Chapter 19 #2
“I think we have scandalised many of those stuck-up prigs,” Jamey inclined his head towards the group watching them. He turned back towards the Bingley fellow. “You said you are from Scarborough, and your father owns the Bingley Carriage Works, did you not?”
“I did, my Lord,” Charles replied.
“Please call me Hadlock, and your father makes good coaches. My sire has purchased two from your father’s business already, from the branch in York, I believe.”
“Do you have brothers and sisters? Do you come from a large family?” Fitzwilliam enquired.
“My mother passed away from an illness almost two years past,” Charles related.
“I have an older sister; she is engaged to the heir of a small to medium-sized estate, his words, Winsdale in Yorkshire. I also have a younger sister; she is only thirteen. She is very demanding, and one of her main aims in life is that she will marry one in the first circles and preferably one who is titled like you, Hadlock. You all have five years before she is unleashed on society. I hate to think how she would behave around you. We do not know where these desires of hers come from because my father is, and my late mother was, perfectly happy at the level of society we inhabit.”
“We all have family members we cannot explain and who are rather embarrassing. William here, and I have our Aunt Catherine, who is as delusional as your younger sister sounds,” Fitzwilliam stated.
He looked at the others in the room. “We will be mentoring Mr Bingley here. Does anyone have an objection to that?”
The others who had scorned Charles Bingley earlier looked away and did not say a word.
~~~~~~~/~~~~~~~
George Wickham resented the trajectory his life had taken since that foundling Elizabeth Carrington had spoilt everything he and his late mother—she had passed away some three years past—had been planning.
When he and his late mother had tried to convince his father, Lucas Wickham, to appeal to Mr Darcy to change his draconian edicts because those who had heard what was being said in the stables that day had misheard, his father had roundly refused.
Rather than being sent to Eton and then Cambridge like they had planned—with Mr Darcy paying for his education—George had gone to the local school attended by sons of stewards and tradesmen in the area.
It was so unfair that he had had to languish among those at his level of society instead of gaining the gentleman’s education he deserved.
Even worse, his father expected him to work to earn a decent allowance.
Without working, he would receive a pittance, not enough to allow him to do anything.
While George’s mother had lived, she had augmented the insulting amount his father had given him each quarter.
Since she passed away, no one had been on his side, and the only way to earn more money was to work at menial tasks on the estate.
During the summers that the Fitzwilliams and the Carringtons visited Pemberley, George’s feelings of resentment and ill-usage deepened. There he was having to work for his meagre funds while they had everything handed to them on silver platters.
The most vexing was to see that foundling brat, Elizabeth Carrington, riding, walking about—never alone—and enjoying her life while he hated his.
He would have loved to make her pay for what she had caused but was never able to come close to her.
How was it fair that she, who could be the illegitimate daughter of a servant, lived the life of the daughter of an earl while he had nothing?
He heard rumours that she and her sisters had dowries to rival the one that Miss Darcy of Pemberley had.
No, none of it was fair. And he would get his revenge and his due one day.
What George Wickham did have was cunning, a handsome face, and charm. As much as he wanted to convince some of those on and around Pemberley to surrender their virtues to him, George knew that if a father came to see his own father, he would be forced to marry the chit.
No, he would bide his time for now; he was seventeen, and in another year or two his father would seek an apprenticeship for him. Once he was away from his father’s direct supervision, he would know how to act.
~~~~~~~/~~~~~~~
After an enjoyable Michaelmas term at Cambridge, the first of the three terms of that school year, Charles Bingley was happy to leave for Scarborough on Wednesday, the sixteenth day of December of 1801.
He was well aware that his experience at Cambridge had been made infinitely better by his friendship with Hadlock, Fitzwilliam, and Darcy.
Ever since their acceptance of him, regardless of how his father made his money, many of those who had initially shunned him had thawed towards him. There were some who still looked down their noses at Charles, but it was only a few, and they did no more than show their disapproval.
Hence, by the time he arrived home the evening of that Friday, he was in a rather ebullient mood. He had made good time as his older sister, Louisa, was to be married the next day.
Saturday, after all of the guests had left the wedding breakfast which had been held at the Bingley’s house, was the first time Arthur Bingley had to quiz his son about his experiences at Cambridge.
Bingley had not been pleased when his son related the initial reaction to himself, but his countenance lightened significantly when Charles spoke of his friends and the way they had smoothed his way at the school.
Neither Bingley man had noticed that Caroline was seated in the one corner of the room listening to every word they said.
“I will marry the viscount!” Caroline exclaimed as she jumped up.
“Caroline Maleficent Bingley, did I not tell you to return upstairs?” Bingley barked. “How many times have I admonished you for listening to adults’ conversations when you should not?”
Rather than look embarrassed, Caroline just looked defiant. “I needed to hear if Charles had met any men who would be able to assist me to rise in society,” she stated shrilly.
Charles released a deep belly laugh. “Caroline, you have more of a chance of seeing a flying pig than Carrington ever looking at you as a potential mate, even after you come out. You still have almost five years before you enter society, and Father will correct me if I err, but that will be here in Scarborough, certainly not London, and not even York.”
“You are wrong,” the new Miss Bingley screeched. She stamped a slippered foot as emphasis.
“No, he is not,” Bingley declared. “In fact, you are the one who is wrong, and Charles has the right of it.” He held up his hand and shot his daughter a quelling look to stem the nonsense about to be delivered from her mouth.
“Caroline, I know not where you got these delusions in your head that you will rise to the summit of the first circles.
You will not! You are the daughter of a tradesman, and no matter how many times you demand it, I will never purchase an estate.
Also, under no circumstances will I send you to some seminary in London.
You will be educated locally like Louisa and Charles were—before he went to university—and I will brook no opposition in this.
“As I do not believe you would be able to behave appropriately, if any of Charles’s friends come to call on us here, you will be sent to Aunt Hildebrand, Uncle John, and your cousins before they come.”
“No, Papa, please not that. I will behave,” Caroline pleaded.
“Unfortunately you have said that and not held to your promises too many times, so I do not trust your word. It will be as I said,” Bingley insisted firmly.
Miss Caroline Bingley stood. She needed to go throw some things in her chamber to release her frustration. Why did no one understand that she was not meant to be the daughter of a tradesman?
“Before you go and do what I suspect you want to do, know this: anything you break will be paid for by you, and I will not allow any maid to clean up your mess. If you do not clean it yourself, you will live in squalor because no maid will enter your chamber until you clean up what you have destroyed and the resulting filth.” Bingley looked at his daughter until she could see that he was intractable in this.
After stomping her foot again, Miss Bingley ran out of the sitting room and up to her chamber.
The only breakable thing within was an empty vase.
She picked it up, but then she heard her father’s words in her head.
Surely he would not stop a maid emptying her chamber pot if she broke the vase?
Rather than take the chance, with a huff of frustration, the vase was returned to the small table it had been on.
Instead, Miss Bingley fell face-first onto her bed and screamed into her pillow.
While she screamed, her hands beat her coverlet and her feet kicked up and down.
~~~~~~~/~~~~~~~
Lady Catherine de Bourgh sat on her ‘throne’ in her favourite drawing room at Rosings Park.
It was certainly not a throne in the royal sense but it was a chair the grand lady had ordered be placed on a raised platform so she was able to look down on everyone.
She had commanded that it be reupholstered with red velvet, but even she would not dare to emblazon her chair with the royal standard.
To finish the effect, she had the exposed wood gilded.
She had commanded her family to attend her for Easter, so why had no one arrived? Her sister Anne, who refused to engage Fitzwilliam to Anne de Bourgh, had written to say the Darcys and Fitzwilliams would be spending time with the Carringtons at their estate.
It was not to be borne that the one Lady Catherine had chosen to be Anne’s husband was around those damned foundlings!
They were far too pretty. Her daughter was sickly and had been that way ever since she had suffered a bout of scarlet fever two years after that useless Lewis had died.
But she needed Anne to marry someone with an estate far from Rosings Park so that she would be left in charge of her domain.
As it was, her brother and brother-in-law, just because they were the executors of Sir Lewis’s will, would not allow her to access estate funds for all the redecoration she wanted to achieve in the manor house.
The steward reported to them, and no matter how much she objected to money being spent on the tenants and their hovels, the man paid her no heed.
Now it seemed that her orders that the Fitzwilliams and Darcys attend her had been ignored. It was not to be borne. Lady Catherine decided to make for Staffordshire to make her displeasure known in person. She would berate everyone for ignoring her orders.
After two long days of travelling, the de Bourgh barouche box arrived at Holder Heights. Seeing no signs of life did not deter the great lady. She rapped on the front doors with her cane.
Mr Belle cracked one door and informed the screeching lady no one was home; they were at another Carrington estate, and no, he could not tell her the name or where. Then, he closed and locked the door. No matter how much the termagant beat on the door, the butler did not open it again.
Lady Catherine could not understand why things did not go according to the way she had determined they should. She sulked all the way back to Kent.