Jane Austen's Pride & Prejudice Sequel Bundle: 3 Reader Favorites

by Linda Berdoll

  She wanted to take the flat side of a shovel across Charles Bingley’s head, but prudently kept that inclination to herself. For the manner of Jane’s remarks told her that she had reason more for speaking of it than just sharing a confidence.

  The vexed expression that overspread Elizabeth’s countenance did not take Jane unawares. She knew well that would be her sister’s initial reaction.

  Hastily, she went on, “I must ask something of you that will take great generosity. The bother is not lost to me, thus you know how important it is.”

  Elizabeth took a deep breath, for until that moment, Jane had not once asked anything weighty of her. Without hesitation (but with no little trepidation), Elizabeth assured Jane that there was nothing she would not do for her.

  “I want you to bring the baby to Pemberley.”

  Dumbstruck, Elizabeth said only, “But why?”

  “If I could I would take the baby myself, but Charles must not know I know. Yet I cannot bear a son of my husband not knowing love, nor, in time, his father. I know that a more loving home than yours cannot be found. Charles should see him here frequently. The woman is tenant to Pemberley, he would not question you taking the baby in light of you having none of your own thus far.”

  Pemberley was great, servants abounded. The baby would be of little physical trouble, but one did not take on a human life without serious consideration. Yet Elizabeth made no hesitation.

  “Of course, Jane. I shall apply to Darcy. The decision shall be his as much as mine.”

  Jane nodded, thereupon embraced her sister, “I thank you, Lizzy. There is no other of whom I could ask such a undertaking.”

  Elizabeth could not help but worry the issue, “But Jane, how can you forgive Bingley for such a betrayal? I thought no man more in love than Mr. Bingley with you. How could he do this to you? How can you simply submit to it?”

  “Lizzy, it is a knotty thing for you to comprehend, this I know. Charles’s love for me has not altered, this I know as well. But as I have been confined much of our marriage and Charles is…he needs…attention. If he called upon another woman, it was for other than affection.”

  Clearly, Jane could pardon a weakness of the flesh in her husband, however, she could not share his love. Her sister’s generosity in this matter was only astonishing to Elizabeth because it came from Jane. Many a gentlewoman accepted her husband’s transgressions so long as they were exercised with lessers. There was no perceived threat to position or marriage there. As Jane had no interest in position, she apparently found no undue injury so long as her marriage was sound. Elizabeth recognised that she, quite profoundly, was not of the same mind.

  Elizabeth squeezed her sister’s arm in reassurance, nonetheless, and said nothing. Her resentment was so ample, however, she found quite enough to compleatly drown Bingley and lap at the hem of her mother’s skirt as well. Because of Mrs. Bennet’s ill-advice, Jane had denied her husband consolation for much of her marriage. (That was no excuse for Bingley, of course, but the poor man’s ballocks were probably a bright shade of blue more often than not.) Her ire fully piqued, she reckoned she should be angry at herself as well, for had she pursued the subject of Jane pleasing her husband and herself more relentlessly, perchance things might have been different…But Elizabeth made herself not think of it.

  The afternoon waned and Elizabeth accompanied Jane to her coach, not daring to query her more. In time, she might address those questions to Jane, but for then, she bid her good-bye. Jane waved a little wearily out the window of her coach, unquestionably as relieved as Elizabeth that they did not have to keep any more skeletons in the cupboard. And as she stood and watched her sister take leave, Elizabeth silently pondered just how she and Georgiana had actually overlooked a consumptive person to nurse upon Pemberley lands.

  Solitude was necessary for Elizabeth fully to appreciate what had just come to pass. With her chin resting in her palm, she deliberated upon her sister’s nature from a window seat in the music room.

  Each of the five Bennet sisters had their attributes assigned almost from babyhood. Mary was prim, Kitty flighty. Lydia was outlandish, and Elizabeth, bold. Jane was, and always had been, gentle, kind, and naïve. Was Elizabeth to admit it, however kind, she also thought Jane to be fragile. Strength had been her own trait, not Jane’s. She was the Bennet sister who was forthright and strong. However, had their positions in this sordid mess been reversed, Elizabeth could not ascribe to herself the benevolent fortitude to see to the well-being of all those involved as had Jane.

  Soon her thoughts drifted to the dreaded mission of telling her husband of Bingley’s sin against his wife. And she dreaded what lay before her as much as any anticipated event she could recall. She methodically went over several times in her mind what she must tell him, giving each version contemplation, deciding the exact approach she wanted to employ to cite the facts.

  However pleasant the possibility of reprieve, Elizabeth knew telling Darcy about Jane’s entreaty and Bingley’s extramarital “bonus” could not be put off for long, thus she stood and aimed herself for Darcy’s library. He was seated at his desk in all good humour of unprecluded ignorance. Blissfully, he studied his books, unaware that his wife peeked at him with trepidation from behind the door. Elizabeth pushed open the door and took a deep breath. Looking up, he smiled when he saw her, thereupon leaned back in his chair and turned to her in welcome.

  She knew he expected her to come to him as she always had, but after taking only a few steps in his direction, she altered her course. Once at the window, she stood silently looking out. He watched her mute contemplation with a hesitant concern that was betrayed only by a worrying of his ring. She realised he must be in some disorder, wondering what surprise next lay in store. Wickham. Another woman. Now this.

  “My poor husband,” she thought, “how I do try your patience.”

  She walked to him, knelt beside his chair and, sighing, rested her head upon the arm. She thought this sigh a little too melodramatic, however she could not help but do it once more in preparation for her plea. He reached out to draw her onto his lap, and whatever temptation it was to whisper her shocking disclosure in his ear, she decided to take a chair facing and moved it close to his. Knee to knee, eye to eye, she would say what had to be said.

  “We promised to keep nothing from each other ever again. I have been waiting for the right moment to tell you this, but now the moment has chosen me.”

  Elizabeth sighed once more before continuing, “Jane visited me today…no, I must begin before then.”

  Taking both his hands in hers, she looked away for a moment, for her practised speech had vanished. Desperately, she endeavoured to find a kind way to tell him his dearest friend was a…detestable scourge and blight upon humanity. An execrable, letching infidel. A scurrilous, walking dung heap. A…

  Taking a gulp of air, she started again, “What I withheld from you of my observations of the woman your aunt bade me visit, was that, I, of course, did not see you there, but I did see a man visit that cottage that last day.”

  Darcy gave her his full attention.

  “I espied a man ride thither, kiss the woman, and hold the baby.” She did not prolong the drama, “It was Charles Bingley.”

  His astonishment at the revelation was obvious.

  Elizabeth had once dared to ask him if Bingley ever went with him to the infamous house of accommodation he visited in London. Darcy had responded with the emphatic announcement that it was exceedingly dishonourable to speak in violation of a friend’s privacy.

  That pronouncement made, he nonetheless said, “No, he did not,” apparently believing defence of repute not a transgression of privacy.

  It was obvious he had not thought this of Bingley, or at least did not know of it. Not until seeing surprise upon her husband’s face did Elizabeth consider Bingley might have told Darcy. Surely men talk of such things, and Bingley was his closest friend. Elizabeth saw this a positive for her own husband’s devotion, for
if Bingley did not tell him, he must have expected disapproval. This train of thought was abandoned, for Elizabeth did not want to obtain any sort of self-satisfaction from her sister’s circumstance.

  In a moment he bid, “Are you certain, Lizzy? Bingley has never given me reason to question his character in word or deed for as long as I have known him. Perchance you mistook him.”

  Elizabeth told him, regrettably, there was no mistake, “When I espied Mr. Bingley that day, I was so astonished and appalled I had no notion as how to tell you, or if it was in my province to speak of it. My concern I lent to Jane. I was certain was she to learn of such business as this, it would wound her gravely.”

  For assurance, she added, “Did I doubt my own eyes, Jane came today bearing the story.”

  Thereupon she told him of Jane’s knowledge of the baby and upon the heels of that, her own promise to seek his approval of bringing the child to live with them. Thinking it merely a formality in asking, she began to assure him how little inconvenience would be brought about, where the baby might sleep, who might attend it. Overtaken as she was by the necessity of preparation, she mused upon these matters almost to herself. Therefore, she did not see his eyes darken nor his mood alter.

  But so decisively did he stand, his chair was forced back several feet.

  Had this not startled her enough, he said, quite scornfully, “Yes, why do we not populate all of Pemberley with bastard sons?”

  Thereupon he turned and angrily walked to the window she had so recently vacated.

  She did not move. She did not think she could will herself to move. Her face flushed crimson. Tears threatened her, but she refused them. Cheeks blazing in fury, her hands clutched the arms of the chair as if to keep her from fleeing, either after him or from the room. Immediate upon his unreasonable umbrage at her for Wickham’s unexpected appearance, he spoke to her in this manner. It was his friend who had done the despicable, not her sister!

  Righteous indignation fully employed, she desperately sought some sharp reply to him, but was visited by nothing but a fleeting vision of the shovel she had conjured for Charles Bingley.

  Something made her stay and hold her tongue as well. It was decidedly not in character for him to treat an appeal from her so churlishly. Hence, she rose and went to him, putting her arms under his and about his waist, resting her cheek against the soft back of his coat. From the valley between his shoulder blades she detected the furious beating of a tortured heart.

  As steadfastly as he held his pose, one might have supposed it would have taken no little persuasion for her to coax him from it. But it did not. When she reached up and turned his face to hers, it was not anger she saw. In that instant, he gripped her to him. At that moment, she could not see his face but she heard his words.

  He repeated, “Lizzy, Lizzy, forgive me, forgive me.”

  She kissed him, if not in understanding, at least in empathy, salted with a great deal of apprehension. Whatever caused him to lash out at her was far beyond the bounds of what he had just learnt of Bingley.

  “I have already forgiven you, but please tell me.”

  Taking her hand, he led her to the side chair by the window and cradled her upon his lap. It was only in that intimate embrace that he was able to embark upon the telling of his history with Abigail and Wickham.

  “As you know,” he cleared his throat, “Wickham came to live in the house as an adolescent.”

  She nodded.

  “We were quite competitive as we raced and played at war. There were rivalries. Some were overt, some unwitting. It was during this time I was initiated into intimate rites with a young woman who worked here. As it happened, Wickham shared her favours first.”

  As he spoke, she sat in bewilderment as to why he was telling her of this ancient story from his youth. He said he had an early dalliance with the same servant girl as Wickham. How droll. Her husband’s gravity was the only thing that kept her from smiling as she thought of the two young men chasing the same young woman. Lusty, exuberant youths!

  Playfully, she asked, “So this was the lady who worked foul designs upon your innocence!”

  “I freely admit any pollutions committed were done with my absolute consent,” he smiled fleetingly (or at least turned up the corners of his mouth). That cheered her. So much so, it occurred to her to quiz him about specifics, but that ill-conceived notion was immediately cast aside with his very next revelation.

  “The girl’s name was Abigail. Abigail Christie. John Christie’s mother.”

  Elizabeth sat bolt upright and any notion of amusement deserted her. John Christie was born of this woman and Wickham fathered him. She blinked repeatedly.

  “You and Wickham both lay with her?”

  Which was not her true question, only the one she asked. Thus, he answered the one she had not inquired.

  “Wickham is the boy’s father, not I.”

  “You are convinced?”

  “Not until Mrs. Reynolds related it to you did I know that Wickham had…been availed of her before me. She was well on with his child and, in my ignorance, I knew not of it.”

  A flash of lightning could not have rendered it more blindingly clear: Darcy had first thought the young man was a son of his own, owing to her own loquacious dispensation months previous that John was the son of Abigail.

  “Why do you speak of this only now?”

  As he often did, he almost spoke, then retreated into silence. Invariably, quiet over-came him at the most precipitous moment possible. Betimes, this was only mildly frustrating. But not then. Elizabeth had to fight the urge to clutch his lapels and shout at him to speak to her. He had turned his face to the window. His silence allowed her to contemplate what he had just told her. Immediately, she understood the full complexity of his opposition to Georgiana’s friendship with John Christie. But she wondered why he was not relieved to learn that the boy was not his, for the possibility would have wounded his dignity. Most importantly, why did he not tell her?

  Was he mortified at even a possibility that he fathered the boy? And why did he become angry? All of these questions begged answers, but he offered none.

  To her husband, it would be substantial loss of face to have to admit to a misbegotten child. But Elizabeth could not help feeling a small disappointment that John was not truly Darcy’s, for the thought of being able to mother even a near-grown lad was far more inviting than the office of step-aunt. Thereupon, her own disappointment did the unlikely. It announced the crux of Darcy’s disorder, and that truth settled over her so heavily her shoulders visibly sagged.

  Darcy too was disappointed.

  And it was at her hand. It was she who took all due pleasure in announcing Wickham’s paternity to him, thus dashing his belief that the boy was his son. The only son, the only child he might beget. Another woman’s son. Of course, he could not tell her that.

  The answer to every question, Elizabeth realised, was herself. It was she who could not give him a child. It was she who brought Wickham to his house, the true father of the son he thought was his. She was the one who spied upon Bingley, and she was the one who wanted him to take in Bingley’s child. In defeat, she dropped her hands from him. Only then did he look at her. He reached out and touched her face, thereupon he drew her to him again.

  “Of course, we shall take the baby,” he said.

  “We need not decide it now,” she said, unhappy that she had asked at all.

  She had begun to be excited about the baby. Thenceforward and forever, that happiness was polluted. She was certain each time that she looked into the little boy’s face, it would hark back to her own failing.

  Unable to tell Darcy that she had grasped the magnitude of her own role in his unhappiness, the next few days saw her spending far too much time ruminating upon Jane’s husband’s misdeeds.

  For if Bingley could not keep his breeches buttoned and another child of his appeared thither upon the countryside, Elizabeth intended to hatch some heinous scheme to teach h
im a lesson. This was a delicate matter and engendered a great deal of malicious thought. One particularly delightful one she imagined involved a leather thong, a dead cat, and some pepper sauce.

  Eventually, this obsession was abandoned and Mr. Bingley was granted temporary, if unknown, amnesty.

  In the few years since that first fateful trip to London, the Darcys had not returned as often as society dictated. And when they did, each excursion there took upon all the preparation and caution of impending battle. And, in some sense, it was.

  Mr. Darcy did not ride in the coach with his wife, even if it was occupied by only his wife, Hannah, and Goodwin. He rode his horse beside it, a gun beneath his coat and sword hugging his leg. Hannah knew it was not what her mistress might have chosen, for she had heard her attempt to cajole her husband to keep her company in the carriage. He had steadfastly and adamantly refused her (to Hannah’s understanding, a rare occurrence). Mrs. Darcy did not argue beyond that first brief endeavour. No one questioned why he chose to ride as he did, for it was quite accepted that his vigilance was rewarded far better from the saddle than in the leather seat of a barouche.

  As the Darcys’ visits were infrequent, Cyril Smeads enjoyed almost unlimited autonomy amongst the servants in London even though Mistress Georgiana was often in residence. But her attention was employed by her writing and, regardless, she was not inclined to find fault with the running of the household. Absence of the Darcys in town announced they spent most of their time at Pemberley. Mrs. Reynolds (although she certainly would have been allowed) did not often take herself away from her duties to visit her son; hence, he was quite happy, upon occasion, to travel to see her in Derbyshire.

  He brought with him (excess baggage of sorts) the very traits that alienated general regard of him in town. Pompous and petulant as his mother was humble and firm, they bore little similarity in character. Hannah thought that peculiar, but reminded herself that Goodwin was nephew and cousin, his own understanding of comportment distancing him from them both.