At Last: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Anne Morris

  Life was not something to enjoy: company, food or wine, his cigars, but to be endured. To control it, and all the facets and details that one could, before the blank darkness of death came at the end. He was not going to let loose his hold on this life. William had, that idiotic son of his. Sir John Mandeville still could not believe it had been 'heart trouble' that had taken him, but thought it was drink that killed him, drink and that wife of his. She was either none too clever or far too smart; Sir John had never been sure about Lady Martha.

  William had called her "Martita" as a pet name, which he supposed had meant William was fond of the wife, and the marriage had not been all for connections and money. Fool that he was; William seemed to fall in love with any pretty face. There had been that blond-haired, dark-eyed beauty without much family, a solicitor's daughter, Miss Gardiner, who once turned his head. Perhaps that would have been a better match; she bred like a field rabbit, five daughters he had heard. Martha had been only capable of the one child.

  His head pounded as though his thoughts exacerbated his physical ailments—his gouty legs and the unpredictable unevenness of his heart—and he considered calling Abigail, but she would only insist on a physic and probably discourage his seeing this visitor who had written to ask to come. Sir John did not get any visitors since he, himself, did not visit, but somehow a man had written to him to ask to see him, about the Osmonts of all things, that was what it said in the letter.

  Sir John reached below the rugs which covered his legs for the paper, and peered at it and the signature: Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy. He was not sure he had heard of the man. He knew of a Fitzwilliam family—an Earldom, perhaps this Darcy was related to them. Decent, honest sort; liked to be recognized for their place in the world. The Earl had liked his distinctions of rank, though he could be bought. It seemed one of his daughters had married a man of no title, but worth quite a good deal of money. Nothing like selling out—he would never do that—Sir John would always hold his ground, insist that he maintain his standards. That was what he and Henry had fought about for so long.

  Henry had to come to Netherfield to live like a Baronet, to learn what that meant. His foolish son had moved to London at Lady Martha's urging, then decided he liked the city better than the country. Sir John had feared Henry was turning into an equal fool under the tutelage of his mother, which was why, when his grandson was sixteen, he had tried to host a party and show him that being the heir to a baronetcy was the best thing for him. But Henry had spoken of the smallness of it, in contrast to the war and the threat of Napoleon. Sir John had suggested he consider politics if he was so concerned, but he was sixteen, not of an age to consider politics, he wanted action, said Henry. Sir John had suggested riding and had been laughed at by his grandson!

  Henry should have stepped up—what had Lady Martha taught him about fealty and what was due to his family name, to the title? He should have listened to his grandfather, been obedient—and not supported some idiotic war which had nothing to do with the family.

  Sir John Mandeville did not realize he had slept until the butler came in to announce his visitor. This visitor was quite young, far younger than he had anticipated, and tall. Sir John's body did not move or bend with any easiness, so he could only move his eyes up to trace the height of this stranger; he was far taller than Henry had ever been.

  "Sir," and this Mr. Darcy bowed low to the old man, "I thank you for agreeing to see me."

  "Sit down! It hurts to look up, and I cannot properly see you," said Sir John as he waved a hand at a seat opposite him, and one which would afford him a good view of this curiously young man. The man was obedient, inclining his head to him and giving him a slight smile.

  "Fitzwilliam, you signed your name 'Fitzwilliam,' are you related to the Earl?" he threw out.

  "Yes sir, he is my uncle. My mother was the third Earl's daughter, Lady Anne," answered the young man. He was a good-looking gentleman, just about the same age Henry would have been, with brown hair and dark eyes that were intelligent, though not cold or harsh as was sometimes the case with brown, almost black, eyes. Sir John's own blue ones had faded with time, as the whole of his body had faded, and entire parts of him failed to even work now.

  "Cambridge or Oxford?" asked Sir John, his curiosity roused though that had not been what his visitor had come about.

  "I was at Cambridge…" answered Mr. Darcy, looking at him with an eyebrow raised, but not as if Sir John had surprised him with the question, "as my forebearers before me."

  "Oxford men in my family," said Sir John. "1805?"

  "Yes," answered his visitor. "I finished after the Easter term."

  He stared harder at this man who was the same age as his now long-gone grandson. Resentment and anger began to boil within him that such a reposeful and lucky man lived, no doubt benefited from a happy marriage, blessed with a child or two already, when he had no one. Abigail's son showed no inclination of marrying, and besides which, he could not abide Matthew.

  "My…my grandson finished at Oxford the same time." He was not sure why he was mentioning Henry when the man had written to say he wanted some information about the Osmonts.

  "I am sorry we were not in the same school together," said Mr. Darcy, and rather than appearing eager and interested, he seemed to lean back and away from him, as though incurious, an action which Sir John could not make out, but perhaps the man was simply reclining. He did shift his long legs out in front of him a bit more as though the chair was small for his frame. Damn Abigail and her furniture. He was a listener, at least, this visitor.

  "Henry would not move to Netherfield when he was done and let me guide him as I wished," began Sir John. "I had allowed him to live with his mother, Lady Martha—she has a house in Town—after my son died. I often consider that my largest mistake—that I should have brought Henry and a tutor here immediately."

  His heart ticked faster, with an irregular pattern now, sending those pulses through his limbs, and he could feel his temples pounding as he spoke to this stranger and wondered that he was talking so much. He had his sister, Abigail, to speak to everyday, but she was a woman with her agenda of routine and medicines, and though he did understand it was in her interest to keep him alive; her conversation was boring and repetitive. Speaking his piece to this stranger seemed to be giving him some sort of peace. Mr. Darcy would go away, and he would never see him again, and Sir John was accepting of that, and a spark of something inside glowed as he told his story.

  "I let the boy stay with his mother, rather than insisting that he move here, to be raised with a man's hand. I should have known better. What comfort is there in life, in knowing what an ungrateful grandson one has? I found that out when I tried to begin to shape his future."

  "How old was Henry when you lost your son?" The man brought a hand to his face and pressed a finger to his lips as he listened to Sir John speak. He seemed attentive, polite, but not eager. Had he shown any more interest, Sir John would have stopped his story, but there was something about his mannerisms that prompted him to speak even though Mr. Darcy had yet to have asked him any of the questions he had sent in his letter.

  "Ten. It is a difficult age, he would always remember his father, and he would have remembered if I had taken him from his mother's side; you could see my dilemma. I left him with his mother, but when he was fifteen, I began to ask him to come and that was when we began to disagree." Sir John's body ached as it often did, and he grabbed a hold of the chair to stiffly move himself. The man did not offer him any help. Abigail would have been up and tugging at him when she could barely raise his arm up, let alone help him to move his trunk. This Mr. Darcy could, no doubt, have carried him to the next room as the footmen were required to do, but he did nothing of the sort, but watched Sir John until he was settled again.

  "My sister, of whom I share guardianship, is sixteen. It is often a difficult age," replied Mr. Darcy when Sir John looked at him once a blanket had been tweaked back into place over his knees.
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br />   "We had a brief period of reconciliation before he went away to school, and I held a ball and invited all of the local families of note." He paused as he conjured up his memories. "The Osmonts have had a summer seat in that neighborhood for years and had three daughters, but they were all a little odd, one, in particular—the youngest Iola—would not leave Henry alone. He was angry with me afterward, angry that such was to be the life I wished for him, a country existence with young girls fawning over him, when he wanted more. His mother, you see, moved about in London society, and he liked the excitement he perceived that was available there, as opposed to the retiring life, the quiet of the country. We quarreled, and he left, and I saw very little of him while he was at school."

  "Did you know anything more of the Osmonts?" asked his visitor. He pulled his shoulders back, and was a little more attentive then. "I understood from a friend, Mr. Powlett, that the oldest daughter married a man up north, but that the other two daughters have not been so fortunate as to marry, Miss Edith and Miss Iola."

  "Odd," said Sir John, "odd, the odd Osmonts. I had not thought about those words together, but that sounds better than insane." Mr. Darcy could not help but raise an eyebrow at that. "Landed folk, no title, but money. I am not sure where the insanity comes from," said Sir John. "But I suspect the mother: beautiful, cold and…odd. Mrs. Osmont could traverse ballrooms and drawing rooms without a problem, but her daughters had more trouble; seemed ill-at-ease, high-strung at social gatherings," he rubbed his nose, sniffed, then continued.

  "They sent the two oldest away to a fancy girls' seminary, but the youngest could not handle such an institution. I am not entirely certain what is wrong with her, but she is said to hear voices. Miss Judith did marry, as you said, in '03. They kept bringing the other two to London, and coming back to Meryton for the summer with house parties to try to marry off Miss Edith and Miss Iola. But Iola would be nervous in groups, and often as not, would run off at night, roaming around the hills until someone would be sent to fetch her back. She would listen to her sister, the middle one, who could coax her to behave when no one else could."

  "It sounds like quite a difficult situation for the family," he had almost a mask on, this visitor, though his voice was sympathetic and encouraging. Sir John looked at the man and considered that he was handsome and had aged well. He was probably more handsome now than he had been seven years ago—Henry probably would have aged the same way.

  Sir John smiled slightly at that thought, and his eyes glazed over as his thoughts were entirely turned inward for a moment as he considered what Henry would have looked like had he lived. He pulled his lips tightly together, then looked back with more focused eyes on Mr. Darcy. "The Osmonts stopped coming to Meryton in '05, after there was the fire in a chimney in their principal drawing room. Terrible year: 1805."

  "You lost your grandson that year." Sir John was thankful this Darcy was not sentimental, and yet this Mr. Darcy was sympathetic that there was an end to his family line.

  "He came for a month that summer; we tried to get along, but failed. He spent a lot of time out riding. A few days before he left, he told me he had fallen in love and wished to marry. We had a huge row. Her family name was Bennet. Incredibly, her mother had captured my son's attention years before and I had forbidden the marriage. William had gone to London and married Lady Martha. But Henry would not be swayed and said he loved this chit of a girl. Henry left Netherfield early, disappeared without taking leave, with no notice, and the next thing I heard was that he was on a navy ship—not as an officer—but as an enlisted man. Then he went missing a month later at Trafalgar. I fully expected this girl to sue me for breach of contract as he had probably promised to marry her, and then did not. But I was never sure which one it was and there are five mind you, five in that family though one or two have to have married by now."

  "Did you hear there was a son as well?" asked Mr. Darcy.

  "Lucky dog Bennet, with his brood of offspring. I had not much luck myself. Not sure how worth it is, all of them around and underfoot. My sister has only two, and an ungrateful son who gambles all the time. I am to give him my money, but I cannot say I like the man."

  "Your grandson, is he still officially listed as missing? Did you ever hear if he had been captured first?" Mr. Darcy still leaned back in his chair with his dark eyes looking calmly at Sir John's.

  "He is dead; I know that to be true," said the baronet. "I do not see the point of reliving any old memories."

  "I thought, perhaps, it might give you some comfort, Sir John, to know his ultimate fate," said his visitor. His face was calm, his look uninterested, and yet his voice was responsive.

  "It is interesting that you came by," Sir John answered, "because I have had a letter. I haven't heard from anybody asking about Henry, probably in six years," he coughed and it seemed to make the blood pound more at his temples, "and then I get a letter from you, and I get a letter from a gentleman asking me if I wanted further information about my grandson."

  "Someone asked about your grandson?" Mr. Darcy could not keep the surprise from his voice.

  "Yes—a Mr. Worthing said they served together in the navy, said he had information about Henry's actual fate and could he come see me?" He coughed again, and could feel the tightness in his lungs that often went with the increased pulse. Abigail was going to insist on a physic when Mr. Darcy left.

  "Have you ever heard from him before?" asked his visitor with a slight edge to his voice that had not been there before.

  "Never! Though in the first year after Trafalgar, I had a lot of money-grubbing, greedy types saying they would sell me information about Henry's whereabouts. Bah! He's dead in the sea." He put a hand to one temple, rubbing the fleshy part of his palm there to soothe his headache.

  For the first time, his guest leaned forward displaying a sign of eagerness. "Would you mind sharing this Mr. Worthing's credentials?"

  "I am not interested in hearing what he has to say." Sir John put the one hand down, and reached up to rub the other side of his head with the opposite hand. "I can ill afford to feel anything more about Henry's fate. I have enough to do, keeping my heart from rattling away too quickly, and deciding to not leap up out of my throat." He closed his eyes as often the light aggravated his headache as well.

  "I should, however, be interested to hear what he has to say," said Mr. Darcy.

  "Do what you like. I don't believe I should like to know what you find out," Sir John opened his eyes to see his visitor looking at him.

  "I fear I am taking up too much of your time, sir. You have been quite helpful." His visitor said. "One short question, did anyone confirm that Miss Iola started the fire in the drawing room at Stokes House?"

  Sir John could not help but look up quickly as his eyes had moved down to his lap. He was tiring, and the movement caused a pain in his neck. He had always assumed the fire to be an accident. "How do you know that Iola Osmont set the fire?"

  "I do not know for certain, it is only a guess," said his guest, who had thankfully not risen, so he did not need to crane his neck back painfully to view him. "But my guesses usually prove to be correct."

  Twenty-Seven

  —

  The Pear Tree

  Darcy had been surprised by the difference between the words, the action, and the demeanor of Sir John Mandeville. The old man had said he had no wish to know any more about the fate of his grandson, but he had been perfectly willing to have Darcy look up this Mr. Worthing who had written the old man claiming to have more information about Henry Mandeville. That was a difference right there. And then the elderly gentleman had produced the letter, two letters in fact, from beneath the blankets that lay on his thin lap: Mr. Worthing's letter and his own. Both had obviously been well-read as they were creased, and Darcy could see that the man had taken them out to read and re-read them numerous times, to then be tucked away back again under those blankets. Darcy did not know what to make of that. Did Sir John actually wish to know more of h
is grandson's fate?

  He had come for Elizabeth's sake. He wanted to be able to give her a measure of closure, to better understand what had happened to Henry Mandeville as Darcy understood now that she felt abandoned; Henry Mandeville had left for his ship sometime in early September, 1805, and died, it was to be assumed, on the 21st of October at Trafalgar, though his body had not been found. Mandeville would not have had time to write her, nor would it have been proper for her to have received a letter from a gentleman (though considering Simon was to appear in the spring that 'impropriety' of correspondence would hardly have been scandalous).

  It must have been a lonely time for her, like any wife, mother, or sister, having a loved one go to war and never to return, never to hear from him—not to truly know his fate. And then to realize that she was expecting a child—yet she had weathered it all. He did not know the circumstances that led to her family, her mother, adopting the child as her own. Elizabeth had said her father did not know, that it had been a well-guarded secret.

  He thought about Sir John now that he had met the man. Simon was his great-grandson. He might delight in the boy; everyone who met Simon Bennet delighted in him. Mr. Nash and Mr. Powlett had cast high praise on the boy when they were at Pemberley. But Simon was half Mandeville; he might yet be a Mandeville. Was the law so rigid that he might not be recognized by Sir John as his heir or acknowledged by him in some way? There was, no doubt, some way to do it if Sir John worked at it hard enough. It might bring a modicum of happiness to that old man in his remaining years.

  But whose happiness must he choose in this circumstance? To inform Sir John of his heir would be to deprive Mr. Bennet of his, to inform him of a falsehood that his wife and his daughter had perpetuated against him, a deceit these many years. Simon was a happy and contented child and would, no doubt, be a happy and contented gentleman with his small estate at Longbourn and his five loving, older sisters. He did not need the Mandeville baronetcy and any fortune attached to it to ensure his happiness.