Without Undue Pride

Chapter 18

CHAPTER 18

6 Castle Street, Leicester

November 11, 1811

My dear Jane,

I am glad I owe the pleasure of hearing from you again so soon to such an agreeable cause. I remember the moment I felt Edward move, and it was a joyous occasion for me. Your dear Bingley must be eager to feel the baby kick.

I have been remiss in describing to you my rooms off High Cross Street. I am pleased with the house that Charlotte helped me to find; the rooms are quite better than I expected. There is a small drawing room, and I am settled above, where Edward and I have two nice-sized rooms. The aspect is south-east, although our street is narrow and there is little to see. The dining room is of a comfortable size, just as large as you like to fancy it. There is a guest room up the stairs where Charlotte now resides. My apartment is not as large as our bedroom at home, and Edward’s is not materially less. I have a chest of drawers and a closet full of shelves—so full indeed that there is nothing else in it, and it should therefore be called a cupboard rather than a closet, I suppose.

The house came with a cook and housekeeper, Mrs Hart, as well as her husband who occasionally is useful in carrying heavy things, and I hired a girl, Rebeckah Adkins, as a maid of all work. She prefers to mind Edward than clean, but as she is so fond of him and I am often so tired, I allow her to neglect things to cuddle the baby instead. Charlotte despairs of me.

I know you are concerned about me, but I like our situation. It is small but better than I could have ever afforded if not for the recovery of my husband’s funds. You think I am retired and lonesome, but I like this quiet life as the widow of an officer. My time is my own, my person is my own. I signed the lease myself! I am so thankful that Fitzwilliam’s money was recovered. I cannot believe my good fortune after such a terrible year.

Elizabeth paused in writing her letter to Jane. It had not been an entirely terrible year. She had met and married Fitzwilliam, after all. It had been a girlish love, but it had been real. They would have laughed often and put their parents out of their minds as much as possible. She had been na?ve, foolish, even, to think that marriage was a true partnership of equals—but she had still loved him. They might not have had that deeper connexion she had craved, but they would have been comfortable together.

She could not regret her summer at Pemberley, either. Her love affair with Darcy had been more slowly built than her whirlwind romance with Fitzwilliam, the foundation more thoughtfully and strongly laid. That, too, had been real.

Darcy was clever, with a quickness in both making a wise decision and following through on it. It was an attractive quality. His temper was unlike his cousin’s, and upon reflection, it was surprising that she could love two people who appeared so outwardly different. Not that Darcy was not a good-natured man, but his natural reserve made it difficult to know him at first. Her affection for him began so gradually that she was in the middle of loving him before she knew she had begun. And he loved her in return with tenderness and fervency she had not known were possible.

She still loved Darcy, as foolish as it was. One could not have autonomy, one could not manage one’s own affairs, and be in love. Or, at least, a woman could not.

Their paths would ultimately cross, and by then her fondness for him would have faded. It had not so far, but perhaps more time was all that was needed.

She had sent a letter to Georgiana to say where she was and hint that she could no longer in good conscience impose on them and that she hoped they might meet in the new year. She added a few lines to her brother, mentioning her gratitude for Darcy’s kindness. She dared not write to him herself because every line would hint at her continued love and friendship. He might think she wished him to renew his addresses.

She could not give in to love. She would take care of her life and her son herself. Besides, trusting anyone and relying on them brought too much pain.

“Mrs Fitzwilliam?” Rebeckah called, entering with the baby. “He was crying, so I brought him to you.”

Edward’s crying comprised of mild whimpers, but Rebeckah was inclined to pick him up. She was an earnest girl, and Elizabeth had grown fond of her. “Bring him here.”

He turned his head toward her voice as she reached for him. “There is my dear boy!” she cried, kissing his face. Edward smiled at her now, and it was the most charming feeling in the world.

“You can return to your duties, Becky,” Charlotte said as she came into the drawing room. “Mrs Fitzwilliam can care for her own child.” Rebeckah blushed and curtseyed before darting away.

“She is only doting on him, and who can blame her?” Elizabeth said as she fed the baby.

“She is a child herself, but she is here to maintain the house, not to play with Edward.”

“Rebeckah or another young girl like her suits my budget well. That should please you,” she teased. “I am aware of my need to economise.”

“You would not have to economise if you allowed Lord Milton to support you.”

“I am in a better situation now that I have my husband’s fortune at my disposal. Two hundred a year that brings me, besides my pension. Once I have more reserves, I could, in a few years, afford another servant.”

Charlotte gave her a pitying look. “You are settling for such a small life. I will go home soon, Eliza. What will you do all on your own here? We have not been to any public place, nor performed anything out of the common daily routine of Castle Street. It will only be worse for you when I am gone.”

“For the present, I am occupied with this little one,” she said, looking down at Edward. “Once we are settled, I will raise my son, and make new friends, and find a thousand ways to be happy with a small circle and a narrow income.”

“You could have so much more,” she said a little wistfully.

That echoed the feeling in her own heart when she thought of giving up Darcy, but Charlotte could not know that. “It is much more than I thought I would have when Edward was first born. It completely shocked me when that attorney found me here, if you remember.”

Charlotte gave a wan smile. “What about Lord Milton?”

“He will ultimately assert his right to Edward through the courts, but he has not troubled himself yet.”

“That is because he expected you to be delivered of a child recently when Edward is now nearly two months old.”

“I cannot borrow trouble from tomorrow,” she said, looking down at her son’s drowsy eyes. She could not lie to herself and believe Lord Milton would not put himself to the trouble to take Edward into his guardianship. But he had not done it yet. Perhaps he would not bother until her son was older and his education was in question.

“After your meeting with Lord Milton,” Charlotte said carefully, “you said that Mr Darcy swore to tell all of society if his lordship took your child from your care, and he instead offered to allow you to live with them so you could be near to your son. Have you considered that option?”

She remembered Lord Milton’s utter contempt for her, and the lecherous look in his eyes when he actually bothered to glance in her direction. “I suspect whatever conditions he set would not be satisfactory,” she said grimly.

“Lord Milton’s wife has failed to give him more children, let alone an heir. It is likely Edward will be heir to his grandfather’s vast fortune. Should not the grandson of an earl be brought up in better circumstances than this?” she said, gesturing to the room.

Elizabeth held back a scowl. She was rather proud of the home she had created for herself. “I am not ashamed of my new station in life, and neither will Edward be when he is old enough to understand the world.” She hoped she would be so good a mother as to raise him like that.

“Not ashamed? You live in a cramped house in an alley.”

It was true, but to hear it stated so pitilessly stung. “It is large enough for my needs.”

“It is damp and the type of house suitable for those not favoured by successful fortunes.”

“I am not so favoured. I am the widow of a disinherited officer, and I am content.”

“I want better for you, Eliza. If you had married…a wealthy man,” she said heavily, and Elizabeth hoped her cheeks were not as red as they felt, “I would not press you to turn to Lord Milton. But think about what is best for your position and for Edward’s future.”

“It is not best for me to submit to Lord Milton. Fitzwilliam always told me not to turn to him, and Mr Darcy does not trust him.” Her voice caught a little. Although Darcy was often on her mind, his memory pressing on her heart, she had not said his name aloud in some time.

“If his lordship’s wife does not give him a son, Edward will inherit an earldom.” Charlotte’s nose wrinkled as she looked round the small drawing room. “Your son’s fortune will be splendid. Why would you not want him to grow up amongst the world he will be a part of, especially if you stayed with him at Lord Milton’s estate?”

She shuddered, and Edward pulled away with a plaintive cry. “I do not want to speak of Lord Milton.” She switched sides and tried to settle Edward again. “I know I will have to confront him, and that he will eventually pursue Edward and that I have no recourse, but perhaps he will not bother until he is older, or perhaps Lady Mary will give him a son. Regardless, I will not accept his offer; I do not need to.”

“You are very proud for a poor woman without a single friend to rely on.”

“I am not proud,” she cried. “Charlotte, how can you say that? And I do not need to rely on anyone now. My husband’s wealth is restored to me, and I intend to make this income go a good way.”

Charlotte shook her head as though impatient with her. “I do not want to quarrel.”

“Nor I. You are my closest friend.”

“I just want better for you, Eliza.”

“And I am content with what I have.” Elizabeth was determined to change the subject to happier topics. “I am so pleased you will stay for Edward’s christening.”

She talked on cheerfully about the christening and Charlotte’s intention to return home in December, but she could tell Charlotte was weary of her. After only a few minutes, Charlotte rose and said, “I have letters to write. I will go to my room.”

“You can write them here with me.”

Charlotte gave another disdainful glance around the small space. “I prefer privacy.”

Elizabeth looked around the room after she left and wondered at the silence that would fill this cramped house once her friend returned to Meryton. She would not prefer to live alone, but that was the price to pay for security and control.

Elizabeth encouraged the baby to smile at her, but her thoughts returned to Charlotte’s accusation.

She was not proud. Did she cherish a feeling of satisfaction on the score of being independent, on not having to put her faith in anyone else? Perhaps. A little honest pride in her thriving child? Only like that of any mother. But she had no great sense of importance, just a little gratification at enjoying the blessings that were entirely hers.

October and half of November had come and gone in much the same way the spring had passed for Darcy. This spring, he had felt alone as he mourned his cousin, and this autumn he felt the same loneliness. He had grown so accustomed to Elizabeth’s presence that it took him a long time to know how to move about his daily life at Pemberley without her. Although he had invited friends to visit in October and his sister was still here, he still stopped outside Elizabeth’s parlour at the end of the day.

When would these earnest yearnings for her company end?

All he knew of her was that the attorney he had sent to Leicester had arranged everything as he had instructed. The matter was at a close; Elizabeth and her son had enough money to live on. She was safe and in a comfortable situation, as far as he knew.

As he led his horse into the stable, he felt proud of himself for not ordering his carriage to return to Leicester to see for himself how she was. He would never be so presumptuous as to ask for her hand again, but he was selfish enough to wish to see her—and see her with the hope that she was pining in secret for him.

Which was exactly why he could not go. Elizabeth had made her choice, knew her own mind, and now had an infant son to care for.

As he walked the road from the stable toward the house, his sister called to him from the garden.

“Another long ride?” she asked by way of greeting.

He faintly smiled his acknowledgment. How could he explain his compulsion to rise with the dawn and exercise vigorously in the open air to expel Elizabeth from his mind?

“May we talk about what we will do for Christmas?” she asked as she reached his side to walk into the house together. “My aunt writes that she expects us.”

“Which one?” he asked, not wanting to see either of them.

“Lady Fitzwilliam expects us to come to Yorkshire, but I do not know how to tell her I do not wish to go.”

“Why do you not wish it? ”

“Because our cousin Milton will be there, and he insulted my friend Lizzy and intends to remove her child from her care. How do I keep him from knowing how much I despise his threats against her?”

Darcy kept silent that Georgiana was so shy amongst her Fitzwilliam relations that Milton and all the rest would be none the wiser about her opinions, even if they asked her to share them. She would be timid, but he admired her loyalty to her friend.

“I received a letter from Milton last week. His wife is unwell,” he said with emphasis, “so they are staying in Peterborough until the season begins.” Whenever Lady Mary was “unwell,” it meant that the poor woman had miscarried again. It happened at least once a year, sometimes twice or thrice. Milton wanted a son more than was wise.

“I did not know that you corresponded after your disagreement in June.”

Darcy scoffed. Disagreement was a mild way to put their last meeting where Milton utterly disappointed him as a fellow gentleman. “He is as reluctant to send a letter to me as I am to receive it, but he asked if Mrs Fitzwilliam was delivered of her baby, if she had a boy, and if both mother and child survived.”

Georgiana’s shoulders fell as they turned into the library. “He intends to take the baby, then?”

“He does,” he said, swallowing a curse. “Although, I could not say when.” Taking a nursing baby from its mother was harsh, even for a selfish man like Milton. “He disliked his brother and has no regard for his wishes, but he needs a son and seems to think taking him because the law will be on his side is as good a reason as any to remove a child from its mother.”

“Did you tell him Lizzy had a boy?”

“You know me,” he said, smiling darkly. “I cannot dissemble for my life. So I burnt his letter.”

His sister gave a gasp of surprise. “He will write to you again, and you cannot avoid seeing him in town this winter.”

“I can delay his gratification, and give myself more time to find Fitzwilliam’s lost will. ”

His sister made a sceptical face. “I thought the clerk you had placed your confidence in died?”

Darcy now wished it was late enough in the day to indulge in a strong drink. “He did. I wrote to every regiment’s commanding officer to ask if they knew where the clerk’s widow now lived.” It was a fool’s errand, but he did not know how to live with himself if he left a single stone unturned.

Georgiana fell into a chair by the fire. “Since Milton will not be there for Christmas, we could go to Yorkshire in December.”

Her tone said she would dislike that as much as he would. “I am not of a mind to go to Yorkshire, anyway. Lord and Lady Fitzwilliam took their son’s death hard, and his marriage even harder. I disagreed with their stance, and we did not part on good terms. I am not willing to hear more of their strictures against him or her.”

“Then, will you write to my aunt to decline the invitation?” she asked nervously.

He snickered. “Yes, make me the villain. I do not mind. I will be direct.”

“Where shall we go instead? Is Rosings a better option?”

If Lady Catherine and Anne de Bourgh were their best option for Christmas, their situation was truly deplorable. “Perhaps amongst friends? I just left Bingley, and it is my turn to invite him, but Mrs Bingley is in a delicate condition and will not travel.”

“We could invite Lizzy and the baby to Pemberley,” Georgiana hinted.

“Do you still write to her?” he asked, avoiding her suggestion. His heart could not yet stand having her here as a guest, not when he wanted her to be here always.

“A little. Her son will be christened soon, but she has to find two male godparents. Miss Lucas will be the female godparent.”

If Fitzwilliam were alive, he would have asked him to be godfather to his son. Or, rather, Mrs Fitzwilliam would ask him because Fitzwilliam would have mentioned wanting him there and then not remembered to invite him. Or Fitzwilliam would have written at the last moment and the christening would have to be rescheduled because Darcy would not have been able to arrive in time.

“Could we invite her?” Georgiana repeated when he did not answer. “Lizzy could not leave her son so soon, but I want to see them both. She might have been here for Christmas anyway had she not tried to make it to Hertfordshire to have her baby.”

“Her own family has a stronger claim on her, and she just spent three months here. Perhaps next year,” he added with a smile when his sister looked disappointed. “We can stay here through December and host any of our neighbours who wish to come at Christmas, and then we will return to town. I am sure you want to return to your own establishment and tyrannise your own servants and have full rein over every decision.”

His sister gave him a horrified look, and he smiled. His sister was less like a little girl every day. He could now have conversations with her as though she were an adult. Of course, she was still young and had much to learn, but as she left the library, it occurred to him that Georgiana was growing up.

Darcy rose to change out of his riding clothes when the butler met him in the hall with the letters. He took them up the stairs with him, sorting through them and stopping at one with a cry of surprise.

Portsmouth, November 14

Dear Sir,

I have been forwarded a letter from you to my late husband’s commanding officer. He received this letter from you last month saying that you wish to know if my husband had amongst his papers a last will and testament belonging to your cousin.

My husband was an attorney’s clerk before joining the army and often wrote legal documents for fellow officers and soldiers and also made copies for them, but I could not say if your cousin’s was amongst the papers I brought back from Spain. They date back months before Barrosa, but I recall he had documents to copy even the day before the battle. There are stacks of legal documents and copies that I have not known what to do with. I did not feel right disposing of them. It is likely these men did not claim their documents because they died—either at Barrosa, or of illness or injury after.

I have neither the time nor inclination to search for your relation’s name amongst these documents, but should you wish to investigate them for yourself, I give you leave to come to Portsmouth or send an agent on your behalf to search through them. You will be forced to contend with an entire trunk full in a dusty attic, but you may search the contents if you so desire.

I remain respectfully yours,

Harriet Clinton

Darcy felt a glorious hope build in his chest. This was the most promising information he had in all his months of writing and searching. He tugged the bellpull for his valet to pack and to tell the coachman they were leaving as soon as possible. He would go to Portsmouth, read through the papers, and be back within ten days.

He could hire an attorney to search—it was foolish to go all that way—but he felt the need to do it himself. His cousin deserved that attention, and had their roles been reversed, Fitzwilliam would already be in a carriage to Portsmouth and yelling at the driver to go faster.

Should he ask Georgiana to write to Elizabeth to say he had a chance of finding a will that would allow the baby to stay with her? He considered the idea as he readied to leave. It was best not to raise her hopes. She had experienced so many trials, and to raise and then crush her hopes would be cruel. It was best to say nothing, because only proof in hand would satisfy the courts.

If there was any justice in this world, he would find Fitzwilliam’s signed last will and testament and provide Elizabeth with the peace of mind she desperately needed.