Chapter 9 In Love and War #3
In view of your violent objections to your future niece, I have taken steps to relieve you of the indignity of accepting subsistence from her future husband’s estate. You may expect to receive articles from my attorney in due course with particulars.
As to my mother, she is dead and her memory, such as it was by the end, buried with her. My memory of her is perfectly intact and wholly unsullied; thus, your concern is without foundation.
Yours,
Darcy
Tuesday 23 June 1812, London
Darcy exchanged one last private smile with Elizabeth and left the shop, surrendering her and his sister to the safekeeping of his most reliable footman and the redoubtable modiste. His happiness as his carriage set off across London verged on the preposterous.
Both he and Elizabeth were relieved to be away from the cloying and intrusive society in Meryton, and they had enjoyed more private conversation on their journey here yesterday than in the nearly two weeks since they became engaged.
It had been agreed between the ladies that Elizabeth would stay with Georgiana, and he had delivered her there with the greatest of trepidation, for never had he been more anxious for two people to get along.
He need not have concerned himself. Though his sister had been shy and Elizabeth reservedly polite at first, by the end of dinner they had seemed to be far more at ease, and when he returned to collect them this morning, both had been in observably fine humour.
The unparalleled pleasure of showing Elizabeth around Darcy House and her unaffected delight in it had been greater even than he had hoped. Her admission of impatience for it to be her home pleased him so well that not even the audience to which he now travelled could dampen his spirits.
Upon arriving at Matlock House, he was announced into the drawing room where sat his uncle and Mrs Sinclair, in pointed silence at opposing ends of the room. He gave a single bow to the space between them and wished them both good day.
Matlock grunted. “Good of you to call, Darcy. I began to think you would not bother.”
“Pardon me. I have been rather busy of late.”
“So I have heard.”
Darcy did not doubt it. He had written to his uncle with his news, of course, but with fewer details than Lady Catherine was sure to have provided.
He crossed the room and took the nearest seat to his uncle.
Mrs Sinclair materialised in the adjacent one and sat regarding him with an expectant expression so presumptuous it was diverting.
Matlock hauled himself upright in his chair. “Now you are here, you can do me the honour of explaining what the devil has transpired between you and your aunt this time, for I could make neither head nor tail of her most recent letter.”
Darcy duly summarised Lady Catherine’s letter to Elizabeth.
Matlock sucked in his breath. “That was impolitic.”
Darcy answered the gross understatement with a slight inclination of his head.
“For a woman who hardly ever leaves Kent, your sister manages to afford the rest of the world an inordinate amount of bother,” Mrs Sinclair said to Matlock, who ignored her entirely.
“How have you responded?”
“I have withdrawn all pecuniary support.”
His uncle looked truly shocked. “I had no idea you were subsidising the estate. What effect will your withdrawal have?”
“My assistance has merely eased her present solvency. She will require a much larger investment to prevent its eventual dissolution.”
“Such she had deluded herself into thinking you would provide, of course,” Mrs Sinclair said.
Matlock puffed out his cheeks and rubbed his eyebrow with his forefinger. “She would push the matter, the stubborn harpy. Now this is a fine mess.”
“It need not be,” Darcy pointed out. “She need only apologise for her threats and accept my choice, and all will be resolved.”
“Only!” Matlock scoffed. “You ask much of her, Darcy.”
“Aye,” agreed Mrs Sinclair. “You cannot expect her holyship to bless the union that will impoverish her.”
“You are mistaken, madam,” Matlock said. “Catherine is many things, but she is not mercenary. She is concerned for Anne. Right or wrong, from an early age the girl has been allowed to believe she is intended for Darcy.”
“Upon my word!” Mrs Sinclair exclaimed. “At an early age, I believed my father was heir to the throne, and my lap dog was a unicorn. There comes a point in most people’s lives when one learns to discern fact from invention.”
Matlock gave an exasperated huff. “And she is worried about the family’s reputation.” To Darcy, he added, “She is convinced this marriage will be your greatest ever mistake.”
“Mr Darcy’s reputation would do much better if she was not in such a rage to discredit him to everybody who would listen,” Mrs Sinclair persisted. “I have heard more whisperings about his choice of wife that have originated from her acquaintances than any other source.”
“Naming a horse lame does not oblige it to limp,” Matlock objected.
“No, but it guarantees no one will bet on it,” Mrs Sinclair replied tartly.
“To what whisperings do you refer, madam?” Darcy enquired.
“Your aunt is industriously circulating the rumour that you have been thoroughly worked on. I heard it directly from Lady Metcalfe and vicariously from several other of her friends. Presumably, it is the only way she feels she can justify the alliance.”
Darcy felt no fury towards his aunt. It seemed all his anger was spent.
Instead, he felt a very great disappointment.
He had once believed her to be a sensible woman whose officiousness could be excused as ill-applied interest, but the discovery and dismantling of his own conceit had exposed hers as equally indefensible.
“She may circulate whatever rumours she wishes. It will not change my mind.”
“It might change your lady’s mind,” Matlock warned.
Darcy smiled slightly. “Elizabeth does not concern herself with anything as transient as society’s indignation.”
“Sensible girl,” said Mrs Sinclair. “I was always assured of liking her since I am predisposed to like most things in opposition to Lady Catherine, but it seems Miss Bennet is going to make it easy for me. Tell me, how did she fare against Lady Catherine in person?”
“I understand she ejected her from her home and sent her condolences to my cousin for having such a mother.”
Mrs Sinclair banged her cane on the floor triumphantly. “Ha! I believe your young lady and I shall get along famously, Mr Darcy.”
“You have overlooked the improbability of her liking you in return,” Matlock grumbled.
“Nonsense. Some of the very finest friendships are founded on a mutual aversion to the same acquaintances. Lady Catherine has been of infinite use, which ought to make her happy, for she loves to be of use.”
Respect for his uncle bade Darcy constrain his amusement to a small smile. “I am certain Elizabeth would welcome your support, madam.”
“You may tell her she can count on it, for it will infuriate Lady Catherine, and I live for nothing if not to vex the vexatious.”
“I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours, though I trust, in time, you will come to value Elizabeth for her own merits.”
“Oh, I shall have to now, regardless, for I detest being wrong. For heaven’s sake, do not tell her, though, or she will feel no obligation to please me—and at my age, other than gin, deference and flattery are the only palatable forms of sustenance.”
“Then I must advise you to keep the gin well stocked,” Darcy replied. “For there is every chance you may starve otherwise.”
“I am not that fortunate,” Matlock grumbled under his breath. For the remainder of the visit, he showed no further interest in Elizabeth and made no request for an introduction.
Before he left, Darcy invited them both to dine with him on Friday when Elizabeth, Georgiana, Fitzwilliam and the Gardiners were also to join him.
Mrs Sinclair accepted with alacrity. His uncle declined, citing the usual excuse of his sore bones.
Darcy knew not, and frankly cared less, whether in truth Matlock disapproved of Elizabeth.
She was, with good reason, beloved by all who knew her.
Those who disdained the privilege of her acquaintance would be the only ones disadvantaged.
Thursday 25 June 1812, Hertfordshire
On clear summer nights when the windows were open and the rest of the house was quiet, Jane could sometimes hear the noise from the kitchen as she lay in her bed.
This was such a night, and it was a sound that filled her with happiness, for the supper that was being cleared away had been one of the most enjoyable of her life.
Her mother had invited as many of their neighbours as Longbourn could accommodate, and every one of them had congratulated Bingley and her at some stage.
Though modesty prevented her from admitting it, Jane delighted in their enthusiasm.
Bingley was just what a young man ought to be—sensible, good-humoured, and lively—and she never saw such happy manners, so much ease, with such perfect good breeding.
She loved him dearly and was very happy for the chance to show him off without the constant distraction of her more obtrusive sister and her more illustrious lover.
He was also good looking, which added to the giddiness she felt when she recalled their twilight stroll in the garden and their stolen kiss beneath the willow tree.
For all its brevity, it had brought colour rushing to her cheeks and hope rushing to her heart.
There had been times of late when she distrusted his affections, but nobody could have doubted his attachment this evening.