B006O3T9DG EBOK (53 page)

Once maids and offspring were soothed and back up the hallway, Elizabeth turned her wrath upon the adults.

“I am sickened and astonished at you all. Major Kneebone, I understand your outrage, but I cannot condone talk of violent retribution in this house.”

Pushing him off down the hall, she turned to Lydia who seemed not quite so amused as she had been.

“Lydia, I wish I could say I am shocked, but indeed, I am hardly so.”

Turning to Beecher who was hastily struggling into his breeches, she advised, “You sir, are no gentleman and my husband shall speak to you of it. However, it is my considered opinion that you not engage in another duel. For, if we are to predict the outcome of this one by your last, you have more to lose than your standing.”

With stately precision, Elizabeth left them to their folly.

Marching down the hallway, she repaired to her dressing room to collect herself. Directly, Mr. Darcy learnt of the unseemly doings and came to find his wife. She appeared pale. Indeed, she was still trembling with anger.

“Pray, are you unwell?”

She smiled weakly and shook her head. He encouraged her to move aside so he could perch next to her on the chaise. First pressing the back of his fingers to her forehead, he then clasped her hand. Tenderly, he reached out and brushed her hair from her forehead.

She insisted, “I am merely vexed at the unseemliness to which our family has been subjected. No doubt my hair is quite out of curl because of it....”

It was well and good that Mr. Darcy came to his wife’s side before addressing those person’s responsible for her distress. Had he not, his wrath would have been fully employed (and more than mere recriminations might have been committed by the master of the house). He could barely contain his anger as it was. It was reprehensible to him that his wife was forced to not only witness such a lewd activity, but she also had to
intervene. Upon this occasion, his mask of impassiveness forsook him entirely. Although he spoke softly, his ire was quite obvious. She patted his hand.

“I am certain at any moment my sister shall be here to beg my forgiveness,” she said—only half in jest.

“Shall you give it?”

“Not until she makes a better show at Sunday services.”

If he hoped to ascertain whether her upset had passed by surreptitiously feeling her pulse, she was not fooled.

Said she, “I am quite well. You should know that I am of hardier stock than that.”

“I was told that you swooned. You never swoon,” he fretted.

“My swoon—had I one—was due only to the vagaries of wretched relations,” she assured him.

His displeasure did not ebb.

She reminded him, “I have had the distasteful task of exposing a pair of rutting swine in the second storey linen closet. You, my dearest, have a more daunting obligation.”

She then gave him a more explicit account of what came to pass. Repugnance fought anger as his foremost emotion. From his expression, she could not tell whether his thoughts remained upon the event she just described, or that he realised what duty demanded he must do.

Hence, she asked, “Shall you tell Bingley of his brother-in-law’s infidelity?”

He said, “I shall speak to Major Kneebone before Bingley. Of the many injured parties, I believe his sensibilities have been wounded far more than Caroline’s.”

A thought struck him, “Neither of the lovers have serious designs on the other...?”

She shook her head, for she did not know. She then spoke of what she hoped to be true.

“I should think that their affair is nothing but a fancy of convenience.”

The adulterers did not even have the excuse of love—Elizabeth was sure of that. Regardless, it was necessary to ask Lydia to leave Pemberley post-haste. Such animalistic behaviour could not be condoned, most especially when the eyes of their children were there to witness it.

When told of her banishment, Lydia pretended great contrition. Clearly, it had come to her that Major Kneebone might not take her back.

She whined, “Where shall I go, Lizzy?”

“If your husband does not cast you out, you have a fine house in Chelsea,” Elizabeth told her. “I fear not only for your marriage, Lydia, but your soul as well. You betray your husband with all the insouciance of a harlot. If you do not alter your course....”

Lydia put her hand up, palm out, saying, “Spare me your lectures, Lizzy. What do you know of want, you with your riches? What do you know of unhappiness?”

“Unhappiness is not solely the domain of the poor, if indeed you think yourself poor. We all suffer misfortune and sorrow,” Elizabeth reminded her.

Lydia cried, “I have suffered too! You forget that I have lost my dear husband....”

Elizabeth interrupted, “And an admirable one he was. You should now hope that you have not lost your second through your own stupidity.”

Having had her fill of reproach, Lydia did not attempt to tarry. In a half day’s time, she had laden a coach with her children, nurses, lunch baskets and luggage. Major Kneebone, however, was nowhere to be found. Once she realised that he might truly have left her, remorse had begun to bother Lydia. She waffled over whether she dared face him at home or hie to the safety of Longbourne.

“As you wish,” said Elizabeth dispassionately. “When you decide, tell the coachman.”

Elizabeth’s only true fear was that Major Kneebone might have chased Beecher down. They soon learnt that Beecher had betaken himself back to Bingley’s house, no doubt cowering under a bed fearing the Major might to do him mortal harm.

The truth of the affair was not long kept from the Bingleys. It came from Lydia, however, not Elizabeth. She wanted Jane’s sympathy before Elizabeth could muddy the way. Finding some good in everyone was Jane’s special gift. It was far more difficult to excuse Lydia’s impenitence than the adultery. Jane was perplexed.

“If one was denied love, it could be understood. With such a devoted husband as Major Kneebone, we cannot reason why,” Jane said. “Lydia is Lydia and we cannot ask more of her than she has to give.”

As they waved their youngest sister on her way, Elizabeth told Jane, “I care little of what befalls Sir Beecher, but I do not want Major Kneebone to be hung for it.”

It was all quite troubling.

Elizabeth said, “It is as if one sees a monstrous storm upon the horizon and can do nothing to prevent its destruction.”

Chapter 72

Chatter Amongst the Chaps

As she weighed whether to stay in town and await Darcy, or go to Derbyshire after him, Juliette sought diversion. In her husband’s circles, this was difficult.

The single gentleman within his coterie of political cronies who was not entirely in want of wit was Alistair Thomas. It was he who dared tease her about Jacobin leanings when she complained of their tiresome tirades over the national debt.

Walking on the periphery of yet another political meeting, she pouted, “The only wager of any interest is laid upon whether that tiresome Prinny shall be murdered before he can wrench the throne from the mad King’s cold, grasping hands.”

Looking fretfully about, Alistair attempted to caution her.

With urgency, he said, “I implore you. Your French birth makes you suspect by these madmen. They see inkle-weavers as assassins and old women as spies. Your ladyship must take care upon whose toes she treads.”

Certain of her place, she replied haughtily, “I am a French noblewoman who escaped the guillotine. I am much beloved in England and can speak as I want without fear of reproach from peer or ironmonger.”

He gave a low bow, apologising, “Of course. I am in want of nothing but your safety. If my remarks were unwelcome, please blame my apprehension on your behalf.

As gallantry was sorely wanting in all quarters just then, Juliette allowed him to grovel a bit and then forgave him. Once again, she took his arm and he escorted her out of earshot of the tedious speeches. As the evening progressed, his limp became more pronounced.

“Your wound must trouble you,” she said with unusual forthrightness. “I believe that your sacrifice to your country has not been well-rewarded. We should all be in your debt.”

“I allow that fallacy,” he said with a laugh. “In truth, mine was a trifle scuffle, nothing more.”

“Indeed?”

He nodded, but did not elaborate, only saying, “The telling of it would take longer than the event itself.”

In the political sphere, wit and self-deprecation were rarely seen singly, much less inhabiting one being. She was very nearly charmed.

She smiled, “I would believe it far more likely that you were a casualty of a lover’s quarrel than a battle.”

Feigning great offence, he gasped, “Your Ladyship, how could you believe that of a gentleman?”

Due to rising tensions, Howgrave had banned her from dining with her previous circle of friends. Alistair’s company was, indeed, the best she could manage. His rank was several tiers beneath hers and his flattery was hardly ingenious. Her esteem of late had been a bit battered, so his pretty words were well taken. It pleased her most particularly to have a flirtation with him right beneath her husband’s nose. Howgrave was easily riled. Any hint of waywardness on her part would have enraged him. She truly doubted her husband had the audacity to draw a weapon on someone. Nonetheless, the prospect of bloodshed had inflamed many an affair. The possibility that her stubby husband might stick a dagger between Alistair’s shoulder blades made an intrigue with him all the more titillating.

No doubt Alistair was quite witting of the precariousness of such an infatuation. By speaking to her in such a loose fashion, he could lose more than his situation. Not otherwise occupied, she meant to keep his interest keen. To do so, she employed every device known to her (a considerable arsenal) to keep him at arm’s length, but allow him to believe that he might just beguile her yet.

Eyes cast down, fan fluttering, she said, “I understand that my husband is in want of you to go to Derbyshire. I shall miss your company.”

“What!” he squawked. Clearly surprised, he hastily becalmed himself, saying, “Have you heard something I have not?”

She replied, “It appears that I have.”

She had not meant to discompose him so compleatly.

“Am I to be another ‘Oliver the Spy’?” he mumbled.

“Pray, not,” said she. “Even I am aware that charade did not go well.”

“It was an unmitigated disaster,” he said, shaking his head.

The political ramifications of sending a spy northward were still reverberating.

Turning to her with great solemnity, he said, “I must speak to Howgrave, for I truly cannot go there. I shall be recognised.”

His alteration from
distingué
to discombobulation was astonishingly abrupt. She was amused.

“Why would you fear being recognised?” she inquired.

“I have relation in Derbyshire. They might guess my mission.”

He then altered the discourse with great fluidity.

“What is this?” he brushed her cheek with his fingertips.