Jane Austen's Pride & Prejudice Sequel Bundle: 3 Reader Favorites (75 page)

“Well, Mr. Collins did make a hasty retreat to Kent. Hence, depart he did, but forthwith dropped dead.”

Having been of Mrs. Darcy’s acquaintance only a brief time, Sir MacFarqhuar was taken aback by her lack of politesse. As a man whose occupation demanded considerable pussyfooting when rendering an opinion of an unfavourable nature (and who never, ever spoke any variation of the word death), he was rendered somewhat befuddled by Elizabeth’s bluntness.

“Yes, yes,” he muttered, but found himself unable to quit the subject in such frank disorder.

Thus he intoned (leaving nary an “r” untrilled), “Plucked he was from your midst to wing his flight from this merciful world. How very regrettable. But we must all pay nature’s last debt. Aye hope his passing was peaceful.”

“I fear it was not,” announced Elizabeth.

At these words, the doctor’s eyes widened in anticipation of a harrowing tale of death and dying (his delicacy extended to circumlocution of one’s demise and not, apparently, the gory details). Albeit Elizabeth’s verbal inclinations strayed from the metaphorical, neither was she of a mind to feed another’s imprudent curiosity.

Thus, she abandoned candour and resorted to the tergiversation of one raised eyebrow.

“Bees,” said she.

This single, cryptic word was enough to ignite the good doctor’s imagination and he nodded his head as if he had heard the entire, bloodcurdling account. Because this exchange was denied him, the humour of it was begrudged Darcy as well. And this silent purgatory was endured by him only because there was no choice.

Volition was something that had rarely been denied a man of his literal and figurative stature and (was other expected?) he did not submit to this revocation with resignation. So ill was his temper during this epoch, few dared to traverse his path. Bingley made perfunctory visits if only because his Christian duty demanded he not abandon a friend in time of adversity, no matter how sour said friend’s disposition.

Fitzwilliam ventured thither for the same motive (the word “family” substituted for Christian).

Most of Darcy’s days, however, were spent upon solitary rides astride Blackjack. Evidently, in lieu of hearing of it, he intended to inspect every foot of earth under the auspices of Pemberley. Although he spent a perfunctory morning visit with his wife, he set out before noon, partaking only of a Spartan midday meal and often not returning until darkness overtook him. Moreover, he did not consume his supper with particular gusto. His lean frame had always camouflaged a build of substantial thew. His withered appetite began to take its toll upon his weight, but it was only his wife (and probably Goodwin) who knew it. Other than to entice him with his favourite dishes, Elizabeth had not a clue how to counter melancholic malnourishment. It was her personal understanding that if one had not the inclination to eat, it could not be coaxed. Furthermore, howbeit she truly did not believe his sense of taste was physically affected by his hearing impairment, she was certain that they would both return simultaneously.

His lone figure, however, was still a sombre sight. Not only did he forsake Elizabeth’s company, he refused to be attended at all. Silently, she fretted for his despondency. Aloud, she insisted that it was unsafe for him to ride about thus.

“Pray, should your path be crossed by some misfortune…”

“Misfortunes occur to the most healthy of souls, Lizzy. I should think I would be merely saved the ordeal of hearing it befall me.”

Though she was miffed that he disregarded her upon that matter, she was recompensed.

For within his disability, they did discover a previous delight. By reason of opportunity, an ancient adage was proven true. The absence of one of the five senses did enhance the others. Two impaired was an exultation of sensory riches. The pier glass was unearthed from its hiding place beneath their bed and put to good use reflecting innumerable capital acts. Conversation was not needed for any of them.

Beyond those connubial, however, pleasure was not his companion. Tolerance for his self-perceived ridicule made him increasingly fractious. Alas, the inadvertent gun blast and resultant injury could not have happened more incommodiously. In his cotton-headed vulnerability, he had little to do but stew. And of the vast pool of possible vexations a man of Mr. Darcy’s standing could select to gnaw upon, his mind seized upon but a single perplexity. That of the paternity of John Christie.

Other than once wanting rather dearly to wring his neck, Darcy had not given the lad a thought. He cowered about so, had Georgiana not taken the notion to school him, Darcy was uncertain he would have recognised his visage. Perchance that is why no one ever remarked upon a resemblance. John rarely allowed himself within the same eye-line as his employer.

Upon Darcy’s commencement of a surreptitious study of the boy, a disconcerting revelation was uncovered. Clearly, John Christie was a tall, dark-haired, taciturn fellow and carried himself with a graceful amble of a walk. Even Darcy could not deny that, except for a more purposeful gait, it was the very description that might have been used to particturalise himself. Once one accomplished the feat of overlooking grimy fingers, crude garb, and common speech, it could be noted that John’s features and figure were remarkably regular and straight. Even noble. Close observation and
cautious interrogation of Edward Hardin revealed to Darcy that John was also industrious, honest, and bright.

Imperceptibly, Darcy began to feel a swell of pride. Many men of station (and almost all those royal) could not claim such fine attributes. Breeding will out, he concluded. The august Darcy blood overcame all manner of nurturing deprivation.

Few men would be able to compleatly abandon a certain conceit on behalf of the potency of their loins. It was the most primitive of instincts. However he might have wanted to believe otherwise, Darcy was no exception. Who should not want to bask in the glow of begetting a strong, handsome boy-child? Even in silent self-satisfaction, Darcy would not. When he realised he had leapt from speculation to acceptance, the smugness of those particular deliberations were roundly quashed in favour of less heady ones.

If it were true that the boy was of his seed, it was his duty to acknowledge him. Was he to do just that, it might well be the most shocking thing to come to pass in Derbyshire since the passing of the Duchess of Devonshire. Howbeit to Darcy’s way of thinking a significant scandal it would be, as far as aristocratic indiscretions were concerned, it was rather minor. More gentlemen than he cared to name had harboured intrigues or kept paramours. If discreet, offspring resulting from such liaisons were tolerated amongst society. Seldom, however, were they acknowledged.

There lay the infamy.

Gentlemen dallied and society turned a blind eye so long as such peccadilloes did not become public. Darcy respected the lessons of the station to which he was born; however, his notion of honour was a little weightier in scruples than most. Holding the generally unpopular belief that public and private disgrace were one and the same, he wrestled relentlessly with his conscience. Could he cast all decorum aside and openly claim a bastard child of his chambermaid as his own son? Give him the Darcy name? His father’s name?

Notoriety, particularly for sins of the flesh, was indefensible. As abhorrent as he held a rupture of his privacy, Darcy’s private mortification eclipsed even that. There was nothing upon which he prided himself more than self-discipline. Although he had never quite reached a reckoning with his unequivocal surrendering to the fever of his youth, he had believed it was an ancient imprudence. Admittedly, when he married Elizabeth, he was not an innocent. But if he had once succumbed to the call of his libido, he had truly believed his reputation was unsullied by any, shall we say, lasting evidence of it. Except for that unguarded initial frolic into carnality, he had been meticulous about how and with whom he bedded. Hence, the appearance of this particular misbegotten bairn thrust unknowingly upon his doorstep (if memory served, literally upon the inception of his wedding), proclaimed itself unto Darcy as a harbinger of judgement. He saw it clearly as a condemnation of his early sins of the flesh. And if it was not divine, the difference was indiscernible.

Tormented with guilt, he wrestled with how best to announce to his wife, his family, his friends, and society in general that he was no better that Henry Howgrave’s father. How could he find the moral courage to deliberately besmirch his father’s memory in such a vulgar manner? After weeks of vacillating, he knew he must make a move, for he was out of humour far too frequently. However, he wanted to reach a decision uncluttered by sentiment before burdening Elizabeth with his public disgrace.

Ere that opinion could be reasoned, fate intervened.

It was a perfectly lovely afternoon for midwinter. Not a finer day had been had for weeks. It was then Mrs. Reynolds chose to board a waggon for Kympton to personally berate the costermonger for the unacceptability of their most recent delivery.

The old woman issued orders to bring the waggon about whilst complaining bitterly about the necessity of having to endure the fallowness of winter at all.

“Was it not such a dry autumn, the cellars would be full. There would be no need for such flummery as this!”

Just outside the steps of the house, Mrs. Reynolds checked a sheet of paper with her index finger, methodically reviewing what appeared to anyone else as hen-scratching. Evidently, the costermonger’s sins were so numerous as to need explicit delineation. Once that was accomplished, she was impatient to light into the man and stood about in irascible wait for the waggon.

The footmen scurried about, none anxious to invoke her wrath, which led to undue hastiness in preparation. The harness needed adjusting. But as Mrs. Reynolds was getting testier by the minute, a dirk that was both too long and too dull was produced. It fell to John Christie to employ it. Had Mrs. Reynolds glowered less relentlessly or the wielder been more experienced, greater caution would have been observed. But as it was not, the knife slipped, gouging John’s hand nearly to the bone just below his index finger.

The geyser of blood that erupted caused the usually unflappable Mrs. Reynolds to shriek, thus alerting the house of the accident.

Georgiana and Elizabeth rushed to the scene, then ordered John whisked into the kitchen. Most knife wounds occurred there and, as a veteran of such mishaps, cook was charged with repairing his. This was neither a solemn nor a solitary procedure.

Surrounded by an assortment of scullery help, cook still set about this task with all the aplomb of a surgeon.

Howbeit Mrs. Reynolds covered her eyes, Georgiana observed the doings closely. So carefully did she watch, it appeared she might actually take the needle and thread from cook’s hand and compleat the operation herself.

Elizabeth was both mesmerised and repulsed by the ordeal. She noticed that the victim, however, was astonishingly stoic (the ladies were quite unwitting that it was their presence that bid John’s denial of pain). Indeed, during the close scrutiny of this process, Elizabeth considered howling upon his behalf. But as screaming in empathy was not an acceptable option and a chorus of “o-o-ohs” erupted with each stitch taken, she busied herself shooing out unnecessary observers.

After the cut had been closed, Georgiana took over. She patted some cobwebs upon the wound, then swaddled his hand in muslin batting (in all honesty, it was a little overly swaddled) and led him outside. From thence, Elizabeth could hear her issuing strict instructions to Edward Hardin about keeping John’s hand elevated and dry. This instituted some stifled laughter amongst the other footmen, and it wafted indoors.

Elizabeth smiled to herself as she imagined John Christie’s mortification.

“Noble blood, to be so brave,” she remarked.

Mrs. Reynolds replied “As well he should.”

Cook had returned to her oven, and this inexplicable comment seemed to dangle in the air inexorably.

“He should?” Elizabeth bid.

“Why yes, I thought you knew, ’though I’m not so sure if the boy does.”