Chapter 3
April 1786, Meryton
Andrew Gardiner’s home and office were strategically situated on the busiest corner of Meryton’s high street. He was the small market town’s prominent solicitor, having spent decades representing all the twenty-four families owning or managing estates throughout Hertfordshire. In all the years his firm had conducted business, his work product had yet to receive censure from the Courts of Chancery.
Alas, it was his record of accuracy that inadvertently brought undesirable attention from town, most particularly from Scoons, Snell, Scoons, the country’s most prestigious law firm. Letters, followed by visits from its senior managers, made their way to Meryton to convince Gardiner that his fortunes were to be had in town. He always refused their entreaties; he rather enjoyed being the big fish in the small pond. But his refusals were always met with scepticism.
Finally, the firm’s principal barrister, Sir Percival Snell, came to Meryton. He entered Gardiner’s office and announced, “I was informed you possess a superior legal mind, yet you remain here, rather than with a vaunted firm such as ours.”
“Sir, let me summarise the past events leading to this point before your arrival.” Gardiner paused. “Yours have sent emissary after emissary to convince me my better well-being is to join your firm and move to town. To each of them, I showed courtesy for their time and effort.”
“Our interest alone should warrant your attention. I see you cannot understand the significance of our condescension.” He waved his finger in Gardiner’s face.
Gardiner remained calm; such theatrics only amused him. “Your tactics may be successful in town, but here they are not. Let us agree to disagree and part as acquaintances.” He gestured towards the door.
Sir Percival turned and left without a proper farewell, storming past Gardiner’s son, Edward. The boy’s red face showed his anger at witnessing the town puffer insulting his father. Gardiner chuckled to himself; he knew Edward’s reception at school had been pleasant, except for those few privileged sons who consistently cited his roots over his character. Today’s contretemps only reinforced the myth that ‘breeding trumped wealth’. Edward was only sixteen, but if any man would disprove that fallacy, it would be his son.
In his carriage, Sir Percival continued ranting aloud the insults the ungrateful fool had rudely interrupted. He vowed to put the insignificant plebeian in his place. An irregular smile briefly lifted his lips. I believe my sister would favour a visit.
Two days later, he hurried through Boodle’s towards a clearly annoyed Lord Eldon. The Chancery Court Chancellor was well-known for his insistence on punctuality. His perpetual frown, permanently etched upon his aged face, deepened as he peered at his pocket watch.
“You have kept me waiting,” he growled. “I do not tolerate tardiness. It is unbecoming. Stop standing there like a parsnip and sit.”
A servant placed a tumbler of whiskey on the side table as Sir Percival did as bid.
“I am here, having heeded Lady Eldon’s request,” said the earl, lifting an eyebrow. “Hiding behind your sister’s skirts again?”
Sir Percival, ignoring the insult, took a sip of his drink, diligently working not to show his distaste for the whiskey. “I tendered an offer to a solicitor to raise his status and improve his standing above the sphere he was born into.”
“Well?”
“He refused my offer.”
Lord Eldon put down his drink. “Refused? What do you mean, ‘he refused’?”
“Mr Gardiner refused an association with Scoons, Snell, Scoons and in such a way as to insult me in every manner possible.”
“Extraordinary! These country mushrooms require governance. They know not what they need to improve their standing.”
Sir Percival leant forwards. “I see we agree. Thus, I petitioned my sister to ask for your assistance.”
Lord Eldon was renowned for providing support and interference as needed and did not hesitate to use his office to the fullest extent. “I shall have the court watch for this—what was his name? Oh, yes, Gardiner. What county does he file from?”
“He hails from Meryton, in Hertfordshire.”
Lord Eldon drained his glass and rose. “The court shall evaluate Gardiner’s filings most assiduously in the future.”
Sir Percival allowed himself a small smile before the earl loudly cleared his throat.
“This matter has captured my interest a bit...just a bit,” he said. Then, in a lower register, he added, “I would advise timeliness on your part in the future.”
“Of course, my lord.”
By August, after three years under the tutelage and care of Miss Harding, it was time for Franny Gardiner to attend seminary. Her budding beauty and growing accomplishments warred against her birth and lack of social standing. Envy and jealousy were discordant sisters but reared their ugly heads in the village. Miss Harding, well regarded among the estate servants of the county, had served as her protector against such interdictions.
Now, on a brilliant sunny morning, she joined Franny on a traipse through the fields. After a few minutes, the governess grasped her charge’s hand. “My dear girl, the time has come for us to go our separate ways. Meryton limits you. If you remain here, you shall always be the solicitor’s daughter and not be offered the same opportunities as those young ladies from the neighbouring estates. Going away to school will give you a chance to improve your standing. You already outshine every young lady around here. It is time you acquire a bit of the town bronze.”
“But I do not care about competing with others,” Franny said, near tears. “I want to stay here with my father.”
“He desires the best for you, as your mother did.”
Much as she hated it, Franny recognised it was time to leave girlhood behind. With a smile, she allowed her teasing nature to take over. “As I consider myself a rational creature, I would say you are all too ripe and ready by half to be rid of me.”
Miss Harding squeezed her hand. “What a happy future you shall have!”
March 1787
The vicar of Creech St Michael welcomed the two young but distinguished couples with a smile, then focused on the babe who gurgled happily in his mother’s arms. The christening moved forward as the group of four attended to the clergyman’s words, nodding appropriately and answering by rote when prompted. With such a well-behaved babe, the christening of Viscount Haydon, the future earl of Lambrook, moved along swiftly.
His godparents, George and Lady Anne Darcy, celebrated with the boy’s parents at Lord and Lady Lambrook’s ancestral home, Haydon Hall. When the intimate dinner ended, the men remained behind as Lady Lambrook and Lady Anne moved through the dining room doors.
Lambrook sent a footman off to get drinks. He tilted his head and gave George Darcy a measuring glance, who returned his gesture equally. Lambrook laughed. “You are singular among my acquaintances for remaining unperturbed by my silent evaluations.”
“I am contemplating the very long but rewarding weeks of travel that await us upon our return to Pemberley,” replied his friend. “It keeps me in sedate humour, no matter how you stare at me.”
“Will you spend time at your alma mater?”
“Surely you do not see me presenting myself at yours!”
Both gentlemen chuckled. It was an ongoing thread they both pulled when left to their own company; Lambrook, a Cambridge man, accepted Oxford-educated George Darcy’s goading in good humour. As usual, their banter moved to sport.
Lambrook defended his fencing losses by naming the most formidable opponent either had ever faced. “Count your blessings that Bennet left before you donned your crest.”
“I daresay I am quite fortunate Bennet ceded the team leadership to you.”
“Humbug, my friend. No gentleman of our sphere will ever possess his skills and acumen.”
George Darcy nodded, and in a more serious voice, enquired, “What are your immediate plans, now that you have a son?”
“We plan to keep Haydon away from Taunton and the Somersets. A precaution, I daresay.”
“Your cousin would not dare attempt something so nefarious.”
“I shall remove any temptation for him to do so.”
George Darcy nodded his understanding. His friend’s family were notoriously unprincipled. “I should think the duke would focus upon the marquess.”
Lambrook scoffed. “I am afraid Somerset’s last remaining shred of decency was buried with Lady Rochdale.”
“The death of Her Grace was unfortunate.”
“In many ways. Nothing remains to dissuade him from his amoral proclivities.”
“How shall you go on, then?”
Lambrook tapped his forefinger to his nose. Information was power. He trusted the man seated across from him above all others. Scratching his chest, he felt the scar through his linen shirt. Their last competitive fencing match had ended in an unforeseen wound. With anyone else, he would have had the man clamped in irons for attempted murder. George Darcy was not ‘anyone else’. His immediate remorse and prolonged self-recriminations had endeared him to Lambrook; his daily calls solidified the goodwill and, at length, forged a bond of friendship that had lasted a decade.
“My ancestors bequeathed a smallish estate in a county three hours outside town. It is let out for the occasional house party. We maintain it under my mother’s surname.”
“You shall live there?” George Darcy raised his brows when Lambrook nodded. “How do you plan to remain anonymous with your household’s requirements? An assumed name will not be enough.”
“We hire local people. It would not do to raise eyebrows at a town contingent invading the country.”
“I applaud your ingenuity.”
Both men sat comfortably in the silence as they sipped their drinks and attended to their cigars.
“Where is it?”
“Hertfordshire, near a market town named Meryton.”
“And should a Darcy coach find its way to that shire, to whose direction should we enquire?”
Lambrook smiled as George Darcy’s rhyme was an unexpected treat.
“You may seek out the Smyths of Netherfield Park.”