A Wife for Mr. Darcy

by Mary Lydon Simonsen

  “May I share any of the names of your other guests with Miss Montford?” Mrs. Redford asked, continuing to prod and encourage.

  Georgiana did not know what to say. If she had been able to speak to Miss Montford, inviting Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst probably would have been sufficient for her purposes. However, Mrs. Redford was asking for additional names, but everyone else of her acquaintance was of the genteel class.

  “Miss Darcy, I understand you have just returned from Pemberley where you were entertaining some new friends.”

  “Yes, Miss Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner.” But the Gardiners did not advance her cause, which she was sure was also Mrs. Redford’s, because Mr. Gardiner was a gentleman, and her puzzled expression prompted Mrs. Redford’s response.

  “I believe Mr. Gardiner is a coffee broker and often visits the docks.”

  Georgiana nearly jumped out of her seat. “Yes, that is true, and although a gentleman, Mr. Gardiner earns his living,” and Georgiana experienced the same happiness a student feels who has given the correct answer and has pleased her tutor. Buoyed by her success at guessing what Mrs. Redford needed to know, she added, “I could also invite Mrs. Crenshaw, Mr. Bingley’s older sister, who has very odd ideas with regard to the rearing of children. You might have heard about her sons, as they were reprimanded for throwing rocks at the squirrels in Hyde Park, but she may have gone to Scotland.”

  Mrs. Redford smiled at this charming young lady whose purpose was to get her brother out of his unhappy courtship with Miss Montford.

  “I think we have enough with Mrs. Hurst, Miss Bingley, and Mrs. Gardiner.”

  Georgiana gave a sigh of relief as it was obvious Mrs. Redford was trying to extricate Letitia from a relationship that could in no way make her mistress happy. “I hope you understand that my brother would never deliberately hurt Miss Montford.”

  “I know that, dear. I was always in the next room, and although it had a good start, it became clearer with each visit that their differences were too great. I think it is important for you to know that Letitia’s mother died when she was only eight, and her father’s world view is all she has ever known.”

  Georgiana squeezed Mrs. Redford’s hand. “Miss Montford is most fortunate in having you as her companion. I have only recently found the perfect companion, and I rely on her heavily as her advice is always sound and in my best interest.”

  When Georgiana reached the front door, she asked Mrs. Redford if she thought the guest list would be sufficient to solve their problem.

  “I do not know, Miss Darcy. All I can tell you is that Sir John will hear of it, and then the rest is up to him.”

  Today was a day to rejoice and be glad for Charlotte Lucas was to wed Mr. Collins. While each member of the Bennet family made ready for the nuptials, they were all talking about which of the groom’s many annoying habits, his poor table manners, incessant talking about Rosings Park and all things de Bourgh, nightly readings of Fordyce’s Sermons, or his constant humming and whistling, that they would now be spared.

  Jane and Lizzy were discussing that very topic when they heard a loud cry from Mr. Collins, and Jane, who had finished dressing, hurried down to see if the parson had been injured. Instead, she found her cousin staring at a letter that had just been delivered by John Lucas.

  “What is the matter, Mr. Collins?” When he did not answer, Jane turned to Charlotte’s brother. “John, what is this about?”

  “My sister took ill this morning with a fever, and the wedding has to be postponed for a few days. My parents aren’t feeling all that well either, but no one is dying,” John said, while looking at a crying Mr. Collins.

  Jane took the letter from her cousin’s shaking hands, and it was just as John had said. Charlotte had to keep to her bed but anticipated a full recovery in a few days. In fact, she had written, “I wish to emphasize in the clearest possible terms that the wedding is only delayed, not canceled.” By that time, Lizzy had come downstairs, and after reading the letter, she understood that that particular sentence had been included because Charlotte was aware that Lizzy considered Mr. Collins to be one of the stupidest men in England.

  “Of course, this means Mr. Collins will be with us until Charlotte recovers,” Lizzy said when Jane and she were alone again.

  “I hope it does not snow as that will keep Charles in town,” Jane said, looking out the window at a gray December day, her statement indicating just how little interest she had in their annoying cousin. “Lizzy, come to the window. I do believe that an express rider has turned into the drive.”

  “Even better. That is Mr. Gregg, Lord Fitzwilliam’s man. Let us hope he is the bearer of good news.”

  Lizzy and Jane were not the only ones who had noticed the rider coming up the drive, and Mrs. Bennet, followed closely by Aunt Gardiner, practically grabbed the letter out of Gregg’s hand, and when Mrs. Bennet clutched it to her bosom and let out a sigh of relief, all knew that Wickham’s plan had failed.

  “Say nothing. We do not want Mr. Collins to know,” she cautioned her daughters. “Thank heaven, my dear Lydia is safe. That wicked man’s plans have come to nothing.”

  Leaving her mother to Jane and Aunt Gardiner, Lizzy directed Lord Fitzwilliam’s manservant to the kitchen. “I imagine you are in need of nourishment, Mr. Gregg.”

  “What I lack in height, I make up for in appetite, miss,” he said, laughing.

  When Gregg went into the kitchen, Mrs. Hill could see that this was a very hungry man, and in no time, he was diving into a plate full of eggs and bacon.

  “Mr. Gregg, I cannot thank you enough for the arduous journey you undertook on behalf of my family.”

  “Glad to do it,” he said, after swallowing a mouthful. “I used to ride for the senior Lord Fitzwilliam, but I got too rickety to do it every day and had to hang up my silks. But I like a bit of excitement now and then.”

  “So you must enjoy being in Lord Fitzwilliam’s service.”

  “That I do, miss. That I do. But if truth be known, because of his little girls, he’s been on his best behavior of late, so this was a nice change.” Gregg then recounted the long journey from Pemberley to Brighton and the look on Colonel Forster’s face when he read Mr. Darcy’s letter. “He went from having no color at all to being as red as those uniforms you see everywhere in Brighton. He was fit to be tied.” But then Gregg stood up, and reaching into his jacket, he said, “I almost forget, miss. I’ve got a letter for you from Mr. Darcy.”

  When taking the letter from Gregg, Lizzy tried not to look overly eager, but after excusing herself, she went up to her room and anxiously opened the first letter she had ever received from Mr. Darcy.

  “There you are,” Jane said, coming into their bedroom and sitting next to her sister. “I wanted to tell you that despite her complaints, Mama is fine, but intends to keep to her room to avoid Mr. Collins.”

  “I look forward to the day when I can stay in my room and have everyone wait on me hand and foot because of my nerves,” Lizzy said, and Jane picked up on the note of unhappiness in her sister’s tone.

  “What do you have there? Is it a letter from Mr. Darcy?” “You may read it. It will not take long.”

  Dear Miss Elizabeth,

  I am happy to advise you that when Lord Fitzwilliam’s man arrived in Brighton, your sister was asleep in her room. However, it was subsequently learned that an “elopement” had been planned. It is your father’s intention to depart for home in the morning. I will remain in Brighton for another day before returning to London. Once I am in town, I will write again.

  Yours, F. Darcy

  Jane, who was the recipient of many romantic notes and letters from Mr. Bingley, could understand her sister’s disappointment, but it was no secret that Mr. Darcy kept his emotions under regulation.

  “Lizzy, do not read too much into this.”

  “That would be difficult to do.”

  “But you must think of the circumstances under which the note was writte
n. Mr. Darcy wrote quickly so that Gregg could be on his way to deliver the good news to us, and I am sure that there were a lot of people in the house, affording him no privacy in which to write a more personal letter.”

  Lizzy nodded. She had no wish to worry her sister. She had enough on her hands with their mother in bed with a case of nerves and Mr. Collins loose in the house audibly lamenting the separation from his beloved Charlotte.

  “Mr. Collins!” Lizzy said, jumping out of her chair. “We forgot about Mr. Collins. Lydia and Papa will be coming home tomorrow. You know our sister well enough to anticipate the drama that will unfold. Mr. Collins cannot stay here or everyone from here to London will know of our troubles. Jane, what are we to do?”

  Lizzy was right. Lydia would make no effort to rein in her emotions, no matter who was in the house, and she could just picture her loudly pining over the loss of her dear Wickham. Mr. Collins had to go. But where? And then Jane smiled. “I know exactly where Mr. Collins can go.”

  “Mrs. Crenshaw, allow me to introduce my cousin, Mr. Collins. He was to be married today, but his bride is unwell, and the wedding has been postponed.”

  Mr. Collins gave a wan smile. He was uncomfortable being introduced to a woman who was clearly nearing her time of confinement, but Mrs. Crenshaw’s genuine warmth and sincerity soon put him at his ease.

  “When I received Jane’s note asking if I could accommodate you for a few days, I was very happy to do so. With Charles gone, it will be good to have the company as I enjoy conversation very much.”

  Since Jane had hosted the four eldest Crenshaw children at Longbourn, much had changed. Charles’s sister had tearfully confided in Jane that she was tired of being the leader of a “pack of wolves,” as her husband characterized their family, but that everyone else described as a bunch of barbarians. She knew the children could be brought to heel because she had once employed a Scotsman, Mr. Campbell, who had performed miracles, even with Gaius and Lucius. But when her husband continuously interfered, Mr. Campbell had tendered his resignation, and the wolf cubs were released to run wild once again.

  Jane had provided the encouragement necessary for her future sister-in-law to exercise greater control over her family. Without bothering to consult her husband, Mrs. Crenshaw had rehired Mr. Campbell, giving him full authority over the children, and had enrolled Lucius and Gaius in the same boarding school the tutor had attended in Scotland. As Mr. Campbell had explained, “Mr. Crenshaw wishes for his sons to be Spartans, and I can assure you the environment at Glenkill meets the very definition of Spartan.” She had bid a tearful good-bye to an anxious Lucius and a defiant Gaius, but she was convinced they would survive the ordeal and would be all the better for it.

  The two chatterboxes struck up an immediate friendship, and as Jane departed, she could hear Mr. Collins describing the fireplace at Rosings and Mrs. Crenshaw offering to lend the parson her copy of Rousseau’s Social Contract.

  Before climbing into bed, Jane watched as Lizzy reread Mr. Darcy’s note. It wasn’t the brevity of the note that was so distressing; it was the signature, “Yours, F. Darcy,” that was the source of her unhappiness.

  “Jane, I do not know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. That is how someone would sign a business letter.”

  “Are you concerned about the depth of his regard for you?” Jane asked.

  “I don’t know. What I do know is that his moods change as quickly as the weather in the Peak. And this matter with Lydia. Is there anything that better illustrates the shortcomings of our family than his having to travel all that distance to save our sister from ruin? He must be asking himself, where was her mother? Where was her father? More importantly, does the possibility exist of another scandal in the family?”

  “Lizzy, I understand your concerns, but despite the failings of our family, which Mr. Darcy was well aware of, he surrendered all when he fell in love with you.”

  “Did he?”

  “Yes, I am sure he did. It is just that he is methodical—no false starts. He wants everything just so before he will proceed.”

  “Yes, I agree. Mr. Darcy is a cautious man—one who takes only small steps.” As Lizzy lay there in the dark, she thought, so much for spanning a chasm in one giant leap of love.

  Darcy stared at the writing paper hoping for a bolt of inspiration to hit him as he was bereft of ideas. He was not a man of words—either verbal or written. He said what needed to be said, and no more, and there were times when his taciturn nature had worked to his advantage. On the afternoon when he had gone to Longbourn to apologize to Elizabeth for his rudeness at the assembly, the conversation had turned to his intolerance for idle discourse. If it had not been for that, he would have quickly left her parlor, and possibly, just as quickly returned to London. So a case could be made for the employment of an economy of words, although he doubted Elizabeth would see it that way.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Darcy caught sight of his cousin, Lord Fitzwilliam, dressed in all his sartorial splendor in a peacock blue coat with an embossed design, matching blue breeches, and a gold waistcoat. There were few in London society who could successfully get away with dressing as their fathers had, but Antony was one of them.

  “Greetings, my dear cousin!” he said as he dangled a calling card in front of Darcy. “I dined at my club this afternoon, and guess who was there? Never mind. You do not have to guess. Sir John Montford. If you look at the back of the card, you will see it is his intention to call tomorrow afternoon at 4:00. Why so late, you ask? It is because the rotund gentleman does not miss a meal, and any time sooner would have interfered with his two-hour midday dinner.”

  4:00? So much for setting out for Hertfordshire tomorrow, Darcy thought.

  “What are you doing there—writing a love letter?” Antony asked, while peering over Darcy’s shoulder. “All you have is the salutation.”

  “Yes, I know it needs work,” Darcy said, only partly in jest.

  Antony pulled a chair over so that he was sitting right next to his cousin and offered his help. “I have lots of experience in this area, and I can assist you.” Since Darcy was suffering from a severe case of writer’s block, he accepted Antony’s offer. “It should be easy to compliment someone as beautiful as Elizabeth Bennet. For example, you might say that her dark eyes hold the secrets of the universe.”

  “What the devil does that mean?”

  “That she is mysterious.”

  “But she is not mysterious. She is open and honest—something I greatly admire.”

  “Is that what you want to write?”

  Dear Elizabeth,

  Allow me to compliment you on your openness and honesty.

  Sincerely, Fitzwilliam Darcy, Esq.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. But I have never understood why someone would write a letter telling another person what they look like. Elizabeth does own a mirror.”

  “Oh, this is going to be harder than I thought,” Antony said, groaning. “It is not what she looks like in the mirror; it is what she looks like in your eyes.”

  Darcy thought about her dark eyes, and if they did not hold the secrets of the universe, they certainly held the secrets of his heart.

  After watching Darcy jot down a few of his thoughts, Antony asked, “Have you kissed her?”

  “Why?”

  “Because if you have, you may write of how you felt when your lips met hers—the heat, the passion, all thoughts deserting you, except those of her, and how at that moment, the two of you became one—inseparable and complete.”

  “That is very nice, Antony. I can see how that would be a pleasing sentiment.”

  “Sarah Compton loved it.”

  “Good God. I am not going to write to Elizabeth using words you have written to your mistress.”

  “Former mistress. And what is the difference between using my words or copying out one of Will Shakespeare’s sonnets?

  Shall I compare thee to a Summer’s day?

  Thou art more love
ly and more temperate:

  Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May.”

  “That is a beautiful sonnet,” Darcy said defensively. He had been thinking about copying out that very poem.

  “It is beautiful, and if you want, I can go down to the park and some talented person will have already copied out Sonnet Eighteen for you in a beautiful hand, and for a few pence more, you can get a sketch to go with it of some artist’s concept of Summer personified.” Despite his excellent advice, Antony could see that the man was still struggling. “For goodness’ sake, Darcy, all you have to do is think about that lovely creature during your most romantic moment together. Then pick up the pen and write.”

  “Well, you have given me some ideas, so I thank you.”

  “Before I go, I want you to know I will be leaving shortly. I have taken rooms in Kensington to be nearer to a dear friend.”

  There was no doubt Madame Antonia Konig, lately of Vienna, was the dear friend he wanted to be nearer to, and Darcy’s expression said it all.

  “Darcy, I know what you are thinking. Kensington! Ugh!”

  Darcy just shook his head in disbelief. Only Antony would consider his move from Mayfair to Kensington to be the greater evil than the reason for the move—his mistress.

  “I can see you do not approve. I had hoped that since your heart has so recently been touched, you might understand. But since you do not, please allow me to explain. I am deeply in love with Antonia, but because I am bound to the Evil Eleanor, I cannot marry her—which I would do if I did not have this millstone of a marriage around my neck. And there are other reasons. Because Antonia lives near Kensington Park, I was able to introduce Emmy and Sophie to her, and they got along famously. It is nice for my children to see a man and woman together in the same room without furniture being thrown about.”