Chapter 7 The Sounds of Revelation
It proved no hardship to obtain Mrs Darcy’s location.
Two of his coins changed hands with one of Bingley’s more talkative servants, and the quaint cottage in Little Kings Hill was revealed to him.
It was whether he should approach her that was difficult to decide.
He hoped he would be able to observe her from a distance, he told himself as he tied his horse to a nearby tree and continued on foot.
The cottage was tiny, smaller than any of his tenants’ homes at Pemberley, though he might own a widow’s residence of a similar size.
It was quiet; Mrs Darcy must be inside or away on an errand.
He had almost decided to approach when a peal of girlish laughter wafted through the woods.
It did not sound like his wife and it was not.
A young and unfamiliar girl appeared on the arm of a man he surmised must be her father.
She released his limb and skipped towards the entrance.
Mrs Darcy must have been expecting them because she opened the door before they could knock and let the girl in.
The man, a farmer by the looks of it, did not enter.
He walked to the chopping block, removed his coat, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and grabbed the axe.
He chopped up the logs at hand into smaller pieces and stacked them outside the door.
Half an hour passed before Mrs Darcy reappeared with the girl, whose hair was now done up in an elaborate fashion. The girl curtsied, and the two guests left the same way they had come. Elizabeth stood gazing after them before she turned abruptly and disappeared into the cottage.
Darcy’s courage left him. Mrs Darcy’s situation differed vastly from what he had imagined.
He had pictured her safely in the bosom of her family at her beloved Longbourn.
Never had the thought crossed his mind that she would be cast off and forced to fend for herself.
She was obviously managing, even though she lived in utter poverty, and had made friends—perhaps even more than friends…
The cottage he surmised to have one or perhaps two rooms. She could obviously not afford coal judging by the stack of wood the farmer had left her.
Could she subsist on doing young girls’ hair and tending the small patch of vegetables she had planted?
She had not withdrawn a penny of her pin money, which he kept adding to her account for no explicable reason.
Ashamed, he retreated stealthily the way he had come. He had wanted to rant and rave at her one last time. Her departure had been abrupt through his own doing, but he had since thought of a thousand things that had been left unsaid.
Darcy rode hard back to London and was pacing the floor of his study when the butler announced a visitor.
“The knocker is not up,” Darcy barked.
“We need to discuss the wedding arrangements,” Lord Matlock replied calmly as he entered his sanctuary.
“Why? I have no say in the matter.”
“Do not play the victim, Darcy, it does not become you. Your sister has made her choice. She could have done much worse, or do I need to remind you about Mr Wickham?”
Darcy remained silent, which his uncle regarded as consent.
“Good. Are you planning to remove to Pemberley soon?”
“No, not yet.”
“Have you reconciled with this turn of events?”
Darcy did not answer.
“Well, I shall be off, then. Let me know when you want Georgiana to return to you.”
Darcy made no reply. Lord Matlock left him to his thoughts with a sigh as his parting farewell.
A week later, his resolve to keep his distance from his wife weakened.
He had not accomplished what he had set out to do.
Elizabeth may live in utter poverty, but neither her countenance nor her bearing spoke of the misery he himself was afflicted with.
If anything, she seemed content, and he was left with more questions than answers.
Early the next morning he rode to Little Kings Hill.
He approached stealthily as before, making sure he was hidden by the trees and the undergrowth.
The cottage was quiet, but he spotted her in the vegetable patch.
Her hair was tumbling freely down her back, and her tresses were much longer than he remembered.
At Pemberley, her hair had reached the middle of her back, but now it reached her waist.
She was busy digging up potatoes before she moved barefooted to collect a handful of carrots. Can she not afford shoes? The thought was unnerving.
Elizabeth put the vegetables into a basket and moved farther down the field to pick something else.
Her form was now obstructed by shrubs, and he could not see what she was doing until she rose somewhat abruptly.
He immediately feared he had been detected, but she did not look in his direction, turning instead towards the cottage.
The door suddenly opened, but he could not see anyone about.
The lock must be broken. Without conscious thought, he made a note of it in his mind.
“You little scamp, have you escaped your pen?”
Darcy could not see whom or what she was talking to, but he could hear chickens clucking. They were not usually kept in a pen, but she might have other animals.
Elizabeth laughed and scolded loudly, “You are a naughty girl, like your mama.”
A squeal compelled Elizabeth to bend and pick up something from the ground. It sounded like a piglet, but she had a bizarre way of addressing it if it was livestock. Perhaps her mind had been addled by living in impoverished solitude for so long.
An old lady in Lambton came to mind. She had at least fifteen cats she talked to and treated as if they were her children.
A ball of dark curls was in Elizabeth’s arms. Under the curly mass hung a body with arms and legs.
A girl… Elizabeth nuzzled the child’s nose and put her back on her feet.
Darcy rose onto his toes to see better. He could hear Elizabeth speaking, but her tone of voice was too soft to discern her words.
With the basket in one hand and the toddling child’s hand in the other, Elizabeth walked into the cottage.
Darcy stood in full view, but Elizabeth did not raise her head when she closed the door behind her.
He could not move. Not once had this turn of events entered his mind. They had been married for a little under two months… The sense of failure overwhelmed him.
How old was the girl? He tried to count the months, but with no exact age for the child, it was a futile endeavour. His mind raced back to that disastrous night in his library, recounting the dialogue in his head—his cousin’s, Elizabeth’s, his own.
The child could, of course, be a product of a later liaison. Elizabeth had not stayed long in Hertfordshire.
The insulting thought made him shudder. Elizabeth owed him nothing after he had evicted her from his house and his heart. Yet not once in the years that had passed had the thought of fornicating with another woman entered his mind. The idea was abhorrent.
Darcy returned to his horse and rode back to London. He needed to think, but his mind was not cooperating. His body was worn out by the time he reached Darcy House, but his mind was not.
His stable hand had the audacity to glare at him as he threw him the reins of his lathered horse. He ordered him to give the animal two days of rest, but it might take him longer to recover from the exhausting ride of thirty-three miles, despite the respite they had taken at an inn.
He went straight to his chamber and washed off the dirt and sweat. The room held no memories of Elizabeth. They had never stayed in his London house, preferring to venture straight to the tranquillity of Pemberley after their wedding.
Refreshed, he continued to his study, pacing back and forth, waving away a footman who came with a tray of refreshments. He could not eat at a time like this.
His gaze fell to his desk. An enraged Bingley, banging his fists on it, flashed before his eyes. Of course, Bingley would know. If he would receive him…
Darcy had not encountered Bingley since his wife had given him the cut direct on Bond Street.
He had seen him from afar a couple of times but had immediately changed direction to avoid any awkward confrontations.
He had heard the rumour that Bingley had become a father.
A son had been born in the autumn of 1813, and he might be able to use Bingley’s paternal sensitivities to his advantage.
Should Bingley prove uncooperative, his sister might be of aid, but she had married the heir presumptive to a baronetcy, a year past. It was improbable she was staying at the Hurst residence but not impossible.
Darcy lifted the knocker on Hurst House and gave it three firm raps. An elderly butler opened the door and invited him into the entrance hall.
“Is Mr Bingley present?” he asked.
“A moment, Mr Darcy, I shall see whether he is at home.”
The butler shuffled away. Darcy suppressed a smile; the man had confirmed Bingley was indeed in London, or he would not have needed to see.
Five minutes later, the servant came trudging back.
“I am sorry, Mr Darcy, but Mr Bingley is not in.”
The elderly butler was obviously lying by the way his eyes flickered to anything but Darcy.
“When will he be back?” Darcy was not about to give in so easily.
“I cannot say, sir.”
Darcy eyed the weary old man suspiciously.
“Tell Mr Bingley that I know about the child—he will want to talk to me,” he growled through clenched teeth. Bingley was a coward for refusing to see him.
The butler gave up all efforts of pretence and shuffled away for the second time. Hardly a minute passed before Bingley appeared, beckoning for Darcy to follow him to a parlour at the back of the house.
Bingley went straight to the fireplace and took a stance that reminded Darcy of himself. He rested an arm on the mantelpiece while rubbing his eyes with the other hand.
“What do you want, Darcy?”
“Just information, Bingley. If you cooperate, I shall be out of your way within minutes. I want to know a couple of details regarding the child who is living with Elizabeth at her cottage in Little Kings Hill.”
Bingley did not answer immediately. He stood, absently running his hand through his hair, with an annoyed expression.
“Did you know that she tapped the sap from birch trees to sweeten the tea she could not afford to buy? That she carried her own water and chopped her own wood while carrying your child? I was appalled by the conditions she was living under. More than six months passed before we even knew of her whereabouts.”
Darcy flinched; his own sentiments matched Bingley’s, but what could he do? Nothing! It was too late. Elizabeth must rightfully hate him as much as he loathed her. They were thoroughly trapped, in marriage and adversity.
“Seventy pounds a year was all her father and uncle had deemed sufficient for a genteel lady to manage on. My sister has gowns that cost more than that! I, of course, offered her sanctuary at Netherfield, but she refused. Do you know why?”
He did not leave Darcy time to reply.
“She was afraid you would come and deprive her of her child. She chose to live in utter poverty, as opposed to the comfort Netherfield could offer, to protect your daughter. How does that feel, Mr Darcy?”
It was confirmed; he was the last man in the world Elizabeth would welcome to her humble abode.
“The date of birth, Bingley.”
Bingley looked at him with disgust.
“August the seventh, 1813. You can leave my house now. Go back to Pemberley and forget what you have seen.”
“I cannot. The child is my heir.”
“Then leave her Pemberley in your will. You need not be involved. Sign a paper stating you will not claim her until she comes of age. Allow Elizabeth and the girl to come and live with us. We shall see to her comfort and education.”
Judging by that suggestion, Bingley believed him devoid of every emotion, and to gainsay him would be futile. Nothing he said would change his former friend’s opinion of him.
“I shall consider it.” He ended the conversation with a curt nod and left Bingley to his thoughts.
In the passage, he was met by running footsteps and joyous squeals. A small child came towards him with his mother following close behind. His run came to an abrupt halt as the boy crashed into his leg, entwined his chubby arms around his calf, and looked expectantly up at him.
His lower lip quivered when he discovered it was not his father but a stranger’s leg he was clinging to.
The boy courageously raised his arms towards him.
Darcy bent and lifted the chap up. It was a novel experience to hold the young boy, who gazed trustingly into his eyes, and he could not help but smile at him.
His mother stood frozen, a few paces away, her mouth hanging open in astonishment.
Then Mrs Bingley collected herself admirably, and her usual serene expression reappeared.
“Charlie, come. Let us find your papa.”
Mrs Bingley beckoned to her child, who eagerly leant towards his mother’s outstretched arms. Darcy relinquished the boy and inclined his head to Mrs Bingley, who did not reciprocate.
He continued out of the door whilst contemplating his next move.
He had to act quickly before Bingley did something rash like moving Elizabeth and her child to the Scottish Highlands. He could not allow it!