not suffer for Richard’s stewardship, and in due time, he will come to understand his duties as well as Darcy did.”
The father coughed a little after sipping his brandy and shook his head. “I was a fool to send him there! Richard has never cared a jot for estates and houses and the like. He knows nothing of what is to be done! But for your duties here, I should have sent you to be sent to Pemberley to advise him.”
“Me! Ah, Father, did you not always fear that I would fill the stables with racehorses and the house with French maids and chefs and some other foolishness?”
The earl lifted his glass again, chuckling as he admired its contents. “You would be just as likely to raze the farms and set up a woolen mill or some other blasphemous monstrosity.” He sighed and swirled his drink. “I suppose you are right. Richard, I have appointed, and Richard it shall be. Georgiana is fond of him. I anticipate that it shall be no great leap to marriage. Nature will take its course eventually.”
“Marriage!” snorted Reginald. “Richard would not know what to do with a wife if she were to throw herself into his arms.”
“I fancy the boy has put one or two things together,” the earl retorted drily.
“It is not that, Father. A husband must be tied to his wife, do you know. Richard has too much of the soldier in him. Like his namesake, the Lionheart I should say, always off again for some mission or another. Bind him to domestic life against his wishes, and he will make both himself and my cousin miserable. I should be sorry to see it, Father. Perhaps I might counsel him on the keeping of a wife’s heart. Though we do fight our fair share, few are as blessed as Priscilla and I in their marriage. I would see the same sort of devotion in my brother and cousin.”
“I doubt he will listen, but it is a noble thought. Speaking of Priscilla,” the earl sipped his brandy, “how is she recovering from her illness?”
Reginald shook his head, his face darkening gloomily. “She is not. The physician saw her again today, and he fears the worst.”
Fitzwilliam straightened. “I had not heard this. Is her illness more serious than a lost pregnancy?”
Reginald paused, catching his father’s eye significantly. “Consumption,” he whispered.
The earl’s glass clinked slowly to the table. He set aside his paper and studied his eldest son. “How long?”
Reginald shrugged and shielded his eyes with his hand. When he spoke again, it was in a broken voice. “Weeks, perhaps, if she is lucky. That is what the physician said, but I should be surprised if she lasts many more days. She was never strong, even before the pregnancy. She tried to hide it, but her health has been failing for over a year, I should think. She has been seeing the doctor for nearly that long. I think it was a week ago that she wrote at last for her mother to attend her. Father, I do not know what I shall do when I lose her! I have grown rather fond of a wife about the house to govern me and to keep me company.”
Fitzwilliam sagged back in his chair. “Had I only known! I am sorry, my boy.”
Reginald drew a ragged breath and turned his head aside to cough faintly. “I have brought in the finest surgeons. One speaks cautiously of hope, but I fear it is more for Priscilla’s benefit than my own.”
The earl pursed his lips. “Do all you can for her, naturally, but we must make plans against the worst.”
“Plans? I pray you not to bury my wife before she is gone, Father.”
“You must have an heir, and from what you say, Priscilla shall never bear one. Anne has grown stronger, and she needs a husband. It would do no harm to bring Rosings into the fold, eh?”
“And risk another sickly bride! No, Father, I could not bear it. I do not wish to think of losing one wife. It would kill me to suffer this again!”
The earl grunted in sympathy. “Perhaps you are right,” he admitted. His busy brows worked for a moment. “Perhaps you should marry Georgiana when the time comes, for it is you who require an heir to pass on the title, not Richard. Additionally, Pemberley is far too valuable to trust to the management of a man unused to such duties. Richard would do well enough with Rosings, for he has helped Darcy with its oversight for some years already.”
“You have already had the announcement printed in the papers that Georgiana is to marry Richard,” his son protested.
“It is true.” The earl brushed his chin thoughtfully. “I do not like backing down to Catherine so quickly and possibly tarnishing Georgiana, but I set no date for the wedding, and she is known to be in mourning. If one family tragedy follows another, what matters it if she marries a different Fitzwilliam? If Priscilla dies, as you fear she might, I think everyone else would agree that it makes more sense that Georgiana ought to marry a viscount, with a fortune such as hers and an earldom at stake.”
Reginald withdrew his handkerchief with a trembling hand to touch his brow. “If matters come to that, I suppose it merits consideration, but let me remain wed to only one woman for now, Father, I beg you. I could not bear for her to think that a replacement had already been suggested while she lies yet on her d—” He gasped, unable to finish the horrid word, and turned away to blink back his tears. “Do nothing yet, Father,” he begged when he could speak again.
“Of course not. In any case, I would not proceed without at least speaking with Richard on the matter, but I will not mention a word to anyone else, particularly Georgiana, unless the need arises. I do not believe I will need to consult Anne—she is nearly on the shelf. I doubt she will care which brother she marries—but Georgiana is young, so she might.”
“You speak so casually of arranging it all! One might think you were in your breeding stables, rather than speaking of wives for your sons.”
“You would treat her well, would you not? I see nothing that could raise Georgiana’s objections. What young lady would not prefer a man of more domestic tastes than a weathered old soldier?”
“None could care for her better,” his son agreed, a smile growing on his face. “God forbid I should lose Priscilla, but if I am required to find another wife, I suppose Georgiana would be a prudent match.”
“Prudent!” the earl laughed. “The girl does not know it, but she is as wealthy as Lady Catherine and myself together!”
Reginald’s brows rose in mild surprise. “Surely you exaggerate.”
“Only slightly. A few lucky investments on the continent so
me sixty years ago, which have been kept quiet. I only learned of it because the Darcys used our same solicitor until perhaps twenty years ago, and we managed to have the records unsealed at Darcy’s death. I doubt even Darcy knew the full extent of his grandfather’s affairs, because his own man had no information dating back so far. He certainly would have known the size of his coffers, but it seems that he was rather modest on matters financial.”
Reginald nodded, his eyes twinkling strangely. “Ah, Darcy! I miss the old chap. I’d never a notion he was as wealthy as you claim. He was rather modest for a man who owned both a grand estate and a house on Grosvenor Square.”
“All that money, and no title to dignify it!” the earl lamented with a touch of gallows humour. “Perhaps Pemberley ought once again to become a noble house.”
~
Hertfordshire
It turned out that riding to Hertfordshire with a late afternoon start—and without the benefit of his private coachman to arrange for a change of horse at each stage—was not without its challenges. The selection of available mounts was both dismal and costly, and Darcy held nothing like his accustomed prestige in the eyes of the masters at the coaching stations.
His first horse had thrown a shoe—quite by accident, but he was obliged to keep the beast to a walk thereafter. The second appeared to have been ridden hard already that day, and the third had his wind broken. After coddling each mount for its particular indisposition, Darcy was still five miles from Meryton by nightfall.
He handed off the reins of his last mount and stood before the door of the inn, gazing forlornly down the road. Less than two hours would have seen him to her door! Grousing to himself and cringing at the cold that drove him indoors, he trudged inside to speak for a room. It would be too late to call on anyone, even Bingley, with such an errand as his. A dead man arriving in the middle of the night—hungry, cold, exhausted, and begging for answers to questions he did not even know? Insupportable!
He had no doubts of Bingley’s ready welcome, despite all confusion, but his pride—and his aversion to becoming an object of open curiosity—would not permit him to make such a spectacle. He must content himself with waiting one more night. No! It must be yet longer, for the next day was a Sunday. All the local families would repair to the church for the morning, so even were he to commit such a heathenish act as traveling on Sunday, there would be none to receive him until later in the afternoon. Well, travel he would, and devil take him if it were a sin to seek to save himself on the church’s sacred day!
The inn’s bed proved just as miserable as he had imagined it to be, but it was not due to unsatisfactory linens or lack of proper stuffing of the tick. To these he had grown immune. It was that each time he closed his eyes, Gardiner’s words tormented him, tossing him into a restless sweat.
How had the man insinuated himself into his affairs, finding some other associate with whom to conspire, that they might raise themselves by bringing him to ruin? Could she have been aware of her favourite uncle’s doings? How righteous her anger would be when she learned all! Yes, even if she did not love him, he knew her well enough to be certain of that—just as he was sure of her initial disbelief and fury at the messenger, when he must present to her the truth of her uncle’s treachery.
He turned in fitful frustration until two hours before dawn, when at last the stifled air of the cramped room overcame his need for rest and shelter. He had some trouble securing another horse so early, refusing as he did to again mount that poor brute from the day before. At long last, and with a greatly diminished purse, he threw his leg over a stocky, hard-mouthed little bay, and pointed its nose toward Meryton.
The roads as he approached the sleepy town had begun to stir. The first person known to him was Sir William Lucas, walking toward the church with his family. Absent, of course, was his eldest daughter, but the younger was audibly present. Darcy glanced right and left, searching for an unobtrusive way off the main path before Lucas might recognise him. Being a friendly sort, Lucas hailed in greeting before Darcy could take himself elsewhere.
“Good morn to you, fair sir!” the older gentleman called. “I see that you have traveled far. Well, let that not trouble you. You see, we are all easy in these parts, and strangers are always welcome to warm by our hearths. Are you seeking fellowship on this fine morning?”
“I…” Darcy stammered, drawing back slightly on the horse’s reins. “No, sir, I thank you. I travel on some distance yet.”
“Oh, but do join us but a little while before you travel on, good sir!” Lucas objected. “Far be it from me to cast the sojourner out along his lonely way on a Sunday!”
“I regret that it is impossible, sir. Good-day,” Darcy tipped his hat and sent his mount into a brisk jog-trot in the opposite direction. Once he had lost sight of the family, he dropped the reins and flexed his cramping fingers. Again, he had not been recognised! Was he truly so altered in the last months? Whatever the cause, he was grateful to have avoided the pointed questions that Lucas would certainly have asked.
He drew one or two calming breaths as his mind began to reason once more. He could not simply parade into the Longbourn church and demand an audience with Elizabeth! How to approach her? He felt his heart would burst if he could not at least see her this very hour. Glancing up the road, he determined that he might be able to conceal himself in a small grove of trees nearby. If nothing else, he might know the pleasure of watching her walking with her family and perhaps hear her musical voice laughing gaily over the dewy fields.
The Bennets were always some of the last arrivals, this he knew well. Lace and pelisses slowed the preparations of every family with daughters, and of these, Mr Bennet had more than he had maids to dress them all. His pulse drummed steadily harder with each passing moment, and every bonnet tip cresting the rise sent him into fresh transports of anticipation.
After nearly a quarter of an hour, Catherine Bennet strolled into view, her arm linked with that quiet sister… Mary, that was it. The two chatted amiably, with their mother joining in chorus just behind them and their father walking in silence, his eyes on the road. Darcy straightened, his eyes scanning the road in terror, and his horse nearly bolted from under him as his calves tightened upon its sides. Where was she?
He stared, helpless in shock. Jane Bennet was not present either, nor was that ridiculous youngest sister. Her absence he could account for, as he had arranged her marriage himself. And the eldest sister—yes, surely, she was wedded to Bingley by this time! Could that mean that Elizabeth…?
Sick with dread, he closed his eyes and leaned over the side of his mount, quickly covering his mouth as his stomach knotted and twisted. No! She could not belong to another! After all he had suffered to return to her side, to make things right, the heavens could not permit such a travesty!
A feminine cry brought him sharply round once more. Bingley’s name had sounded from the Bennet party, for that gentleman had been sighted by the younger sister. Desperately, he stepped his horse forward, just out of the line of the trees so he might see what the young ladies had.
Bingley’s carriage did indeed approach, but the shades were drawn. Perhaps she had gone to live with her sister! His breath came dizzyingly short and fast as he stared, willing her to step down after Jane Bingley. He saw his friend descend the carriage, turning to hand down the ponderous form of his fair-haired lady—clearly a woman who had taken great pains to conceal her condition by flowing dress. Then the door of the carriage closed, and the horse was led away.
“Wait!” he almost cried, his eyes staring and wild. No! His mind screamed again. It could not be! She could not have taken another, not after she had once smiled upon him! She might have gone to London… yes, that must be so! She might have been sent there by her mother… to secure a husband. Panic blinded his vision and before he knew it, his horse was surging forward again.
Bingley had stopped outside the door of the church to talk with some local gentry, releas
ing his wife into the care of her family to be seated indoors. Darcy was upon his friend in a moment, staring down from his mount with heaving shoulders and a savage look in his eye, but his tongue stuck rigidly to the roof of his mouth.
Bingley turned in mild surprise at this uncouth fellow who would eavesdrop from horseback on civilised conversation. The other gentlemen were also glancing up at him with disapproving curiosity, but their names had slipped his memory.
“A fine morning to you, good sir,” Bingley greeted indifferently. “I bid you welcome to Hertfordshire. Have you a boy to tend your horse? My coachman is just there—”
“Bingley!” he hissed.
Bingley’s gaze snapped back to Darcy’s, and the hand he had raised in gesture fell weakly to his side. His eyes rounded, and he blinked in astonishment. His tongue, visible in his gaping mouth, hesitantly shaped to form a “D—”.
“Forgive me, sirs!” Darcy stopped him. “I did not mean to interrupt your conversation. I beg you would excuse me.” He leveled a pleading stare at his friend, then yanked the reins to turn his mount away.
Bingley was glancing jerkily between his companions and this mounted mystery. The two other gentlemen each made some uncomfortable excuse to enter the church, and within seconds Bingley was running full tilt after Darcy. “You, there! Pray, sir, stop!”
Darcy did not heed. He trotted on until he had once more gained the shelter of his vantage point, and a moment later Bingley plunged into the trees behind him. “I say, sir, this is dashed unusual. You are very like a man I knew—will you not speak again? Who are you?”
Darcy swung to the ground, tossing the reins haphazardly toward a tree, then bore down upon the shorter man. “Damn you, Bingley, it is I! Do you not recognise me?”
These Dreams: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 34
