Goodly Creatures: A Pride and Prejudice Deviation (91 page)

Fitzwilliam Darcy was not pleased when this young man asked his daughter to marry him. His beloved Bethany would leave England. After months of cajoling, Elizabeth persuaded him to agree. She could see the look of love in her daughter’s eyes, and she thought the young man worthy. To the twenty thousand pound dowry from her father, her mother added an additional ten thousand pounds—outside any marriage settlement. It was the remainder of the money she had invested with her uncle. As she prepared for her daughter’s wedding, Elizabeth knew the money she had negotiated so many years before belonged to no one but Bethany.

The new bride used the money to purchase a house in the Place des Vosges. Once settled, their home became a gathering place for all manner of artists and authors. The novelist Victor Hugo became a neighbour. Bethany enjoyed being a Parisienne, but when possible she returned to Pemberley with her children for the annual Midsummer Picnic.

In 1833 Elizabeth and Will reciprocated and visited their daughter. Her father was worried about the safety of their trip since reading of the uprising in Paris upon the death of General Lamarque. Bethany assured her father it was currently quite peaceful in the French capital. Per his request, she arranged for her parents to finally see
Le Misanthrope
at the Comedie Francaise. Elizabeth’s dream, as told to Darcy the night they met, was to finally be fulfilled.

One afternoon, Bethany took her mother on an excursion to visit Moliere’s grave. Darcy preferred to remain at home to spend time with his granddaughters. Each little girl seemed to be a variation of his beloved Elizabeth… Pauline was witty and made him laugh, Theodora was smart and hoped to beat him at chess, and Chloe had her grandmother’s hair and eyes.

The sprawling cemetery was called Pere Lachaise, and in the beginning, those who had developed it had found it difficult to attract new customers. Elizabeth thought the comedy of her favourite playwright’s final resting place to be fitting. She had laughed in disbelief when Bethany told her of the depths to which the administrators had stooped to entice the people of Paris to bury their dead in a place that was not quite as accessible as desired. They had dug up some of France’s most revered like Moliere and La Fontaine and relocated them to this remote location. A few years later in an even bolder move, the doomed lovers Heloise and Abelard were interred there. Now the bourgeoisie of Paris, in their desire to get close to greatness, was helping it to become a very fashionable address for the dead. On the way back to the Marais, they stopped for refreshments.

A mischievous glint in her daughter’s eyes prompted Elizabeth to conclude she had planned a special treat. The cafe served Madeleines. As she took her first bite of the buttery goodness, memories came flooding back. Foremost among them was the tea the two had shared the day she arrived at Pemberley. Bethany’s brilliant smile caused her to recall the little girl’s lisp and missing front teeth.

Bethany too was remembering that day and another discussion they had a few days later. Elizabeth had admitted to having been at Pemberley and in the nursery. That curious fact had been added to others she had learned from David Gardiner. He had first sparked her suspicions when she heard about his trip to Derbyshire with his Cousin Elizabeth the summer before Bethany was born. The most intriguing thing he told her was that Miss Lizzy had always worn an amber cross with an ant trapped inside just like hers. After Elizabeth became her new mother, she wondered why she never wore that necklace. With maturity and an understanding of relations between men and women, she believed she had finally determined why. The time had never seemed right to confront her parents with her suspicions, but now with three daughters of her own—she felt the time had come to demand the whole truth.

Bethany took a sip of chocolate to calm herself. “I know you are my mother.”

“Of course, I am. I have been your mama since I married your father.”

“No, you were my mother before you married Papa.”

Elizabeth stared at her daughter with panic in her eyes. “What do you mean, Bethany?”

“I believe you are my real mother, and I used to believe Papa was my father. As a child, I could not understand how that could be. Still there were unsettling facts. Davey told me about your trip to Derbyshire before I was born. Aunt Kitty remembered you describing the Perrault murals to her. Bethany touched the cross that hung around her neck. “Papa said this necklace had been left by my mother for me. All of your sisters have amber crosses but not you. Aunt Mary said each of you had been given one by your parents on the occasion of your fifth birthday—same as when I was given mine.”

“That is ridiculous—mere coincidences. I had met your mother and father in London. I saw the wall painting in the nursery when I came to visit them during my trip to Derbyshire with the Gardiners.” Elizabeth paused. She could not meet Bethany’s eyes as she tried to think of an answer. She touched the silver necklace Mrs Wilder had given her. “I lost my cross years ago. I do not remember when. Ummm…. Maybe I lost it at Pemberley. Your mother probably found it, liked it and left it for you.”

Bethany refused to be stayed by Elizabeth’s discomfort. “The murals in the nursery were done in September of 1806. David said he remembers being in Derbyshire during the summer, and you were left with Uncle Jamie when they returned to London. I have much finer jewellery left to me by Anne de Bourgh Darcy. There is nothing I have ever heard about her that makes me believe she would treasure a simple amber cross with an insect trapped inside, but Thomas Bennet’s impertinent daughter would.”

Elizabeth looked away as she tried to think of a way to tell her daughter about her birth while protecting her from the horror. It seemed so wrong to besmirch Will’s honour, but she felt that the only course. Before she could say anything her daughter spoke again.

“There are also things that make me believe Cousin Edmund might have been my father. I think it time you tell me the whole truth.”

“Why would you think such a thing?”

“Ric believes it possible. He is quite certain Cousin Richard is his father and not Edmund. We have both heard things over the years that make us question the official story.”

“You have talked about this with each other?”

“Yes. Please, Mama, tell me what I want to know.”

Elizabeth was tired of hiding the truth from her daughter. She did as Bethany asked and told her everything. Her biggest fear had always been that she would think herself tainted for having a depraved father. She started with their meeting at the theatre in London and the performance of the
Tempest.
As the story tumbled out, she decided not to conceal anything. She ended by telling her daughter the circumstances of the death of the Viscount Wolfbridge.

Bethany sipped her chocolate for several minutes after Elizabeth finished. When she spoke, her words were unexpected. “Mama, I am so proud to be your daughter, and to be the niece of Aunt Lydia. You were both so young and so brave.”

“We were young, but we were hardly brave. We reacted to terror.”

“To me you were like Theo’s mother. I have always been proud that my daughters had Pauline for a grandmother, because of the sacrifices she made for so many.” With a laugh she added, “The fat bourgeois of Paris owes his comfortable life to those like Pauline who acted. Now I learn you dared. You did not sit idly by, as Papa likes to say. Bethany took her mother’s hands before she spoke again. “I love you, Mama. Someday I plan to tell my daughters your story—and Aunt Lydia’s—so they can tell their daughters and their daughters can tell their daughters… on and on and on.”

Finally Bethany asked the inevitable question. “What was Edmund like?”

Elizabeth continued to hold her daughter’s hands as she spoke. “You have his teeth and his nose. He was handsome, charming, and he smiled a great deal. Unfortunately, he cared for no one but himself.” She shook her head and smiled as tears threatened to fall. “I do not understand why he liked to inflict pain or intimidate young girls. None of us could ever make sense of his actions… not Cousin Richard, Lady Elderton or your papa. Long ago, I chose to believe Will is your true father. He sang to you, he read to you, he taught you to play chess.” Lizzy chuckled as she remembered her daughter’s competitive nature. “He even let you win in the beginning to give you confidence. You are what he made you, and you are nothing like Edmund, except for a few physical characteristics.”

Bethany gave her mother a very worried look. “Mama, do not ever tell Lewis. He is too fine a man to worry about having a mother who committed a thoughtless act that caused you to be hurt. He never knew her. You are the mother he has known and loved… in some ways, more than any of the rest of us. Please, let us never give him cause to question his goodness.”

Elizabeth Darcy was overcome by Bethany’s charitable words. She nodded her head in agreement, and allowed the tears to fall.

Bethany was too old to man the barricades when revolution broke out all over Europe in 1848, but she opened her home to the young participants, and lived vicariously through the excited laughter that came with their successes, and despaired with them when their comrades were killed. Because Bethany and Theo had not actually participated in the streets, they were spared repression when Napoleon III seized power in 1851. Their friend and neighbour, Victor Hugo, was forced to flee and settled in Guernsey until he returned to France in 1870. While he was in exile, he wrote
Les Miserables,
and it was published in 1862. Bethany immediately sent her mother a copy. Elizabeth Darcy wrote her daughter to thank her for the gift. Her handwriting was still legible, but her daughter noticed it was shakier than it had been only the month before.

Pemberley, Derbyshire

18 November 1862

Dearest Bethany,

I find it more and more difficult to write clearly. Pemberley has become a home for the old and decrepit. Your father was three and twenty, and already the master when I came here for your birth. It was a house of youth but filled with sadness. Despite our advanced years, Sian, your brother and I all find more humour in life than your father did at that time. It was your birth that began his reformation.

All of Sian and Lewis’s children and grandchildren are expected for Christmas, and some will even stay through Twelfth Night. This time of year always reminds me of my first holiday season here in Derbyshire.

Your uncle John and I are the only ones remaining of our generation. Unfortunately, he is in Hertfordshire, and I am here. It would be such a delight to spend time with them again. Of course, I miss your father the most.

I recently pulled out his letters from when we were courting. I probably should say when he was trying to persuade me to be brave and take a chance on happiness. Who knows how much longer I will be able to enjoy them. They are such a comfort. I will leave them for you to keep.

The other day Sian was speaking of planning for next year’s Midsummer festival. We all began reminiscing about the last one before your father died. It was the largest ever, and you and your children came. Pauline and Theodora brought their little ones. We had so many grandchildren and even a number of great grandchildren to be fairies that year. Eric’s son, Henry, the Viscount Wolfbridge, played Puck; and Georgiana and Jamie’s grandson, Fitzwilliam, won the coveted role of the Indian Changeling. Your father had heard rumours that the children had been discussing the time you persuaded Sian and Lew to perform without clothes for authenticity. Your brother almost choked on his tea. He could not stop laughing about how diligent we all were to ensure no nudity.

Thank you for sending me the copy of ‘Les Miserables.’ I appreciated your friend’s examination of the nature of good and evil, and the law. He allowed me to ponder the difference between romantic and familial love with him throughout his tale. His exploration of their significance coincides with much of my recent meanderings. Someday, you should tell him our tale. How I escaped the fate of Fantine; and my own dear Cosette, was raised by the best of men. Of course, our story is not the stuff of novels. Our lives have been entirely too happy to sell many books in this day and age when the toil and trouble of the human condition is all the fashion.

I hope this reaches you by your birthday. You will be fifty-six, and I will be seventy-two. The day you were born is one of my fondest memories—though it was not for many years. Your father and I were lying on the floor because my back ached from carrying you. Despite being in my nightclothes and having bare feet, propriety was the furthest thing from my mind. He suggested we discuss books. I thought him mad but agreed. I quoted Shylock’s famous speech from ‘The Merchant of Venice’ to try to inspire him to understand my need for retribution. Just after he helped me up from the floor, my pains began. You were an easy birth, and you have remained my joy—even when only I knew how dear you were to me.

I have decided to send along our letters as your present.