Darcy & Elizabeth (33 page)

The promised vengeance was not to come to pass with any haste. Little Sue did not survive another frost. The only solace found in her passing was that it was gentle. Or at least as gentle a passing as the shivers of pneumonia would allow. Nell held one hand whilst Sally held the other as her little body breathed its last.

It took some time for someone to find Mr. Summons. It was he who must come round to collect little Sue's remains. As Nell keened, Sally sat wretchedly fingering the ragged remains of her sister's petticoat. Sally glanced over at little Sue's ashen face. Just the day before, her countenance was flushed with fever as she struggled for life. But no more. Death had crept over her countenance with its icy hand, leaving her skin grey, her eyes sunken.

The single good of this particular parting was that little Sue dying in her bed from unsuspicious circumstances relieved the workhouse staff of the burden of an inquest. If a funeral was desired—well, shoulders were shrugged and toes dug circles in the dirt. Matron saw to a wooden box (one that looked remarkably similar to the beds laid out for those in the casual ward) and a chalk-rock to scratch her name upon it. Anything beyond those meagre arrangements was extraneous. Flowers, mourning bells, or a vicar to recite a verse fell to the family purse—however empty.

So it was that Nell was not inconsolable forthwith of little Sue's demise. She reclaimed her previously intimate relationship with a bottle of gin, forsook her sewing, and forsook Sally.

“This be it,” she slurred. “Yer don' need nothin' else. Sweet relief, Sally. Don't bother me no more.”

It fell to Sally to wash her sister's body in preparation for interment. Despite all her disconcertion, Sally did have the presence of mind to run and find the piece of flannel shirting that Sue refused to sleep without and place it next to her before they nailed the lid in place. Had she forgot that one last kindness, Sally thought she might have actually run mad with grief.

Even without Nell to remind her, she recollected enough of the Lord's Prayer to serve Him. Thereupon, it was with deliberate care that Mr. Summons took one nail at a time from the confines of his mouth as he hammered the lid in place. Hence Sally had a great deal of time to ponder the compleat absence of tender feelings in this entire heartless ceremony. It was an understanding that grieved her quite unreasonably. If the rent in her heart was in any way mended by the seething rage she held for all who represented their guardianship, she felt it not. Sally asked for the chalk from Mr. Summons and with it carefully sketched a flower beneath Sue's name.

Before the cock had crowed the next forenoon, she slid from her bed and without loss of life or limb climbed out a window, shimmied down the brick outcropping, and ran like thunder.

She never once looked back.

For the Love of London

The first year after that of Waterloo, the Bingleys prepared to hie once again to London. They would travel with their children, their children's nurses, governesses, maids, manservants, and baggage, in a caravan worthy of any eastern potentate. It was with even greater regret that Jane would take the season in town. Leaving her sister after such a tumultuous year for them all was a particular trial.

***

From the very beginning, Jane's serenity and unceasing love had been a calming influence upon Charles Bingley's ebullience. Yet having purchased a country estate did not suggest to him that he must become only a country gentleman. He had never been one of the coarse bloods cutting a swell in the West End. Bingley was a gentleman in all that that implied. But his essential nature was gregarious. He loved the conviviality of company and the bustle of town—and he most particularly loved to watch sport. Regrettably, there was precious little sport to his taste to be had near Kirkland Hall and no suitable society in under a half-day's ride. One of the few promises Jane had ever extracted from Bingley was to reside near Elizabeth. As it had been one of her few requests, Bingley did not hesitate to do that which made his beloved wife happy. But as the Darcys were seldom in town, the Bingleys had to compromise Bingley's need for society and Jane's need for her sister by wintering in Derbyshire and spending the season in London. How much, if any, this half-year lack of diversion influenced Bingley's adulterous behaviour would be a subject for debate. Also up for conjecture would be how much regret Jane held for insisting upon that arrangement and whether that remorse held sway over her forgiveness.

Although Bingley had not spent the time in it he would have liked, he was quite proud of his house in town. It was one of the stateliest houses of the very fashionable Belgrave Square and was but a short distance from the Darcys' house in Mayfair. Of the two, the Mayfair section was the more esteemed, but the difference was so small that it was only discerned by the reckoning of those who monitored such important nuances of station. Regrettably, Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst were of that ilk, hence they badgered their brother with all the dedication of the most determined social climbers to find a house that befitted their ambitions. For Jane, however, any house was acceptable so long as she was within the bosom of her family. She was truly willing to be happy wherever her husband chose to domicile them. (As no one is happier to point out one's defects than one's relations, such selflessness alone was enough for Caroline and Louisa to despise her.)

Whilst Caroline nodded emphatically, Louisa sniffed behind Jane's back, “Jane is known as a charming woman simply because she has a smile and manages a civil word for everyone.”

(As a professing Christian, Jane's devoutness demanded she overlook the multitude of imperfections of her sisters-in-law. She continued to give them both a smile and a civil word whilst they continued to be parasites upon her household.)

Despite the presence of an entourage of sponging relatives, Jane found much in London that was charming. Perhaps because of her country upbringing, she was partial to its parks and demesnes. This multitude of lawns and gardens was not only aesthetically pleasing, it was mandatory for part-time city dwellers. For the Bingleys' London home was as its neighbours—magnificent but narrow, with little more than a courtyard separating it from the coach house. Their home's specific lack of grounds was highly recompensed by its easy distance to Kensington Gardens. There, the children had room to run and shriek to their hearts' content—and there were lovely gardens for Jane to admire whilst she listened to the happy sounds of her children playing. Such luxuries of the senses made a happy season for Jane.

Bingley and his sisters esteemed London in equal measure. But unlike his sisters, Bingley liked it for diversion rather than rank. One could not call oneself a member of the first set without admission to Almack's. Much desiring that appellation, Caroline and Louisa insisted Bingley oblige them all by purchasing tickets. Used to obeying his old sisters, Bingley did as he was asked. (Not having to listen to his sisters' complaints made a happy season for Bingley.) Despite his disinterest in society's demands, his membership in White's and Boodle's brought him both amusement and cachet. Jane and Bingley were such a handsome, likable couple, they became members of the first circles strictly on the merit of their happy dispositions. Indeed, many a hostess vied to have them grace her soirées. His sisters were always of the first fashion, but Louisa's husband, Mr. Hurst's standing was dwindling in reverse proportion to his gambling debts. Hence, the trio was left to grace certain affairs by riding in upon Bingley and Jane's companionable coattails.

As Almack's was not entirely to Bingley's taste, he kept opera boxes on Drury Lane and Covent Garden. The Bingley sisters despised entertainments there, for those venues allowed the general riff-raff within elbow-rubbing distance of those of the first circles. (Caroline and Louisa were not exactly of the first circles, they were within clawing distance, therefore exceedingly watchful of intrusion from their lessers.) They cast their sights upon obtaining an invitation to Carlton House—a residence neither Jane nor Bingley had any aspirations to visit (Bingley disliked the Prince's fast set for their pomposity, Jane because Charles did). Upon one occasion, they found themselves seated behind the Prince Regent and his retinue at the Argyll Rooms, an event that sent Caroline and Louisa green with envy. Bingley's sisters, however, reassessed their contempt for the amusements of the
hoi polloi
.

Until the spring of ‘15, they had settled in to London quite nicely each season, Jane busying herself by visiting the merchants on Bond St. and Piccadilly. There were found the finest shops and the smartest streets in which to stroll. Not surprisingly, Jane was not intent on being seen, but on searching for fabrics and trim for her children's costumes. At home, she was content to receive callers and confer with her seamstress. But Bingley absented himself to engage in less mundane endeavours. He favoured the race park or clandestine forays to boxing arenas. He occasionally enticed Jane to join him to watch his horses run, but he kept his continued involvement with pugilism a closely guarded secret. That concealment was the only one he kept from her, and he did so (he told himself) only to protect her sensibilities. (There had once been a bout that ended untidily.) As Darcy was unwitting of Bingley's small marital transgression as well, Bingley was saved from having to defend his selflessness. Had Darcy been with him in town, Bingley would never have been able to keep his boxing forays from him. That he was not forced to forgo that which he keenly enjoyed was the single inducement to forgive the Darcys' refusal to join them in town. Jane, however, had nothing to salve the loss of her sister's companionship.

Was it not for that lack, Jane would not have disliked London whatsoever. Bingley's sisters had long professed their ambition to become her closest confidantes, but even sweet, credulous Jane saw the futility in expecting that. (Moreover, she was even less convinced that would be to her advantage—an understanding that showed a tangible decrease in her gullibility.) Once she and Bingley had wholly reconciled, Jane's desire for the Darcys to join them in town would be one of the few to remain unrequited.

The Spoils of War

The Darcys had long eschewed travelling to London for the season. They had never given an absolute reason as to why they stayed away. Bingley knew that the ladies had once been attacked by a band of brigands, and Elizabeth abducted, on the road from London. Darcy's rescue of her had been swift and deadly. To him, their reluctance to undertake the journey was quite understandable.

In time, London had been tolerated, but there were absolutely no circumstances that would lure the Darcys once again to attend court. St. James and its attendant pomp would just have to do without them. Of this specific even Bingley was unwitting. It had been an unspoken agreement between Darcy and Elizabeth. That covenant came about because he had had to inflict ultimate injury upon Elizabeth's kidnappers. Darcy knew nothing would ever again tempt him to strap on a sword.

After the birth of Darcy's children, the Bingleys hoped that an alteration in situation might herald an adjustment in habits that would include joining them in London. With uncharacteristic boldness, Bingley dared to enquire of Darcy if their minds had altered in the matter of returning to town. Although Darcy replied in the negative, Bingley chose not to allow the subject to drop. His tenacity in urging them to London did not originate entirely from his own desires, but Jane's. If it fell only to him, he would not have presumed to alter Darcy's resolution (however delighted he would have been to have his friend's company). But he was never more devoted to Jane and determined to do whatever necessary to see her happy. (If this new enthusiasm for ensuring his wife's wishes was birthed in part by guilt, it remained undiscovered.) Bingley was typically quite forthright in his inquiries, but upon this occasion his remarks were indirect. He spoke not of what possible reason the Darcys might want to leave Derbyshire, but tendered his own complaint with country life.

“I say, if one does not ride to hounds, there is no sport to speak of in the country when the pheasant is not in season.”

This was an exaggeration, but just barely. The only competition Bingley enjoyed were contests of the spectator variety, hence Darcy smiled benignly and did not suggest that his friend ride to the hunt. This agreeability did not stop Bingley's design. Indeed, that the implication of silence was agreement was a notion he wholeheartedly embraced. Therefore, he soldiered on quite without encouragement.

“Granted,” Bingley conceded to himself, “there is the occasional bear-baiting, but that is absolutely barbarous!”

“And fisticuffs are not?”

Darcy's retort bid Bingley rethink his belief that Darcy was unwitting of his continued interest in pugilism, but he was not entirely thrown off his subject. He even bristled (or as near to it as Bingley's amiable nature could manage) at his friend comparing the two proceedings.

“The two could not be more dissimilar! Pugilists perform before gentlemen in a Boxing-Garden.”

“Bear-baiting takes place in a Bear-Garden before more than a few who call themselves gentlemen. I must take leave to observe the two bouts far more alike than not.”

Darcy was well aware of the abject cruelty of bear-baiting. It was a contest both ancient and bloody, whereby a tethered bear was attacked by dogs trained to do just that. The outcome was never in question; the only contest was how long it would take the dogs to tear the bear to bits. Bingley was city bred, but Darcy had heard of such events all of his life. When Bingley had put the questionable opportunity of attending such an event before him, Darcy had refused out of hand. Moreover, he had strongly advised Bingley against attending as well. But Bingley had been regaled by acquaintances with its curiosity. Not having the opportunity to witness any kind of fight to the death, Bingley had simply been caught up in the adventure of such a notion. He had returned, however, altogether sickened at what passed for amusement to certain men. He had also been sorely unhappy not to heed his friend's advice and not too proud to admit it. Most probably displeased for Bingley to have followed another's counsel rather than his own, Darcy had been disinclined to let the matter drop without chastisement.

Said he, “I say, understanding the nature of the event, how could you have expected otherwise, Bingley?”

“In my defence,” Bingley explained, “that it was called a sport and I anticipated other than a blood-letting. Indeed, I found it altogether un-Christian. It was not the inhumanity of it all that gave the greatest offence, but that it was called a sport.”

Darcy nodded his head in agreement, then added pithily, “I understand our Puritan brothers hate it as do we. They despise it not, however, for the injury to the animals, but for the pleasure it gives the spectators.”

“Perhaps that is so,” replied Bingley, oblivious to the bit of jest. “But they have a petition to ban it put before Parliament and I fully intend to sign it.”

“There is little hope for that passage as long as there are taxes to be gained.”

They both nodded their heads in unison at that incontrovertible fact.

Bingley most assuredly did not want to revisit that reviled event, but did not scruple to employ the recollection of such savagery to lure them to town. Darcy did not succumb to his design, but did promise to join them in London. There was a proviso, of course. Elizabeth's approval would be needed for such a plan—and Darcy knew it was unlikely to be forthcoming. It was a barely transparent avoidance. Darcy looked to be agreeable and Bingley could go to Jane and tell her of his success. Nothing had actually changed, but neither had there been a disagreement. That outcome was always the happiest for friends, but this eve Darcy had an ulterior motive for remaining upon the most amiable of terms with Bingley. There were subjects that he needed to address with his friend. Those matters had little to do with the calm pursuits of the country that bored Bingley as provincial.

Much unrest was afoot—both politically and economically. These alterations were of importance to all landowners and would affect Bingley most particularly. For Darcy knew well that Bingley's finances had been strained during Napoleon's embargo. That situation was not singular to Bingley. Many merchants were precisely in the same precarious situation. Bingley's merchandise had lain for months at a time upon the wharfs, decimated by pilfering and decay. As his closest friend, Bingley had confided to Darcy that he had borrowed heavily against those goods. Once the war had been won, Bingley had been as jubilant as any citizen to know that at last that his goods would once again pass freely across the seas. Bingley had a man charged with these negotiations. He had assured him that all financial spleen was at last behind them.

Bingley could be accused of naivete in many ways, but he was not uninformed. He knew in just what straits his finances dangled. One of Bingley's most admirable qualities was his honesty. Regrettably, he often assumed those he dealt with were of similar scruples. Without the appearance of doing so, Darcy had always tried to look out for Bingley's welfare. It was a delicate matter to inquire of another's business without appearing a meddler. Still, Darcy felt a moral compulsion to do so.

It had been thus from the beginning of their friendship.

Although they were alike in mind-set and morals, their politics and scruples also ran concurrently. Unquestionably, Bingley looked up to Darcy. Yet that esteem did not render Bingley an admirer of all of Darcy's traits. Bingley was the only friend who dared criticise Darcy's compleat lack of congeniality. Their ethics may have been alike, but their natures could not be more dissimilar. Whilst Bingley was open and optimistic, Darcy was dour and pragmatic. Darcy's pragmatism was often tainted to an unhappy degree with pessimism—and Bingley liked more than anything to be unbothered.

Had Bingley asked, he would have attributed their opposing temperaments to a single difference in their situation. They both were only sons, but he was the youngest sibling and Darcy the oldest. Darcy was decidedly richer, but they were of the same class. Although Bingley was not entirely unwitting of other factors that separated them, he did not lend them proper due. There was far more separating them than sibling placement.

For Bingley was only one generation of landed gentry. His land was purchased, not inherited, making him the first of his family to be master of an estate. Bingley was not of the first, but of the first of his kind. Times were evolving in England, an ever-increasing number of untitled and lately rich were purchasing their own legacies. Darcy's family was not ancient, but it had owned Pemberley and surrounding lands for hundreds of years. Those new to the land saw it only as a business. Most men born into Darcy's landed class felt an obligation to make the best use of their assets to retain not only wealth, but also prosperity for future generations of their own and those whose livelihoods depended upon them. Continuing his line was a fundamental occupation to Darcy. He cherished Pemberley not only upon his behalf, but also upon those who came before him, and those who were yet to come.

Another dissimilarity in their natures was Darcy's bent for brooding and Bingley's total want of introspection. These traits were part and parcel of how their estates were managed. Bingley was a kind employer but he had not the sense of obligation to his roots as had his friend. Hence it was unlikely that he ever would. That void did leave Bingley adequate time to pursue entertainment. Once settled into a loving family life, he was free to compete his own horses at the race parks and back his favourite pugilists in the boxing ring.

As did Darcy, Bingley had an overseer in whom he had compleat trust. Regrettably, Bingley's overseer of Kirkland was not a son of the land, but a man of the bottom line. Darcy had found fault with Bingley's man's advice on any number of matters, but was disinclined to criticise without invitation. The intelligence passed to Bingley by the supervisor of his investments was of no greater wisdom than that of his overseer. The recently passed Corn Laws were thought by many landowners to be a panacea for all their losses. Darcy, and even Bingley, understood their agricultural limitations. Derbyshire was largely wool producing and would benefit but little. Therefore, when Bingley's man had enticed him to turn the hills of Kirkland for coal, Bingley saw it as a lucrative decision. Darcy knew coal to be an ugly, dangerous business. If not closely watched, abuses were rampant. And Bingley did not keep close watch over his land. Indeed, he liked to spend the lambing season in London.

So critical was such a venture to all in the townships surrounding Kirkland Hall, Darcy was moved to do the unthinkable—he offered Bingley unsolicited advice. With great deliberation, he recounted every drawback to the plan and general caution in all his business ventures. It would alter the entire character of the countryside. Darcy trod carefully, however. Bingley's interests were diverse. The very Corn Laws that were seen as all and good to the landowner foretold stagnation for manufacturing. It was a dicey time for every class, and men who were unreliable had Bingley's ear. It was Darcy's opinion that was he to put his eggs in one basket it should be in his land. Goods could be pilfered, decayed, or seized. Land was eternal.

“Beware, Bingley,” Darcy succinctly concluded, but Bingley heeded not.

“Life goes on in the country, Darcy,” replied Bingley sagely, “Whether we are here to see it or not.”

Disinclined to waste his words upon closed ears, Darcy did not respond. Neither did he choose to go to London—unrest there was insidious. Newspapers were rife with tales of marauders. But Darcy could not persuade Bingley against town, either.

“I fear,” he said at last, “that you may find the dogs in London these days no less savage than those at that bear-baiting.”

At this, Bingley laughed heartily, certain his friend had exaggerated the dangers.

Embroidery of the facts, Bingley forgot, had never been Darcy's bent.