Chapter 9
February 1789, Longbourn
Bennet knocked on the mistress’s chambers door again. It opened to a smiling Mrs Hill.
“May I see…? Is the mistress prepared to receive me?”
“She is.” Mrs Hill stood to the side as he rushed to Franny. Sitting up in her bed, her sparkling eyes complemented her wide smile. Her arms held a wrapped bundle.
“Is all well?” he queried.
“More than well.”
He sat beside her and carefully pulled aside the swaddling. White silk strands covered the babe’s scalp. The soft halo of her hair reflected the pale light from the nearby tapers. Perfect, tiny butterfly lips pouted. Her rosy cheeks were the single spot of colour that complemented her ivory-white porcelain skin. The child was so pale she almost glowed.
Staring down, he cared not that a tear trailed down his cheek. His chest swelled with paternal pride. “She is an angel,” he whispered. He shifted the edge of the blanket.
“Never have I seen such beauty in one so young. It is a blessing, to be sure,” whispered Franny.
“What shall we call this miracle?”
“I looked at this little flower, a bud waiting to bloom, and named her accordingly.” He looked up at Franny as she spoke. “Daughter, this is your father. Thomas, this is our daughter, Miss Jane Lily Bennet.”
He held the offered bundle and stared in wonder at the baby girl, her serenity having permeated the suite. He leant forward and kissed Franny’s forehead.
“You have done very well, my dear. Very well, indeed.”
Mrs Goulding held a card party the week following Mrs Bennet’s churching. She had two purposes: bringing together the prominent families to nurture the county’s elite groupings and quelling the malicious gossip regarding the Longbourn mistress’s failure to birth the estate heir.
Mrs Goulding was excessively fond of Franny Bennet. She would not tolerate disharmony amongst their small group, especially the sour grapes the other matrons continued to taste from their daughters’ failure to secure the position as mistress of Longbourn. In her opinion, Hertfordshire represented the best small estate owners outside of town. She would allow none to disparage one of their own!
The evening began as all country gatherings do. The men and ladies informally separated to chat amongst themselves—the former discussed agricultural subjects, the latter the latest fashions. Before dinner was announced, the subject of children arose. Mrs Goulding hoped against hope that the evening would remain genial. She was sorely disappointed.
“Mrs Bennet, it is so good to see you up and about, my dear,” cooed Mrs Harrington, eyeing her already small waist.
The rumours were that Mrs Bennet had not hired a wet nurse, instead choosing to perform the office herself. Though Mrs Goulding, as well as the other ladies, thought it unseemly, it did not appear to have done Mrs Bennet any harm.
“Thank you,” Mrs Bennet replied.
“I found it difficult to leave my house for several months after birthing my David,” declared Mrs Long.
“I would feel rather limited should I surrender the freedom my walks about the estate afford me,” Mrs Bennet replied, seemingly missing the underlying point of the verbal attack.
Does she miss it? Or choose to ignore it?Mrs Goulding wondered. Likely the latter. She is no fool.
“I agree with you, of course,” said Mrs Harrington. “Physical pursuits will allow you to re-engage and give your husband his much-needed heir.”
Mrs Bennet’s eyes went wide at the implied insult. Mrs Goulding had allowed the tête-à-tête to continue too long.
“Franny dear, assist me with the card settings, will you?” Mrs Bennet drifted away.
“I dare anyone to counter my assertion that our county’s newest addition shall also be its greatest pearl. The child’s angelic nature, beauty, and God-like serenity are unmatched. Miss Bennet shall marry very well.” Mrs Goulding harshly stared at the two venomous, now silent, serpents. “Mark my words here and now. I will stake my reputation that we shall refer to the young miss as a future lady of the first circles.”
The gathering was called to dinner, and the evening ended shortly thereafter.
“Your Grace. We have located the Earl of Lambrook.”
The Duke of Somerset had always been the definition of indulgence and excess. Despite being born into wealth and privilege, he had squandered it all and was on the brink of bankruptcy. His estates, once a source of great wealth, barely produced any income due to neglect and mismanagement by his stewards and senior household servants—although few were caught, it was clear they were embezzling money or stealing from the estate.
His betrothal to Lady Rochdale had not lessened his reckless spending but had diverted it somewhat. Her love for extravagant parties moved his focus from games to drink, which resulted in the birth of the heir exactly nine months to the day of their wedding.
Unfortunately for those dependent upon the Somerset estates, Lady Rochdale was no longer able to restrain the duke. A new cook, brought over from Italy at great expense, had prepared an elaborate eight-course dinner for a house party celebrating the heir’s first birthday. Lady Rochdale choked to death on a bite of roast goose in front of fifty guests. The gossip that had surrounded her shocking demise landed upon her husband days later; Somerset wasted no time picking up that which his betrothal had temporarily supplanted. The Seven Dials gaming hells welcomed back a most favoured client with open arms.
The duke’s amoral proclivities weighed heavily upon his health—gout, hair loss, and constant alterations to his clothing, saddle, and furniture to compensate for his growing size—though he did his best to hide them from his circle. He had little regard for traditional moral values; he cared not who saw him while he enjoyed his pleasures, not even his very young son, Marquess Beauford.
“What has been done to dip into Lambrook’s coffers?” asked Somerset.
“We have no further options via the Chancery. The earl was quite fastidious legally protecting his estates,” replied his man, Kelly.
“Impossible! Lambrook is an idiot. Who assisted him?”
“We only know that a connexion from a northern county vouchsafed his leases.”
“Call the magistrate. We shall compel him to evict the charlatan!”
“Your Grace, that charlatan is a decorated naval officer awarded a baronetcy from His Majesty,” replied Kelly.
Somerset drained his drink and laid his head back. The room had begun to spin.
“Where is my conscientious cousin hiding?” slurred the duke. He held up his empty tumbler. Kelly refilled it.
“Lord Lambrook, better known to his neighbours as Mr Smyth, has retired to the country with his family.”
The duke licked his lips. “With the lushish—luscious—Lady Lambrook, no doubt. She should have been mine!” Suddenly he threw his glass across the room. “What? What did you say? Family?”
“Yes, your Grace. Viscount John Haydon is two years old.”
The duke stood and swayed. His man steadied him. He pointed a shaking finger at Kelly.
“Then your work has doubled, Scotsman.”
A knock on the door drew the attention of Edward Gardiner. Looking up from his book, he called out, “Enter.”
Into his study room walked a man of average height, though young Gardiner could see nothing average about him.
“Mr Gardiner, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Roark.”
The young man tried not to blanch at the intimidating man; though his looks were agreeable enough, the scar that ran from his left temple, through his eyelid, down to the left edge of his mouth turned a once handsome visage into something menacing.
Roark obviously noticed the young man’s observation. “Mr Gardiner, this mark is a souvenir from a ne’er-do-well that I errantly underestimated.”
“Underestimated?”
“Just that once, I assure you.”
Sensing that he was being tested, Gardiner adopted a neutral mask, the strategy he had adopted when first encountering the unpleasant sons of the aristocracy at university.
“Before I explain the purpose of this meeting,” Roark said, “I must extract your vow of secrecy. Can you honour that?”
“I can.”
Roark cleared his throat. “I work for the Earl of Matlock.”
“Impressive.”
“At his lordship’s request, I am here to offer you some information. Whether you choose to utilise these insights is yours to make. Should you deign to act upon them, I shall assist you.”
He took another moment to assess the man in front of him. Roark radiated danger, seemed to know much about the world, and was unafraid to speak his mind. He nodded.
“Now, young sir, I shall enlighten you with something you probably know not of.” Roark sat down and looked him in the eye. “His lordship values his connexion with a family member of yours.”
“A member of my family has a connexion to an earl?”
“Yes. Your sister’s husband.”
He inhaled sharply. “Bennet has a connexion to the Earl of Matlock? That is quite a revelation.”
Roark leant back in his chair and crossed his legs. “I understand you to be a bright young man with great ambition and a desire to make his fortune. If you have the fortitude, you could employ some techniques that have proved successful for others I have helped through the years.”
“Such as?”
Roark smiled. “There is business, and then there is business. The earl has interests that the hint of trade must not taint. Yet, he cannot ignore lucrative opportunities. That is where you will profit. And profit—should you choose to act—you shall.”
“What does he ask of me in return?”
He listened with disbelief as Roark explained, step-by-step, how the wealth of the kingdom’s aristocracy rode on the paper of principled tradesmen acting as ‘cut-outs’—lending agents levering high-interest loans secured by hereditary assets and family estate deeds. The initial investment to start his future foray into business would come from the Ashdale estate coffers; he would finance and expand the venture through his future successes.
“It is a lucrative opportunity, and it will offer you a chance to gain wealth and influence,” Roark assured him. “It is much easier than you think. You have already completed the first step. You study beside many of your future clients.”
“If what you say is factual, I should never expose a friend to such an endeavour.”
“Who can you name as a friend? Not acquaintances, but a true friend?”
Loath though he was to admit it, Gardiner shook his head.
Roark continued, “Many know Lord Matlock’s view on this. He is adamant that ‘Acquaintances are abundant, friends are few’. I see you are of the same mindset. So, of those peers, and their close connexions—your future clients—you must spend the time to get detailed knowledge regarding their estates, families, assets, and especially their vices. Finally, you must use whatever means to ensure your clients pay their debts.”
He listened attentively. He had never considered such an enterprise. It has great potential. And I shall finally have the upper hand over those feckless peacocks. He immediately sobered. Why me? I see what the earl gains, but how deep will I be indebted to him?
He had questions if given the opportunity, ones he would not ask Roark. Instead, he asked for a single clarification. “How much of my future shall the earl claim as his?”
“Your brother’s connexion protects you and your future family.”
Gardiner remained silent as he assessed the past ten minutes. “I accept with a single concern. I have neither experience nor resources in compelling others to honour their obligations.”
Roark’s smile resembled that of a wolf. “That, my young friend, is where I excel.”