by Kate Bedlow
“I do wish Mr. Midwinter had the courage of his convictions. I believe I am disappointed in him.”
“To his credit, Drake Midwinter is not the kind of man to withdraw in deference to another, but rather in the conviction that he cannot give Georgiana the sort of life she is accustomed to and deserves. Mark me, he has withdrawn on that honorable account alone—which brings me to a related subject. Garrett and your maid.”
“How strangely your mind works.” Elizabeth laughed and let the subject of Georgiana’s match go—for now. “How are the two possibly related?”
“Garrett has reminded me they cannot marry, for Morton has no wish to leave her position. It is cruel of us to push them toward each other.”
Elizabeth absently laid her hand over her stomach. Children were the inevitable consequence of marriage, which was really the only reason a lady’s maid could not be a wife. It was simply a matter of practicality.
“I should be selfish indeed to expect Morton to prefer taking care of me over her own children.”
“And yet she has made it clear to Garrett that she does.”
“So they are doomed to remain single.”
“I have no right to stop Garrett marrying if he so wishes. He was never really a servant.”
“No, he is more like a male companion, if you ask me.”
Fitzwilliam laughed. “By God, you are not wrong. His father was a self-educated engineer who became rather flush in the pockets after he designed several canals for the larger landlords in the north. He used his little fortune to send Garrett to Cambridge, thinking to make his son a gentleman.”
“That explains it.”
“What?”
“Why Garrett moves between the classes so easily. But how did you come to know him?”
“He befriended me during my early days at university. Stepped in one time to make an unfair fight a fair one, and we have been close from that day. In his final term, his father died. He finished school but was left with no connections, no money for a commission in the army, and no wish for a life as a clerk or curate.”
“Neither clerk nor curate would do for Garrett. He is too much a man of action. I take it that is when you employed him.”
“I was still young and cocksure and ready for adventure. It was useful to have a companion, as you call it, who could converse easily with gentlemen and acquit himself nicely in a brawl.”
“Who was that wild youth, and how did this dignified and self-composed Mr. Darcy of Pemberley come of him?”
“My dear, that is another story. The point is that Garrett could find himself in a position to marry one day, but he tells me it will never happen. I believe he truly loves Miss Morton, as he refers to her. If he cannot have her, he will have no one. And she is happy where she is.”
Leave my position! Not likely, is it, madam? Morton’s words came to mind, spoken but two nights ago.
“How blind I was,” Elizabeth said. “How unthinking. I am ashamed to recall how I teased Morton about leaving me to marry. And making her wear that necklace! It made her so uncomfortable. I agree. We must leave Garrett and Morton alone.”
“Who is this agreeable, dutiful woman drinking tea in my wife’s bed, and what have you done with Elizabeth?”
“It is shocking, is it not?”
But Fitzwilliam’s teasing expression had disappeared. His eyes narrowed and he looked at her strangely, took her teacup from her and set it aside. He moved up beside her and leaned against the pillows, then enfolded her in his arms.
“Do you wish to tell me, my darling, why it is you are taking tea, which you do not like with your breakfast, and not coffee, which you adore?”
Chapter 20
The breakfast room filled with animated chatter, and Lydia’s head felt ready to burst. Mama was dispensing the same advice she had given the last time Jane was in an interesting condition, while Charles agreed wholeheartedly to it all, vowing not to let Jane’s feet touch the ground until the baby arrived. Georgiana sat beside Lydia, but Caroline Bingley was monopolizing her attention from the other side. Mr. Darcy was conferring with Richard, too quietly to hear but loud enough to knock, knock, knock against Lydia’s brain. Mary and Carley’s secret smiles were louder than words.
Perhaps she had taken a little too much brandy last night. Otherwise, she could not account for being so out of sorts. She used to be so happy when everybody showed up at once in the breakfast room and engaged in lively conversation. She used to like people!
Perhaps it was Mr. Collins’s loud and stupid voice drowning out everyone else that was making her so cross. He could not stop going on about the advantages of collecting multiple livings. He is a predator, Lydia decided. Poor Charlotte (even if the one-time spinster did appear quite happy as mistress of Lydia’s childhood home). Poor Mr. Bonney! How good of Mr. Midwinter to rescue the poor curate from the clutches of Lady Catherine and Mr. Collins, if only for a limited time.
Poor Mr. Midwinter…
Lydia was sorry for the vicar, but she would not feel guilty for her part in his possible unhappiness. At his station, he could hardly have expected to win Georgiana. Indeed, to his credit, he had apparently given her up.
There was no call to feel so contrary. Everything was going Lydia’s way. She was an excellent reader of people, and from all she observed her plan for Georgie and Kett was moving along splendidly. Not only that, during this past week at Pemberley it had occurred to her that her whole family were now quite recovered from her father’s death—better off, if the truth were acknowledged, than when Mr. Bennet had lived.
Jane and Lizzy were wonderfully settled, of course, and Mary was happily fixed with Colonel Quartermaine. One day, when Carley inherited and she became Lady Quartermaine, she would outrank them all—Mary! It would be worth it to have Papa living again just to see his face when he learned that Mary was to be a viscountess. But then, if Papa had not died, it may never have happened.
And Mama would not be going through a whirlwind romance, pursued by a handsome and bracing sea captain who came with an orphaned niece of sixteen years ready to be brought out into society. Commodore Harrington appeared well away toward securing Mama, and everybody—including Daphne Wells, the said niece—was thrilled about it.
As for Kitty… well, there Lydia was stumped. Her sister no longer complained of never getting to do anything, but this obsession with baking and the desire to teach the daughters of the poor—well, Lydia simply did not understand it. It was all very noble and generous, she supposed, but what good could come of it for Kitty? Lydia had joined with Mama and all her sisters to persuade Kitty to take a holiday from her cakes, come to Pemberley for Twelfth Night, and stay until spring, with the thought that a certain young man in the neighborhood might capture her heart.
Falcon Whittle seemed perfect for Kitty. He was the son of a baronet, and he obviously liked her. He had made a grievous mull of it at the ball, however, when he declared no wife of his would need ever set foot in a kitchen. Luckily, yesterday he inadvertently redeemed himself when he swooned over the six-pointed jam tart, not realizing Kitty had been its creator.
“What is so funny, Miss Bennet? Something in your cup?”
Kett pulled out the chair beside her before a footman could get to it and put down a plate spilling over with eggs, sausages and ham, a wedge of disgusting cheese, and two rolls smeared with butter and two different kinds of jam.
“Something on your plate, more like, my lord. But I suppose you must feed those massive muscles.” She rose to pour out a cup of coffee for him then stepped away from the table. “Take my chair. I am finished here.”
The room was too oppressive. Too full of people. She had to get out.
At the door she stopped and looked back. As expected, Kett had already diverted Georgie from Caroline. Her friend’s face was flushed as pretty as a pink rose, and Lydia knew the rumor she had heard from the chambermaid was true. She wandered away from the breakfast room with no idea of where she wanted to be and
found herself in a room dominated by massive bookshelves, nearly all filled.
She rarely visited Pemberley’s library, Gwennie’s favorite room in the house. Oh, she did not mind a novel if it had a good story, like Gulliver’s Travels, or The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling, but her favorite books were the ones her brother-in-law seemed to like best. Travelogues. Atlases. Histories of real people who had done real things.
She came to a shelf that appeared to contain her brother-in-law’s favorites and took down a volume about Captain Cook’s adventures in the Sandwich Islands. She carried it to an overly large chair near the fire, but after passing her eyes over several pages without any of the words sinking in, she stopped and stared at the fire.
Perhaps she should blame her restlessness on London. She was never suited for a country girl, and now she had become used to the excitement of Town. Had she allowed herself to become spoiled? She did not wish to give up her lifestyle, but she would never be able to sustain it on her own when Georgiana went away to become Lady Somersea.
She set the book aside and, running her fingers through her hair, she clutched at her sad, nearly bald head and burst into tears.
“Steady on, old girl.” The deep rumble of a masculine voice was accompanied by a strong hand patting her head. “First I find you laughing and now crying, both unaccountably.”
She looked up at the puzzled but kind face of Kettering Corby.
“Oh Kett, my hair! What have I done to myself?”
“You have made a magnificent fashion statement.” His chuckle did not help in the least.
“I will be the laughingstock of London.”
“You don’t really believe that. And who will laugh? Terrified sheep who will never possess an ounce of your talent or courage.”
“But it’s so… short!”
“It will grow. And as it does, knowing you, you will create new styles everybody will rush to copy. Never you mind what the fools and the harpies say, Lydia Bennet. You are a brave girl, with a medal from Prinny himself to prove it.”
“I don’t guess it matters. When you take Georgie away to live in your castle at Somersea, all my invitations will cease.”
“What makes you think I will be taking Miss Darcy away?”
“You made an offer.”
“Did she tell you that?” He held out his handkerchief and looked at her hopefully. He must think Georgiana had told her of his proposal, perhaps even shared what her answer might be. Neither was the case.
She shook her head and blew her nose—not daintily, but it was Kett. “Servants talk. You were seen going into the antechamber. That was not very chivalrous of you to expose my friend to such gossip.”
“I had not thought about that.” He frowned. “But as you know, chivalry is not my finest feature.”
“I know of no such thing. It was quite chivalrous of you to cheer me up just now.”
“In that event, what cheer can you give me? Has Georgie given you any indication of her answer?”
“She has not even indicated there has been a question.”
“It is that vicar.” Kett sighed and ran a hand through his dark curls—which Lydia noted were longer and prettier than her own. “He is the only rival that concerns me.”
“Mr. Midwinter may have been a rival once, but I believe he has withdrawn from the field.”
“If so, Georgiana must not know it. I am to have her answer tonight, and I am convinced she plans to consult with him today after church.”
“Perhaps she wants his religious advice on the matter.”
“There is nothing religious in her regard for Mr. Midwinter.”
“That is a wicked thing to say about the lady you wish to be your bride.”
“I disagree.” Lord Somersea’s smile was a bit wicked itself, and Lydia caught her breath. Fortunately, he was examining the book in her hands and did not notice her reaction to him. “But I nearly forgot my mission. I have been sent to find you. It is time to leave for church.” He stood and crooked his elbow. “Shall we, Miss Bennet?”
“Of course, Lord Somersea.” She accepted his arm and dropped the book off on a table near its shelf. What an odd person he was. “You must have a strong sense of self-worth. You seem not at all angry over the prospect of Georgiana speaking with Mr. Midwinter about your proposal.”
“I am exceedingly nervous about it, but angry? Never. If she feels she requires this consultation, then it is best she have it. Besides, what is a fellow to do? I have been instructed that in matrimony, now I’m a fine lord, I must entertain considerations beyond my personal hopes and wishes, but I hope even a lord may desire his wife to come to him honestly and with a degree of… eagerness. Otherwise the marriage is doomed before it begins.”
“Very wise indeed. You make me proud to be your champion, Kett. I cannot say this of many men, but from the bottom of my heart, I believe you deserve to be happy in love.”
Chapter 21
“Mr. Darcy has caught me out. He knows about the baby.”
Elizabeth could not, did not wish to, suppress her smile. Fitzwilliam had been ecstatic to discover another child was on the way—and immediately upon wiggling it out of her, he had locked the bedroom door and demonstrated how ardent was his delight. Why on earth had she waited to tell him the news?
Having bathed and dried her hair by the fire, she now sat at her dressing table and watched Morton in the mirror, pinning up her tresses. Her smile fell away. It was no good reveling in her own joy and avoiding the unhappiness she had caused her maid. Best set things right between them.
“It was very wrong of me to ask you to keep the secret from my husband, Morton. I realize that now.”
Morton kept her eyes on a particularly unruly lock of hair, but she smiled slightly. “It was hard keeping such wonderful news to myself.”
“And all to no avail, the insufferable man! When I demanded he promise not to tell anybody, especially Mama, he only laughed and told me to prepare to be fussed over.”
There. That brought a chuckle. But she was not off the hook yet.
“It was also wrong of me to make you wear my sapphires to the ball.”
“Oh, madam—”
“I’m heartily ashamed of myself. The necklace made you uncomfortable, and I pushed it on you regardless. I did not think. I will not push you like that again.” Elizabeth twisted round on the bench and grasped Morton’s hand. “Nor on other matters. Do you understand me?”
Relieved, she saw there would be no need to mention Garrett’s name. Morton nodded and cast her eyes down. The subject would nevermore arise between them, unsatisfying as this conclusion may be. Elizabeth resumed her position and held properly still so Morton could finish.
“Who is in the house at the moment, that you know of?” She had not yet left her room today, but Morton had made all sorts of forays, upstairs and down.
“Mrs. Bennet stayed back from church. She is in the breakfast room with Mr. and Mrs. Bingley, who are near ready to depart.”
“Jane did not take breakfast in her room?”
“Your sister did not wish to inconvenience the maids as they are busy with packing.”
“She is forever thinking of ways not to inconvenience others. It is highly vexing, for I shall never equal her consideration of others.”
“You do all right, madam.” By the tease and the twinkle in Morton’s eye, Elizabeth knew she truly was forgiven.
“Anybody else? I see the sky is blue and clear. I suppose many will go to church to hear Mr. Midwinter.”
It was the one thing Lambton could lord over Pemberley. Though St. Mary’s itself was far more inspiring in its beauty, everybody knew Mr. Midwinter’s sermons were much pleasanter than Mr. Clackston’s.
“Miss Caroline is in the breakfast room, but she will not be leaving with her brother. At the servants’ breakfast, her maid let it be known she intends to remain at Pemberley as long as Lord Farley does in order to punish him for the clove in her Twelfth cake.”
&nbs
p; “Good for Caroline!” Elizabeth laughed. “In that odd courtship, I generally pity Richard, but not this time.”
Last night Caroline had enthralled everybody with a spirited performance of von Beethoven’s Pathétique. After, she had strode from the Broadwood grand to confront Richard, bold as you like, and put the question to him.
“Last night during the applause for her performance I heard her ask him, Did you do it? He winked at her and denied nothing!”
“I believe Lord Farley enjoys it that Miss Bingley is up to his rig,” Morton said. “But if she does like him, she should not make him wait much longer.”
“You sound like my friend Mrs. Collins.”
Morton shrugged. “He has a duty to the estate to marry. He is not a bad-looking man, he was always very genial, and now he is rich and titled. He could snap his fingers and find a wife.”
Elizabeth agreed. If Caroline truly did want Richard, she should stop this foolish game.
“Is Lord Farley also down in the breakfast room? Or perhaps he has gone to church with Mr. Darcy and Miss Georgiana and… and the others.” Elizabeth could not yet bring herself to mention Georgiana and the marquess so close together.
“He has gone to church, but not St. Mary’s. At Lady Catherine’s request, Lord Farley went to Lambton to hear Mr. Bonney.”
“All in keeping with her ladyship’s plan to place Mr. Bonney at Bolehill as curate, with Mr. Collins getting the greater portion of the living. I expect she hopes Richard will be impressed with the young man and recommend the scheme to the earl. Did the Collinses go to Lambton also?”
“They’ve gone with the St. Mary’s people. Mr. Collins said he wished to pay his respects to the rector after church.”
“I am sure he does.”
That was her cousin to a T, forever eager to ingratiate himself anywhere it might further his interests. Once, this would have irritated her to no end. Now it merely gave the pleasure of confirming of her opinion of his character—for the St. Mary’s living was in Fitzwilliam’s gift, and if it should come available, it would not go to Mr. Collins.
