Jane Austen's Pride & Prejudice Sequel Bundle: 3 Reader Favorites (96 page)

But she knew her vengeance would be better appeased if she could hear what was being said. She opened the door wider and peered back down the hall at the thick oak door betwixt herself and Jane. Still hearing nothing, she boldly stepped out into the hall, leaned back against the doorpost and folded her arms. Her position improved, she heard muffled voices. Thereupon she heard weeping. Her anger boiled. This would not do!

Her hands firmly upon her hips (and a slight jutting of her chin announcing a pugnacity that was not particularly flattering), she marched down the hall. How dare Bingley make Jane cry! She was the injured party! He should be upon his knees begging Jane’s forgiveness! Looking to either side, she searched wildly for some object to inflict retribution upon Bingley’s person, becoming angrier with each step she took. Not finding anything handy by the time she reached the door, she decided she was irate enough to take a pound of flesh from his hide without a weapon.

She flung the door back and burst into the room. She wished she had not. At her sister’s intrusion, Jane looked up.

It was not she who was crying.

It was unsettling to Elizabeth to have intruded into so private a moment, and the only consolation she had was that, in view of the fact that Bingley was weeping wretchedly into Jane’s lap, he had not known she had witnessed it. She supposed he was suffering from his own misdeeds enough to satisfy her own righteous indignation. Pity
was an emotion Elizabeth seldom found reason to summon, but she drew it forth in a measure large enough to keep herself from judging Bingley.

Albeit Bingley was in ignorance of her encroachment upon his privacy, there was, nevertheless, the no small matter of the rather flagrant proof of his indiscretion. The giggling, squirming, cooing proof of his indiscretion. It was difficult to step about it at first, Bingley behaving rather cowed in Elizabeth’s presence. But soon, howbeit she knew their previous understanding of normalcy was forever altered, a precarious symmetry was eventually obtained. Conversation eventually abandoned wearying civility and flowed more easily, the self-conscious shuffling of Bingley’s feet stopped, and the days returned to their maddening monotony of fear and dread.

And when Jane and Bingley took Alexander home to Kirkland, the folk of Derbyshire were thrown into a confusion of paternity supposition of gargantuan proportions.

F
or several days after Mr. Darcy took leave, Hannah drew Elizabeth’s bath faithfully. Nevertheless, she ignored it. At first, it was not a conscious decision, Elizabeth merely stepped around the tub and donned fresh clothes. Gradually, it dawned upon her why she was neglecting so fundamental a part of her toilette. It was for the very same reason that she sat looking at, rather than sitting in, her steaming tub after their wedding night.

She did not want to wash her husband from her body.

In a time when one of average means did well to wash before church each Sunday, it took clearly a week for Elizabeth to suspect her own odour might be giving offence. To her it was a banner of loyalty to Darcy, but she chose not to explain herself, sparing the necessity of sharing that particular logic with anyone.

Another rationale for not bathing was Baby Alexander. He was a happy diversion and Elizabeth fancied that it made him feel more acclimated hugging the neck of an unperfumed woman. One who smelled more like his mother. (If the average man bathed but once a week, those of meagre circumstance could only pray for a good rain.) He may have been comforted thusly, but that was unclear. The thing that was clear was that Alexander had a happy disposition. Some traits will out; Elizabeth supposed he inherited his from Bingley. Moreover, he had shown no signs of his mother’s disease.

When Jane took Alexander home to Kirkland, Elizabeth missed his company but lectured herself that it was as it should be. His relocation and Darcy’s extended absence convinced her to give up her absurd determination not to bathe, but she sat in the tub and sobbed inconsolably when she finally did. If others were happy she came to the conclusion of finally surrendering to soap, no one spoke of it.

Thus, the days were more patient than Elizabeth was and she struggled to fill them. She was “not at home” for most people, seeing only the Bingleys and Lady Millhouse. She was determined word not reach her father, for she knew he would not be able to elude her mother long enough to come to her side alone.

Although she did not keep to her room, she rarely took to the outdoors unless to count off paces to the gate. There she would pause and look longingly for the mail-coach, thereupon trudge slowly back to the house. Even there her routine was strict, and she was unable to steel herself to visit the gallery. At one time, she was comforted during her husband’s brief absences by sitting beneath his likeness. Elizabeth did not want to investigate her heart to understand why even the thought of his portrait was so painful then.

Recognising Elizabeth’s despondency and knowing the reason for it, Lady Millhouse obliged her to do just that. She suggested they stroll the length of the gallery and make sport of some of the more ludicrous wigs worn in the ancient paintings. Knowing it imprudent to admit an extravagance of sentimentality to her, Elizabeth nevertheless demurred, saying it saddened her to look at Darcy’s portrait. As expected, Lady Millhouse pronounced it maudlin to pine over an absence.

“It is insipid to sit about like a vapid flower moping over Darcy! He shall return with Georgiana within a fortnight. I shall not worry for Newton, God shall protect him. You must keep yourself busy! Come, let us walk.”

Elizabeth listened to her reassurance with perfect indifference, for Lady Millhouse’s bravado was quite suspect. That lady’s will was not to be denied, however, She took Elizabeth firmly in hand and led her reluctantly to confront the source of her melancholia.

Darcy’s portrait hung at the far end of the room, thus they were able to work their way to it slowly. Again, Elizabeth pondered the ancestors of her unborn child. Seldom did these countenances fail to amuse her, for they were all in the happy circumstances of riches, and all but a few seemed quite dour about it. (Was it simply bad teeth? She could only guess.) This thought of tooth-loss renewed her gratitude that her own were yet in her head and that Darcy’s were sound as well. Perchance their children would inherit their parents’ strong teeth.

Eventually their tour took them to the portrait of Darcy’s mother. For, howbeit none of the portraits beheld smiling countenances, hers was not only unsmiling, but also seemingly forlorn. That thought had always nagged at Elizabeth, but she believed it an observation only of her own.

Darcy had told her this painting of his mother was done after his birth. It was ten years later that she would die bearing Georgiana, and Elizabeth wondered if she had some infirmity that grieved her even then (and hoped it was not her teeth). Lady Millhouse walked up and stood silently next to her as she gazed upon the elder Mrs. Darcy.

“Georgiana does favour Elinor, does she not, Elizabeth?”

Grateful she spoke of Georgiana in the present tense, Elizabeth was taken unawares at hearing Mrs. Darcy called by her Christian name. “Elinor. Yes, she does.” Indeed, Georgiana did favour her mother, for she was blonde and slight. And howbeit there was a resemblance, Elinor Darcy would be much more likely to be described as handsome than beautiful. Georgiana had her colouring and slim figure, but her features were more delicate than her mother’s, her chin not as pronounced.

“She was lovely,” Elizabeth said diplomatically, knowing an outright fabrication would invite correction from Lady Millhouse. “But I wonder if she was ill when her likeness was taken. She looks a bit drawn about the eyes.”

“What grieved her was not her health, I am afraid,” said Lady Millhouse without further clarification.

It was the first time Elizabeth could remember her making such a deliberately abstruse comment. But she did not question it, knowing the lady would elaborate in her own good time. As if by prearrangement, both their gazes turned to the late Mr. Darcy’s portrait. His countenance smiled down upon them from just to the left of his wife’s. He had been a handsome man and did not appear to have the ability to brood as did his son.

“No question of that gentleman’s health, he must have been quite a robust man,” Elizabeth observed.

“Gerard was very robust,” Lady Millhouse said, but it was not spoken in admiration. “Elinor was five years his senior, yet he outlived her by ten. I fancy she might have lived longer had her heart not borne a disappointment.”

It was unlikely Lady Millhouse intended that remark to go unquestioned. Elizabeth obliged.

“Pray, did she not die in childbirth with Georgiana?”

“That is merely when she died, not why.”

“You shall, of course,” Elizabeth put her hand upon her hip, “tell me the why.”

“I would not have brought it up otherwise.”

No, she would not, Elizabeth knew that well.

“Gerard Darcy was much beloved in this county, not only by his son, but everyone of his acquaintance. He was of handsome figure, amiable disposition, and benevolent heart. Robust as well. Albeit your husband inherited his father’s countenance, his temperament and scruples are those of his mother.”

Elizabeth nodded her head in concurrence, for she had believed that to be true, but never heard it put so frankly.

“As you learnt quite expeditiously, Elizabeth, marriage within Darcy’s presumed society is not often a match where love or even affection is a consideration. The fortunes of Elinor and Gerard were far too vast to leave to the whim of passion. Their marriage was arranged. Though it was not born of love, I believe, as often happens, eventually mutual regard developed. That esteem was perhaps felt more firmly by Elinor.”

Lady Millhouse turned her back to the Darcy portraits and Elizabeth as well, possibly in apology of the story she intended to relate.

“Lizzy,” (it was the first time Lady Millhouse had addressed her thus, and Elizabeth took it as an endearment) “have you heard the tales of the late Duchess of Devonshire? She and the Duke resided at Chatsworth.”

“Of course.”

“Difficult to avoid, I suppose. She did invite a great deal of gossip, not only in Derbyshire, but also across England. Georgiana was very beautiful. Very flirtatious. She drank like a sailor and gambled like a lord.”

Lady Millhouse laughed at the memory.

Turning to look at Elizabeth, she assured her, “The reverse would have been better, for when it came to games of chance, luck was the thing that eschewed her company.”

“In time her gambling debts became so great, she feared the Duke would refuse to pay them. Come she did then to the benevolent, rich, and robust Gerard Darcy, bewailing her sad tale of woe. At first, she merely sought his counsel. It blossomed into more.”

Hardly unsuspecting of the direction this story was taking, Elizabeth nonetheless took a slight gasp at hearing it spoken.

“Mrs. Darcy learnt of it?”

“Oh yes.”

Lady Millhouse turned about directly facing Elizabeth and folded her arms.

“I believe you know Elinor was a sister to Lady Catherine de Bourgh?”

Elizabeth nodded and resorted to the emphasis of a raised an eyebrow.

“Yes. Of course you do. Lady Catherine... I never had any use for that woman...” Lady Millhouse groused before continuing, “Lady Catherine made certain Elinor learnt of it. Her motive being yet unearthed. Most probably, she desired everyone to be as unhappy as herself. She always has had a nose for who was getting a leg over whom.”

Getting up a head of steam over Lady Catherine’s many personal inadequacies, Lady Millhouse’s story was redirected, “I always believed the sour look upon her puss was from her marriage to old Lord Lewis. They say that milksop could not get his cock into a gallop if he whipped the beast with both hands. There was always a question of just who sired Lady Anne. It is said Catherine always favoured one buck-toothed footman and Lady Anne’s teeth are a disgrace, if that lends the story any credibility. I dare say if you saw a man clinging to a Rosing’s coach looking particularly abused, he would be the one who got the odious duty of lathering that woman’s saddle...”