Chapter 12
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Charles Bingley when Darcy told him what had transpired at the offices of Moreton and Belling. “What will you do?”
There were only the two of them at a small dining table in Bingley’s partly-closed London house, and Darcy had waited until the steps of the single footman serving them had died away before giving his friend the full story.
With Caroline Bingley staying at Grosvenor Square with the Hursts, and the duration of their visit to London uncertain, Bingley had not seen the point in immediately opening up the house.
Darcy had chosen to dine there instead of at Darcy House, thankfully finding that Georgiana and Mrs Annesley had a pre-existing musical engagement.
He could not bear his sister to hear a single word of what had passed.
“It is too soon to say,” Darcy answered, toying with a small glass of wine that he knew to be an excellent vintage, but could not appreciate tonight.
“I have not been able to gather my thoughts. There are too many questions still unanswered. How Mr Pinnock’s client obtained my father’s letters, for example. ”
“I am not surprised you are shocked. Never mind how this person took those letters, what do they want from you?”
“I asked Mr Pinnock that very question,” said Darcy wearily. “Do you know what he said? ‘The truth’. That is apparently what his client seeks. The truth.”
Bingley frowned and put down his glass.
“What does that even mean, Darcy?”
“God knows. Pinnock seemed not to. It would have been easier if they had asked for money, wouldn’t it?
As motives go, financial demands are far easier to understand and to satisfy.
Perhaps they expect me to take out a newspaper advert besmirching my own birth, or to denounce my parents from a soapbox in Hyde Park. ”
“Do not even joke about that, Darcy!” his friend told him with unwavering conviction. “Whoever they are, this person clearly wants to destroy you and is targeting your weakest point. I do believe they must know you well to do that, whoever they are.”
Darcy nodded slowly. Bingley disdained most subtleties, but he could be unerring in his nose for the truest explanation, guided by his social instincts and vast intuitive knowledge of people.
Darcy thought again of George Wickham but hung back from naming his suspicions aloud until he had some evidence.
“You may well be right, Bingley. Anyway, I was not in sufficient control of my own feelings this afternoon to stay much longer in that room after Mr Pinnock departed. I am to return tomorrow and discuss the matter further with Mr Moreton and Mr Deringham. I must see what they advise, but I anticipate being here in London for some weeks yet.”
“I will be here too, Darcy, although I cannot advise you on the law or the newspapers. Call on me if you have need of a friend. You have defended me enough times in the past, and I shall not desert you now, no matter what happens.”
Bingley spoke staunchly, and his unqualified support warmed Darcy’s heart, even though he could think of nothing practical to suggest to his friend.
“I shall,” Darcy assured him. “But I would also understand if you wished to return to Hertfordshire. It will be Christmas soon, after all. Did you not hope to see Jane Bennet again at the assembly rooms on Christmas Eve and at the home of Sir William Lucas after Christmas?”
“I shall ask Caroline to write to Jane Bennet again and let her know that our absence will be more prolonged, although not desired,” sighed Bingley. “A few more weeks cannot hurt, can they? No, I shall stay here for Christmas, and the house shall be opened properly tomorrow.”
“You will be very welcome at Darcy House on Christmas Day,” Darcy offered, conscious of Bingley’s disappointment. “It will be a small Christmas with only myself, Georgiana, and Mrs Annesley. Your sisters are obviously welcome too, if you would extend the invitation.”
“Thank you, I shall,” Bingley answered, although his eyes looked doubtful at the mention of his sisters.
“As we are not returning to Netherfield Park for Christmas, I expect Caroline and Louisa will remain at Grosvenor Square, however. Personally, I shall not be sorry to miss Hurst drinking himself into oblivion.”
“No,” Darcy agreed shortly, having nothing else to say on a matter previously discussed many times between them. “Nor shall I.”
∞∞∞
The following morning, Darcy once again sat down at the dark oak table in Mr Moreton’s office at Moreton and Belling. Both his agent and old Mr Deringham were already there as promised, their faces both grave and compassionate.
“Do you have any doubts at all about the authenticity of those letters, Mr Darcy?” white-haired Mr Deringham asked as soon as the necessary greetings and pleasantries were exchanged.
“That is my father’s signature, and that was his seal.
I do not think that even a master forger could have created such convincing counterfeits,” Darcy admitted, even while shaking his head.
“Yet the story they tell cannot be true. I cannot believe my parents capable of such wrongdoing, of such deceit. I cannot believe that I am…”
Darcy paused and swallowed, unable to say the words.
While both the square-jawed Mr Moreton and elderly Mr Deringham frowned with sympathetic concern, Darcy could discern none of the distaste and revulsion he was struggling with personally.
He supposed that his own birth was of no real consequence to his agent or lawyer, as long as he continued to pay their bills.
The same could not be said for the denizens of the ton, however.
Despite the evidence his eyes had seen and his hands had touched yesterday, in his heart, Darcy could not believe that his mother or father would have conceived a child out of wedlock and then concealed the truth.
“Is there really no hint as to the identity of Pinnock’s anonymous client?” Darcy changed tack. “It seems to me that this person is the only one from whom I might receive any real answers.”
The other two men answered in the negative.
“I have made what enquiries I could,” old Deringham spoke up, a hint of apology in his voice that warned Darcy to limit his expectations.
“The letters were provided by a third party acting for an anonymous source, but no one at Pinnock & Sons is willing to say more than that. Likely no one knows but Mr Pinnock himself, who says he is not at liberty to name his client.”
“Do you think I might be able to sue for the return of the letters, or even for defamation of character?” Darcy asked next.
“I would strongly advise against either course if you wish to keep your reputation,” answered Deringham immediately.
“Nothing has actually been published against you, as far as I know, and courts cannot rule on mere gossip and hearsay. Even suing for the return of your father’s property would only publicise those letters and their unfortunate dates. Would that not make matters worse?”
Darcy nodded gloomily.
“There has been this,” put in Mr Moreton, pulling out a folded paper from a drawer and putting it in front of Darcy and his colleague. “You should both be aware of it. Although it is only a few lines, this is one of the more popular scandal sheets. I picked it up in Covent Garden yesterday.”
The agent’s thick finger indicated a small story in the middle of the page which referred to the “dubious descent of a certain proud gentleman of Derbyshire…” Reading this, Darcy flushed red with anger and might have screwed up the paper if Deringham had not already picked it up for closer examination through his gold-rimmed spectacles.
“This is not nearly strong enough to merit any legal action,” the lawyer pronounced, putting the paper back down on the table as though it were something very heavy. “My previous advice still stands, Mr Darcy. Unless you are truly and demonstrably defamed, the courts are no remedy in this case.”
“Is there any way of tracing the source of the story?” Darcy asked.
“I made inquiries at the publisher’s office.
The answer I got was that they never reveal their sources, but that all stories must be considered credible.
If I had to guess, I would say that the writer might have had sight of those letters from Pinnock’s anonymous client but wasn’t yet confident enough of their authenticity to publish your name. ”
“This is intolerable!” Darcy burst out in frustration. “Every way I turn, I find a new provocation, but it seems I can do nothing. All the while, someone is working against me.”
“You must wait for your moment, Mr Darcy,” the old lawyer counselled him. “Sooner or later, whoever is behind this must make some mistake or leave us some clue. Once we can ascertain who is at the root of this, we can work on them privately.”
“You speak very sensibly, Mr Deringham,” agreed Darcy, “but in the meantime, my reputation is being destroyed. What of Georgiana, too? If I am named, then her name will be out in public too, and I must think of the impact on her future prospects.”
To his surprise, Mr Deringham cleared his throat and shook his head, but looked more uncomfortable than ever.
“On this count, at least, you need not worry, Mr Darcy. Naturally, having worked so long with old Mr Darcy, and knowing him as I did, not even sight of those letters can convince me of their truth…”
This statement of confidence calmed Darcy somewhat, but he heard the caveat in the man’s voice before the next words were spoken.
“However, in the event that you had been…born out of wedlock, then legally, Pemberley should have gone to Miss Georgiana and her future heirs, raising rather than lowering her marriage value as the only legitimate child of her parents’ marriage.”
This had not struck Darcy before, but now it stunned him almost as much as first reading those letters the day before.
“You need only worry about your own reputation and prospects, Mr Darcy, not for those of your sister.”