Darcy's Match

by Kate Bedlow

  Only a few moments ticked by before Lord Farley said very good to the cook and turned to go. He stopped at the door and looked back at Drake. “I’ll see you upstairs then, Vicar.”

  And then he was gone.

  “I should move along also,” Drake said. “Thank you, Mrs. White. Ladies.”

  Mrs. Crealy guffawed and the others blushed at being called ladies, and as soon as he exited through the doorway, full-blown female laughter broke out behind him. He took no offense; it was not meant unkindly. And besides, he was distracted by something else. What had Susan meant by the gossip?

  Coming up into the chilly world again at the top of the stairs, Drake did not head for Pemberley’s front entrance but instead turned right, being much closer to the north-facing backside of the great house where the salon was located near the ballroom. He took himself the short distance around the corner and up a set of stone steps, hoping to catch a footman’s eye and be let inside. Then he caught his breath.

  A striking image of clouds both dark and light, split here and there by shafts of sunlight streaming from the very vault of heaven, reflected against the wall of windows and multiple-paned french doors that looked out on the wide veranda.

  Over time, a man got used to Pemberley’s grandeur, until it became part of his everyday, mundane world, but it had a way of surprising him. One moment he was thinking of winter carts and orange cakes and the teasing of kitchen maids, and the next he turned a corner to behold a vision of sublime beauty and divine grace.

  One of the salon’s french doors was open, a woman’s shrill voice spilled out and echoed over the veranda’s limestone floor.

  “I knew how it would be! I call it quite romantic, if you ask me.”

  Drake stepped behind a pillar, wishing not to interrupt. Mrs. Bennet—the mother of Mrs. Darcy and a notorious matchmaker—must be talking about her daughter Kitty and Falcon Whittle. Drake smiled. Perhaps after he left the ball last night Falcon had convinced Kitty to stand up with him a few times more. He knew for a fact his friend would very much like to know Miss Bennet better. The question was whether she would allow it.

  But a possible romance between Falcon and Kitty was not Mrs. Bennet’s subject.

  “No gentleman would brave the winter snows to come all this distance with no card, risking the humiliation of being turned away, unless he were in love,” she said. “Mark my words. Lord Somersea means to offer for Miss Darcy—if he has not already done so.”

  The sparkle of feminine oohs! and ohs! spilled out through the door over the veranda, caught up and amplified by the stone floor and pillars. Though more refined than the kitchen maids’ laughter, the sound had the same quality of female eagerness. Drake was afraid to hear more, and yet felt compelled to do so. He remained hidden behind the pillar.

  Apparently, blatant eavesdropping was not beneath him.

  Chapter 15

  So far, Mama, Daphne Wells, Mary, and Charlotte had joined Elizabeth in the salon, where the ladies were to gather until dinner was announced. As Miss Wells’s uncle might say, discussion of last night’s ball was well away.

  With a care for Georgiana’s feelings, Elizabeth glanced at the door on the far side of the capacious room. Gossip was always a delicate thing, but especially when the subject of conversation might walk in at any moment!

  But it could not be helped.

  It is a truth universally acknowledged that, following a ball, the world must pause until one can confabulate with one’s friends upon the meaning of every smile, every frown, and every pairing which occurred over the course of the event. Only then can the flow of social intercourse resume apace.

  Therefore, Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam had decided to separate the sexes before, rather than after, today’s meal. Even now, the footmen were directing the gentlemen to the drawing room on the first floor.

  “Did they not make a handsome couple? And what a fine-looking fellow the marquess is. I was sure The Morning Tittle exaggerated his beauty—you know how the London newspapers are—but now I say not one article did him justice.”

  “Oh, Mama!” It would not do if poor Georgiana walked in to hear her name discussed at all, let alone coupled with that of a single gentleman. Although… if the gentleman in question were Mr. Midwinter, would Elizabeth be so bothered?

  “I do not believe his lordship took much risk in coming.” Mary addressed Mama’s earlier point. “Mr. Darcy would hardly turn away a marquess, and an old schoolfellow at that.”

  Apparently Elizabeth was the only one to notice how happy Georgie had appeared while dancing with Mr. Midwinter. Fitzwilliam said she only imagined such things because she wished them to be so. But until she heard of an engagement from Georgiana’s own lips, she would not give up on the vicar.

  “I should think an announcement will soon be forthcoming,” Charlotte said carefully. “Last night Miss Darcy and the marquess were seen going into an antechamber. Quite alone. The door was closed, and they did not come out again for some time.”

  “There you are. I knew it!” Mama crowed.

  A shock of winter wind blasted in from the window, and Elizabeth went to close it herself rather than wait for a footman. Something fluttered behind a pillar on the veranda, and she had the odd feeling someone was there, listening to their conversation. But then one of the collared doves who had a nest nearby came waddling around the pillar, pecking at cracks in the limestone. She laughed at herself and returned to the conversation.

  “After poor Mr. Clackston left, my attentions were mostly taken up by the Matlock people. I did not hear of this tête-à-tête.” She was sure Fitzwilliam had not heard of it either. Else, when he came to her after the ball, he would have crowed over his triumph.

  “This morning a housemaid and skivvy were talking about it in my room,” Mary said. “The bedcurtains were closed, and they did not think me yet awake. All the servants, at least, believe Georgiana will soon be Lady Somersea.”

  Everybody pointedly ignored Mary’s reference to her closed bedcurtains, but Elizabeth could see them all thinking of why they were closed. Mrs. Quartermaine was for all intents and purposes on her honeymoon, after all.

  “Lady Somersea,” Mama said dreamily. “Does that not sound well?”

  “Even so, I hate to think of tongues wagging before an announcement is made,” Elizabeth said. “Georgiana will be mortified!”

  “Tut-tut! If they are indeed engaged, she can be alone with Lord Somersea all she likes,” Mama said. “It does not signify, so long as the banns are called soon, all right and proper—though I wager his lordship will likely procure a special license.”

  The collared dove and its mate suddenly flew off. It seemed they had been frightened away, but still Elizabeth saw no one on the veranda.

  The salon door opened, and as cheerful female chatter echoed into the room, everyone in Elizabeth’s corner went dead silent, waiting to see who would come through. One might freely discuss one’s friends behind their backs, but there must be an art to what was said to their faces.

  “Ah, here is our darling girl, and at the height of fashion!” Mama cried out. “Lady Caroline Lamb has nothing on you, my dear.”

  Lydia entered first with Gwennie Annesley, Caroline Bingley, and Jane on her heels. Her hand darted to her cropped curls and her smile brightened. Even so, Elizabeth wondered how she could be happy with that boyish hair. The poor thing! One dramatic gesture, and now came the long wait for her locks to grow out again.

  “I have a place for you here, Jane. You’re looking well this morning.” Elizabeth made room for her sister to sit with her on the settee. “And how nice, Mrs. Annesley, to see you out of your widow’s weeds.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Darcy.” Gwennie spread her hands to indicate her gown. “Is it not lovely? A gift from Miss Darcy—she is so very generous and kind.”

  Aside from last night’s costume, Elizabeth had never seen Georgiana’s companion in anything but the blacks, greys, and violets of mourning and half mourning. In t
he pretty pale yellow gown and matching band to hold back her ginger curls, Gwennie appeared ready to rejoin the world.

  A happy sight and also a convenient one, for if Georgie was to marry she would no longer require a companion, and positions were easier to find for ladies not dressed in dreary colors.

  “What do you think?” Lydia plopped onto a sofa and instantly reverted to the topic of the day. “Will Kett and Georgie at last come to an understanding?”

  “Kett! On such familiar terms, are you?” Caroline Bingley made a face. “Well, my dear, as Georgiana’s bosom friend, you should know rather better than any of us what to think.”

  There had been a time when Caroline presumed a closer relationship to Georgiana than Lydia or Elizabeth or any Bennet could wish for. Indeed, Miss Bingley had hoped to one day call Georgiana “sister” in more ways than one.

  Things had not gone as planned. Despite all Caroline’s efforts, not only had Fitzwilliam chosen Elizabeth, but Charles had fallen in love with Jane from the moment he saw her. Presently, an undeclared truce existed between Elizabeth and her former nemesis. Perhaps, as the Gospel promises, the truth had indeed made her free, for ever since her exposure as the investor behind Beau Bon-Bon, Caroline had softened.

  However, she still betrayed the occasional hint of unresolved spite, and on this point Elizabeth had come round to Mama’s way of thinking: marriage would be a great cure-all for what ailed Caroline Bingley. But she had better have a care. Lord Farley would not wait forever. If the lady did not accept Richard’s suit soon, he might well give her up entirely to hunt in grounds more yielding.

  After all, with his brother’s untimely demise, Richard was no longer Colonel Fitzwilliam, a relatively poor second son, but Lord Farley, the future Earl of Matlock. Seemingly everything Caroline had ever wanted.

  What a puzzle.

  “My wager is on Lord Somersea,” Lydia responded. “He is a persistent chap and loads of fun. I like him, especially as he obeyed my orders regarding his fancy dress costume. Do you all not agree his drapes well displayed his finer qualities?”

  The naughty innuendo shocked no one. There were only ladies present, and both involuntary smiles and ready murmurs of approval of his lordship’s Roman toga were forthcoming.

  “You are developing quite the reputation for stylishness, Miss Lydia, with an eye especially toward shocking.” Caroline looked pointedly at Lydia’s hair, then turned to Gwennie. “I must congratulate you, Mrs. Annesley. Your first affair out of mourning was a great success. That young man in Lady Catherine’s party appeared not at all put off by your breeches.”

  “Um…” Gwennie uttered uncomfortably.

  “Might his attentions be worth having? I am sorry to say I do not know the fellow. He left before we could be introduced.”

  “Mr. Bonney is the curate at Hunsford,” Charlotte said.

  “A… curate.” Caroline looked as if she were trying mightily not to sneer, giving the same impression had she allowed her natural snobbishness free rein. “Pity.”

  Elizabeth sighed, but Caroline was right. A curate could not afford a wife. It was a pity, for a good husband would be both pleasanter and more permanent than another place as a companion or, worse, governess. At all events, something must be found for Gwennie. To leave her to her fate once Georgie married would be unkind, and it would go against everything Fitzwilliam stood for.

  “Mr. Bonney knew my costume immediately.” Gwennie did not take Caroline’s bait. “A credit to your talent, Lydia. And I thought him quite clever. He asked should he beg to dance with Cesario or Viola. And when I said to him, ‘Time must untangle this, not I,’ he responded with, ‘I believe it not too hard a knot for me to untie.’”

  “Our Gwennie is a great reader,” Lydia told Caroline, and the others agreed Mr. Bonney’s play on the lines from Twelfth Night recommended him.

  “I suspect you would have found him clever even had he stumbled over your boots and cried zooks,” Mama said. “And what a fearsome couple you made, with your red hair.”

  Gwennie was saved from having to answer by the arrival of Kitty and, at last, Georgiana.

  “Kitty, dear,” Mary said, “there is a smudge of icing on your chin.”

  “Oh. I thought I had got it all.” Kitty pulled a handkerchief from her pocket. “Mrs. Crealy and I concocted the most wonderful scones with fresh oranges from the hothouse.”

  “How delightful,” said Caroline dubiously.

  Iced orange scones were a favorite of Georgiana’s, but Elizabeth knew of another person who liked them very much also. “Poor Miss Charity will sorely miss all today’s treats.”

  “Mrs. White knew you would think of that,” Kitty said. “She asked me to tell you she sent a basket to the rectory.”

  It had become so common a thing to think of Kitty in the kitchen, any kitchen, that Elizabeth had no more reaction to her sister’s report than one of gratitude.

  “We were discussing Shakespeare when you came in.” Lydia had no interest in talk of kitchens.

  Kitty raised a skeptical eyebrow. “What an odd subject.”

  “Not very. Gwennie has been reading his plays,” Georgie said. “Have you come to the end at last?”

  “The comedies only.” Gwennie relaxed, no longer subject to being teased about Mr. Bonney. “I am cleansing my palate with something by Mr. Richardson before moving on to the tragedies. I am so grateful for access to Pemberley’s fine library. But in truth I am not sure I wish to finish this novel.”

  “Do not say it is Clarissa.” Kitty groaned and rolled her eyes.

  “When I was young, I found Clarissa quite edifying,” Mary said. “But in those days, what I believed about female virtue I am embarrassed now to recall.”

  Mama frowned, opened her mouth, then closed it again.

  “It is Clarissa, I am afraid,” Gwennie admitted. “The tale is so unrelenting in its dreariness. I understand the heroine is meant to be the very model of feminine virtue, yet I cannot help but think she is a fool in every way. If she does not reform Lovelace by the end, I will feel sorely used by the author— No, Lydia! Do not tell me what you know!”

  “I hate all ruiners of stories, and I would not ruin even Clarissa for you,” Lydia said. “But if you must take up a very long and relentless novel, I recommend The History of Tom Jones. At least it is relentlessly cheerful.”

  “I do agree. Tom Jones is a delight.” Mama chuckled. “Oh, Lady Bellaston is the worst of villainesses! How I love to hate her.”

  Charlotte chimed in. “Mr. Collins is a great admirer of Clarissa, don’t you know. You might take that as your guide, Mrs. Annesley.” She smiled mischievously. “However, I give you leave to detest it.”

  Charlotte’s husband had once been a figure of resentment and scorn in the Bennet household, then of ridicule, then (momentarily) wistful regret, but he had proved redeemable. It was terribly unfair of Elizabeth to make the leap from the odious rake Robert Lovelace to the odiously silly William Collins, but it occurred to her that despite the Longbourn heir’s lingering obsequiousness and tendency toward self-aggrandizement, under the influence of his wife’s love, he was today a better man.

  Was that not what a good marriage did for its constituents? Fitzwilliam had exposed Elizabeth’s petty prejudices, allowing her to attempt their cure. She in turn had mitigated his shyness and, not in small measure, the lower aspect of his pride. There could be no doubt Georgiana would ennoble Lord Somersea far more than his title ever did.

  But… what would the marquess bring to Georgiana? Wealth? Rank? These were hers already. He could improve her existence only in degree—by giving her merely more of what she already had.

  Mr. Midwinter was a different case. The light of happiness burned brighter in Georgiana’s eyes when the vicar was near, Elizabeth had seen it.

  “Sister, why do you sigh so?” Jane squeezed her hand with concern.

  “No reason. I may have wandered into a daydream.”

  Chapter 16

/>   Drake turned and startled the two collared doves searching for bugs behind him. The frightened birds settled in a huddle on the half wall, cooing and comforting each other. He felt envious of their bond—and then pathetic for his self-pity.

  He slipped away, wishing to hear no more of how famously Georgiana and Lord Somersea had got on last night after he left the ball with his uncle. And anyway, it would have been impossible to eavesdrop further. Someone had closed the window.

  Pemberley’s great house was a vast pile to get around, and in the early twilight, the cold of night was already creeping in. He moved quickly to keep warm, and the rhythm of his long strides soon lulled him into a reflective mood, thinking not about the content of the ladies’ conversation but its quality.

  What a singular pleasure to hear female opinions so freely shared, without care for… well, he supposed without care for what the gentlemen might think of their having such opinions! The snippet of banter had been brief but still a revelation. How sad that the fair sex was generally unwilling to share their honest thoughts with the male half the world. Certainly it was more loss than benefit to the men—at least, when the ladies in question were so delightful. Drake was not sure he wished to know Miss Grenway’s true thoughts on any given subject.

  Nor Miss Caroline Bingley’s.

  Nor Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s.

  Aunt Charity was the only female he knew who spoke to him freely. Even Mrs. Pruitt, an utterly frank woman, knew her place as his housekeeper.

  Ah, but there was also Amy.

  Drake smiled. His little sister, who lived in Manchester with Aunt Perpetua, never hesitated to express her view on any matter. Miss Amelia Midwinter was now a young lady of eighteen and marked as a right proper heiress, for she was to inherit their aunt’s accidental fortune. However, to their aunt’s dismay, Amy was still not engaged. On Drake’s most recent visit, he had been summoned not on account of the old lady’s failing health but to help bring his sister around.