Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife (58 page)

It was chatty Cyril Smeads who announced it to Hannah. He said he knew it was true, for when Mr. Darcy had lived in London before his marriage, his coach made regular trips to a bordello (he had used the term “House of Lewdness”). Hannah should have liked to hear more about this “house” in London, but she was so indignant over Smeads’s accusation of Mr. Darcy, she could only sputter her protestation.

“What Mr. Darcy did when he weren’t married means nothin’ now!” she said hotly.

Cyril Smeads looked upon her with an expression he often used in recognition of the ignorance of a lesser and said, “Were you more in knowledge of gentlemanly pursuits, you might understand that age and circumstance do not alter one’s proclivities.”

Hannah thought Cyril Smead’s proclivities were most probably shrivelled from disuse and he had no business speaking in an unsavoury manner about Mr. Darcy’s. This, of course, remained a thought and not a comment, for Hannah was incensed but not so irate as to jeopardise her position. Simultaneously, Cyril Smeads as a romantic feint was rendered obsolete. She simply folded her arms and watched him waddle (there was no kinder way to describe his large-bottomed walk) up the corridor.

It was only thereupon that she noticed Goodwin across the landing. He was quite openly eavesdropping upon their conversation. Hannah might have allowed her anger to spill onto his obvious snooping had he not stood mimicking her exact stance, arms folded, brow furrowed, and jaw clenched. It was the very first time Hannah knew that she and Goodwin had an utter meeting of the minds. They might have found additional duplication of emotion had they heard Smeads stop upon the stairs just as a woman was leaving an interview with Mrs. Darcy. A quidnunc of unparalleled curiosity, he punctiliously inquired of her business within the household. The woman told him she was seeking a position as a baby nurse. Cyril Smeads did not query her more, but his raised eyebrows told the woman that the baby in question was of notorious origin.

Hence, if there was doubt in Derbyshire whether it truth or rumour that the baby that was to come to live at Pemberley was Mr. Darcy’s, it was decided in favour of truth at Cyril Smeads’s silent but unmistakable instruction. But if he remained mute at Pemberley, as he hied to London he was not so inconversable. Indeed, he took a short excursion into Kent. But he tarried neither at the Hunsford Inn nor at the home of Mrs. Darcy’s late cousin’s wife.

* * *

The woman who sought the situation of nurse was none other than Mrs. Hardin’s sister, Bessie.

Forthwith of her employment interview (and thus proving herself indisputably a truly good sister), Bessie made haste to Mrs. Hardin’s kitchen to give an accounting of the entire episode. Ignoring her cook-pot, Mrs. Hardin settled in to hear her sister tell the particulars regarding the infant come to stay in the House of Pemberley.

When Mrs. Hardin learnt from Bessie that the young woman who had the glaring fall from grace was the very one she had eyed for John Christie, she was undeniably vexed. Although neither Mrs. Hardin nor Bessie said a further word on the matter, they exchanged significantly indignant looks. Their attempt at discretion, however, was for naught. Quite beyond their notice, the disapproving discourse incited the avid interest of John Christie, who sat at the far end of the table seemingly in rapt attention to a bowl of bread and onions.

But he had taken notice. Keen notice. For what Mrs. Hardin foretold had truly come to pass. This time, however, Mrs. Darcy was there to save the baby Mr. Darcy begat and cast aside. This ruined woman had it easier than his own mother. Her death would be swift. Not a long, slow descent into the bowels of hell. Mrs. Darcy should be avenged of her sorry husband. If he had a sword like Colonel Fitzwilliam, John fancied he just might be able to do it. Especially if he had that red cape as well.

For the first time in his brief life, John had found a duty strictly of himself. And he wondered, when the time presented itself, would he ever have the courage to do it?

It was uncustomary for Fitzwilliam to spend the winter months in town and even more peculiar for him to return to Derbyshire just when London society was in full bloom.

However, after his confession of love to Elizabeth, to London he went. And there he endured months of tortuous, self-imposed exile. When he returned in late May, as one might suspect, his reason was of the utmost importance. He had an announcement to make, and much to his mother’s displeasure, it was matters political, not matrimonial, that brought him home.

The day of Fitzwilliam’s very impolitic baring of soul to his cousin’s wife, he had come strictly because he had heard of Wickham’s call upon Pemberley and that man’s near violent ouster. Gossip was rife about the event, thus he wanted to hear a first-hand accounting of it from Darcy. Of course, that conversation never came to pass. He aborted his call and hied to London, his tail cupped protectively betwixt his legs.

Elizabeth’s terse comment as he removed himself that day assured him of her silence regarding his stupendously ill-conceived declaration to her. She would not divulge a word of it to Darcy. A considerable relief. For even as well as he knew him, Fitzwilliam could not say unequivocally that Darcy would not call him out for such an act, tantamount to blasphemy. Had it come from any other man, a presumption of attempted cuckoldry might be taken without question. Fitzwilliam was not so certain of Darcy’s temper to believe himself beyond such condemnation regardless of the strength of their friendship.

Free of such censure, Fitzwilliam concentrated upon mortification. His dignity was humiliated beyond redemption to have suffered such a lapse in self-restraint. And he wavered betwixt worrying that Elizabeth thought him a lascivious cad and regretting the loss of the easy acquaintanceship they had enjoyed. He simply could not face her again. Her opprobrium would be unendurable.

Though he fled from Elizabeth, he would not compleatly rupture his relationship with Darcy. This, the outcome of two understandings. The first was a rationale, the second a matter of platonic esteem. If he severed his connexion with his friend utterly, it might invite enquiry and Fitzwilliam did not want to have to account for a discontinuity betwixt them. Additionally, and most importantly, breach himself if he must from his home county, he could not weather the loss of Darcy’s friendship. Particularly as a result of his own dishonourable feelings. Hence, he bartered himself a compromise by maintaining communication by post.

Endeavouring to accomplish his arrested visit to Pemberley by letter (what he should have done in the first place, he scolded himself), Fitzwilliam carefully composed a missive. Making only the most cursory attempt at remarking upon the mundane (roads, weather, his boots, and the poor state of all three), he thereupon inquired specifically of Wickham and the call he paid to Pemberley.

Darcy’s reply was prompt but succinct, which was the way of all letters betwixt them, thus betraying no knowledge of any indiscretion upon Fitzwilliam’s part. (Had he been angry, his response would have been more eloquent, always a flag of displeasure in Darcy’s correspondence.) With Darcy supplying the gist of Wickham’s visit, Fitzwilliam was able to glean the truth of the matter. And that it involved Wickham and bastardy was not an astonishment.

Darcy’s retelling did not, however, include Wickham’s advances upon Elizabeth. Had it, Fitzwilliam’s perplexity over the subsequent visit of Lady Catherine would have escalated into outright bafflement. He might have leapt to the same incorrect conclusion as had Elizabeth, believing the two occurrences were not coincidental. His rescue from misconception was unbeknownst to Fitzwilliam. Thus, he could not reap any comfort from it.

Consolation he needed in abundance, for his misery was very nearly making him ill. In desperation, he forsook his exceedingly advantageous assignment with the Household Cavalry and took to loitering about the Horse Guards building in Whitehall reading the latest missives about the doings across the Channel. Most of these were penned by Wellesley, whose defeat of Napoleon’s marshals in the Iberian Peninsula demanded a dukedom. Hence, he signed his dispatch announcing Napoleon’s banishment from France as “Wellington.” (So exalted was Wellington’s reputation in England, one might have believed the duke had personally annihilated Napoleon’s battalions upon the frozen Russian tundra himself.)

With their French nemesis exiled in despotic petulance upon the tiny island of Elba, Fitzwilliam’s cronies revelled in the victory. However happy they were to have Napoleon upon his knees, few were quite ready to forgo all chance of glorious rencontre and many groused about their spate of medals.

Fitzwilliam, however, fretted, “That slyboots has two strings to his bow. He cannot be counted hors d’combat until we see his head on a spike.”

Prophetic words.

After the initial triumph of Napoleon’s expulsion, the successive dispatches from the continent were of a tiresome political nature, nothing at all to excite an Iberian veteran. Fitzwilliam and his Whitehall colleagues read each of the increasingly tedious reports with dispassion. They had most probably reached their apex of monotony upon the day of the arrival of the improbable (to the point of hilarity) news that Napoleon had escaped and was marching upon Paris with an army only six hundred strong.

To those not quite willing to give up the sword, interest, to say the least, was piqued. As each subsequent day brought new revelations (and less jocularity), the number of officers who listened in disbelief at the Horse Guard Offices grew into a jostling, -impatient mob.

Most promptly, news arrived that Napoleon’s discharged army officers (unhappily thrust into civilian oblivion with only half-pay) had developed sudden amnesia of the Russian debacle they had experienced at their former emperor’s command and flocked to his leadership once again. If he was to be stopped, immediacy was all.

By mid-March the Petite Usurper had amassed a battle-hardened army of two hundred thousand soldiers. Thus, when Wellington arrived in Brussels to man a stand to check the aggression, he was disheartened to find a few Hanover units buttressed by only ten thousand British troops. The duke was desperate for brigades, regiments, companies, yea, any allied man with a weapon or a horse.

It was within this call to arms that Fitzwilliam found absolution. Experience was crucial, for the fight would be to the death. With that understanding, Fitzwilliam volunteered for Belgium duty and returned to Derbyshire to say good-bye to those he loved.

* * *

Unsuspecting of the nature of Fitzwilliam’s reappearance, Darcy was quite happy to see him again, insisting upon hosting a small celebration. Their group was small, a family gathering. Lady Matlock was not present, for she refused country life yet, necessitating Matlock to winter alone. Her absence, however, did not preclude Fitzwilliam’s farewells. With Georgiana, Jane and Bingley, Bingley’s sisters, and the increasingly dissipated Mr. Hurst all forsaking London for a leisurely spring in the country, theirs made a tolerable number to mark the occasion festive.

When Fitzwilliam had decamped from the county immediately after his impetuous confession to her, Elizabeth had been both relieved and bothered. She had hoped to have the opportunity to make light of the incident, fancy it a jest. It might be awkward, but she could think of no other way in which to handle it. The precipitousness of his departure eliminated that possibility, and the longer he stayed away, the more severe seemed the gaffe.

Hence, the family supper was most uncomfortable for not only the guest of honour, but the hostess as well. An additional irritant was the presence of Caroline Bingley. Possibly in preparation for the season in London, possibly because there was simply no other unattached man about, Caroline Bingley had taken to dipping her interminable chin and batting her stubby eyelashes at Fitzwilliam. It was unlikely that Caroline was so desperate as to seek a match with title-less, fortune-less Fitzwilliam when she had once set her cap for Darcy, but he did present a dashing figure.

Elizabeth watched Caroline rearrange the place cards to seat herself next to her latest flirtation with less than forbearance. Under the best of circumstances Caroline tended to be a bit crabby, which led Elizabeth to conjecture she had not yet (or at least not regularly) had her pleasure garden ploughed. But as much as she would have favoured seeing an improvement in dear Caroline’s disposition, Elizabeth was not so unkind as to wish Fitzwilliam’s manhood sacrificed upon her particular pudendum femininum. His disappearance to London had pronounced him spooked of Pemberley and Caroline’s blatant coquetry was not an inducement to tarry.

Nevertheless, Elizabeth concluded it best not to reason another’s desires. Perchance Fitzwilliam might be happy to accommodate Miss Bingley. It was her understanding a woman had to be truly offensive for an unoccupied man to absolutely refuse to -copulate. However disagreeable Elizabeth thought Caroline, she must not presume Fitzwilliam’s mind. He had taught that lesson to her well.

After supper, Fitzwilliam patiently unwound Caroline’s arm from his and the men departed for tobacco and port in the library. Before the ladies had time to arrange their dresses about their ankles and pick up their sewing, firm, even strident, voices drifted into the air of the drawing room. That was most unusual, for indocile exchanges were rarely heard (Lady Catherine had been there only the one time) inside Pemberley. Above the din of the Bingley and Hurst children’s complaints as they were corralled for bed, Elizabeth heard the unaccustomedly stern voice of her husband.

There was an argument ensuing amongst the gentlemen, but only Elizabeth and Georgiana seemed conscious of it. They sat side by side upon a sofa centred in the room. Thus, the disagreement echoed through the double doors and wafted upon their ears. What they heard was alarming, although the debate had not escalated into a row. There were no truly cross words, but opinions were unquestionably -vehement.

Elizabeth glanced nervously at Georgiana. Her countenance did not betray if she was eavesdropping upon what was being said across the hall. Full curious herself, Elizabeth considered making a casual stroll to the door in the hope she could hear enough from that vantage to determine what was at odds. But Caroline Bingley sat across the room and Elizabeth was afraid her retreat to eavesdrop at the doorway might invite her scrutiny. If she were to be a busybody, Elizabeth preferred not to have it noted.

* * *

“How can you believe that, Fitzwilliam?” Bingley demanded, “Napoleon fled France disguised as his own postilion to escape his own countrymen who called for his head. None but the Vieille Garde will follow him again.”

“As badly as we want to believe they will not, it is true. French officers were discharged from service at half-pay. They are flocking back to him by the tens of thousands. Even Marshal Ney, who vowed to recapture him, fell to his knees and kissed the little man’s feet. A considerable battle is upon us.”

The men-folk were all seated in chairs near the fireplace; Matlock, Fitzwilliam, and Bingley each held a brandy snifter in their hands. Well-fortified at supper, Mr. Hurst had judiciously abdicated the conversation by reason of being incoherent. Darcy had set his glass down. The men, save Mr. Hurst, sat upon the edge of their wing chairs. (Mr. Hurst, who was more or less lolling, was having difficulty keeping his glass upright. A servant, stationed behind him just for this purpose, took the linen from his arm and dabbed at the fabric of the chair with each slosh of Mr. Hurst’s glass.)

“I thought the French were happy with Louis,” Matlock puled.

Morosely, he peered into his wineglass, utterly perplexed by the capricious nature of the Gaul.

Ignoring his brother’s innocuous complaint, Fitzwilliam said with finality, “The Leopard merely had his tail removed; he is a dangerous animal yet. Wellington has advised that we must refortify our army now or be content to have the threat of Napoleon’s bravado for another decade. I, for one, intend to take leave to-morrow. My regiment will depart from Portsmouth.”

“Your superior officers, of course, will be happy to have your expertise amongst them. But your service in the peninsula was at great personal expense,” Darcy reasoned. “You have been wounded once, you were lucky to survive. Even the King does not demand you go into battle once again, Fitzwilliam. You are needed here to train the officers who take the place of those lost in Spain and Portugal. Is that not service enough?”

“Indeed, that is just the point,” Fitzwilliam countered. “Many of the troops allied with us are ill-trained, the Dutch, the Belgians…”

“Yes,” agreed Darcy, “that is just the point. Napoleon’s army may be small, but you say they are seasoned veterans and fiercely loyal. Except for Wellesley and Blucher amongst the allied military, there are no true leaders, only courtiers and politicians. Csar Alexander is a joke as a general and determined to interfere with strategy. Even a British victory will still be annihilation. A bloody mess!”

“Am I not to engage in battle because of the possibility of bloodshed?” Fitzwilliam retorted. “Or am I to desist because I am needed here?”

“Whichever argument will keep you at home, I fancy,” Darcy replied miserably, knowing he had blundered with his rebuttal.

Matlock interjected, “Young Howgrave has purchased a commission in the Fourteenth Hussars.”

“Indubitably favours their hats,” Darcy said with a sardonic sniff. If his conscience demanded him to cease despising that young man’s connexions, he would heap his considerable contempt yet upon Howgrave’s sartorial exuberance. (In his defence, Hussar uniforms did consist of an impressively tall beaver hat with a brush. Most others just had plumes.)

“He is quite keen on hats, is he not?” Matlock agreed, happy to find a point that he understood.

Fitzwilliam’s brother was uncomfortable with political debate and matters foreign. So long as Nappy and his Frenchies were not espied descending upon Whitemore, Matlock would be quite happy to spend his time doing nothing but fretting over the price of keeping up an earldom.