by Kate Bedlow
The crowd parted for Mr. Gowan, and everybody relaxed as he took charge of the patient. He was the most highly regarded medical man in the neighborhood and attended upon all the prominent families. He would know what to do for the poor rector.
“Morton met us as we were coming down the stairs and told us about Clackston.” Fitzwilliam was at Elizabeth’s side. “Jane is well, but Charles wishes to remain with her for the evening. I do not blame him.”
While assessing the goings-on, Fitzwilliam surreptitiously touched the small of Elizabeth’s back. The secret, intimate connection gave her immediate relief. Every large trial and every small stress was rendered less daunting by her husband’s steady presence.
The rector made a show of his chagrin and assured everyone, especially the physician, that he was quite well. She was ready to feel quite smug over the rector’s duplicity, but Mr. Gowan grew quiet and so serious in his instructions that he further rattled Miss Charity and made Elizabeth a little ashamed. The man was truly ill after all.
“I shall have a room prepared at once,” she said.
But he refused the offer rather querulously and would not be convinced to stay at the great house.
“I shall take Mr. Clackston and my aunt back to the rectory,” Mr. Midwinter said. “I am sure he will be more comfortable in his own bed.”
“I will accompany you,” Mr. Gowan said.
Georgiana then chimed in with a very good suggestion. “Garrett, go down to the kitchen and ask Mrs. White for the winter cart. Bring it round to the front door. You and Mr. Midwinter are strong enough together to pull Mr. Clackston’s weight, and it will be quicker than waiting for the sledge to be harnessed.”
Elizabeth had noted on previous occasions that Georgie’s natural shyness fell away when required, as if a dire need for action outweighed any demands of a fragile ego. Like her brother, Georgiana cared more about other people’s welfare than she did for her own fears and insecurities.
“Very clever, Georgiana.” Fitzwilliam smiled with pride.
The gesture made Elizabeth’s heart flutter. Buried beneath all that outward confidence, her darling Fitzwilliam did have his insecurities, but he believed that to care for those in his charge he must project strength and absolute confidence. Out of pride, he let none suspect he ever harbored a worry or a doubt. Elizabeth loved him all the more for his worries and doubts.
The winter cart was simply a hand-pulled wagon with runners instead of wheels which the kitchen used to haul loads from the orangerie and the hot houses when snow covered the ground. It was large enough to accommodate two people when it wasn’t full of produce or firewood.
“Do go at once, Garrett.”
“Nonsense, Darcy. You may need your man.” Lady Catherine had not the constitution for staying out of the way. “Send him to fetch the cart by all means. But Mr. Bonney—yes, I see you there!—you will assist Mr. Midwinter in conveying the rector to his bed. I daresay you are strong enough.”
The red-haired curate and Mrs. Annesley had also joined them, along with a growing number of the merely curious. Elizabeth wondered if poor Mr. Clackston could get any air!
Mr. Bonney seemed as attentive to Lady Catherine’s demands as Mr. Collins ever was, though without a trace of unctuousness. Together curate and vicar made a sling of their arms with which to carry the rector, who accepted their solicitude as his due.
Now Mr. Rook joined the production. “If you will all follow me, I will see to your hats and coats.” Though Lord Misrule for one night, he was Pemberley’s butler in perpetuity and could not forgo worrying over the comfort of his master’s guests. He led the train of Mr. Gowan, Miss Charity, Mr. Clackston and the rector’s bearers away, and if he tried to appear solemn doing it, he did not succeed.
“La, Georgie, whatever has happened here?” The great hole left by the departure of Mr. Clackston and his entourage was instantly filled by Lydia and a young man dressed as a Roman senator—or perhaps a god, he was that handsome. “We feared something was amiss when we saw you and Mr. Midwinter dash away from your square. It took us an age to get through the crush!”
“Our rector fell ill quite suddenly.” Georgiana’s voice wavered, and she looked at the gentleman with Lydia in astonishment—or perhaps in dismay.
Elizabeth knew then who the fellow was.
“Kett, old man!” Fitzwilliam cried happily. “I heard you were here. But do pardon me. I should say Lord Somersea. My congratulations.”
“It must seem rather odd, eh, Darcy?” The marquess smiled broadly. The two men quite obviously liked each other, and the sense of hail-fellow-well-met between them was infectious.
Elizabeth found herself smiling against her will. Fitzwilliam so rarely wore enthusiasm on his sleeve that it was all the more alluring when he did. A well of good feeling sprang forth within her for her husband’s old friend.
It was not to be borne!
Chapter 12
This was a mistake. The moment the words left her mouth, Georgiana regretted saying she needed some air—even though it was true.
“Then you will have it, Miss Darcy.” Lord Somersea stepped out of the line and, touching her elbow lightly, led her off the dance floor. He made an imposing sentinel in his Roman toga, handsome and tall and armed with a rogue’s smile, and the other dancers parted before him without resistance or complaint. Moses could not have had an easier time with the Red Sea.
He escorted her to an antechamber that opened onto the veranda. It would be freezing outside. She hoped Mr. Midwinter—and all with him—had made it to the rectory without taking chill. The antechamber was just cool enough to provide relief, and a small fire in the corner, burned down to coals, guarded against the room becoming too cold.
“This is a refreshing antidote to the crush in there.” His lordship closed the door and stood with it behind him, watching her. His smile had lost its roguish aspect. He seemed almost vulnerable and hesitated, as if not knowing quite how to proceed.
Was she a skittish kitten then, to be treated with cautious encouragement? Or was he merely being friendly? Georgiana was never quite certain where Lord Somersea was concerned. At the moment it seemed the former. He regarded her warily, as if at any moment she might bolt and run.
And well she should! Most definitely a mistake.
She felt nervous and slightly ill. He was going to do it—ask the question she had hoped with all her heart he had not come to Pemberley to ask. She knew how to refuse a gentleman—had done so several times. It was never pleasant to give disappointment, but one said the words and got through it and there was an end on it. Now it had come to the point with Kett, and she was shocked to realize she was not absolutely sure she ought to refuse him.
She had no complaint against his character, and Fitzwilliam liked him. And as Lydia, his great champion, often pointed out, the connection would please her family and he was handsome and wealthy and fun to be with. Georgiana was not above allowing that Lady Somersea sounded very well.
It was not as if she had a better offer to consider.
She braced to hear Lord Somersea’s proposal, having no idea what her answer would be.
“I never thought I would be the marquess.” He seemed to fill the entire space, if not with his body, then with his personality, moving past her to stand by the embers dying on the grate. “It required a strange sequence of accidents, fatal illness, and children born female to make it so. I will not call the events serendipitous, for I never wished for the title and did not prepare myself to inhabit it.”
“There we are opposites.” She could not deny he was as pleasant to talk to as he was to look at. “I am no peer, of course. But I have always been made aware of my position and family obligations. I was definitely raised to inhabit them.”
Oh dear. That sounded ungrateful.
“Please understand I do not complain against my fate, not at all,” Somersea said. “Indeed, this past year I have found that owning a fine house in Berkeley Square and a carriage with
a matched four is quite the pleasant thing. And I mean to be a good master. I will give no cause for my relatives and tenants and all who depend upon Somersea for their living to regret the new lord. The estate in Northamptonshire is well run and its retainers honest, of that I have assured myself.” He scoffed then, sympathetically. “It sounds like poor Quartermaine will come into a mess of neglect and ill-feeling one day.”
This was a side of Kettering Corby which Georgiana had not suspected existed, and she liked him better for it. In fact, his talk about his estate reminded her of her brother. She felt more at ease with Kett than she had done before.
“Mind, I will have one or two people to confront who are used to having their own way with things. My cousin’s widow, the former marchioness, is exceedingly disappointed to lose her title and has not yet accepted that she is no longer the mistress of Somersea Hall. She puts me in mind of your aunt, Lady Catherine. I believe Lady Augusta would be delighted if I stayed far away and left her to run the place in peace. I am sorry for her, but it would not be a kindness to allow that. I will marry one day, and I do not intend to leave that battle for my wife to fight.”
And there it was. At his mention of marriage, her stomach tightened and she looked away.
His voice softened. “Miss Darcy—Georgiana. You must know why I have come to Pemberley.”
“I…” No! He would have to say the words; she would not do his work for him.
But neither could she coldly dissuade him from the endeavor. She was so confused. She wanted what she could not have, but all her life’s training had taught her that happiness lay in wanting what she could have.
Oh Mr. Midwinter! Why did you forsake me?
“I have liked you since that day I saw you spying on your brother and me while we tormented Wickham—and I do apologize for saying the blackguard’s name. It will never cross my lips again after his conversation. I only wish to tell you how I came to like you from the start. You were a curious child with a secret sense of mischief about you. You hide it from others, but I have always seen it. I was teasing Wickham that day, to Darcy’s great delight—”
“I thought you were very naughty, but it made my brother so happy. Papa was always admonishing him to be kind to George, you see. I know now that Mr. Wickham took advantage of my brother… and everybody. But in those days I did not understand.”
“Neither did Mrs. Reynolds when she caught us out. She blamed me for leading Darcy astray, and I believe I am in her bad books to this day.”
“Then I am very sorry for you.” They both laughed.
“One of my goals in this life is to earn the dear lady’s approval once and for all.”
“You set yourself a high challenge. But it is a worthy goal, and you are to be commended for wishing it, sir.”
“I have a plan, which I mean to commence this very night.”
“Do tell. I will do all I can to aid you.”
“Will you, Miss Darcy? For my scheme is nothing less than becoming your husband, and being so very good at making you happy that Mrs. Reynolds will have no choice but to accept me as worthy in her eyes.”
“My word, Lord Somersea! You slipped that in quite deftly.”
“I spoke of Somersea Hall.” Cleverly, he did not press the point. “You would not be required to live there, should you not like it. Truly, I think you would prefer to remain here, in Derbyshire, near your family home. You could choose any available house in the neighborhood that you like. I am quite rich, you know. I am sincere when I say I will do anything in my power to make you happy.”
“You do me a great honor with your proposal, sir.”
“Oh damn it all.”
Her face must have shown her surprise at such words, for his own eyes widened and he looked chagrined.
“I am sorry. But is that not just the sort of thing ladies say when they are about to turn a chap down?”
She could not help laughing a little. “Am I to understand you have experience of your offers of marriage being rejected?”
“Not a bit of it! I never thought I would be able to afford to marry, at least not until I made my fortune one day in some endeavor not yet come to mind. Then from the moment I became Lord Somersea, my other cousin—the one who likes me—lectured me on the importance of marrying soon. A new world of possibilities opened up to me, but I could think of no other lady of the ton I could like to marry but you.”
An ember popped loudly on the grate and he jumped, then laughed at himself.
“I meant my offer to be more romantic, but as you see, I feel so comfortable with you that I end up speaking too plainly. I hope you will not hold it against me.”
“To the contrary, I cannot abide flowery protestations of love and admiration.”
“This is not your first proposal, I see.” His smile was truly disarming. “It would be shocking if it were.”
He made no move to come to her, to take her hand, or to press her in any way. Conduct perfectly designed to achieve his aim.
“I will not dissemble and say your offer surprises me, my lord, but I find I am not ready with an answer. I do promise to give you one soon, for I take no pleasure in keeping a gentleman in suspense.”
“I take it as a success that I was not turned down on the instant. Of course you will wish to consult your guardians on the matter, and quite right too. Take as long as you require. I came prepared for a siege, don’t you know. Mrs. Reynolds frowned severely at the number of trunks I arrived with, but now I am a marquess, I find I am forbidden to wear the same suit of clothes twice in a two-month span.”
“No wonder you and my friend get on so well together.”
“Miss Lydia sets me to rights when me cravat’s in the wrong.”
His lordship grinned and rolled his eyes with his joke. He really was a pleasant fellow, endearing in his way.
“At all events, I shall wait. I have no engagement, in Town or anywhere, that I would not break for you.”
It had indeed been a mistake to come into the room with him, but it was done and no going back. “I shall give you my answer by Sunday evening.”
Two days. It would be enough. She would learn what she needed to know Sunday morning, after church.
Chapter 13
Drake bolted upright and furtively looked about the bedroom. Had he called out from his dream? The mantel clock chimed the half hour, eight thirty, but the skivvy must have awakened him when adding fuel to the morning fire. Mr. Gowan stirred in the wingback chair he had dragged over to Mr. Clackston’s bed. After a few regrettable bodily noises, the physician rose to check on his patient.
Drake had spent the night at the rectory, confined the past several hours to this chair in his uncle’s bedroom. Aunt Charity had refused to get any rest herself until Drake promised not to leave Mr. Clackston while she slept.
“Begging your pardon for the fire being late, sir.” The skivvy saw that he was awake and stooped awkwardly in lieu of a curtsy. “Cook said wait and let the gentlemen sleep. I saved this room for last, but I’m at the end of my rooms now, you see.”
Gowan cleared his throat and squinted at her severely, then made a to-do of taking Mr. Clackston’s pulse a second time. The poor girl was out of place in speaking—good servants were barely seen and skivvies certainly never heard—but she appeared to be sincerely distressed over the rector’s state.
“Do not distress yourself.” Drake took pity on her. “It was thoughtful to do my uncle’s room last, I am sure.”
He watched the physician go through the motions of doctoring. As medical men went, Gowan seemed more competent than most, though even he could not refrain from selling it as he went about his business. The theatrics were all wasted on Drake, who cared more for results than promises. His eyes kept shifting to his uncle’s other arm, bared and stretched over a bowl for bloodletting.
The girl began to open a second set of curtains.
“Leave it; there is light enough and your master must sleep,” Gowan said briskly, but not un
kindly. The skivvy collected her bucket and things, seeming quite happy to quit the room.
“How does my uncle?”
“The rector is past the crisis. Sleeping normally, breath and heart sounds regular, but he is very weak.”
“Was it an apoplexy?” Drake had not seen his uncle fall. At the time, he had been in heaven, dancing with Miss Darcy, oblivious to all the cares of this mundane world.
“A mild attack, more likely than not, but Mr. Clackston’s heart is not strong.”
“What must we do?”
“Let him not leave his bed for a week at the very least. He must sleep as much as he will. I will call every morning and evening.”
“But tomorrow is Sunday. His sermon…” The rector wore it as a badge of honor that he had never taken a holiday. Drake did not think a work ethic had anything to do with it, but rather that his uncle both enjoyed moralizing over others and could not bear the idea of another man holding sway over “his” flock.
“I am a physician, sir, not a worker of miracles. For some months, I have urged Mr. Clackston to hire a curate to assist him in his duties. Perhaps now he will heed my admonition.”
“That would be a miracle.” Drake felt a twinge of distaste. He pitied all curates, having been one himself, for they often took on all the work of a parish while receiving very little of the recompense.
However, Gowan was correct. Someone had to be in the pulpit on Sunday, and it was obviously not going to be his uncle. At least the fellow would enjoy the pleasure of speaking in one of the loveliest churches Drake had ever seen, memories of kisses notwithstanding.
He accompanied Mr. Gowan out of the sickroom. The physician enlisted Martha, the head housemaid, to be Mr. Clackston’s nurse and gave her strict instructions as to dosages and et cetera.
“I suppose I will have to make my rounds in these clothes,” he muttered absently. “No time to go home and change.”
“Martha, show Mr. Gowan to the kitchen and ask Cook to give the man a good breakfast before he goes.”
“Thank you, Mr. Midwinter. That is most welcome.”
