Albeit Bingley was in ignorance of her encroachment upon his privacy, there was, nevertheless, the no small matter of the rather flagrant proof of his indiscretion. The giggling, squirming, cooing proof of his indiscretion. It was difficult to step about it at first, Bingley behaving rather cowed in Elizabeth’s presence. But soon, howbeit she knew their previous understanding of normalcy was forever altered, a precarious symmetry was eventually obtained. Conversation eventually abandoned wearying civility and flowed more easily, the self-conscious shuffling of Bingley’s feet stopped, and the days returned to their maddening monotony of fear and dread.
And when Jane and Bingley took Alexander home to Kirkland, the folk of Derbyshire were thrown into a confusion of paternity supposition of gargantuan proportions.
For several days after Mr. Darcy took leave, Hannah drew Elizabeth’s bath faithfully. Nevertheless, she ignored it. At first, it was not a conscious decision, Elizabeth merely stepped around the tub and donned fresh clothes. Gradually, it dawned upon her why she was neglecting so fundamental a part of her toilette. It was for the very same reason that she sat looking at, rather than sitting in, her steaming tub after their wedding night.
She did not want to wash her husband from her body.
In a time when one of average means did well to wash before church each Sunday, it took clearly a week for Elizabeth to suspect her own odour might be giving offence. To her it was a banner of loyalty to Darcy, but she chose not to explain herself, sparing the necessity of sharing that particular logic with anyone.
Another rationale for not bathing was Baby Alexander. He was a happy diversion and Elizabeth fancied that it made him feel more acclimated hugging the neck of an unperfumed woman. One who smelled more like his mother. (If the average man bathed but once a week, those of meagre circumstance could only pray for a good rain.) He may have been comforted thusly, but that was unclear. The thing that was clear was that Alexander had a happy disposition. Some traits will out; Elizabeth supposed he inherited his from Bingley. Moreover, he had shown no signs of his mother’s disease.
When Jane took Alexander home to Kirkland, Elizabeth missed his company but lectured herself that it was as it should be. His relocation and Darcy’s extended absence convinced her to give up her absurd determination not to bathe, but she sat in the tub and sobbed inconsolably when she finally did. If others were happy she came to the conclusion of finally surrendering to soap, no one spoke of it.
Thus, the days were more patient than Elizabeth was and she struggled to fill them. She was “not at home” for most people, seeing only the Bingleys and Lady Millhouse. She was determined word not reach her father, for she knew he would not be able to elude her mother long enough to come to her side alone.
Although she did not keep to her room, she rarely took to the outdoors unless to count off paces to the gate. There she would pause and look longingly for the mail-coach, thereupon trudge slowly back to the house. Even there her routine was strict, and she was unable to steel herself to visit the gallery. At one time, she was comforted during her husband’s brief absences by sitting beneath his likeness. Elizabeth did not want to investigate her heart to understand why even the thought of his portrait was so painful then.
Recognising Elizabeth’s despondency and knowing the reason for it, Lady Millhouse obliged her to do just that. She suggested they stroll the length of the gallery and make sport of some of the more ludicrous wigs worn in the ancient paintings. Knowing it imprudent to admit an extravagance of sentimentality to her, Elizabeth nevertheless demurred, saying it saddened her to look at Darcy’s portrait. As expected, Lady Millhouse pronounced it maudlin to pine over an absence.
“It is insipid to sit about like a vapid flower moping over Darcy! He shall return with Georgiana within a fortnight. I shall not worry for Newton, God shall protect him. You must keep yourself busy! Come, let us walk.”
Elizabeth listened to her reassurance with perfect indifference, for Lady Millhouse’s bravado was quite suspect. That lady’s will was not to be denied, however, She took Elizabeth firmly in hand and led her reluctantly to confront the source of her melancholia.
Darcy’s portrait hung at the far end of the room, thus they were able to work their way to it slowly. Again, Elizabeth pondered the ancestors of her unborn child. Seldom did these countenances fail to amuse her, for they were all in the happy circumstances of riches, and all but a few seemed quite dour about it. (Was it simply bad teeth? She could only guess.) This thought of tooth-loss renewed her gratitude that her own were yet in her head and that Darcy’s were sound as well. Perchance their children would inherit their parents’ strong teeth.
Eventually their tour took them to the portrait of Darcy’s mother. For, howbeit none of the portraits beheld smiling countenances, hers was not only unsmiling, but also seemingly forlorn. That thought had always nagged at Elizabeth, but she believed it an observation only of her own.
Darcy had told her this painting of his mother was done after his birth. It was ten years later that she would die bearing Georgiana, and Elizabeth wondered if she had some infirmity that grieved her even then (and hoped it was not her teeth). Lady Millhouse walked up and stood silently next to her as she gazed upon the elder Mrs. Darcy.
“Georgiana does favour Elinor, does she not, Elizabeth?”
Grateful she spoke of Georgiana in the present tense, Elizabeth was taken unawares at hearing Mrs. Darcy called by her Christian name. “Elinor. Yes, she does.” Indeed, Georgiana did favour her mother, for she was blonde and slight. And howbeit there was a resemblance, Elinor Darcy would be much more likely to be described as handsome than beautiful. Georgiana had her colouring and slim figure, but her features were more delicate than her mother’s, her chin not as pronounced.
“She was lovely,” Elizabeth said diplomatically, knowing an outright fabrication would invite correction from Lady Millhouse. “But I wonder if she was ill when her likeness was taken. She looks a bit drawn about the eyes.”
“What grieved her was not her health, I am afraid,” said Lady Millhouse without further clarification.
It was the first time Elizabeth could remember her making such a deliberately abstruse comment. But she did not question it, knowing the lady would elaborate in her own good time. As if by prearrangement, both their gazes turned to the late Mr. Darcy’s portrait. His countenance smiled down upon them from just to the left of his wife’s. He had been a handsome man and did not appear to have the ability to brood as did his son.
“No question of that gentleman’s health, he must have been quite a robust man,” Elizabeth observed.
“Gerard was very robust,” Lady Millhouse said, but it was not spoken in admiration. “Elinor was five years his senior, yet he outlived her by ten. I fancy she might have lived longer had her heart not borne a disappointment.”
It was unlikely Lady Millhouse intended that remark to go unquestioned. Elizabeth obliged.
“Pray, did she not die in childbirth with Georgiana?”
“That is merely when she died, not why.”
“You shall, of course,” Elizabeth put her hand upon her hip, “tell me the why.”
“I would not have brought it up otherwise.”
No, she would not, Elizabeth knew that well.
“Gerard Darcy was much beloved in this county, not only by his son, but everyone of his acquaintance. He was of handsome figure, amiable disposition, and benevolent heart. Robust as well. Albeit your husband inherited his father’s countenance, his temperament and scruples are those of his mother.”
Elizabeth nodded her head in concurrence, for she had believed that to be true, but never heard it put so frankly.
“As you learnt quite expeditiously, Elizabeth, marriage within Darcy’s presumed society is not often a match where love or even affection is a consideration. The fortunes of Elinor and Gerard were far too vast to leave to the whim of passion. Their marriage was arranged. Though it was not born of love, I believe, as often happens, ev
entually mutual regard developed. That esteem was perhaps felt more firmly by Elinor.”
Lady Millhouse turned her back to the Darcy portraits and Elizabeth as well, possibly in apology of the story she intended to relate.
“Lizzy,” (it was the first time Lady Millhouse had addressed her thus, and Elizabeth took it as an endearment) “have you heard the tales of the late Duchess of Devonshire? She and the Duke resided at Chatsworth.”
“Of course.”
“Difficult to avoid, I suppose. She did invite a great deal of gossip, not only in Derbyshire, but also across England. Georgiana was very beautiful. Very flirtatious. She drank like a sailor and gambled like a lord.”
Lady Millhouse laughed at the memory.
Turning to look at Elizabeth, she assured her, “The reverse would have been better, for when it came to games of chance, luck was the thing that eschewed her company.”
“In time her gambling debts became so great, she feared the Duke would refuse to pay them. Come she did then to the benevolent, rich, and robust Gerard Darcy, bewailing her sad tale of woe. At first, she merely sought his counsel. It blossomed into more.”
Hardly unsuspecting of the direction this story was taking, Elizabeth nonetheless took a slight gasp at hearing it spoken.
“Mrs. Darcy learnt of it?”
“Oh yes.”
Lady Millhouse turned about directly facing Elizabeth and folded her arms.
“I believe you know Elinor was a sister to Lady Catherine de Bourgh?”
Elizabeth nodded and resorted to the emphasis of a raised an eyebrow.
“Yes. Of course you do. Lady Catherine... I never had any use for that woman...” Lady Millhouse groused before continuing, “Lady Catherine made certain Elinor learnt of it. Her motive being yet unearthed. Most probably, she desired everyone to be as unhappy as herself. She always has had a nose for who was getting a leg over whom.”
Getting up a head of steam over Lady Catherine’s many personal inadequacies, Lady Millhouse’s story was redirected, “I always believed the sour look upon her puss was from her marriage to old Lord Lewis. They say that milksop could not get his cock into a gallop if he whipped the beast with both hands. There was always a question of just who sired Lady Anne. It is said Catherine always favoured one buck-toothed footman and Lady Anne’s teeth are a disgrace, if that lends the story any credibility. I dare say if you saw a man clinging to a Rosing’s coach looking particularly abused, he would be the one who got the odious duty of lathering that woman’s saddle...”
As much as Elizabeth enjoyed being shocked at Lady Millhouse’s narrative about Darcy’s aunt (her colourful euphemisms alone were worth the listen), Elizabeth was dangling yet over what bechanced with Mr. and Mrs. Darcy.
“Thus, Lady Catherine told Elinor about Mr. Darcy’s affair. Pray, what happened? Did she confront him? Was there a row?”
“Nothing so dramatic, I am afraid.” Lady Millhouse tsked several times. “Albeit, in a manner of speaking she did confront him. She was near term when she learnt of the affair. She died only days after the birth. But with her dying breath she told the rector what name she wanted her daughter christened.”
“Georgiana.”
“Indeed. I dare say Gerard suffered every time he spoke his daughter’s name. I know he behaved more circumspectly. A little too late for his wife, however.”
“I do not believe Darcy knows any of this.”
“Few do. The liaison was discreet. Gerard was always discreet in his assignations.”
“He had others?”
“Not after Elinor died. Though the Duchess of Devonshire is in her grave and that chapter ended, others are not so compleat. It is best to let them lie. Do you not agree?”
Elizabeth knew had she been otherwise inclined she had no choice but to think so too. In a less than facile change of discourse, she looked upon Darcy’s likeness and thereupon to his father’s.
“How tall was Mr. Darcy? I mean Gerard Darcy?”
“I believe that he was as tall as your husband and when young, his hair was dark as well. Odd, how some traits are stronger than are others. Should we not breed as we do horses? Weed out the ill characteristics, dishonesty, hypocrisy—was that done, we would not have any Lady Catherines about at all.”
They both laughed.
“That is a thought, but are we not bred in a sense now? Land to marry land, title to title, position to position, and produce a son above all else?”
As she spoke, Elizabeth endeavoured unsuccessfully not to sound bitter. If she did, Lady Millhouse did not acknowledge it, and Elizabeth peered at Gerard Darcy’s face and saw beyond his resemblance to her husband. Was it the story she had just heard that bade him oddly familiar to her? Or something else. She tried to pinpoint it in her mind, but before she mulled it long, Lady Millhouse startled her.
“Did our good Darcy know you were with child before he left?”
“Pray, how…?”
“Nothing mysterious. You have not ridden. I would have thought you would have ridden every day in your husband’s absence. Moreover, as often as he butters your bun you were bound to have one in the oven again sooner or later.”
Lady Millhouse’s explicit delineation of her marital activities obliged Elizabeth to crimson and hastily redirect the discourse once again, “I had once hoped my husband would be the first to learn of this baby. If he does not hurry home, I fear he may well be the last.”
With that small attempt at mirth, Lady Millhouse was cheered to know that Elizabeth had not compleatly given in to despair. Moreover, a little family history would give her more to chew upon than just fretting over her travails.
By mid-June, Wickham’s company had an influx of raw recruits come in a day behind Napoleon’s advance. Happy to get through his first battle alive and with the seat of his breeches unsoiled, Wickham, nevertheless, had not been pleased to see reinforcements. His company had lost thirty men upon the first flurry of artillery fire. They had been stacked up like so much cord-wood and carted away upon a groaning tumbrel only that dawn. Under such circumstances, most officers would have fallen upon their knees in gratitude for more soldiers. Wickham only saw them as more work, more responsibility and, most importantly, more reason to have to hold their position instead of retreating.
The newcomers all stood about looking apprehensive and green. He absently glanced at their anxious faces and waved to his sergeant-major to tell the sergeant (Wickham did not choose to speak to mere sergeants) to drill them. That done, he stayed in sullen petulance in his tent most of that day pondering his pitiable fate and the dispatch that announced it. For with his company numbers cut in half, his superiors had ordered Wickham’s company to man a stand against Napoleon’s cannons as the French’s debouchment crossed into Belgium. There was a gap in allied defences betwixt Charleroi and Mons. It was crucial that it be stanched.
Man a stand? Were they mad? That he had survived the first murderous assault should have been heartening. Rather, his brief reprieve merely fed Wickham’s festering ill-temper. Customarily, he took his meals in his tent, but in his anxious boredom, he was disposed to take some fresh (if humid) air and stretch a bit. He threw back the flap and looked warily about. Hearing no sniper fire, he gingerly stepped out and extended his arms over his head.
His men were sitting about a fire and he walked over to get his ration of saltless biscuits and dried pork. He picked a bit of bacon off a young corporal’s tin, broke it in two, tossed half in his mouth and the other back upon the soldier’s dish. It hit with a clink and then slid to the ground. The corporal cut a rather impudent sneer at Wickham’s back as he picked up the meat, flicked it several times to divest it of sand, then popped it in his mouth. Wickham was busy sizing up the lot he was sent. It was not a particularly rewarding sight.
The new men were all young, all lanky and very tall. And because of that, all displayed half a forearm out the end of their cuffs, which further insulted Wickham’s overly employed lèse-majesté. The
y sat in a group upon the ground, their knees sticking up like grasshopper legs. The war dogs, anxious of word from home, were grilling them as to what county they represented. Wickham heard one young man, who sat a little aloof from the others, say he hailed from Derbyshire, thus it caught Wickham’s attention.
His men had moved about uneasily as Major Wickham joined them. The major’s surliness had been much in display and no man dared hazard a misdeed to incite his wrath. The disquiet of the veterans alerted the more trenchant recruits that their major was prone to splenetics.
Either oblivious to, or ignoring, the disquiet of his men, Wickham sought a seat near the Derbyshire lad. At his appearance, conversation dwindled into only a cough or two, thereupon a gradual disbandment of the enclave of talk commenced. If Wickham noticed this either, it was unapparent. John Christie had risen to move away with the others when Wickham stopped him with a query.
“Where in Derbyshire do you call home, lad?”
Wickham’s was forced congeniality. But was John uneasy about possible incarceration (his knife threat of a gentleman for certain, possible theft of the rig, and perchance even kidnapping), the young recruit admitted only Kympton as his home.
“Kympton!” Wickham exclaimed, “Now, that is an astonishing coincidence. For I am from Derbyshire and that is the living I should have had.”
He thereupon relaunched the story of the cruel young Mr. Darcy who had denied him the living that old Mr. Darcy had promised him. In his ennui, Wickham’s spirits improved remarkably by having an audience (however low) before whom to air his grievances. For the only thing Wickham enjoyed nearly as well as bedding other men’s wives was to be the sympathetic centre of a tale of treachery. Particularly this one.
The young lad’s face did not betray any understanding of the mendacity in Wickhams’ claims. He told Major Wickham nothing more than that he knew of Pemberley and the Darcys. Wickham was pleased. Having been exceedingly bored for weeks, thereupon stricken with anxiety, he effortlessly slipped into his amiable social patter. It was a diversion to be in the company of someone who was both familiar with Pemberley and naïve enough to believe his tales. He sat and regaled the young man with all things Darcy until the insects eventually drove him back to his tent.
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