Darcy & Elizabeth (49 page)

Sweet Sorrow

Every room at Rosings was more extravagant than the last. It had altered but little since last Elizabeth visited. However,
she
had. When once she was overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the edifice, now she saw it quite differently. Used as she was to Pemberley's exquisite decorations, she saw the difference between the two houses clearly. Rosings was opulent, Pemberley was elegant. With worn upholstery and scratched floors, Rosings replicated the aging dowager who was its mistress. The drapes were kept drawn so neither could be seen in the harsh light of morn.

Having been to the crumbling St. James palace, Elizabeth certainly understood Darcy's explanation for the condition of Rosings.

“Early in her marriage, my aunt employed the same decorator as King George, believing his decisions to be sacrosanct and did not question any expenditure,” Darcy had told her. “She is the most parsimonious woman on earth in small matters but has thrown good money after bad in adorning her home with the most outlandish decorations in England.”

They slept in the same room Darcy had inhabited upon his long-past visits to his aunt. It might have been expected that their brief respite from their children would have gifted them with a tantalising sense of freedom. Rather, it did quite the opposite. In the embrace of life's alpha and omega, both Darcy and Elizabeth were out of sorts. In times such as these it was most parents' inclination to draw their children to their breast and remind themselves of the fragility of life. Moreover, Elizabeth sought the comfort of her home in which to ruminate upon those questions that troubled her. It had been a subtle transformation (perhaps influenced by her father's death), but the thought of Longbourn no longer elicited melancholy recollections. It was a revelation for her to realise how compleatly Pemberley embodied her notion of home.

She lay upon her side of the bed without even an errant foot to remind her that her husband was but an arm's-length away. Coupling had not even been considered. (In truth, it may not have been under serious consideration, but it had not been entirely excluded from her thoughts.) Such selfish longings seemed altogether out of place with a coffin one floor below. Had that not been the case, the sheer forbiddingness of the place would have dampened the most fervent desires. It was a wonder any procreative activity had managed to flower in these bedchambers. That understanding made her curious about Anne's marriage. She was not even privy to where she and Beecher had wed. They had met in Bath, perhaps they held their nuptials there. That thought was a comforting notion. Anne had been a sad creature indeed if she had never once enjoyed the lists of love. She realised then that she had come to believe that Lady Anne's wedding and pregnancy was through her mother's wishes, rather than her own. Having faced Lady Catherine and Beecher over the baby's cradle, she had little doubt of it. Lady Catherine was perfectly capable of sacrificing her daughter to profit her family name. From what she knew of poor, weak Anne, childbirth must have frightened her to her very bones. How could such a fragile girl be expected to weather such a daunting event? Elizabeth hoped that her pregnancy was due to Anne's own desire for a child and not her mother's for an heir. She wanted to believe it, but the spectre of Lady Catherine made her think that Lady Anne was far more frightened of her mother than of dying in childbirth.

Initially she had, as any mother would, empathised with Lady Catherine's loss. She even felt a nagging sense of guilt—the same conflicting rush of emotions that betakes one when an enemy meets with misfortune. A rational creature knows that ill feelings had no part in it, but cannot help but fear (or hope, depending upon one's rectitude) an ownership in that injury. Elizabeth's step had been heavy with that culpability up to the moment Lady Catherine endeavoured to coerce her into sacrificing her firstborn's life on the altar of Family Connections. The notion that Darcy, in any way, shape, or form, agreed to such lunacy troubled her keenly. A week ago, she could have laughed at such an idea. Not a day's time underneath Lady Catherine's roof and she would believe her beloved husband capable of the most heinous of transgressions? That was a question she had not yet addressed.

And she would not address it with any haste. She had vowed to herself that Lady Catherine's walls would not hear her broach any point of possible contention with her husband. It was not beyond Lady Catherine to have eavesdroppers about. Indeed, added to Elizabeth's unease, she had the odd sense that she was being watched. This and other apprehensions made her quite anxious to return to hearth and home. She had given Hannah instructions to begin preparing her trunks for the trip home when they departed for the burial. She knew it might be premature. Georgiana's ill-timed childbirth meant she would be kept to her bed for weeks. It would be even longer before she would be able to travel.

In the carriage that the Darcys shared with Fitzwilliam when they returned from the burial, she hoped that those plans would be addressed.

It had been an extravagant event, particularly in such a small hamlet as Hunsford. Lady Catherine seemed not to be happy for the outpouring of sympathy. Indeed, as the cortège grew, she seemed less appreciative of that sentiment than the crushing all those ill-bred feet did to the flowers about the gravesite. Other than Lady Catherine's decided ingratitude, the only other matter of note was that Anne was not laid to rest next to her father. One could only suppose that lay to the fact that her mother's plans for her daughter's monument would have Lord Lewis's pale in comparison. Indeed, after that first anxious flurry of attention to his place of rest, it seemed never to have been tended to once. In that Rosings Park had been his ancestral home, one would have thought his widow would at least have made a point of giving his remains a place of respect rather than a barely discernible stone lying amongst the weeds and rabbit burrows.

Lady Catherine's notion of family was singular indeed.

Elizabeth shook her head of such thoughts, glad to have such an unhappy event behind them. As their carriage neared the great house, she thought it prudent not to waste the privacy of the coach. There were arrangements upon Georgiana's behalf that must be agreed upon. She wanted to do so without being overheard.

“I suppose it would be best for me to stay here with Georgiana during her recuperation,” Elizabeth offered.

There was not a bit of tentativeness in her voice, given she thought she might run mad if forced to stay any longer under Lady Catherine's roof. Her duty was decisively divided, however, between wanting to stay and care for Georgiana and return to her children. They were in capable hands, but they were not her hands. To her good fortune, the decision was made for her. Neither Darcy nor Fitzwilliam thought her staying was a reasonable proposition.

“Thank you for your kindness, Elizabeth,” said Fitzwilliam. “I know Georgiana would not allow you to forgo your own children to care for her. It is not as if she would be helpless, for my aunt has more servants than any three estates put together. She will not want for care.”

He turned to Darcy to see if his mind was alike. Darcy nodded his head and gave the briefest of smiles.

“As much as I would like to have her home, that appears to be the only answer,” he agreed. “I have to wonder if having Georgiana here might give my aunt something with which to engage her mind rather than her recent loss. She seemed quite pleased to be of service last evening.”

Elizabeth felt a bit of giddiness stir in her stomach and turned her head to look out the crack left by the windowshade, lest they see the delight her countenance registered at the notion of escape. She was then calculating the months mandatory for mourning a cousin and was happy in knowing that they would be out of their black by Christmas. Their children would be old enough this year to enjoy that celebration. The sudden realisation that poor Anne would never enjoy another Christmas (if, indeed, she had in the past) stole her sudden flash of good humour. She also worried for the tiny baby whose brow she had kissed. She did not relish the notion of her growing up in the wretched gloom of that nursery. From the looks of him, there was little chance that Beecher would rescue his daughter—indeed, if Lady Catherine would even allow it. Again, she searched her mind for a way to save the baby, but for naught.

There was one thing that would either save the tiny girl or be her downfall.

The de Bourgh fortune was not entailed away from the female line. She wondered what arrangement Lady Catherine had with Beecher. There was little doubt that he was a fortune-hunter, as to why she had encouraged the engagement to be formed with him remained an enigma. There was one certainty. Lady Catherine had a plan. Lady Anne would never have gone against her mother's wishes.

“It is all so puzzling,” she said aloud, startling herself.

Accordingly, both Darcy and Fitzwilliam inquired, “Pray, what is puzzling?”

“Anne's marriage—I cannot in all good conscience call it a romance. Her health troubled her so that she was seldom out in society, but she married a man who is by no means respectable. Even if Lady Anne fancied him, I cannot believe that Lady Catherine would have allowed such a match.”

“In his favour, his admiration for rank and connections rival my aunt's,” said Darcy.

Having not had the pleasure of his company other than those brief moments in the nursery, Elizabeth resorted to respectable hearsay, “Georgiana believes his society to be irksome.”

“I would wager that he has not a sixpence of his own,” said Fitzwilliam knowingly.

“There you have it,” announced Elizabeth sheepishly. “We have proven that no one is happier to point out one's shortcomings than his relations.”

“You may claim him if you want, but he is not my relation,” Darcy announced with such vehemence, Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth had to laugh.

“I do not think we are allowed that choice, dearest,” Elizabeth said, instantly regretting it.

The subject of undesirable kin was one that had always been avoided—and not because of her own vulgar relations. Indeed, since Lady Millhouse's revelation over just who was and was not his kin, Darcy had all but given up despising Elizabeth's mother and sister. Right then, Darcy's thoughts did not mirror hers. If he thought of Wickham, he gave no indication.

“I will simply regard Lord Beecher as someone else's problem until his remarriage makes him so.”

That seemed a suitable way of looking at it for all of them, and by the time the horses gained the portico their humour was much improved. So merry were they, they had to reclaim their countenances before being handed out of the carriage. Elizabeth removed her gloves and was heading for the stairs to oversee the arranging of the trunks when she was stopt by the voice of Yewdell calling her husband's name.

“Mr. Darcy, sir, an urgent post.”

A carelessly folded piece of paper lay atop Yewdell's fingertips. It was from Pemberley. An icy chill enveloped her spine, making her walk clumsily in the direction of the missive. Few urgent missives beheld good news. Had she been inclined, she was unable to take the letter herself, for Darcy had snatched it from Yewdell before she could. With great deliberation, he took the letter and placed it inside his waistcoat, and with a graceful sweep of his hand indicated for Elizabeth to precede him up the stairs—a reminder to keep one's private matters private from the help. She did so, but did not take a breath until they had gained their assigned bedchamber. The word “urgent” echoed with such reverberation in her mind, she feared that it might be heard by others.

Once the door had closed behind them, he hastily retrieved the missive, tore off the seal, and walked to the window for better light. Elizabeth followed him so closely that when he turned to tell her of its contents, he stepped upon her foot—an injury that remained unnoticed.

“It is from Bingley,” said he.

“That cannot be, they planned to spend the season in London.”

He handed her the letter and she saw that the letter had been directed to Pemberley from London, and forwarded to Kent. A deep, satisfying exhalation issued from her lungs. That information reduced her apprehension for her children immediately, but not for her family compleatly. She had written to Jane telling of Lady Anne's demise and their travel plans. Undoubtedly, their letters crossed in the post. What could possibly be amiss? The letter had been ”urgent.”

“I must away to London,” Darcy said with finality. “Immediately.”

“Is he well? Is Jane well?” her voice became ever more urgent. “Are their children well?”

“It is,” he said, “a matter of business.”

He patted her much in the same manner that had so recently offended him. She was miffed enough to be inclined to point that out to him, but that might disturb the nature of their conversation. Therefore she did not (and congratulated herself upon being the better person).

“I can only assume that this business is the matter we discussed?” She would not be happy with so little information of such important matters.

“Yes, it is the same,” he replied. “I would tell you more if I knew more, but I do not. He merely wishes my assistance upon a matter of some urgency.”

Hidden beneath the hem of her skirts, she gave a small, indignant stamp of her foot. She disliked not knowing—particularly when her family was involved. She saw that their trunks were well upon their way to be readied to travel. Darcy called for Goodwin and told him that he would leave for London in an hour. Goodwin's countenance registered his approval of their destination—he had been unhappy at Rosings almost as sincerely as had Elizabeth.

Before Goodwin became more animated than usual, Darcy said tersely, “I will be travelling alone.”

Goodwin's and Elizabeth's countenances both fell. Neither was aware that they were of such like minds, for Goodwin had immediately begun to retrieve Mr. Darcy's belongings and Elizabeth was still at his elbow.