Mr. Darcy's Bluestocking Bride

by Rose Fairbanks

  Maria shrieked, bringing Sir William to the room and then the information was relayed again.

  “I thought perhaps she would invite us to drink tea with her on Sunday, but who could have imagined?” Mr. Collins said.

  “From all that I know of the peerage, such elegant breeding and good manners are quite common,” Sir William said. “Indeed, I am not surprised at all since you have long declared how affable she is.”

  “Quite right. Quite right, sir,” Mr. Collins reversed his position and began another lengthy exuberance about Her Ladyship’s gracious condescension.

  Charlotte watched the scene with a smile and Elizabeth approached her. “Excuse me, Charlotte. I was just about to go walking when Miss de Bourgh arrived. I shall return shortly,” she said.

  “Of course,” Charlotte replied, but her smile did not reach her eyes. Elizabeth felt a twinge of guilt that her friend could see that Elizabeth did not feel the happiness the others did.

  As she walked, Elizabeth allowed that for all her mistrust of peers, they had beautiful grounds. Well, Lady Catherine had not married a peer. However, it seemed the breeding of an earl did not desert her upon her marriage to a baronet. Nor would it escape her daughter’s behaviour if Mr. Darcy was any standard for how grandchildren of earls behaved.

  *****

  Darcy walked into his club, steadying himself for the unwanted attention. Last week, the courts determined he was the only living male descendant of John Darcy and, when his aunt died, he would inherit the title. Yesterday, the papers had printed it. A wry smile tilted his lips up. It surprised him they took so long. Usually, the gossips salivated over such news. Well, unless there was a young lady of quality who had misbehaved in some fashion to scandalise over, often while sparing a gentleman any blame at all. Bingley waved him over, and Darcy ignored the suddenly intrigued looks and nods from gentlemen who had never bothered to care about him before.

  “Darcy! Where have you been?” Bingley said and greeted him with a familiar grin. “We have not seen you in weeks. Caroline is beside herself,” he added with a laugh.

  Noticing the curious gazes of eavesdroppers, Darcy fixed each one with a glare. A waiter approached. Darcy’s tone when ordering sent the last impertinent man back to his corner and the servant seemed ready to flee as well.

  Bingley sat back and assessed him, eyebrows furrowed. He dropped his voice. “What has you in such a bear-like mood?”

  Darcy scrubbed a hand over his face. “My aunt.”

  “The one in Kent? After you to marry her daughter again?”

  “No, the Baroness.”

  Bingley looked blankly at him.

  “Have you read a paper recently?”

  The expression on Bingley’s face explained he had not. Darcy left the table and grabbed a newspaper from a gentleman near the fire. Not caring about his startled and angry curse. Darcy tossed it at his friend and took his seat.

  “You are going to be a baron?” Bingley yelled in surprise.

  The occupants of the room whipped their heads in their direction and grew silent. A growl emitted from Darcy’s throat.

  The waiter approached trembling. “Ah-ah-anything else?” he asked.

  Darcy glared at him, and the servant left.

  “Darcy, is this really correct?” Bingley said, still far too loud as interlopers leant in their direction.

  Darcy tore the paper from his friend’s hand. “Do be quiet!” he hissed. “I do not care for my affairs to be so publicly bandied about.”

  Bingley gaped at him. “You will inherit a title. A seat in Parliament. It is not like it can be private.”

  “It can be more private than you screaming it in the middle of Brooks’,” he muttered, and Bingley had the good grace to flush.

  “So, you are angry at your aunt,” Bingley said, finally whispering. “Did you not know you were to inherit?”

  Darcy raised an eyebrow and bit back a sarcastic retort. He should not take his temper out on his friend, even if he was stupidly smiling again. “Of course, I knew. She has had her title for a very long time, however, and does not play the usual role of a Society hostess. She’s too eccentric for them to worry about. It took years to settle the title on her after her sister died. They almost held it for my father.”

  Darcy paused and shook his head. Was it that which first captured the Fitzwilliam family’s attention? “At any rate. Her petition was accepted, it must go through her hands before continuing down the line.”

  Bingley whistled. “Not very many peerages go through the female line.”

  “Yes, few of them were written as such.”

  “So, your father died before he could inherit.” Darcy nodded. “It should have been clear then that you were the next in line.”

  Darcy let out a disgruntled sigh. “It should have been, but they must examine the line again and search for a relative that had been overlooked. The title might be held by women and passed through them, but invariably favours men.”

  Darcy rolled his eyes at the thought. Their king was mad, his son, the Prince Regent, was a wastrel, and all the other princes were equally worrisome. The next heir to the throne was Prinny’s daughter, Princess Charlotte. Next it would go to her son if she ever bore one, whether or not that son proved worthy or if he had a dozen elder sisters. Well, whilst it was only with poor grace that the English allowed women to inherit at all, the French had not and look at what happened to them.

  “So, the courts have finally conceded you will inherit?” Bingley summarised, although in truth Darcy had already said as much.

  “Yes,” Darcy ground out. They were now getting to the heart of his distemper.

  “And that has you angry? You do not wish for a title? Or you are angry that your aunt did not marry and have her own children?”

  “What?” Darcy started. Such thoughts never entered his mind. His aunt’s life was her own to live. He might not like the added duties and responsibility that would ensue, but it had fallen to him, and he would not condemn her choices like a petulant child. Bingley shrugged and gave a sheepish smile. Darcy wondered if Bingley could be pardoned of murder with that look whereas he was often accused of offending with a mere glance.

  Darcy glanced around the panelled room full of Society’s wealthiest men. They could gossip worse than women. He locked eyes with the servant and the young man approached, trepidation in his eyes. Darcy fished several coins from his purse. “We require privacy.”

  The servant’s eyes widened, and he snatched them as though Darcy would change his mind. How interesting to see that in this establishment that purported itself as among the finest of clubs for noblemen, and even princes, it did not treat its servants fairly. The man had walked off with renewed determination and soon herded the crowd to other seats.

  “Well?” Bingley said with an amused look.

  “She wants me to create a club.” Darcy took a sip of his brandy. “For women.”

  Bingley’s face of disbelief said it all. Everywhere Darcy went, he received similar looks.

  “A club of wealthy women from good families, preferably peerage. They are to discuss art, science, literature, and such like. However, there will be no conversation about politics, and gambling will be prohibited. They are to be patronesses and produce works themselves.”

  “A club for bluestockings,” Bingley chuckled.

  “This is hardly a laughing matter. It is near impossible to find women to meet her qualifications.” Well, at least for him to meet such women. The ones thrown in his path had money and rank enough to their name, but little sense or intelligence, and all had only one goal: marriage.

  “Oh, come, Darcy!” Bingley said and took a sip of his drink. Grinning, despite Darcy’s ill-humour, he explained. “Do you not recall a certain conversation Hertfordshire? You and Miss Elizabeth Bennet argued about accomplished women.”

  “Debated,” he said. He did not argue with the spirited lady. Besides, they mostly agreed. It was Caroline Bingley who had set h
erself opposed to Elizabeth.

  “Disputed,” Bingley said expectantly.

  In truth, Darcy could scarcely remember what he said to Elizabeth that evening. Instead, his memories filled with the look of her profile in the glow of the fire, the way her eyes danced when she presented her opinions and shone as she would not rescind them when he disagreed.

  “You had said you knew only half a dozen accomplished ladies.”

  Darcy frowned. He had not been exaggerating. After weeks of searching, he had only six names for his aunt’s club.

  “Caroline rattled off some ridiculous load of nonsense women should know to be considered accomplished — a euphemism for marriageable in her usage — and Miss Elizabeth patently refused it to be possible.”

  Darcy took a sip of his drink to keep from smiling. He did remember the encounter now. God, she was clever.

  “You asked if she actually believed it so difficult to find women that skilled and after my sister’s list, Miss Elizabeth declared she was surprised you knew any.”

  How did she not see I meant her? In his weeks in Hertfordshire, he had feared others noticed his attraction to the country lady. I will see her again soon… Darcy clamped down on the thought so tightly his jaw ached.

  “Good Lord, Darcy!” Bingley blanched. “Is that monstrous frown from finding women for your aunt’s club or from mentioning the Bennets?”

  Darcy released a breath he did not realise he had been holding. “Neither.”

  Although he took no pleasure in either task, Darcy would rather face a firing squad than admit the next, but it occurred to him he needed a confidant. “My aunt demands I marry one as well.”

  Bingley’s eyes bulged, and he called for more brandy. Darcy agreed with the sentiment wholeheartedly.

  Dearest Niece,

  Do not let melancholy besiege you. You are made of sterner stuff! He is not the only gentleman in the world, and certainly, there are dozens who have better character. Return to London, and we shall find you a match.

  A.F.

  Chapter Four

  At breakfast the following day, the planned visit to Rosings Park was all anyone could speak of. Mr. Collins waxed eloquent, and Charlotte smiled wistfully. It appeared, however much the acquaintance of the ladies of Rosings held no interest for Elizabeth, it held considerable sway in Charlotte’s mind. Her younger sister fairly trembled at considering herself in so grand a house, and Sir William boasted about the fine match his eldest daughter made.

  “Not that you need fear Charlotte snatched up the only worthy gentleman, Eliza,” he told her. “I am sure some other gentleman will come to the area sometime. You see how good things come to those who wait. And, of course,” he dropped his voice, but still loud enough for most of the room to still hear, “it does not hurt to have more attainable goals than being the mistress of Netherfield.”

  Elizabeth’s eyebrows rose to her hairline, and the only thing that quelled her angry retort was that she had known Sir William all her life. Never before had she thought there was any truth in her mother’s complaints about the artfulness of the Lucases, but the pointed jab at Jane brought all her protective feelings to the front.

  “Papa, did my husband show you the orchard?” Charlotte asked and gave Elizabeth an apologetic smile.

  Elizabeth turned her face as she felt heat slap it. She did not want Charlotte’s pity!

  Sir William furrowed his brow. “No, however, he did mention it. He said it could only be accessed by the gig. What expansive grounds your glebe is!” He walked toward his son-in-law. “Collins, care to show me your gig?”

  “Eliza, enjoy your walk. Just be careful to return in enough time, so my husband does not feel the need to worry about tardiness,” Charlotte said before Elizabeth could speak.

  “Thank you,” she replied and exited before anyone else noticed her.

  While Elizabeth strolled the grounds, Sir William’s words weighed on her mind. It was he who had suggested that Bingley would marry Jane. And now, after Bingley’s departure, he insinuated that Jane tried to grasp too high. Jane never sought Bingley’s attention! Elizabeth’s heart squeezed when she recalled her dearest sister’s shy smiles and blushes at Bingley’s attention the night of their first meeting. Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut as Jane’s visage flitted through her mind. For those few weeks, Elizabeth had never seen Jane happier. She had always been lovely, but the effects of new love made her radiant. Hopefulness had shone in her eyes, and Elizabeth now wondered if Jane would ever love again.

  Restlessness passed through her. She had always known that her parents had never had a happy marriage, nor were they ideal mentors, but it suddenly occurred to Elizabeth that she felt alone in the world. Who was there to protect Jane’s broken heart? Her mother had meant well by forwarding her eldest daughter so much but was useless afterwards as she aired her own feelings without regard for Jane’s. And their father had cruelly laughed at Jane’s pain.

  Mr. Wickham’s debauched words resounded in Elizabeth’s ears again. Was it not shocking for a lady, even of her age, to not immediately consider alerting her father to what she had heard? She had always been her father’s favourite, but it was because they had the same sense of humour, not true affection. It was not the sort of relationship Charlotte had with Sir William. He had never called his daughters silly or laughed at Charlotte’s unwed state.

  Turning back to the parsonage, Elizabeth shook her head to dispel her thoughts. She was putting too much stock in Mr. Darcy’s words. Before speaking with him, she had thought Wickham merely boasted to his fellow cads. Why should she trust Darcy’s version of Wickham’s character? Because it matched what you witnessed when Wickham was not attempting to charm.

  Darcy’s words from Bingley’s ball reverberated in Elizabeth’s mind. “Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his making friends whether he may be equally capable of retaining them is less certain.”

  Elizabeth had to allow, that Darcy wisely had not argued with her own understanding of Wickham. He did not doubt she had seen enough to find him a friend worth making, but he had also pointed out that she did not know him well enough yet to know if he was a friend worth keeping. Well, now she did.

  Such thoughts only lead her to consider that, in a few weeks, Darcy would be at Rosings. He had not displayed manners which made her desire his friendship. Might she have been wrong? Elizabeth chewed her bottom lip, hating the thought. At the very least, with only Charlotte to really speak with, he might prove a useful acquaintance. That was if Lady Catherine and Darcy’s intended did not take up all his time.

  Passing through the gate, Elizabeth trudged up the walk, through the parsonage and to her room to change. Although she had arrived promptly, Mr. Collins promenaded up and down the upstairs hallway giving directives for the ladies to rush their toilettes. He had taken a moment to assure her that whatever gown she had brought would be satisfactory for meeting the great lady as his patroness preferred the distinction of rank preserved.

  As they walked the half-mile to Rosings, Elizabeth found much to enjoy. Most impressive were the grounds around the house, as it was situated on a hill. However, Elizabeth did not admire them for the reasons Mr. Collins would have liked. Elizabeth perceived she would have a view of some miles and thought she might sketch the spire of one of the churches, or the towers to some of the old homes in the area. Of course, if Lady Catherine knew Elizabeth sketched she might be insulted if Elizabeth did not copy Rosings. She looked up at the dull stucco and shuddered at the gaucheness, whilst Mr. Collins blithely enumerated the cost of the chimneys and the windows. The Palladian style home was, indeed, grand and intimidating-looking when seen from a distance. Having studied architecture, Elizabeth realised the style relied on looking colossal and expansive, but really the homes were rather shallow in width.

  As they entered the entrance hall Maria, and even Sir William, appeared alarmed at the ostentatious finery around them. Elizabeth, however, bore it all with calm obser
vance. Rosings was not as large as most visitors would presume. Nor had Elizabeth heard anything about Lady Catherine that made her sound frightening. Elizabeth was not in the habit of fearing the wealthy. While the lady’s manners sounded repulsive, they did not seem intimidating.

  At last, they followed the liveried servants to the large drawing room where Lady Catherine, Miss de Bourgh, and her companion sat. The ladies went so far as to rise at the entrance of guests. Thankfully, Charlotte provided introductions, and therefore they were saved the many mortifying apologies Mr. Collins would have found necessary to utter. Sir William bowed low but remained mute, and Maria sat near her sister nearly clutching her side. Elizabeth did have some sympathy for the young girl who had only just entered society after Charlotte’s marriage. While she was almost three years older than Lydia, she had less experience in company.

  As Elizabeth observed Lady Catherine, she felt a prick of unease. Her Ladyship seemed very much like the picture Mr. Wickham depicted only days ago. Elizabeth had believed his every word, and had imagined him as the most upstanding gentleman she had ever met! From Wickham to Darcy, Elizabeth’s thoughts turned, bought even more to the fore as she soon saw enough in the aunt to be reminded of the nephew.

  Next, Elizabeth noted Miss de Bourgh. The lady was far smaller than Elizabeth had observed the day before. Elizabeth had always imagined such delicacy was a mere figment of a novelist’s imagination but Anne de Bourgh indeed looked like one strong wind could lift her away. Nor did she make up for her size and plain looks by a striking personality. She seldom spoke, and when she did it was only to Mrs. Jenkinson.

  Shortly after Lady Catherine had detailed how the view, at which she had commanded them all to look, was better in the summer, they were called to the dining parlour. Dinner was as exemplary as Mr. Collins had promised, and he took his position at the bottom of the table and carved and flattered in equal skill — that is to say leaving much to be desired. Sir William had recovered enough to echo all his son-in-law’s words while his youngest daughter remained too frightened to speak.