Pemberley Shades

by D. Bonavia-Hunt

  At this point Elizabeth resolved that such insolent disregard of the proprieties as that Lady Catherine and Miss Robinson should dare to settle Darcy’s business for him in his wife’s presence could no longer be tolerated. Commanding herself to speak calmly, even lightly, she broke into their conversation.

  “It is fortunate for Mr. Acworth’s modesty, madam, that he is not present to be embarrassed by your kind schemes for his future happiness. May I congratulate you on your discrimination of his valuable qualities. But as regards Mr. Collins, I do not for one moment suppose that Mr. Darcy would consider a second application from him after refusing a first.”

  The effect of her words was what she expected. Lady Catherine drew herself up haughtily, but could not disguise her amazement, or her discomfiture at being told something of which she had been ignorant.

  “Do I hear aright?” she enquired, deeply offended. “Am I to understand that Mr. Collins has dared to apply for the living of Pemberley without first consulting me?”

  “Apparently so,” Elizabeth replied with a smile. “I must apologise for my better information, my husband having shown me Mr. Collins’ letter.”

  “I am surprised that Darcy did not inform me of it,” said Lady Catherine in accents of resentment. “But as he refused the application he may have thought it unnecessary to distress me. If there is anything I abhor it is deceit of any kind. That and ingratitude are not to be borne. I had not thought, however, that Mr. Collins was sunk so low as to go behind my back.”

  Elizabeth made no reply, and Lady Catherine, anxious to turn from a subject which had occasioned her some loss of dignity, informed Miss Robinson that she wished to see the garden.

  Nothing could ever be done at the Parsonage without fuss or trouble, and the Miss Robinsons must be properly bonnetted and shawled for the open air before they could usher their visitors through the garden door. A sort of procession was then formed. Miss Robinson and Lady Catherine led the way, and Miss Sophia, Elizabeth and Anne de Bourgh were to dawdle along behind them. But they had not gone more than a few yards from the house when Mr. Acworth suddenly stepped through the study window, and overtaking them, asked Miss Sophia whether he might join their party. Before half a sentence of delighted permission could be uttered he had offered his arm to Anne de Bourgh, and Elizabeth now walking in front with Miss Sophia heard him endeavouring to converse with his companion by asking her the names of the plants to be seen as they went along. As in most instances she was able to inform him confidently and correctly, the conversation between them became almost animated. From horticulture they soon passed away, and Acworth set himself to entertain the lady with a flow of lively anecdote and description which Elizabeth, obliged to give her attention to Miss Sophia, could only hear as sounding infinitely entertaining. Whenever he talked thus his countenance was enlivened with a sparkling of eyes and a play of the mouth which gave it a peculiar charm. Anne said little in return, but on the whole company stopping to admire an apricot tree which promised an abundant fruiting, Elizabeth saw that her usually pale face had quite a becoming colour and looked almost happy.

  The visitors did not stay very much longer. Acworth handed the ladies into the carriage but declined a seat in it. He must walk, he said, for the sake of his health. He had quite got into the habit of walking in the woods for the refreshment and peace it gave him. There was no persuading him otherwise, nor mistaking his positive intention not to be inveigled into accompanying them. Lady Catherine saw nothing to be offended at, but Elizabeth thought that Anne looked vexed and disappointed.

  On the drive back to Pemberley House Lady Catherine could not leave the subject of her favourite. “I really cannot bear to think of parting with him,” said she, “for I do not know when I have seen a young man who pleases me as much as he does. He must come to Rosings as soon as we return home on a long visit. Would not you like that, Anne?”

  Anne murmured her usual listless assent, but her expression became thoughtful. Once she smiled to herself; it was a peculiar smile and instantly checked after a furtive glance at Elizabeth who, though seeing it, contrived not to meet her eyes.

  As for Elizabeth, while replying to Lady Catherine whenever it became necessary, she sat revolving in her mind the suspicion, so strong as to amount to conviction, that Anne was in love with Acworth. The symptoms, subdued though they were in such an insipid creature, were not to be mistaken. It was not extraordinary, for Acworth had exhibited himself at his best to both mother and daughter, and his best was singularly pleasing. He could not, of course, have any serious intentions; his character forbade it, and he had besides made it perfectly plain that he had not.

  But there are none so blind as those that will not see, and once Lady Catherine had taken it into her head to desire a thing she was not easily to be baulked of its attainment. So completely charmed with Acworth was she that she might very soon think of making him her son-in-law if she had not already conceived the idea. Everything pointed to this consummation—his eligibility in point of birth and connections and the mother’s determination to marry off her daughter as soon as possible. The only objection to the match was one that Lady Catherine could at present know nothing of—his shocking propensity to make love to every woman he met. But perhaps in this instance even that would not be accounted so very great an obstacle, since once he is married a man cannot help being a husband, whether good, bad or indifferent; and Lady Catherine, very much a woman of the world, might be willing to compound an occasional flirtation or straying out of bounds provided nothing of the sort was enacted before her eyes.

  Chapter 19

  On reaching home Lady Catherine and her daughter went straight to their own apartments, but Elizabeth, feeling unwilling to rest or settle to any indoor occupation, would have walked out again to be active and in silent communion with her own thoughts, had not the chance of an encounter with Acworth presented itself as a risk to be avoided. Such companionship as would have been welcome was equally denied her, for Darcy, Mr. Bennet and Bingley were away for the day fishing in a neighbour’s waters and would not be home much before the dinner hour, while Mrs. Gardiner, with Jane and Kitty had driven into Lambton to shop and visit some friends, and Georgiana had proposed visiting an old servant of the family who had attended her in childhood. Only the children were to be found in their own quarters, and anticipating her last visit in the day to them by a short half-hour, she went to the nursery.

  She opened the door to find Georgiana with Richard in her lap singing to him a song that had charmed her own infant ears, while Jane’s little daughter Harriet leaned against her knee. Richard sat perfectly still gazing up at his aunt with a solemn expression in his eyes, so enthralled that he did not see his mother until she was close upon him. But her arrival soon changed everything; he must be jumped about and rolled over and romped with according to a rule that he would by no means have broken, and the game must moreover continue until the appearance of the children’s supper put an end to it, and even then his mother must sit beside him or watch him proudly feed himself with his own silver spoon. Then, and not till then, might she be allowed to go without an immoderate clamour.

  Elizabeth’s doubts about her son’s character would arise from time to time in spite of Darcy’s assurances that at Richard’s age he had been exactly the same. But a child of such remarkable intelligence who was always thinking of something fresh to do could hardly help being a trouble to those about him, and enlarging upon the latest evidences of his forward understanding, she led Georgiana away from the nursery as far as the hall. There a common wish to be out of doors was expressed; they stepped out upon the gravel of the terrace and soon were in the garden walking between the rosebeds.

  Since the day when Georgiana had confessed her unhappy love for Wakeford, Elizabeth had not had any further private conversation with her. To ordinary view Georgiana was not much different from her ordinary self; there were no signs of weeping or sleeplessness.
But the state of the heart is not easily perceived, for habit and obligation can lend a mask of indifference to the countenance and can even summon an appetite at the sight of food. Hope and despair were equally absent from her aspect, and although she could hardly be expected to take pleasure in the diversions going forward around her, she did not shun them. What she must be feeling inwardly, Elizabeth could only guess at and commiserate.

  The roses were blooming that season as never before and were now at the height of their profusion. Wherever they walked a rich diversity of colour met the eye on every side. Elizabeth gazed, lost in delight, and was almost startled when Georgiana suddenly addressed her.

  “Elizabeth, I have something to tell you which you may be glad to hear. I have quite got over the feeling I had for Major Wakeford. It may seem strange to you, indeed it does so to me, but it is none the less certain.”

  Elizabeth caught her arm and pressed it affectionately. “Oh, Georgiana,” she cried, “I cannot tell you how happy I am to hear you say so. I feared you must be suffering still. But how has it happened?”

  “I believe I have willed myself out of it. It was chiefly what you said that weighed with me. You tried to convince me that the match would not have been a happy one and after a little I began to see that you were right. So by refusing to let my thoughts dwell upon him, by incessant occupation and staying in company, even though I would rather have been alone, the cure was effected. I am no longer sensible of any pain or regret.”

  Elizabeth marvelled, but in silence, that so severe a wound as it had seemed at the time had been so rapid in healing. Was the cure true and perfect, she wondered, or but the temporary insensibility that follows upon an excess of suffering? Fortunately it was not likely to be re-opened by Wakeford’s return.

  “It is strange that I used to think you had a partiality for Mr. Acworth,” said she smiling.

  “Mr. Acworth! Oh, no. I could never care for anyone who was not a great deal better and wiser than myself, and he is not that. I do indeed like him for many things; he can be a delightful companion, amusing, witty, and yet full of serious feeling, but he is too wayward and changeable. And I do not think he is to be trusted—especially since I saw him one day with Rachel.”

  “Rachel Stone!” ejaculated Elizabeth.

  “Yes, I came upon them one day in a passage in the east wing. He had his arm around her and she was looking up at him in a very saucy manner. They did not see me—at least I believe not. I had just turned a corner when I saw them in the distance, and I felt so embarrassed that I withdrew at once.”

  “You said nothing at the time, Georgiana.”

  “No, because I did not like to speak of it. It would have sounded so much worse than perhaps it was, for I have heard that gentlemen do behave rather familiarly to serving-maids without meaning any harm. I did, however, say something to Rachel when she next came to my room. I said that I had seen her talking to one of the gentlemen visitors and that I hoped she had not done so except as a matter of service.”

  Elizabeth had to laugh at such a mild reproof to a girl so bold and brazen. “What did she say?” she enquired.

  “She said she had no notion who the gentleman could be, but she was sure she would not have been speaking to him unless he had required something of her.”

  “That last part is probably the literal truth,” said Elizabeth. “The circumstance reflects more discredit on Mr. Acworth than Rachel, but I would not hold a brief for either of them. When did it happen?”

  “Two or three days ago.”

  “Then since the improvement in his manners we have all applauded. Like children when deep in mischief he has become very quiet. But I will confess to you, Georgiana, that I am very sorry that I took Rachel into my service. I begin to see that it was a mistake. She is not a good girl and may prove a bad example to the other maids. As soon as Mason can resume her duties I shall place her elsewhere.”

  “I do think she is rather artful,” said Georgiana.

  “Well, I know I shall be thankful to have Mason back again. Reynolds says that she is in the greatest anxiety for fear of not being able to dress me for the ball.”

  “I cannot say I much look forward to the ball,” said Georgiana.

  “Nor I,” agreed Elizabeth. “But I dare say we shall find it agreeable enough when it is upon us.”

  The evening passed away in the manner ordained by Lady Catherine for the promotion of her pleasure and likewise of her designs upon Mr. Acworth, which were now perfectly open and unmistakable. The lady’s intentions to the gentleman were positively overwhelming and plainly embarrassed him, and looks were exchanged between one and another when she distinguished him in a way to cover him with confusion. Ridiculous as it was, and even laughable, it bred a discomfort in Elizabeth amounting to consternation, and it surprised her that her husband should show no sign of the concern he ought to feel, and could look on and listen with steady indifference while his aunt paid court to the most unsuitable object she could have selected.

  What Anne was thinking was not easily determined. She behaved discreetly inasmuch as she maintained her usual rather insipid composure, as if hardly knowing what was afoot; but an occasional look of quiet complacency diffused over her features spoke of Lady Catherine’s manoeuvres being not unpleasing to her. On the whole Elizabeth was sorry for Acworth. No man enjoys being wooed by a would-be mother-in-law even when his inclination is not averse to the daughter, but in the present instance the latter idea was too improbable to be considered for a moment. Once Elizabeth caught him glance at herself, look away and bite his lip and frown.

  “What are your schemes for tomorrow, Mr. Acworth?” Lady Catherine called out to him towards the end of the evening. “If you are not otherwise engaged I must positively have you call with me on my very old friend, Lady Mary Harlowe. When she was here on Thursday she told me she had been at school with your mother, Lady Egbury, and was most urgent that I should bring you to see her.”

  Looking acutely uncomfortable, Acworth muttered something inaudible in reply.

  Soon afterwards Lady Catherine rose to retire for the night. “Late hours do not suit Anne,” said she. “When nerves are of such delicate refinement as hers long periods of repose are indispensable,” adding as an afterthought, “but she is able to support fatigue a great deal better than she could a year or two ago. I am excessively astonished at the improvement in her health.”

  There had been a general uprising at the first sign of Lady Catherine’s withdrawal, and the party was collected in a loose throng near her ladyship awaiting the cue for bow or curtsy. Elizabeth had just stepped aside from bidding Lady Catherine good-night to give place to Darcy when she happened to catch sight of a look of peculiar significance in Anne de Bourgh’s countenance. It seemed directed at someone and was both sly and pleased. So startled was she that she turned her head sharply to discover the recipient of the look. She saw Bingley laughing with Kitty and Mortimer, and Acworth moving away behind them. So Anne had arrived at intelligence with Acworth! “She is progressing,” thought Elizabeth, “she is learning how to play her fish.”

  There was some lingering after the Darcys’ most important guests had withdrawn, some reminiscent chatting about the day’s sport between the gentlemen, some canvassing at large of plans for the morrow; but at last there was no more to be said, and no further desire but for sleep. This for Elizabeth was the hour when she might hope for unrestrained communication with her husband, when after hours of unremitting circumspection she could say freely all that was in her mind—and even more—at no risk of being indiscreet or misunderstood, and hear what he had to say in reply, whether it was something to tell that added to their common knowledge, or an expression of his riper judgment. But no sooner had she reached her dressing-room when a message was delivered importing that something was amiss with Richard; he had suddenly been taken ill. Hastily removing her dress and throwing a wrapper
about her she sped to the night nursery, all else forgotten in her anxiety for her son.

  She found to her comfort that Mrs. Reynolds was there before her, and although Richard lay writhing as a young child does when in pain, the experienced old woman was perfectly composed, and showed nothing of alarm. Her countenance expressed all the compassion one must feel for helpless suffering, but also full assurance as to what should be done.

  “I do think he must have eaten something he ought not to have had,” she said in a low voice. “As I recollect, the children came to my room for their lollipops after their walk, and there was a basket of green gooseberries which had just been brought in for the servants’ dinner. I did not see him go to the basket, but it was standing where he could reach it, and his little fingers are that quick he might have taken a few before I could have seen him.”

  “Mr. Roper!” exclaimed Elizabeth. “Is anyone about to fetch him? One of the servants must be roused.”

  “As you wish, ma’am. But I do not think it hardly necessary. A dose of medicine will give relief, I am sure it will. It is the same I used to give Mr. Darcy and Miss Georgiana when they were bilious or had eaten imprudently. If you will excuse me, ma’am, I will go and fetch it.”

  While Mrs. Reynolds was gone Elizabeth stood by Richard’s cot watching him in a misery that more than equalled his own. He was not crying, but whimpering and tossing from side to side. She endeavoured to soothe him, but nothing could pacify him. It seemed to her a most alarming sign that he should want nothing of his mother. Her anguish made every moment seem an hour and she began impatiently and distractedly to call for Mrs. Reynolds when the housekeeper reappeared carrying a bottle and a spoon.