Into Kent (14 page)

Miss Hartsbury peered around, squinting in the direction Darcy had indicated. She turned back, blinking rapidly. “Oh! That is Sir Neville…Sir Neville Canham.”

“He seems an upright sort,” Darcy offered tentatively.

“Do you think so, Mr. Darcy? Yes, I believe him to be…I have had that thought…that is, I do not know him well, of course, but he does have an air, do not you think?”

“I do,” said Darcy in an approving tone. “He carries himself well.” He allowed himself this slight overstatement as the gentleman was, at that moment, seated very alertly as he sought to observe the dancing, and Darcy’s partner in particular.

“Yes,” agreed Miss Hartsbury, looking back around to view Sir Neville again. “Yes he does, does he not?”

“Where does he come from?”

“We met in Bath…that is, I was in company with his sister last autumn, and we were introduced, you know; we may have even danced once—though I cannot really recall; he dances but seldom, I know,” she said, looking away. Given the fact that her countenance and air were usually so open and easy of interpretation, Darcy construed this studied ambivalence to be a definite sign of approval, and possibly even interest. And, to his eye, Sir Neville certainly did not view his appropriation of Miss Hartsbury’s time with equanimity. Darcy considered: if there was in fact a mutual attraction between them, he was sure that Miss Hartsbury would not be timid about pursuing it, were she made aware of it. But from what he could tell of Sir Neville, that awareness might never be forthcoming; he therefore determined to stir the gentleman to action. The better to spur him, as the set swept them up again, Darcy put on his best airs for the dance, and he flattered himself that he did not acquit himself poorly; his partner, to be sure, seemed quite pleased with his efforts. Darcy could see Sir Neville’s concern rising through the dance, and believed his scheme to be proceeding well. Unsuspecting, Miss Hartsbury’s enjoyment of their dance together was very evident on her face, which Darcy hoped would prove an additional provocation, and compel Sir Neville to act upon his inclinations.

Mid-way through the set, after an unusually long pause in the conversation, by Miss Hartsbury’s standards, during which she seemed to be resolving some measure within herself, she took the opportunity to address him in a serious manner: “Mr. Darcy, I have wanted to say…I feel I should ask your forgiveness.”

“
My
forgiveness?” asked he in wonder. “Whatever for?”

“For not having given you warning—about Miss Chesterton.”

Darcy, startled by this, hastily gave her his assurance: “Goodness, no—My dear Miss Hartsbury, please: I berate myself almost daily for having failed to benefit from the very obvious distaste you displayed on finding yourself in her presence; if I had any wit at all, I could have needed nothing further.”

Miss Hartsbury’s countenance fairly shone with pleasure and relief. “Then you do not blame me?”

“It would never cross my mind, I promise you” he said.

“I heard something of what passed between you at
Fortuno’s
,” she ventured, her expression one of anxious concern compounded with curiosity.

“
Fortuno’s
? Oh, the coffee house; yes, I dare say all of London heard something of that day,” Darcy acknowledged with some embarrassment. “That gossip I mentioned…”

Miss Hartsbury nodded sympathetically. “I have to say,” she informed him in a reassuring tone, “you are quite the hero with some of the ladies of my acquaintance, you know. With every one, in fact, who ever knew Miss Chesterton. They quite envy me your coming here to-night, as you have declined invitations from several of them this Season: imagine it—they envy
me
” she marvelled artlessly. “And when they hear you asked me to dance…” She stopped; then, colouring, she said, “Well, I believe you have secured my reputation for life, I declare.”

Darcy smiled at this, amused that she should imagine a dance with him could be the means of affording her any sort of distinction amongst her acquaintance. He scoffed good naturedly, “I am sure you cannot be serious, but I thank you; if this be heroism, though, you may have it. Every titled reprobate in London,
and
his wife, are panting after my acquaintance now.”

Miss Hartsbury sniggered in a candid, if somewhat indecorous manner. “Well, I believe I
was
serious, you know, but you have cured me of that. And, my dear Sir, be assured: you will always find refuge here; my door is always open to you—and they unquestionably do not wish
my
acquaintance.” She gave Darcy a little
moue
of self-pity, then laughed at herself. Darcy bowed his thanks for this gentle indication of her friendship. The dance at this point caught them up once more, postponing their conversation yet again.

They danced amicably for some time without saying much of import. But towards the end of the set, Darcy, noticing the young gentleman from Bath looking at them with an altogether discontented look, observed to his partner: “Do you know, Miss Hartsbury, I believe Sir Neville Canham has been watching us; is that at all likely, do you think, or do I imagine it?”

Miss Hartsbury glanced Sir Neville’s way, who, starting, instantly turned his gaze from her; Miss Hartsbury turned back, blushing. “I am sure you must be mistaken, Mr. Darcy: I can think of no reason whatever why he might be observing our dance.”

“No, of course,” Darcy assured her, privately amused. “I was undoubtedly mistaken.” On seeing her look slightly disappointed at this, however, he said as if musing to himself: “I would have taken my oath he was, though.” Miss Hartsbury brightened again, and Darcy was persuaded he had fulfilled his charge to himself.

At the end of the dance, after releasing Miss Hartsbury, he was highly gratified to see the young gentleman approach their hostess; that he asked her hand for the next was apparent, and Darcy was rewarded by seeing the elated look that crossed her face as he left her. The warmth this private moment of tenderness provided was, however, short lived: it was soon replaced by a subdued and wistful envy; he did not wish their happiness less, of course, but he would have risen to a similar feeling, if he could.

He looked round for Bingley, and found him once again standing by a corner of the room, deeply engaged, or so it appeared, in studying the musician’s feet. He secured two glasses from a footman and took one to his friend, they drank in silence for a bit; as the musicians struck up for the next set, Bingley said, “I suppose it would look bad if we left as early as this?”

Darcy looked around in time to see Sir Neville arrive to claim their hostess’s hand; her happy smile and faint blush told him all he needed to know, and all he thought he could support; he turned back to Bingley, saying, “I am sure Miss Hartsbury will forgive us for taking an early leave. I, too, should be just as well pleased to be on our way.” So saying, the two unobtrusively gathered up their coats and began the quiet walk home.

Chapter Seventeen

March passed slowly away. Darcy’s struggles continued, his thoughts chasing a weary circle from
Miss Elizabeth Bennet, to the demands of propriety, and back to Miss Bennet, but at least his fears for his reputation where Miss Chesterton was concerned were gone: Pender had done that much for him. But the damage done his self-esteem, and the deep and lasting doubts as to the reliance he might place on his feelings, made his ruminations tiresome in the extreme. His loathing of Miss Chesterton increased each time he revisited the matter: as dishonesty was always a source of abhorrence to him, such calculated dishonesty, on such trivial provocation, angered him all the more; Elizabeth’s generous, forthright, and open temperament was rendered almost sublime in comparison with Miss Chesterton’s deceitful, licentious, and contemptible character.

Over time, however, Darcy had gradually learned to quell his sentiments and school his thoughts. By the end of March his feelings for
Elizabeth, while neither gone nor forgotten, had become submerged in his daily activities, a part of his normal existence. His life settled back into its accustomed rhythms of family and affairs, duties and diversions. Only when his attention would fix on Elizabeth would his regrets expand to discompose him: but he was becoming better able to avoid those moments, consciously turning his thoughts aside when they would threaten to remain too long on her.

Miss Bingley contrived to keep Manchester Square lively and full of entertainments, in spite of her brother’s marked lack of enthusiasm; she even managed to persuade her brother to dance occasionally at her gatherings, although Darcy had largely fallen back into his former distaste for the amusement. Aside from these gatherings, however, Darcy was very little seen in company.

Bingley was, seemingly, mostly returned to his former good humour, but Darcy’s narrow observation of his friend enabled him to see the occasional symptom of unhappiness: moments wherein Bingley experienced a fleeting lowness of spirit that he worked hard to keep hidden. Seeing this through the lens of his own regrets, Darcy knew how to pity his friend, but not how to mend him.

In April Darcy was required to visit his Aunt Catherine in Kent, accompanied as usual by his Cousin Edmund. It was a yearly visit, begun when the gentlemen were quite young; in the beginning it was a family custom, a chance made for them by their elders to be with their cousin Anne. Since his father’s death, it had fallen to Darcy to oversee his aunt’s affairs, and he spent some weeks each spring reviewing Rosings’ books prior to the planting season. This year he was of two minds about his visit: what he was accustomed to seeing as no more than a duty, now at least offered some diversion from being in Town; yet diverting was not a term one normally associated with his Aunt Catherine. He hardly knew whether he should be glad to go, or to regret that his life had become such that he could see this journey as anything other than a most disagreeable chore.

Early in the morning on the first Monday of April, therefore, Darcy went to pick Colonel Fitzwilliam up at his barracks in Knightsbridge. Colonel Fitzwilliam waved as he emerged from the Governor’s House, turned to give some instructions to the sergeant on duty, and strode over to join Darcy in the coach.

‘Well, cousin, say good-bye to the joys of Town life,” Darcy told him lightly. “It will be some time before we will know good company again.”

“I thank you for the reminder,” Colonel Fitzwilliam replied dryly. “I had nearly forgotten.”

“At least Aunt Catherine does not view you as Cousin Anne’s intended,” Darcy responded with some asperity. For the last five years, since his cousin Anne had turned eighteen, Lady Catherine had every year been more pressing on the subject of their nuptials; when her daughter was born, she and Darcy’s mother had fixed it between them that their children should marry, and Lady Catherine never wavered from that intention.

“True—very true,” grinned the Colonel. “I do feel better, indeed. My thanks.”

Darcy snorted. “So glad to be of service,” said he. “Where is your mount?” Colonel Fitzwilliam was accustomed to bringing one or two horses with him into Kent, as Lady Catherine’s manor afforded several excellent chases, which offered the Colonel a good excuse to be out of the house.

Colonel Fitzwilliam’s face hardened: “Poor brute came up lame two days ago—near-fore hoof is hot. I
told
the Stable Master there was too much grain in the feed—if he founders I shall have that man’s hide. Be lucky if he is fit to ride by the time we get back. If that animal is not fully fit by mid-May, I shall have the beef-wit up for court martial!”

It amused Darcy to hear his cousin become so very military in tone; normally there was no more gentle-spoken person in the whole of his acquaintance. “Why mid-May?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam looked up at his cousin with a smile. “I have my orders, Darcy!” he confided. “I go over in June.”

“Fitzwilliam, congratulations!” Darcy cried. “Well done! You are sure to do well. Where do you go?”

“To Italy, up near Milan. I am to be Attaché to the Austrians there.”

“Attaché?” Darcy asked in mild surprise. “You will be only an observer, then?”

“Well, that is rather vague,” his cousin said with a rakish grin. “My orders do not specify from what distance I am to observe, and it might just happen that I shall be called on to observe from rather close quarters; and if my pistol should happen to discharge accidentally in the direction of the French, well, I can hardly be blamed for that, can I?”

Darcy laughed, then looked at his cousin most seriously, “Only, see here, Edders; do try not to get yourself killed—I should take it amiss.” The two friends, when speaking privately, were given to using their boyhood nicknames at times of particular feeling.

“Yes, Mother,” Colonel Fitzwilliam answered with a wry expression. “Darcy, do not be an idiot; I shall well enough.”

“I am in earnest, Edmund. You do sometimes let your enthusiasms run away with you, you know—especially when you have a good horse under you.” Then Darcy’s manner grew lighter. “You may allow yourself to be maimed…slightly—it will add distinction to your bearing.” Colonel Fitzwilliam scoffed at this. Darcy made a show of considering him thoughtfully for a moment, “And your face could do with a bit of alteration.” His cousin thumped him a blow to the chest too quick for Darcy to either block or dodge. Darcy laughed again and went on: “Yes, I think an eye-patch would look well; that would lend a bit of interest. But that is the limit. Agreed?”

The Colonel snorted. “Very well, Darcy, you have my word: I shall attempt nothing more ambitious than a slight maiming and an eye-patch.”

“And so now you are off with me to Kent? Are you sure you can be spared?”

“Yes: my training duties have already been handed off, and I am my own master until the last week in May, then two or three weeks studying dispatches at the War Office, to be sure I am abreast of the full situation, and I am off. I shall go home after we leave Kent: I have to break the news to my mother.”

“Did your father not do so? I assume he knows.”

“Yes, he knows, but I asked him to let me tell her. It were best, coming from me, I think; I am in no great hurry about it, though, I can tell you.” The two fell silent momentarily. “And so—Kent,” the Colonel continued. “I shall have just time enough to become too soft to ride before going over to spend weeks in the saddle.”

“Well, I dare say Lady Catherine’s stock can use some exercise.”

At this Colonel Fitzwilliam looked disgusted. “Ride
her
cattle? Gad! I do not see why you keep buying her good horses, Darcy; she only ruins them. Last year that hunter you got for her could barely be saddled, he was so fat and lazy. Doubt he had been ridden all year. Lord knows what she has done to him by now.”

“Well, at least it will give you occupation, and a reason to be out of doors.”

“I dare say that is true,” Colonel Fitzwilliam allowed. “With you locked in the library all the day, it gets deucedly tiresome wandering about the house, I assure you; but if memory serves, Lady Catherine’s library has a fine atlas of Europe that I could spend some time on to good effect. Other than that, I shall have to hope for decent weather, that I may be out of doors a good deal.”

As the coach wove the rest of the way through London’s streets down to Westminster Bridge, the gentlemen were mostly quiet, each of them occupied with their own thoughts. When they were well out into the country, after an hour or so of aimless and intermittent conversation, Darcy turned to his cousin and said, “Fitzwilliam, there is something on my mind I should like your opinion on; perhaps I had best ask it now, as you will not be so ready to hand for much longer.”

“Certainly, Darcy. What is that?”

“Frankly, it is the question of making a proper marriage; does one, in this day and age, need to observe the same delicacy of generations past, when it comes to making a fitting alliance, marrying into the proper family?”

“Is this a personal concern, Darcy?” his cousin asked teazingly.

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Darcy allowed; not being prepared to introduce the subject of Miss Elizabeth Bennet to his cousin, he had thought he might use Bingley’s situation to test his cousin’s thoughts on the question. “I recently secured a friend from a most unfortunate marriage; I have been congratulating myself on having saved him; but I should be glad to know that I did the right thing.”

“What were your objections to the match?”

“The lady was not right for him, in many ways; I was sure his marriage would be highly injurious to his happiness, and his standing.”

“He is a man of standing, then?”

“Yes, I should consider him so—about Town, at least.”

“Well, I have to say I probably should have done the same. Indeed, if the lady is wrong for him, I cannot see how standing comes into it. I should have done as much for any friend, no matter his station.” The Colonel, at much the same time of life as his cousin, had never had his affections seriously tried; his avowal was therefore based on the assurance inherent in the want of experience, and ignorance of how such interference was likely to be met with. Most men of any experience, of course, would sooner try to saddle and ride a mad bull than to attempt to persuade another to abandon his lady-love. Had he realised, the acceptance of such interference by Darcy’s friend would have struck him as a wonderful demonstration of his regard for Darcy; Colonel Fitzwilliam, however, saw it as no more than the response any rational man would have had to such objections.

“True,” Darcy agreed with equally untried innocence. He went on: “But what about the larger question of misalliances: what are the constraints, the defining factors, for passing judgement? How, precisely, is one to know which marriages are acceptable, and which are not?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam nodded as understanding dawned: “I see—this is, then, an exercise of the mind: you wish to logically define how to decide which ladies are allowable as one’s spouse, and which are not?”

“Yes, if you will.”

The Colonel was accustomed to his cousin’s way of thinking, and, as Darcy had asked the question seriously, he gave it serious consideration. “At first glance,” said he, after a moment’s reflection, “there seem to be several factors: first, I suppose, there is the wealth and standing of the two families—what you might call the issues of Society: does a baronet marry a tradesman’s daughter, for example. Then the issues of family—does a Whig marry into a Tory family? And, finally, the more personal issues of understanding, opinions, education, and so forth, which I would lump together as the issues of breeding.”

“Excellent—well put; I agree. Now: which, if any, of the three takes precedence over the others as the first consideration for accepting, or rejecting, a given union?”

The Colonel made no immediate reply as he sought to give one priority over the others. “I am not sure,” he answered at length. “Each time I ask the question, I arrive at the same problem: what if one does not care?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, take the issue of family: your family are Whig, and hers are Tory; what if you do not care?”

“Well, of course, the couple themselves might not care; probably would not, I should think. But what of the families, their connexions?”

“Again, what if one does not care? Is it one’s father who objects, or a second cousin twice removed?”

“Well, say it is the father.”

“Even there the same thing applies: what if the old man is a crusty, disobliging cur one would not cross the street to give greeting to?”

“But under threat of disinheritance?”

“That is rather an indelicate question to put to a second son,” Fitzwilliam said sardonically. “But I stand by my answer. It all depends on how one feels about it. There does not seem to be any firm ground to stand on, in order to reach a secure position.”

Darcy, in his personal debates, had been rather inclined to take the position that one’s obligations to family and standing took precedence, and were quite nearly absolute. To cast aside one’s responsibilities on these points would be to discredit the family’s history, position, and honour; how could one injure so many others, merely for the sake of one’s personal gratification? Especially if one were head of that family?