After the Storm #5
Elizabeth would have done so directly had one of the men not caught her attention with the mention of a certain gentleman.
“…never known anybody so high in the instep as Mr Darcy. He is a sanctimonious prig!”
Elizabeth fixed her eyes on the clearly inebriated speaker, her lips pursed against all the things she should like to say but could not.
True, she had accused Mr Darcy of worse, but she was well enough acquainted with him to have received an offer of marriage.
She sincerely doubted this horrid little man had any such claim to intimacy.
“I never said he was not, Wrenshaw, but he did not cheat you,” the other man replied, and it seemed very much as though it was not the first time he had said it.
“How is it then that we parted with the same piece of land within two months of each other, and he made a fortune while I made naught but a fool of myself?”
“Because you are reckless with your money!”
“Piffle!” the man named Wrenshaw shouted, to the tittered delight of the growing crowd. “He took advantage of me. Do not be fooled by the stick up his bailey. No man can be that damned proper. I’ll wager he has a whore in every room at Pemberley!”
A squall of gasps flew up.
“Come away, Lizzy,” her aunt repeated, but she could not leave.
“Mr Darcy does not deserve this! He is not a bad man!”
“I confess I am surprised to hear you defend him.”
“I know, but I was very wrong about him.”
“Here we are!” Mr Gardiner announced behind them.
Before either lady could do more than receive the drinks he had brought, he added, “Good gracious, is that you, Harding?” and walked directly to the pair of squabbling men.
Within moments, he was gesturing for them to join him.
He introduced the quieter of the two men as a business acquaintance, Mr Harding, and the other as that gentleman’s friend, Mr Wrenshaw.
“And this is my lovely wife, Mrs Gardiner. She has spent a good deal of time in your part of the country actually, Mr Wrenshaw, in Lambton. And this is my niece, Miss—”
“Lambton? In Derbyshire?” Mr Wrenshaw interrupted.
“Yes, between Pemberley and Yewbridge,” answered Mrs Gardiner.
“I know very well where it is, madam,” he replied curtly.
To Mr Harding, he said, “It was Lambton Crambourne wished to bypass with his blasted railway. And since Darcy would part with nary an inch of his estate, the arrogant swine bought half of mine and sold that to Crambourne instead! Now tell me he is not a swindling bleater!” His voice grew louder as he warmed to the topic, recalling the attention of all the eavesdroppers who had begun to lose interest.
Elizabeth’s vexation flared. “Upon my word, you have been very free with your opinion of that gentleman this evening, sir.”
Mr Wrenshaw looked at her sharply. “What of it? You cannot have any peculiar interest in him.”
“I daresay the energy with which you have maligned him has provoked us all to be a little curious.” Elizabeth indicated with a glance the scores of inquisitive faces watching their exchange.
“You are obviously keen that we should all agree with your estimation of him, but none of us will be able to until you decide for yourself what sort of man you want him to be.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Why, you have accused him of being both righteous and depraved. I have been used to consider those as opposing qualities. I am afraid he cannot be both.”
His countenance reddened. “I merely suggested, madam, that the appearance of one often conceals the presence of the other.”
“Indeed?” Elizabeth resisted a smile. “Then, it is to all our advantages that there are respectable men such as yourself to evince the difference for the rest of us.”
“Lizzy!” Mrs Gardiner hissed.
“Indeed!” Mr Wrenshaw assured her airily, to all appearances satisfied with the turn of the conversation—until several people sniggered nearby and his brow creased in puzzlement.
His friend hastily engaged Mr Gardiner on another matter. Elizabeth retreated, happy to see the crowds and their interest dissipating and happier still when the second curtain call came, and she was able to escape Mr Wrenshaw’s odious company.
Thursday 23 April 1812, London
Elizabeth turned away from the window at a sound beyond the door. The watery hues of daybreak had crept into the room behind her and diluted the light of her candle; thus, it hardly made a difference when her aunt bustled in, and it blew out.
“Very well,” Mrs Gardiner began at once, holding the door ajar for a maid with a tray. “Your uncle is not here now, so you may speak freely.” She waited for the maid to leave then fixed Elizabeth with a look that brooked no prevarication. “What transpired between you and Mr Darcy in Kent?”
Elizabeth smiled at her frankness. Having anticipated some explanation would be required, she had resolved to relay Mr Darcy’s account of his history with Mr Wickham, omitting any mention of Miss Darcy.
That was all she would disclose, for she had not yet reconciled herself to any other part of their dealings and was certainly not ready to hear her aunt call her a fool.
She accepted a cup of tea and returned with it to the window, where she watched the steam mist the glass as she told her tale.
“Were you terribly disappointed to learn this about your favourite?” Mrs Gardiner said at the end.
“Happily, no,” she replied, shamed that her undisguised partiality had fixed Mr Wickham in everyone’s minds as such. “I am angry with him, but the loss of his acquaintance will scarcely be a deprivation.”
“Mr Darcy, then, is not quite as dreadful as we believed?”
Elizabeth rubbed a little peephole in the condensation on the window and peered through it, but the view afforded her no improved perspective of his insufferable pride or insulting proposal. “Not in this matter at least.”
“Well, it is a lesson learnt, my girl.”
“Indeed, it is. I hope I shall never allow myself to be blinded by prejudice again. Let us be thankful I have Jane to steer me. She has an enviable capacity to see good in everyone.”
Mrs Gardiner’s expression clouded slightly. “Forgive me for saying, but that is not always such a fine thing. Jane has been as much wounded by credulity as you have been by prejudice. Her desire to believe Mr Bingley a good sort of man has seen her very ill-used.”
“But he is a good sort of man!” Elizabeth pushed away from the casement and planted herself defiantly opposite her aunt, the sofa absorbing the brunt of her indignation. “He would have offered for Jane, but Mr Darcy persuaded him against it!”
“Ah! So, his friend thought to remind him of that judgement which opposed inclination?”
Elizabeth set her cup down with a clatter. “His friend presumed to know Jane’s feelings and mistook her to be indifferent. They might have been married by now were it not for him!”
“Be careful, Lizzy. Mr Darcy is not alone in being guilty of presumption.”
She could think of nothing to say in defence of that and was obliged to sit in silence whilst chagrin crept up her neck and overspread her cheeks.
“Have you told Jane?”
“About Mr Darcy’s interference, aye, though I regret telling her that much, for she is still in very low spirits.”
Mrs Gardiner frowned. “She has had a great many weeks to nurse her low spirits. She ought to take the time to listen to you.”
“It is not that she will not take the time but that I do not wish to trouble her with it. Her heart is not mended. Mine is perfectly sound. There is no need for me to burden her further with tales of Mr Wickham’s perfidy.
” Or indeed Mr Darcy’s proposal, though it was that about which Elizabeth most wished to talk to her.
Yet to complain about the offer of marriage she had received, when Jane was not yet recovered from the injury of the offer she had not, seemed unpardonably cruel.
Mrs Gardiner looked as though she would object, but she was not given the chance.
Her two sons burst into the room, each wailing that the other had hurt him.
She gathered them to her, conciliating and chastising as only a mother can do.
“You are a dear girl, Lizzy,” she said over their heads. “Jane is very fortunate to have you.”
Saturday 25 April 1812, London
Bingley stared at the implacable butler and puffed out his cheeks helplessly.
He really ought to have known Darcy would not be at home.
It was Saturday, and Darcy invariably visited Angelo’s of a Saturday morning.
“I might as well wait here for him. I daresay he’ll not object as long as I behave myself. ”
“Miss Darcy and her companion are here, sir, also awaiting Mr Darcy,” Godfrey replied.
“Even better!” he cried, whipping off his hat and bowling past him into the house.
“Did you enjoy the theatre on Wednesday?” he enquired of Darcy’s sister once he was settled in the morning room.
“We did not go in the end. My brother was unwell.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” Bingley replied, though it did explain why Darcy had seemed so out of sorts. “Is he recovered? He must be if he has gone fencing.”
“I have not seen him since, so I cannot say.”
“If he is sickening for something, I might have some luck convincing him to come with me for a few weeks for some country air.”
“You are leaving Town?”
“I am!” Bingley resisted the urge to bounce up and down in his seat. “I am returning to Hertfordshire.”
“Hertfordshire?”
Mrs Annesley cleared her throat. Miss Darcy glanced at her, as did Bingley, but he could see nothing extraordinary in the way she looked at her charge, to whom he replied, “Yes, I return within the week for an indefinite stay.”
“But you will miss the remainder of the Season!”
“You share Caroline’s outrage, I see. Be assured, Hertfordshire has far pleasanter diversions than Town, as your brother recently reminded me.”
“He did? Might I enquire—did he enjoy his time there, do you think?”
Mrs Annesley cleared her throat again, more loudly.