Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
Afew days after Wickham had been secured in gaol, the earl informed his granddaughter and Georgiana that he must travel to town. Among other matters, he intended to speak to the War Office about Wickham, as his previous letters had gone unanswered.
In the wake of the events at Longbourn, the news that Mr Grant was, in truth, Lord Granfield spread rapidly through Meryton. What had begun as speculation soon hardened into certainty; and certainty, as ever, proved irresistible.
The consequence was a renewed influx of visitors to both Millwood Cottage and Longbourn, for nearly everyone wished to determine who had known what—and when.
Some even ventured to assert that they had suspected the truth for months.
Mrs Bennet, most notably, insisted she had discerned it from the very beginning, from the moment her brother by marriage had made the connexion.
Granfield found the claim almost admirable in its boldness. Had Mrs Bennet known herself—even tenuously—connected to a member of the peerage, no earthly force would have preserved her silence on the matter, and she would have announced to all and sundry every day since.
More irksome still were the ladies who now called at Millwood Cottage under the pretence of visiting his granddaughter. Meryton, it seemed, possessed no shortage of widows, nor of spinsters eager for an elevation to the rank of countess—and eager to secure his heir along with it.
Granfield had no intention of marrying again. His marriage had been a rare love match, and he had never wished to replace his dearly departed wife.
The journey to London would serve several purposes, including removing him from these unwelcome attentions.
He would assist Darcy in settling the arrangements for the wedding, clarify certain matters pertaining to the earldom, and confer with Lord Matlock.
The two men had long been acquainted, but their relationship had always been marked more by reserve than intimacy.
As they would soon be connected by marriage, Granfield considered it only proper to speak with him privately regarding what might be done for his second son.
The day after Wickham’s capture, Darcy had come to Millwood Cottage and, after requesting a brief private audience with Elizabeth, had sought Granfield’s consent not to delay the wedding.
Rather than marrying in the spring as first proposed, he asked that it take place shortly after the new year, leaving scarcely a month for the necessary arrangements.
His reasoning, infuriatingly, had been sound.
“I would not press for haste if it were merely my inclination,” Darcy had said, meeting his gaze steadily. “But Elizabeth’s circumstances have altered. The sooner she is under my protection, the less opportunity there will be for interference.”
Granfield had regarded him coolly. “You presume much, sir.”
“Ambition does not sleep,” Darcy replied evenly. “I would rather forestall it than contend with it.”
Had the argument been sentimental or impulsive, Granfield could have dismissed it. Instead, Darcy had spoken only of protection.
The news of Granfield’s rank had travelled with remarkable speed, and neither he nor Darcy entertained any illusion that it would remain confined to the countryside. London would soon hear it as well.
Elizabeth’s prior obscurity, her long absence from the notice of the ton, would only inflame speculation regarding the extent of her fortune. Once it became widely known that her future son would inherit the earldom, suitors would emerge in earnest, and not all would prove as principled as Darcy.
“It would be considerably easier to shield her if she entered society already married,” Darcy had maintained.
The young man had chosen his argument with care, and Granfield, while reluctant, had agreed, not without a measure of satisfaction that Darcy made his point based on Elizabeth’s safety and not his own desires to wed sooner.
Such considerations occupied his thoughts as his carriage made its steady progress towards London.
He had taken advantage of the engagement to invite his sister to Millwood Cottage, hoping she might lend her experience to the arrangements.
Lady Rosalind James had seldom appeared in town since her husband’s death more than two decades earlier, preferring instead to reside at Granfield Park and serve as her nephew’s hostess after his wife’s death nearly five years before.
During her husband’s lifetime, Rosalind had presided over a house much frequented by members of Parliament and ministers alike, he having risen to quiet prominence in the Commons. After his death, she chose retirement from the bustle of society.
Although she had been absent from recent Seasons, she was far from forgotten.
Lady Rosalind’s wit had once been nearly as remarked upon as her taste, and both remained intact.
If Elizabeth possessed a certain sharpness of wit and an elegance to her manner, Granfield suspected its origin lay in the steady exchange of letters between aunt and niece over the years.
Lady Matlock would undoubtedly assist Elizabeth in her introduction, but Granfield preferred that his granddaughter enter society fortified by her own family. Rosalind’s judgement was steady, her standards exacting, and, unlike some, she understood that elegance did not require volume.
His steward would escort her to London and onward to Millwood Cottage. In the meantime, other matters required his attention.
While he had mentioned part of his purpose to Darcy, he had not disclosed his chief intention. He had permitted the young man to write first to his family, but scarcely had that letter been dispatched to the Fitzwilliams before his own followed by special messenger.
Matlock,
As you are aware, my granddaughter is engaged to your nephew. I shall be in Town within the next few days and trust you will make time to meet with me as there is a matter of great importance to us both which requires consideration.
I should value your counsel, as the matter is not without lasting consequence.
Granfield
Matlock’s reply arrived the following day, returned by the same messenger. It contained little more than a date three days hence and the suggestion that they meet in Granfield’s study.
The messenger had also carried a brief note ahead to the housekeeper of Talbot House, the London residence bearing the family name bestowed by Granfield’s great-grandfather before the elevation of the earldom more than a century earlier.
Granfield arrived there late in the afternoon and found all in readiness.
On the day appointed, Lord Matlock was announced and shown into his study.
“Welcome, Matlock,” Granfield said, rising as he entered. “I see you remain as punctual as you were at school.”
“Granfield. It has been some time, yet I suspect we have both improved in different directions.” The reply carried humour, while his gaze remained keen.
Neither man spoke while the butler poured their drinks. When he withdrew and the door closed behind him, the soft click of the latch left them alone.
“Now,” Matlock said, leaning forward slightly, a trace of animation breaking through his usual composure, “this would not concern Richard, would it? You have not discovered some means of bringing him home permanently? His mother would be exceedingly gratified.”
Granfield did not answer at once. He settled back in his chair and regarded the man opposite him before speaking.
“Several months ago, I received word of my son’s death,” he said evenly. “In the aftermath, I secured the Regent’s consent to a special remainder. When my granddaughter marries and bears a son, that child will inherit Granfield, with all that properly pertains to it.”
Matlock’s brows lifted, but he did not interrupt. The arrangement was uncommon; Granfield had anticipated surprise.
“I had once considered your Richard as a match for her,” Granfield continued. “I met him abroad and found him steady and intelligent. But my granddaughter has formed an attachment elsewhere.” A brief pause. “To your nephew.”
Matlock’s expression sharpened. He had known of the engagement, certainly—but not, it seemed, of Granfield’s earlier design.
“They insist it is love,” Granfield added dryly. “I shall not dispute them.”
He rested his hands together, fingertips lightly touching as he considered his next words.
“Had matters arranged themselves differently, I would have sought a barony or other distinction for Richard. It would have been a just acknowledgement of his service—and of a considerable obligation I owe him. Now I must determine whether it is prudent to press for two honours.”
“Two?” Matlock asked quietly.
“Darcy will be father to the next earl,” Granfield replied. “It may be fitting that he stand in some consequence of his own. But I hesitate to advance one petition only to imperil the other.”
For the first time since entering the room, Matlock’s composure shifted. He sat back slowly.
“You would seek an elevation for Darcy,” he said—not as a question, but as a measured assessment, “in addition to one for Richard.”
Granfield did not answer.
“That,” Matlock continued after a moment, “is no small undertaking. Nor one whose success you may assume.” His gaze sharpened slightly.
“Darcy’s father refused advancement once before.
He raised his son to place little value upon such distinctions.
I doubt he would welcome a seat in the Lords—and he may very well decline it.
It would not reflect well on either of us if it were refused. ”
For several moments, neither man spoke. Each took a measured sip of his brandy, the silence settling comfortably between them.
“Would your granddaughter press him to accept it?” Matlock asked at last.
A faint sound escaped Granfield—half amusement, half disbelief. He set his glass down with deliberate care before replying.
“Not at all. Elizabeth is as likely to refuse it as Darcy. She knows of my title, of course, but she has never lived that life. A month or two in Town might amuse her. I cannot imagine she would relish an obligation to remain there half the year.”
Matlock’s brow rose again. The brandy remained suspended near his lips.
“You thought to match her with Richard?”
“Yes.” Granfield regarded him briefly, uncertain what warranted the question.
Matlock held his gaze a moment longer. Then the corner of his mouth curved.
“Then I am not surprised they did not suit.” He leant back at last and took an unhurried sip of his brandy.
“Richard is a social being. He would reside in Town nearly year-round if left to his own devices.” A trace of amusement lingered in his expression.
“In some respects, he is better fashioned for an earldom than his elder brother. But primogeniture is inconveniently clear, and I have yet to discover a means of correcting it.”
The smile did not quite fade.
Granfield, however, felt something else stir within him—a faint, unwelcome recognition that he may have been wrong to press his granddaughter towards the colonel.
He had weighed Richard’s steadiness, his honour, his usefulness—but not whether he would have been content with the life Elizabeth would choose, nor whether she would have been content with his.
It was a miscalculation he had not anticipated when, on the Continent, he first considered the match. He had been hard on Darcy during the last few weeks, and though he had ultimately given his consent, he knew his reluctance had tempered Elizabeth’s joy.
He drew a slow breath and reached again for his glass.
“Be that as it may,” he said at last, setting the matter aside for one of more immediate concern, “we must consider what is prudent now.”
Matlock inclined his head, the trace of amusement yielding to deliberation.
The remainder of their conversation was devoted to strategy—how best to approach the Regent, and by what means each gentleman might be persuaded to accept what was offered.
By the time they rose from their chairs, the outline of a plan had taken shape, but a great deal of its success would depend upon timing and discretion.