Men of Consequence

by Francine Rainey

  Chapter Twenty

  “Where have you been!” Hayden scowled and walked rapidly toward Francesca who had just entered the drawing room.

  Francesca stepped aside and walked to the decanter. “Making plans without me?” Hayden stood menacingly behind her and picked up a curl loosened from her coiffeur. “Because if you are, need I remind you that you are here because of me, and should I desire it, I can ruin all your plans to entrap the ‘Master of Pemberley,” Hayden scoffed.

  Francesca breathed deeply and turned to face Hayden who loomed over her with a twisted smile. She looked deeply into enigmatic eyes and could almost discern the once handsome features of youth before they had been mangled through bitterness into this beast before her. Hayden would not deliberately wreck her plans, the excitement of ruining Darcy was too great; however, Hayden was quite capable of acting irrationally, and her future happiness was at stake.

  An actress on the stage, she thought. Francesca allowed a pleasant smile to light her features. “Hayden, darling. You really must trust me. We have the same goals.

  Hayden smirked, “Do we?”

  “Come now, you cannot think me still susceptible to the ‘Master of Pemberley,’” she mimicked, “after the way in which he cast me aside and still shows little interest in Alexander? No indeed, like you, I want only revenge,” she lied, her face twisting slightly. “And we shall both have it, but first I must tell you of an alarming situation.”

  “What situation?”

  Francesca slid past Hayden and walked a few paces, “Our plan may not be as easy as we first assumed. Darcy has a love interest.”

  “A love interest? What do you mean? I have heard of no engagement.”

  “No, not as of yet, but if you had seen them together, you would know that it cannot be long.”

  “Who is she? Knowing the fastidious ‘Master of Pemberley’ she is likely some high-born daughter of an earl that he is bound to by honor.” Hayden paced; this could ruin everything. “Wait!” Hayden stopped suddenly and grinned manically. “Perhaps this could work in our favor! Yes! Yes! We will expose him, and if he has made a promise to the chit, her father will challenge him for his daughter’s honor and the ‘Master of Pemberley’ will be cut down in a duel.” Hayden’s laugh sent a chill down Francesca’s spine.

  “Be serious! And how would a dead ‘Master of Pemberley’ be beneficial? Only if he is alive can we get our hands on Pemberley. Only then can we both have the life we desire.”

  Hayden paused; the sinister smile slowly replaced by somber understanding. Standing suddenly erect, Hayden spoke, “Then we must accelerate our plans. Tell me about his lady.”

  The next day, Francesca stepped into her borrowed carriage in a fine muslin, from the finest modiste, with all the dignity of a duchess. Her hair had been twisted and pinned with elaborate curls that tumbled down her face and caressed her neck. She was stunning, and she would wear her beauty as armor. The carriage jerked into action, and Francesca sat back to plan her strategy. She had not seen her husband’s relations since the phony displays of affection they offered to her at her husband’s passing; however, she needed information, so she had sent her card around to alert her former sister-in-law of her intention to call. Francesca’s frown deepened the closer she came to her destination.

  Her husband’s sister, Hetty Greenwood, was as ugly as they came, Francesca thought unkindly. She was tall and flat, with a large crooked nose, and a mole the size of a ha’penny just above her upper lip. Francesca chuckled at her exaggeration but felt no remorse for her sentiments. Hetty’s looks would not have been nearly so objectional if she were not akin to vinegar inside. Hetty had made her life miserable from the day Francesca had married Waters. Half-sister and considerably younger, (a product of old Mr. Waters second marriage), Hetty had inherited the family’s cruelty along with a significant amount of its wealth, hence the advantageous marriage despite her objectionable person and questionable character. Hetty had resented Francesca’s beauty and had sought to punish the young, frightened Francesca every chance she had. To strengthen her resolve, Francesca allowed memories to escape their confines.

  She stood, a quivering new bride at ten and seven, pink cheeked and bright eyed in the same spot Hetty had left her moments ago, unable to breathe as Hetty and her cohorts giggled and whispered loudly behind delicate fans that were incapable of muffling the vitriol whispered behind them.

  “Of course, he does not love her. How vulgar to think that my brother would care for that penniless chit.” Hetty looked up deliberately into Francesca’s frozen expression and never gazing away continued to speak. “Yes, she is beautiful enough,” Hetty huffed, “but she has nothing else to recommend her. Giles informed me that Francesca’s father begged him to take her off his hands. He was waist deep in debt – from the gaming hells,” she pretended to whisper, “and my brother took her to keep her from being sold to the Madam.” Leaning closer to her friends with the pretense of protecting Francesca, Hetty whispered even louder, “Although, I have heard that it may have already been too late for her virtue. Of course, I would never say that myself, you understand.”

  One of the other gilded ladies spoke, but Francesca could hear nothing else but the blood rushing in her ears as she fought to keep the tears from rushing from her eyes in a flood she thought capable of sweeping her into the abyss.

  Now in the carriage, Francesca sat taller and lifted her chin as she remembered Hetty’s cruelty. Always forced by Giles to show his family the utmost in respect or bear horrible consequences, Francesca had cut her teeth on the art of “civil cruelty” that she learned at the knee of her half-sister, Hetty. Now after such excellent tutelage, Francesca could serve cruelty to her guest with a smile and the good china as well as the best of them. And she had taken pleasure in finally learning to silence Hetty with a barb and a beam. Though she still loathed Hetty, she was no longer afraid of her and would use her to get what she wanted. And she needed information. Though Hetty’s influence in the ton was never stellar, she still maintained a small cluster of social climbers that used her to gain access to gossip and better connections. Since Miss Bennet was obviously not of the first circles, Francesca speculated that Hetty was her best chance for information – short of showing up unannounced at Fitzwilliam’s to speak with the lady herself. Francesca was not opposed to that stratagem but felt it would be better to meet the enemy armed.

  “You will never guess what I have heard, my dear,” Olivia Acton, the middle-aged and vapid wife of a nearly impoverished gentleman, said in her squeaky voice as she sat down her teacup with a clatter.

  Hetty Greenwood, posed in the ornate chair, bedecked in a thick brocade gown, unsuitable for a morning in and even with all its embellishments, ill-equipped to detract from the plainness of the wearer, answered, “What have you heard, my dear?”

  “Well,” Olivia bounced on the edge of her chair, “Victoria Harwood, you know the dear niece of my friend Cecilia, such a lovely girl and so clever to boot. Oh, if my Jonathan were not already married, well that would have been a very celebrated marriage! And the children would have been so lovely. Do not you think? But no, my Jonathan had to fall in love with that…”

  “Yes, yes, my dear. How you have suffered,” Hetty interrupted, biting her lip to keep from screaming. “Now, back to the news, my dear.”

  “Oh, yes, yes! The news. Well, Victoria has written that Chelsea Hayes has informed her that the Matlock’s are due to return to town in a month! It was supposed that they would miss the entire season! But that is not to be so, not so indeed!”

  “I had thought the Matlocks were on the continent, dear. Are you certain they return to town in a month?” Hetty asked.

  “On the continent? Well, I am sure I have heard no such thing. Oh dear!” Olivia’s hand trembled as she brought her fingers to rest on her temples. “I am certain that Victoria has written they would arrive in a month, but if they are on the continent, well, who knows if anyone e
ver returns from there!” Olivia sipped her tea. “No, no! I am certain she returns in a month.” She smiled again. “I do hope that Lady Matlock holds a ball! Although it will be a little late in the season for her to hold a ball.” Olivia paused in a rare moment of introspection, “However,” she continued undeterred, “you know my Jeffrey is still looking for a wife, and a ball hosted by Lady Matlock is sure to have all the best debutantes. Though I am not quite sure why it was supposed that the Matlocks were on the continent and would miss the entire season. It is most irregular to be gone for such a long time. Surely she will hold a ball for the festive season at least…”

  Olivia Acton’s annoying voice and inane comments faded into the background as Hetty absorbed the information of Lady Matlock’s return. Only the observant would have seen the slight stiffening of Hetty’s already erect posture that bespoke her annoyance. Hetty was not exactly welcomed into Lady’s Matlock’s circle. Although a direct cut had not been given, she noticed that she was more likely to be “accidentally left out” of a dinner party if Lady Matlock was to be present. Her semi-exclusion from the first circle had begun some years prior when her brother, Giles had offended the self-righteous, Lord Matlock. Because of this, she was forced to entertain the likes of the insipid Olivia Acton, a silly, nearly destitute gentlewoman barely hanging onto respectability, as well as the nouveau riche, desperate, classless and still wearing the stink of trade like cheap perfume. She had attempted to sniff out the reason behind the Matlocks’ absence from the season, but Lady Matlock’s friends and servants were loyal, and all she had heard was that Matlock had business on the continent and his lady had traveled with him. How she wanted to find something illicit to hold over Lady Matlock, but as ever, the “self-righteous” Matlocks had escaped unsinged from the heat of any scandal. Hetty huffed, and Olivia Acton continued speaking – not realizing that her audience had defected.

  Francesca ascended quickly up the stairs of Hetty’s four-story townhome, her quick, light steps belying her dread. The door was opened by the supercilious butler as prideful as his mistress, who took her card with a hint of a humph and turned toward the morning room.

  “Mrs. Greenwood. Mrs. Francesca Waters, madam.”

  Hetty’s face was inscrutable. “Send her in.”

  Francesca planted a warm smile upon her face as she entered, “Hetty, darling. How good it is to see you.”

  Hetty rose, and as her eyes scanned Francesca’s flawless beauty, her lips tightened. “Francesca, delighted to see you,” she responded through pinched lips. “Do you remember Mrs. Olivia Acton?”

  Francesca greeted Olivia, who sat with her mouth gaped, for she had heard that Francesca was dead or was it deported? Oh, she could not remember! But she was sure it was something with a ‘D’! But there she was! And as stunning as ever. Olivia shook her head.

  Greetings completed, Hetty handed the teacup to Francesca. “Well, I must say I am surprised. I have not heard a peep from you in what? Nearly ten years now? Do tell where you have kept yourself, not in service surely?” Hetty said with a false smile as her eyes scanned Francesca’s fashionable appearance. “Well, at least not domestic service, although that is not the only service available now is there?” Hetty pursed her lips then sipped her tea.

  “Oh no, dearest Hetty. I have not endured that type of service for what did you say, ‘nearly ten years now.’” Francesca smiled brightly as Hetty scowled. “No, I have been living with an elderly cousin in Falmouth. Unfortunately, she died, but she left me quite a little nest egg. I am only in town to reconnect with friends and family before I return,” Francesca lied.

  “I did not know that your father had family in that part of the country?”

  “He does not. It is a relative of my mother’s. And well, having not known my mother, it was a lovely surprise to meet such a dear woman.”

  “Well, lovely for you to have stopped by. We are family as you say,” Hetty said as she turned to Olivia, for she found that listening to Francesca express her good fortune was not what she had in mind for a pleasant visit.

  “Olivia, what were you saying about Victoria’s letter?”

  Caroline Bingley pouted. Since Charles had left town, she had not one invitation to the Darcy’s, or to any dinner party with anyone worth knowing. It was as if the ton only invited her when they could get a glimpse of the new Mrs. Bingley. Even her using the Darcy name had not been effective of late. Hence her being in the carriage barreling down to that old harpy’s house, Hetty Greenwood. Hetty was all that was horrid, but she did have connections – and Caroline needed to be connected to finally make Darcy see what a perfect mistress she would be. Therefore, she would endure Hetty for invitations that would allow her to climb up the social ladder and finally take her rightful place.

  Back in Hetty’s morning room, Olivia prattled, and Francesca schemed. How am I to turn the conversation toward Darcy? If Hetty catches any wind that I am enamored with him, she will be relentless. I cannot afford to have her sniffing about and find Alexander just yet. If I am unable to bring Darcy to heel, having her spread the scandal of a child might be the alternative, but not just yet. I would prefer Darcy to come to me willingly. Francesca huffed. What inane babel Mrs. Acton spouts! Francesca smirked to think that Hetty’s drawing room had been reduced to this level of company. She knew it would infuriate Hetty to not have the first circles at her attendance. Francesca raised her cup to her face to hide her smirk; however, the next words out of Mrs. Acton’s mouth nearly caused her to drop her tea.

  “Yes, I look forward to Lady Matlock’s return from the continent or wherever she is. She will surely have a ball during the festive season. And oh! Her twelfth-night ball must not be missed!” Olivia fanned herself.

  “I beg pardon, did you say Lady Matlock returns in time for the festive season? I had heard that the Matlocks were to be gone for the entire year.” Francesca tried to keep the tremble from her voice.

  “Yes, yes! It is just as I was saying to Hetty. How strange that the family should be gone during the season. But indeed, they are; indeed, they are,” Olivia’s head bobbled rapidly.

  “Yes, indeed they are gone,” Francesca nearly rolled her eyes at Mrs. Acton daftness, “but is it certain they will return in time for the festive season?”

  “Oh yes, my dear very, certain. My friend has it from Mrs. Hayes herself, and we all know that she and Lady Matlock were always thick as thieves. You never saw one without the other I always say. Thick as thieves, they are, yes, yes, thick as thieves,” her were words accompanied by more rapid head bobbles that threatened to topple the feather from her turban.

  Francesca’s eyes blinked rapidly as she sat her teacup down with trembling hands. “Does Lord Matlock return with her?” she asked abruptly.

  Suddenly the door to the morning room opened, and the butler announced, “Miss Bingley, madam.”

  Hetty glanced up and attempted to smooth the distaste from her expression, “Miss Bingley, do come in. What a pleasure to see you.” Caroline entered the room with the posture of a queen, head high, back erect, and looking down her nose at the occupants.

  Blasted interference! Francesca thought as she cast about for a way to obtain information about Lord Matlock’s return from the vapid Olivia Acton. As introductions were made and as the other ladies shared tidbits, Francesca sized up Caroline. Her silk gown and elaborate turban were pretentious, reminding Francesca of Hetty’s overdone garb. Though she was pretty, her manners were supercilious. Francesca decided that Caroline likely came from new money, and her extravagance was probably an attempt to cover up her objectional roots in trade just as Hetty’s was an attempt to cover her objectional person – and both women were clearly failing. Francesca tapped her fingers upon the arm of the chair trying to find a way to obtain the information she desired and flee when suddenly a name caught her attention.

  “Of course, dear Mr. Darcy shall likely invite us to Pemberley for the summer. Miss Darcy, the dear soul, is s
oon to make her presentation and quite looks to me for guidance, the poor dear. Of course, I am happy to help,” Caroline lifted her chin and batted her eyes.

  “And how is Georgiana? I am sure she is the very image of her dear mother,” Francesca asked, leaning slightly forward.

  Caroline’s head swiveled toward the sound, and she glared at Francesca, “You are acquainted with the Darcys?”

  “Yes, intimately. Though having recently returned to town, I have not called upon them – yet,” Francesca sipped her tea.

  Caroline’s eyes widened and then narrowed, and she ran her eyes over Francesca’s person. She turned red, and her breathing increased.

  “When last I saw Georgiana, she played a delightful little tune for us. I could tell even then that she would be a great proficient. I imagine she plays wonderfully now.” Francesca said.

  “Yes, I have never heard such grace and skill in one so young. I am always delighted when she plays, especially since she plays now only for family and her most intimate friends,” Caroline stated, looking down her nose.

  “Hmm, yes, then I shall look forward to hearing her when next I call upon them.”

  “Oh?” Caroline spoke softly. Clearing her throat, she continued, “Do you know when that might be?”

  Francesca nearly smiled into her teacup. For all of Caroline’s bravado, she was obviously not the intimate she claimed. “As I saw Fitzwilliam just yesterday, I promised to call this week.” Not true, but useful. Caroline stiffened. “It turns out he was escorting a lovely young woman, a Miss Bennet, I recall.”