by Kate Bedlow
“They should provide quite a spectacle as midnight approaches.” He grew thoughtful. “When my mother died, Georgiana was devastated, almost beyond comfort. She was only six years old, a small, fragile thing. At night I would take her out to the veranda when the lights were at play. One night many years later, she told me that she liked to think that Lady Anne was there among the shimmering colors, dancing with the angels.”
“What a lovely and consoling thought.”
Elizabeth’s heart overflowed with tender feeling. Fitzwilliam Darcy was kinder and far more sensitive than he would ever allow the world to know. Of course he wished Georgiana a good match, and of course he cared that her future husband be worthy of her. But above all things, he cared for her happiness.
Which was why Mr. Midwinter must win the day.
“I had better go back in,” he said. “I wish to see that Mr. Gowan goes up to Jane, and I believe Garrett is currently enthralled by Queen Cleopatra.”
“It is rather inconvenient when the servants’ evening belongs to themselves. I wonder how I shall get out of this costume without Morton’s help when I retire for the night.”
“My dear Mrs. Darcy, I should be delighted to place myself at your service.” Fitzwilliam fingered the lacing on the back of her clown’s coat, with a look that told her he would not mind retiring on the moment.
“I accept your generous offer, Mr. Darcy.” She placed her hand on his chest. “But do go find Mr. Gowan for Jane. I looked in on her before coming down and she claimed she was merely tired, but I believe a visit from the physician would give her peace of mind.”
Fitzwilliam disappeared into the ballroom, leaving the doors open. From the alcove, Elizabeth listened to the music and observed the dancing. It was all very pleasant—until the square she was watching shifted, and there was Mr. Midwinter, smiling at something his partner said.
Bother! Whether he was truly enchanted or merely being polite, no smile of his should be for Miss Grenway.
“Eliza, there you are.” The doorway filled with a lady’s silhouette, lit from behind by the ballroom’s glow. “Would you like company, or are you hiding from the teeming masses?”
Chapter 8
“Charlotte, how wonderful to see you!”
The close friend of Elizabeth’s girlhood joined her on the settee. “What good news about Mary and Colonel Quartermaine.” Carley was no longer in the dragoons but was still often referred to by his former rank. “I do not understand why they waited so long.”
“As Carley tells it, he has wanted to get married from the moment he saw Mary. The delay was all her doing, but I never felt I could ask why.”
“Good manners can be decidedly inconvenient.”
“Quite. Oh, I am so glad you came, Charlotte. I was afraid you and Mr. Collins had been unable to leave Hertfordshire.”
“Not a chance of that. Mr. Collins interprets Lady Catherine’s invitations as commands. He would rather die than miss out on anything she proposes. We have been at Matlock and arrived with the earl’s party after you had gone upstairs.”
“And Mrs. Reynolds saw that you have comfortable rooms?”
“She has taken excellent care of us, as usual. Sadly, my husband’s turban came unraveled as we were coming down and he required my assistance. I am afraid we missed the opening number.”
“He is most fortunate in his wife.”
“We rub along.” Charlotte smiled serenely. “I am quite content.”
Her friend had never been a beauty, and she was two years older than her husband, but her industrious nature and powers of management made her the perfect wife to Elizabeth’s cousin, a man who was all unfocused ambition and desire. And Charlotte’s intelligence and sharp wit had always made her the perfect friend.
“Oh Charlotte, it is good to see you. We had no chance to really visit over Christmas. Did you bring the children?”
“They are at Longbourn with Maria.”
“What a shame she did not come with you.” Maria Lucas was nearing twenty, Lydia’s age, and also unmarried. As far as Elizabeth was aware, she had no prospects. “The ballroom is filled with eligible young men.”
“And my sister would have been glad of the opportunity. But Mr. Collins suggested she stay with the children, and she agreed before I could arrange otherwise. Maria is afraid of her own shadow and far too concerned with pleasing others.”
“I remember once she was near an apoplexy with worry over whether she had packed her trunks according to Lady Catherine’s dictates.”
Charlotte shook her head. “I do wish Maria were with us. There seem hardly any single men left in Hertfordshire, and you know how Papa hates London.”
“Then she must come to Pemberley for a good long visit when the weather is better,” Elizabeth said. “This summer. We shall have luncheons and card parties and invite all the young swains who can be dredged up. I am sure Lydia will be happy to oblige with recruitments. Perhaps in June or July.”
She had been going to suggest August, but she would be much confined by then.
“That is very kind of you, Eliza.”
“Then be kind to me, Charlotte. When your party returns to Matlock, you must remain here at Pemberley, for a few days at least. We shall have a nice visit together—and perhaps you will help me in my scheme to get my sister-in-law engaged.”
“How intriguing. I should like that.” Charlotte was quiet a moment, then said, “Perhaps Mr. Darcy might suggest the idea to Lady Catherine. If she informs Mr. Collins how it will be, then he will not immediately call to mind all the reasons he cannot do without me.”
Elizabeth smiled inwardly at Charlotte’s adroitness in handling her self-important husband. More power to her! But she could see by her friend’s soft expression that she had come to truly care for Mr. Collins. All had worked out for the best there. Elizabeth would have gone mad had she become Mrs. Collins.
A distant cousin to Elizabeth’s father, William Collins had inherited Longbourn, her family home, through an entail. Upon being instructed to do so by his patron, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, Collins had attempted to do the right thing by offering marriage to one of Mr. Bennet’s five daughters.
Elizabeth had rejected his offer, made while Papa was still alive, but then, upon Mr. Bennet’s death and out of a sense of duty, she had accepted him. Her change of mind had come too late, for in the interim he had asked for Charlotte’s hand.
It had been humiliating. But in retrospect, as Mama would say, all’s well that ends well. Elizabeth found real love with Mr. Darcy, and Charlotte and Mr. Collins were by all appearances very happy together. After four years, they had four children, two of them twin girls.
“Have you seen Georgiana, by any chance?” Elizabeth said. “The ballroom is but partially visible from here.”
“Miss Darcy was standing near the far wall when I entered,” Charlotte said. “She was with Lydia, both laughing as if neither has a care in the world.”
“Laughing with Lydia? Not at her?”
“I suppose you refer to her hair.” Charlotte raised an exceedingly judgmental eyebrow.
“So true! Only Lydia would do something so drastic, even in the service of fashion.”
“She has grown even bolder than I remember. Being awarded a medal by the Prince Regent will do that to a person, I suppose.”
These past several years, of necessity, all the Bennet sisters had grown decidedly bolder, but Lydia had become incurably audacious and independent.
After Papa’s death (and Mr. Collins’s rejection), to save themselves from genteel poverty—an oxymoron if ever there were one—they had taken the shocking step of going into trade and had opened a tea shop in Meryton. Mama’s infamous nerves had nearly got the best of her, so worried was she that her girls would lose their standing in good society and, worse, their very femininity. But she gave the place its name, Beau Bon-Bon, and had happily shared in the glory when the Beau became a popular meeting place where the ladies of Meryton enjoyed gossip
and drank tea—or the famous “secret” beverage, the Mrs. B—and on Tuesdays heard readings from novels by the likes of Monk Lewis, Mrs. Radcliff, Frances Burney, and the latest works of popular poets.
Charlotte’s mama had kindly visited the shop when it first opened, and the imprimatur of Lady Lucas had made the place safe for respectable women, the key to the Beau’s success.
Nothing Mama feared had come to pass, to the dismay of one lady in particular. Miss Caroline Bingley had originally proposed the scheme, with herself as anonymous investor. Her object, Elizabeth learned later, had been to destroy Elizabeth’s reputation in Mr. Darcy’s eyes—but the plot backfired.
Obviously.
Elizabeth smiled, again picturing Fitzwilliam’s scandalous proposal on that lovely afternoon in the garden at Darcy House in Berkeley Square. Far from destroying his regard for her, he had come to admire Elizabeth’s persistence and grit, and she had come to appreciate the kindness he kept so well hidden from the world. Inadvertently, Caroline Bingley had thrown Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam together.
Elizabeth was now part of one of the richest families in the country, but in that uncertain time another kind of wealth had accrued to the Bennets which was beyond measure: she and her sisters had all grown in self-confidence and in their love and respect for each other as they worked together to make the enterprise a success.
But Lydia had changed in another, darker way, and Elizabeth did not think Wickham had anything to do with it.
“She appears as light-hearted and gay as ever, but I fear something inside her has hardened. She is no longer so quick to fall in love with every red coat that comes along.”
“I am surprised Mrs. Bennet has not got her a husband as of yet.”
“Lydia has proved more resistant to Mama’s will than I ever was. Such irony! Nearly all of us are settled, if not actually married, yet her favorite has no potential match in sight. Even Kitty has Falcon Whittle! I am afraid Mama has been forced to retire from the sport of matchmaking.”
“Perhaps she has merely moved on to new players.” Charlotte nodded at the dance floor as several dancers shifted and Mrs. Bennet came into view. She was conversing animatedly with Commodore Harrington’s niece. “I believe she has a new protégé.”
Elizabeth had to laugh. “Well, the joke is on my mother. If the commodore has his way, of all the females in the ballroom, she is the one most likely to become engaged this night.”
But her mirth was cut short, for the dancers shifted again and Mr. Midwinter came into view—still dancing with Miss Grenway, and chatting with her just as amiably.
Chapter 9
It was very fine to be called clever and wonderful. Nevertheless, when Drake Midwinter clasped hands with Alice Grenway and promenaded with her down the line, he took care not to return her flirtatious banter in kind. He had no wish to become the ultimate prize in her quest to secure a husband.
The moment he entered Pemberley’s ballroom tonight, Miss Grenway had run at him from the sidelines as if determined to gather him up before anybody else could get there. Had his aunt not been on his arm, for certain Alice would have locked onto him herself.
From the beginning, Aunt Charity had warned him. Now that you are vicar of Lambton, my dear, things will change. Change indeed! His new position had elevated him from the rank of the rector’s poor relation to eligible gentleman, fair game for all mothers of unmarried daughters.
When a gentleman possesses the means to support a wife and family, Drake, society expects him to get on with it.
For two years, he had suffered no dearth of hints or advice on the matter. Only this morning, on his return from shooting with Mr. Darcy, Mrs. Pruitt had yet again made his situation clear.
You must marry, Vicar, and soon. It will be a scandal if you don’t. Only…
His inherited housekeeper’s reluctance had been more coy than sincere. Dutifully, he had pressed her to speak freely.
It is just that Alice Grenway is not the only fish in the sea.
His assurances that he was in no danger had been met with skepticism. How dismayed Mrs. Pruitt would be to note his present partner! Miss Grenway was pushy and grasping all at once, and without intending to he found himself standing up with her a second time. He well appreciated his housekeeper’s admonition—both aspects.
In truth, quite soon after he realized he really could afford to marry, Drake had begun to consider doing so—and the advantages he imagined were quite appealing. It might be very pleasant indeed to have a life companion, a dearest friend to share in one’s hopes and fears, even one’s dreams. Someone to greet the day with and to kiss good night.
There was someone in the neighborhood who aroused his feelings. He had never felt safer with anybody, not even Aunt Charity. A sense of sunshine warmed him at the thought of the young lady’s sweet smile and affectionate heart. But it was not to be.
Miss Georgiana Darcy had surprised him. When he first heard his benefactor had a young sister, Drake had expected another pretty young heiress, full of herself, naïve, oblivious to the world’s sorrows. He had not been prepared for the reality of her. Oh she was pretty, young, and an heiress, but in every detail that mattered, she had shattered his small-minded prejudices.
She might be the kindest person he had ever met. And the bravest. One time when he first knew her, she overcame her extreme shyness to defend and support a young girl wronged by his uncle. She had even stood up to her brother, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, to do it.
Drake simply adored her.
But it was a fool’s errand to think this way. Just as he was not the man for Alice Grenway, Georgiana Darcy was not the lady for him. She was so far above him that—well, if he must regard her tenderly, he would keep such feelings secret, like a treasure within the confines of his heart. Even if she had once begged him to kiss her.
Which he must not think of now.
Nor must he think of this morning, looking down on her lovely face framed by the snow…
Perhaps he should not think of matrimony at all. Only two candidates for a wife came to mind, and neither would ever be Mrs. Midwinter—one because he did not like her, the other because he could not have her.
At the shoot Drake had attempted subtly—perhaps clumsily—to convey to Mr. Darcy that he had no designs on the man’s sister. In the early, heady days after becoming vicar, when he had thought himself more important than was actually the case, he had entertained such a design. In the span of an eyeblink, he had allowed himself the fancy of loving and being loved by Miss Darcy. Georgiana.
Reality soon brought him to his senses. She was an angel in his eyes, all that was good and lovely and kind made manifest in female form, but Miss Darcy of Pemberley was as far beyond the reach of the vicar of Lambton as were the stars in heaven. Today he suffered no illusions that she could ever be his wife.
But neither would that person be Miss Grenway, for different reasons.
He would prefer to remain a bachelor than be bound to someone so caught up in her plans and schemes for him that she could not possibly know who he was. Sometimes in conversation with Miss Grenway, he could almost wonder if he had ceased to exist.
Their lines converged in the dance, and he raised his right hand to hers. Almost touching, they circled each other.
“Mama will not forgive me if I do not secure you.” The light of the ballroom chandeliers shone in Miss Grenway’s eyes.
“This setting is your milieu.” He had to say something. “You fit perfectly in a great house like Pemberley.” And I have no ambitions beyond being a simple clergyman with a simple country life. Did she really not see that he would never do for her?
“Do say you will dine with us Wednesday next.”
Inwardly he chuckled. Invitations to dine with families possessing unmarried daughters had waxed and waned with estimations of his fortune. He had been a poor curate when he first came to Derbyshire, with nothing to live on beyond the meager stipend his uncle had managed to wheedle from Mr. Hanson,
but his parishioners had assumed him well inlaid.
And why should they not? He was nephew to Mr. Clackston, the rector of Pemberley’s parish, a man believed very well inlaid indeed and of a highly respectable family. As Mr. Clackston’s only living male relative and likely heir, Drake had been quickly identified as a desirable prospective son-in-law.
Along with everybody else, the Grenways had known nothing of Drake’s poverty. They lavished attention on him, with invitations to suppers and card parties and gifts of cakes and candles and meat pies, then dropped him cold when it was discovered he lacked an independent income and lived only on his curate’s stipend.
The pendulum swung again when Lord Matlock granted him the Lambton living, and Alice Grenway quickly rediscovered his finer qualities. Drake bore her no resentment over this inconstancy. Before, he could not support a wife; after, he could. He would not blame her for her good sense.
He simply did not enjoy her company.
And he would not be dining with the Grenways Wednesday next.
“I am afraid that evening I have a prior engagement.” An excuse which had the virtue of being true. “I am to dine at Oak Haven Hall.”
Miss Grenway’s smile faltered, but she recovered. “Miss Whittle is a lovely girl.”
The Whittles were a genial family in Drake’s parish. Sir Alan was the local magistrate, and Drake was friendly with the baronet’s son, Falcon. But as to Clara Whittle, Drake thought of the sixteen-year-old as a child and, he being six and twenty, she likely considered him an old man. There was an end on it.
He refused the bait. “Miss Whittle is a very lovely girl. But I am no cradle robber.”
Miss Grenway, a decade older than Miss Whittle if she was a day, appeared relieved, said graciously, “Taking a younger wife is hardly a strange thing.”
“I prefer the companionship of someone of an age with myself. One who remembers Napoleon with immediate loathing and visceral dread, not merely as another character in stories of eras long past, along with Boadicea and Bonnie Prince Charlie.”
