Chapter 8
H is adored betrothed astonished him once again. Only two nights before, she refused to marry him in haste, only to decide the following day to stay at his house unmarried just to face the world.
Her attitude made him easier about the strange appointment he was about to have. For perhaps the hundredth time in the last hours, he wondered what the duke might want from him. He remembered Blandford from various gatherings, but they had never had a near encounter other than the short meeting at the opera. He did not recall sharing more than a respectful greeting or being closer than ten feet from the duke.
One of the things he loathed the most was the scandal around him—any scandal. Even when he crossed some lines with his youth friends, he always tried to find a solution that avoided malicious gossip. His misadventures were still looked upon as dares: admired and not condemned. And now he had to face this circumstance of enduring London’s villainous mouth. He suspected there would be those who thought his decision could be influenced by pressure from his family to marry his cousin.
The ton could invent so many stories that a year would be insufficient to hear them all, so he decided to remain calm and face the crowd, not letting them see his turmoil. It was a satisfaction he would not give them, but inside, his heart was a tempest of emotions, a storm he struggled to contain.
As he entered the club’s large hall, the first person he saw was a certain baronet well known for his cruel delight in vicious gossip. If Darcy had a choice, he would have turned and run like a child; instead, he composed an amiable mask and headed towards the slanderer. The baronet was in a group of three, obviously spreading tales. Darcy had an impression that he was the subject, but to his great surprise, they all turned to him and bowed with an obliging look on their faces, no trace of their usual malice in the face of a scandal.
All the men wanted to shake his hand. As this was less a sign of greeting than a mark of unusual affability or intimacy, it meant only one thing: the subject of their gossip was not his marriage or Elizabeth. They exchanged polite words as the club’s superintendent, Mr Crosby, hurried to them. He positioned himself rather far from the group, but seeing his attitude, Darcy found an excuse to leave his acquaintances. He turned to the superintendent, who spoke in a clear voice that could be heard by anyone in the lobby:
“His Grace is waiting for you!”
Darcy bowed, relieved to take his leave yet utterly perplexed by the demeanour of those around him. However, that matter could wait; for the moment, he needed to concentrate on the meeting ahead; he had to compose his appearance and master his feelings.
∞∞∞
The duke stood the minute Darcy entered the room and did not even let him bow; he took his hand in such a friendly manner that Darcy made an effort to recall all his memories and try to understand the duke’s benevolence. But on the occasions he remembered, nothing significant had happened.
“Do sit, my boy!” the duke said, warmly addressing Darcy as only close family would. If Darcy expected a confrontation, it became clear the encounter was quite the opposite.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Darcy said respectfully.
The steward prepared drinks and retired, leaving the two men face to face with glasses of brandy in their hands.
“I know it is early for brandy, but we shall break the rule this late morning. Now, tell me all about your engagement and the exquisite creature you have the good fortune to marry soon.”
Darcy hesitated for a moment. Was it wise to let the man before him know details about London’s stubborn dislike of Elizabeth? And what could be his interest? The duke was arguably one of the most influential peers in London: he could support or destroy reputations at a whim. Yet, the warm reception and his friendly attitude made Darcy trust him.
“I understand your reticence in telling such an intimate story to a stranger, but please believe me that I have only good intentions towards you—in fact, the best!”
Darcy, usually reticent in society, decided that the duke could help him, mainly to stop the rumours. People would continue gossiping, but that tittle-tattle would only be among families and little groups and would not affect his reputation.
So he smiled and said, “Sir, it is not a dramatic story, and mostly it is offensive towards my future wife…”
He let that sentence hang in the air as it was nearer the truth.
“I am sorry to say, but my family has developed a dislike for Miss Elizabeth, especially Lady Catherine de Bourgh, my aunt…”
“Hmm”—the duke was evidently shocked—“Lady Catherine de Bourgh, you say, formerly Catherine Fitzwilliam.”
It was Darcy’s turn to be surprised, a question pending on his face.
“Yes, Catherine Fitzwilliam and I are old acquaintances,” the duke said. Darcy could not but observe the duke’s choice of words: ‘acquaintances’…not friends!
The duke took a long sip of his brandy. “Enough stories. Let us think about loving people around you and forget the others.”
“You speak the truth, sir. I have family and friends and…future family.” He smiled with bright eyes that told the duke everything.
“Good for you and for them. I am so pleased you have people around you who love you. You may be surprised at my reason for inviting you here.”
Indeed, Darcy came with that question in mind but did not dare to ask.
“I only wanted to know you better—no other motive. Nevertheless, it seems fate had a plan. Lately, I have profoundly disliked the attitude some people have towards your future wife. Do not worry, Fitzwilliam Darcy. People under my protection are not subjected to gossip in London, and this meeting had this reason, to let them see you and your family are under my protection.” The duke’s words were like a balm to Darcy’s troubled soul, offering a glimmer of hope in all his turmoil.
As he stood and strolled to the window, the duke grasped his shoulder in reassurance. As he returned, lit by the sunlight streaming from outside, an epiphany hit Darcy: the duke’s imposing stature was familiar. It was not unusual as Pemberley had a gallery of ancestral portraits, almost all in a martial stance. Still, his memory seemed stronger than a mere resemblance to a painting.
As he returned to his armchair, the duke assured him he would not allow gossip to circulate. They could not control a family’s chatter, but Elizabeth would be treated like a royal blood princess in society. Darcy understood the significance of the duke’s influence in London. For the first time in days, he had a sense of relief as his life and Elizabeth’s were finally entering a calmer realm.
Like the group he met in the club’s hall, London would treat his story decently, if not benevolently. How the duke might achieve such results was a mystery to Darcy, but he appeared to have the means to influence the world around them.
“I am grateful, sir, for your support, and I hope I truly deserve it.”
“You deserve it, my boy,” said the duke, “I am certain.”
They continued their conversation, mainly concentrating on family matters. The duke seemed exceedingly interested in Darcy’s family and the Bennets, and his curiosity appeared entirely genuine.
No matter how much Darcy pondered, he could discern no possible motive the Duke of Blandford might have for taking such an interest in his affairs.
And just as Darcy prepared to leave, the duke familiarly took his elbow. “You and the ladies of your family will do me the favour of attending a ball I shall host in your honour. In fact, I await a list of people I should invite as your guests.”
“Let us settle, once and for all, this injustice that Lady Catherine and London intend to inflict upon your wife. I shall host my annual ball in two weeks, which I customarily hold… in March. However, this year, I shall give it in December in honour of your marriage to Miss Bennet.”
“Your Grace!” exclaimed Darcy, overwhelmed, wondering why such a powerful man would do something so significant for him. And perhaps the question was plain upon his face, for the duke smiled.
“Let us say it is but a small favour I grant to your mother, Lady Anne, whom I knew very well in my youth.”
It was a privilege Darcy never expected. The duke’s amiable manners and cordial tone startled him; his more than kind view of Darcy’s family and desire to help was puzzling.
He could not fail to observe that his one-hour discussion with Blandford had contributed to his popularity in the club. As he passed through the main hall, attendees greeted him with curiosity and deference that told an interesting story: his meeting with the duke was so crucial that London had to accept Darcy’s decisions.
But somewhere in his mind, a shadow from the past continued to disturb him. It was so insistent that he had difficulty concentrating as he collected his marriage licence. He had to visit the office of the Archbishop of Canterbury at Doctors’ Commons. It cost him ￡14 12s, a fair price that gave them the right to marry at any place and time of the family’s choosing. He was happy to have the licence in his pocket as he intended to use it at the slightest sign that something or someone might try to come between Elizabeth and him.
∞∞∞
As his solicitor’s office was in the club’s neighbourhood, he presented himself to announce his upcoming wedding. Darcy knew from his mother’s will that a codicil would be revealed only upon his marriage. When his mother died, there was so much pain that he gave no thought to the codicil. He was eighteen then, and his marriage seemed like an event from another world. But in the last months, since he began to admire and then to love Elizabeth, that secret his mother saved for his marriage became a sweet question that frequently came to mind. What did his dear mother think of his marriage? Did she have some personal recommendations for him and, perhaps, for his wife too?
Legally, the solicitor should have waited to see the marriage consent signed before revealing the codicil. Yet, the licence and the agreement signed with Mr Bennet proved enough for him. Although surprised, Darcy did not protest as it was in his interest to read his mother’s legacy for his marriage as soon as possible.
He received a package tied with an old, delicate ribbon that his mother likely had taken from one of her gowns. Darcy experienced a profound emotion as he imagined his mother tying the white ribbon as she thought of her son, who was only a young man then.
He felt an irrepressible urge to be alone for some moments, alone with his memories. He would share all his treasures with Elizabeth, but first, he had to discover what his mother had left him. He asked his coachman to take him to ‘The Coopers Arms’ in Covent Garden, where he could sit privately and open the package.
Inside, he found two sheets of paper and a key, which fell to the ground. Curious, he looked at the key; he could not imagine what it unlocked. It might be any drawer in her rooms in London or Pemberley. It was a secret to be unveiled later, probably after reading her letter.
He recognised the first page as a part of her last will and testament with a new provision: his wife was to receive a certain sum from Lady Anne Darcy’s personal fortune. Darcy closed his eyes, incapable of controlling his emotions. With great foresight, his mother had provisioned in her will for his future wife a valuable gift, assuring her independence—a gesture that moved him deeply. He intended to secure Elizabeth’s future the moment she became his wife. Yet, his mother had already conceived the same plan. As he read her words, he strove to conceal the emotion that threatened to betray him and let tears fall on his face for the first time since his mother’s death.
I decided to provide this stipend for my future daughter-in-law to provide for her independence and ensure she becomes a good wife for my son—out of love and not material interests.
He read the codicil over and over; although written in legal terms, he could feel between the rigid lines his mother’s care for his future: her wish for him to find a woman he would love and that she, in her turn, would marry for genuine affection.
He closed his eyes and told his mother that he, indeed, had found such a woman.
After a while, he decided to read the letter. He imagined Lady Anne writing it in her parlour in London. He could see her in front of her secrétaire, but once this image appeared, the fog that had floated over his mind for the last two hours rapidly dissipated. He knew the meaning of his epiphany in the duke’s club parlour. Sudden cold sweat ran down his body, and he felt a great shiver of equal violence. He knew.
Darcy ran to the carriage, shouting to the coachman to hurry; the short distance to his house seemed an eternity. Not even waiting for the carriage to stop, he jumped out and ran up the stairs to Elizabeth’s door. He knocked impatiently and entered to find her at the same secrétaire. Surprised, he stopped for an instant, noticing it was no longer in its usual place but just in front of the windows.
Elizabeth stood to find her betrothed, sweating with a reddened face that made her heart stop. Something distressing had happened; she was sure of that. A moment later, her concern increased as Darcy spoke.
“The secrétaire—you moved it!”
“Yes—did I do something wrong?”
“No, no!” Darcy said absently, but forgetting about Elizabeth, he ran to a wall covered by wooden panels that the desk had previously concealed. After some effort, he slid open a panel, revealing a painting behind it. Elizabeth’s initial fears were reassured; this was not about their marriage but something else about the hidden painting that affected Darcy profoundly. He fell into a chair as though all his strength had abandoned him, repeating, “It is he…It is he…”
Elizabeth put her hand on his cheek, tenderly trying to calm him. “Who, my love? Who?”
Attracted by the disturbance, Georgiana appeared at the door. She looked in complete disbelief at the painting, and as her brother did, she sat on the nearest chair, facing the picture.
“My God!” she said. “What is this painting doing in Mama’s room? Who is he?”
Both equally interested, the two women turned to Darcy, whose dark expression disclosed that he knew the answer.
“It is the Duke of Blandford,” he said, wholly astonished, then turned, only to see their mother’s portrait facing the duke on the opposite wall.