Postscript from Pemberley

by Rebecca Ann Collins

  To be involved in the political life of the nation, to debate the policies of a government, to become a member of the British Parliament, had for years been the pinnacle of Darcy Gardiner's ambitions, in pursuance of which he had worked assiduously to understand, explain, and promote the ideas that had fired his enthusiasm from a very early age.

  “It is not good enough that Britain is rich and powerful, that her ships carry her goods to every continent and corner of the earth and her Treasury is full from the proceeds; I believe she must also regain her reputation for justice and fairness for all her people, nurturing and educating every child and listening to the voice of every man and woman in the land,” he had declared, while campaigning for the reform program of his hero Mr Gladstone.

  It was a stirring speech that had earned him the applause of many and special notice from the leader himself. Many of those who knew him well and had observed him over the years had assumed he would stand for Parliament, at the earliest opportunity.

  That had been in the Autumn of 1865.

  A great deal had happened since then, at Westminster and in the family of which Darcy Gardiner was a member. His parents, Sir Richard and Lady Gardiner, were proud of their son, who had been recently appointed to manage the Pemberley estate. His mother Cassandra knew that her favourite son, though occasionally restless for the city, was both conscious of his duty and devoted to his family. Well educated, handsome enough to be attractive without arousing envy, and generally respected for his honesty and intelligence, Darcy Gardiner at twenty-six years of age was surely one of the most eligible young men in the county. His family certainly thought so.

  Yet, to the chagrin of about half a dozen anxious mothers with daughters of marriageable age, the subject of matrimony seemed to be farthest from his thoughts. Indeed, while he was unfailingly polite and attended the balls and parties at which he was introduced to several eligible young ladies, none had ever reported that he had paid them anything more than friendly attention and courtesy.

  He danced with all of them and complimented them upon their performance at the pianoforté or the harp and had even been known to sing a duet with one or two of them.

  But, none of the ladies had ever felt he had shown a deeper interest, which might signify a special partiality. He was gallant, behaving with perfect decorum at all times, but was seemingly unwilling to be drawn into any situation which had the merest suggestion of intimacy or flirtation.

  His sister, Lizzie Carr, who had observed this phenomenon for a while, was concerned. Her fondness for the younger of her two brothers led her to take a special interest in him and, while she was generally satisfied that Darcy had developed into a particularly pleasing and amiable gentleman, who carried out both his familial and social obligations in an exemplary fashion, she had to confess she was somewhat anxious about his future happiness on account of his continued single state.

  Since her marriage, Lizzie had felt sufficiently qualified to take her brother to task, if only in the gentlest possible way. The opportunity arose when he called to see her husband at their home, Rushmore Farm, and since Mr Carr was away at a yearling sale, Darcy stayed to take tea and keep his sister company awhile.

  They were walking in the grounds together when with very little warning, Lizzie said, “Darcy, you must forgive my question, but it is only my affection and concern that makes me ask. Have you no wish to settle down at all?”

  Her question, coming with no prior notice of such concern, seemed to take him completely by surprise. He stopped and stood silent a moment before resuming their walk, and it was only after a further pause of a minute or two, during which his sister feared she had offended him, that he said, “Lizzie, that is a most unusual question. May I counter with another? Would you reveal what has prompted you to ask it? Has Mama or perhaps my grandmother expressed some anxiety about the matter?”

  He seemed quite genuinely puzzled, and Lizzie, though relieved she had not angered him, was cautious in her response.

  “No indeed, Darcy, I cannot know whether they have been concerned since neither has mentioned the matter to me. I ask only because I have wondered whether you had not given it some consideration—after all, you are twenty-six and…”

  He interrupted her with a teasing laugh, concluding her sentence, “…and will soon be an aging bachelor with a reputation for being rather pernickety and difficult to please? Is that what you fear for me, Lizzie?”

  Lizzie was pleased to be able to lighten the tone of their conversation. “Now you are teasing me. Of course I do not believe any such thing, but I did think and even hoped last Summer that you showed some interest in Miss Teresa Marchant. Perhaps I was wrong and it was not your real inclination; it is no matter.”

  The lady in question had been introduced to their family by their brother Edward's wife, Angela, who had certainly promoted the advantages of her friend. The daughter of a surgeon, Miss Marchant, who was both handsome and wealthy, had proved very popular at parties and picnics through the Summer. For a little while then, Lizzie had believed that Darcy may have been attracted, too—they had appeared to get on well together.

  Her brother smiled. “Miss Marchant is certainly charming and pretty, but, Lizzie, apart from her talent for learning all the newest dance steps and painting innumerable pictures of pastoral scenes, there was little to recommend her as a wife for a fellow like me. She has very little knowledge of the predicament of the poor in our community and no understanding at all of the processes of politics. When I had finished admiring her art and needlepoint and she had told me how much she liked Tennyson's verse, we would have soon run out of intelligent conversation, not to mention space on the walls to hang her water colours, of which she is quite understandably proud.”

  Despite the lightness of his tone, Lizzie understood his reservations. “Darcy, you mean she has no interest in public affairs, do you not? Because that is where your heart lies; you do not wish to be involved with someone who does not share your passion for it?” Lizzie asked, looking up at his face.

  Darcy was unabashed. “Do you blame me, Lizzie? I have never hidden my enthusiasm for it and I confess, I do still harbour some ambition to return to Westminster in the future, though that would depend upon the wishes of my grandfather and the political fortunes of Mr Gladstone. It will always be my hope that I may one day enter the Commons to support Mr Gladstone's Reformist government. I have no other obvious talents and no profession.

  “But, Lizzie, consider this, a partner who has no interest in the concerns that I take so seriously, whose life is centred around purely domestic and artistic matters, would soon lose patience with me. Let us never forget the tragic consequences of the marriage of Jonathan Bingley and Amelia-Jane Collins and the manner in which a similar situation was the cause of so much misery.”

  Not wishing to appear unfair to Miss Marchant, he added, “I do not mean to suggest that Teresa Marchant is deficient in any of the standards that are usually applied to young ladies; merely to explain why she would not be happy married to me nor I to her. Besides, I am in no danger at all of falling in love with her, so the question does not arise.”

  “Indeed, it does not,” replied Lizzie quickly. “I would not have you marry anyone, however suitable or well connected, whom you could not love as deeply as I do my own dear husband. To marry without love would be inconceivable.”

  Darcy's hand tightened upon hers as he said quietly, “Exactly so, Lizzie. Such a proposition would be utterly abhorrent to me. I knew you would understand.”

  His voice was grave and left Lizzie in no doubt of the sincerity and seriousness of his words. She was silent, unable to find the right words to continue, when Darcy, sensitive to her change of mood, attempted to reassure her, saying in a lighter tone than before, “You must not be too anxious about me, Lizzie. I am grateful for your concern and I know it flows from your affection for me. Our brother Edward has been so much better at finding a suitable bride, he must be a source of great satisfaction t
o you and Mama. I am sorry I have not been more accommodating. But, let me assure you, when I do find the lady of my dreams and she accepts me, you will be the very first to know.”

  They laughed together and turned at the end of the path, intending to return to the house, and as they did so, saw approaching Lizzie's husband, Mr Michael Carr. The two men had been firm friends for some years before Mr Carr had met Lizzie and lost his heart. The marriage of his sister to his friend had delighted Darcy, even though he had done nothing directly to secure the outcome. The two men greeted each other with warmth and pleasure.

  “It's good to see you, Darcy, I had no idea you were coming over today,” said Mr Carr, as they shook hands.

  “I had business in Matlock and called in to see you and Lizzie,” Darcy explained as they walked together towards the house.

  Mr Michael Carr, an Irish-American gentleman with a deep love of England and an interest in horse breeding, had, over a few years, become Darcy Gardiner's closest friend. He knew more than most people his friend's thoughts and hopes and even some of the disappointments that had beset his young life. While he did not always burden his wife with such matters, Michael Carr was her brother's trusted confidante.

  They were close enough, the three of them, for Lizzie to say in a playful tone of voice, as he took her hand, holding it in his as they retraced their steps, “Dearest, I have been reproaching my brother about his apparent unwillingness to fall in love with a young lady good enough to be his wife. You must speak to him, for he will not take me seriously.”

  She spoke in jest and hardly expected to receive a serious response, which was why Lizzie was surprised by the sudden change in the expression that crossed her husband's countenance and the swiftness with which he turned to regard Darcy.

  Almost as though he sought to shield his young brother-in-law from some embarrassment, he laughed and then swung the conversation around to the yearling sales from which he had just returned. Darcy too was quick to respond, asking with exaggerated eagerness about the horses—a subject in which he generally showed little interest.

  They were neither of them quick enough, however, to conceal from Lizzie their keenness to change the subject.

  When the two gentlemen had concluded their discussions and Darcy had departed, her keen observation of their mutual desire to avoid the subject of her brother's matrimonial prospects led Lizzie to pose a more direct question to her husband.

  “Dearest, would I be wrong in thinking that my brother has some secret of which you are aware and I am not?” she asked innocently and her husband was so taken aback that he was momentarily lost for words.

  Then, seeing her regarding him with a very quizzical expression, one he knew would soon lead to even more questions, he said, “Why, Lizzie, my dear, what sort of secret would I have with your brother that you could not share?”

  Lizzie shrugged her shoulders and said with a degree of insouciance that was more calculated than spontaneous, “Well, it may be that he is in love and does not want us all to know lest we tease him about it. Am I right? Is that it?” Then, seeing a look of utter consternation upon her husband's face, she went to him and said, “It would not matter, except that if I knew the lady, I might be able to help. On the other hand, if I were to be kept in the dark and being ignorant made some embarrassing faux pas, it could cause him a great deal of grief, could it not?”

  Lizzie sounded very convincing.

  Mr Carr was at a loss to know how to deal with this utterly unexpected situation. What he knew of his brother-in-law's particular circumstances had been told him in confidence, and Darcy had begged him to speak of the matter to no one.

  “Especially not Lizzie, because she will feel bound to tell Mama, and then my grandmother would know, and soon enough all of Pemberley will be talking about it. I could not bear that, and it would be most unfair to the lady,” Darcy had said, swearing him to secrecy.

  Yet, now Mr Carr knew with absolute certainty that unless he told her something of the truth, to satisfy her curiosity, Lizzie would wheedle it out of him over the hours, days, and nights that followed, until it was all known. Better, he thought, to involve her in the secret pact he had with her brother and ensure she said nothing to him or anyone else.

  He spoke rather hesitantly and with a degree of gravity that was unusual between them. Lizzie was at first surprised by the seriousness of his tone, “Dearest, if I tell you, you must give me your solemn promise never to say a word to anyone, not to your mama or your cousins and especially not to Mr and Mrs Darcy. Your brother must never know that I have told you—indeed, I would not have, except I do realise the danger of your saying something in ignorance which may have quite unforeseen consequences. Will you promise me, Lizzie?”

  By now Lizzie was speechless, astounded by the response that her teasing remark had elicited. She had only half believed what she had said about her brother being in love, yet now here she was drawn into sharing his secret!

  She could not begin to imagine what revelation was to follow.

  She nodded and said very softly, “Of course, I promise. No one shall ever know.”

  They were in their bedroom and it was almost the time when the servant came in to light the fire. Mr Carr went to the door and locked it. It would ensure they would not be disturbed.

  In the next hour, as Lizzie listened with increasing astonishment, he recounted the story her brother had divulged to him some months ago. He did not dwell too long upon the details of how it had all come about, saying he was certain that Darcy would, one day, confide in her himself.

  “When he does, you must not betray the fact that you already have some knowledge of this matter; if you do, Lizzie, your brother's trust in me as a friend and confidante will be totally destroyed,” he said and once again, she solemnly gave him her word that her brother would never know.

  As it was told, Lizzie could not help feeling some degree of guilt at having forced her husband to break his promise to Darcy.

  “I would not have pressed you about it, if it were only a question of idle curiosity,” she explained, attempting to convince herself as well as her husband of her motives. “Indeed, had you refused to tell me, I should have accepted your decision and asked no more. But I could see that there was something that troubled my brother; there is a look of gravity, even a little melancholy about him, which is unusual. I have thought it was the result of other disappointments—in politics, perhaps. I know he had hopes of seeing Mr Gladstone become Prime Minister and was very unhappy when he did not. But I had not thought it possible that he should be crossed in love.”

  By this time, Lizzie was looking so distressed that her husband had to reassure her that her brother was not in any danger of going into a decline as a consequence of his unhappy experience, although he did admit that Darcy had been extremely dejected at the time.

  “When he told me of it, I think he did so because he needed desperately to talk to a friend he could trust. Clearly, he did not wish to reveal the matter to his family; besides, I gather he gave the lady his word that he would not, since it would have entailed explanations that may have compromised her. He was in the unfortunate position of a man who must bear his own disappointment alone, because to speak of it would be to betray another's secret. It was a difficult and painful time for him.”

  “Poor Darcy,” said Lizzie, still close to tears, “how is it possible for someone so universally loved to fall in love with the one woman who will not have him? It must have been a grievous blow. Does he still love her, do you think?” she asked.

  “Perhaps he does,” said Mr Carr, adding, “but I do believe he has since made some progress in gaining control of his feelings. He no longer suffers each time they meet, and I understand their present association is as between two good friends. Darcy speaks very highly of the lady and assures me that she has behaved at all times with the utmost care and consideration towards him, being particular to avoid situations in which he may be embarrassed or pained by her presenc
e.”

  “I can well believe that,” said Lizzie, “but I cannot help feeling for him. My brother is the kind of person who will suffer in silence rather than betray a confidence. What must he have gone through all these months? I wish he had spoken of it to me, I may have been able to offer some comfort as a sister; now I must remain silent and pretend I know nothing of his disappointment. It is so unfair!”

  Afraid that his wife would indulge her sorrow to the point of becoming depressed, which, in her condition, would not have done at all, Mr Carr looked for a way to lighten her mood.

  “Lizzie my love, do not worry on that score. Your brother's general disposition is strong and resilient, able to overcome disappointment with little or no permanent scars. You may depend on me to help him in every way I can and to keep you informed of his progress.

  “Perhaps, one day in the future, when he falls in love and weds another young lady, one who will welcome his attentions, we may recall this time and smile that we took it all so seriously.”

  Lizzie was not at first easy to convince, but her husband, whose devotion to her was unqualified, could always rescue her from a melancholy mood and did so, quite successfully, on that occasion too.

  The warmth and sincerity of his love had sustained her before in the midst of crises and would do so again. Before long, she relaxed and agreed with him that her brother was unlikely to suffer permanent damage.

  “Darcy is too sensible and well disposed towards the world to be embittered by disappointment,” she said. She was persuaded, also, that she need feel no guilt about enjoying what was their moment of deepest happiness, as they anticipated the arrival of their first child. One quite positive consequence had come about, following her husband's revelations. Though she continued to be concerned about her brother's future, Lizzie resolved never again to tease or scold him about his lack of interest in the eligible young women of the district. Darcy would be relieved, she was sure of it.