Chapter Three
The excitement that quivered within the walls of Longbourn, finally burst its seams when the Gardiner carriage at last rolled up the gravelled drive with a satisfying crunch.
Elizabeth threw a heavy shawl over her shoulders and hurried outside, followed more sedately by Jane.
Out stepped Mrs. Bennet’s younger brother, Edward – a stout gentleman of medium height with intelligent eyes and a trim waistcoat – with his wife, Madeline, whose elegant blue travelling dress showed barely a wrinkle despite the journey.
They were followed by their elder children, Margaret and Emily, while the younger ones, Jacob and Nathan, eagerly held out chubby arms to Jane and Elizabeth.
With practiced ease born of much experience with their cousins, the two sisters swung the rosy-cheeked toddlers into their arms and onto their hips, promising Aunt Madeline the little ones would be safely delivered to their waiting nanny in the upstairs nursery.
After the flurry of embraces, exclamations, and the rustle of cloaks being removed subsided, the adults settled in the west-facing parlour, warmed by afternoon sun streaming through lace curtains.
When the elder Bennet daughters returned, they found their mother already deep in lamentations over the loss of Mr. Bingley and Mr. Collins, her lace handkerchief twisted into a tight coil.
“Come now, sister,” Uncle Edward was saying, his voice a soothing baritone against his sister’s shrill tones, while he patted her hand.
“Your letters described Mr. Collins as quite intolerable — a pompous gentleman with the conversational skill of a dish rag. Would you truly have sacrificed one of your daughters to such a dullard of a man?”
“He may be disagreeable, with his long-winded conversations and absurd compliments, but Longbourn shall be his when all is said and done, and Lizzy, with her quick mind and administrative skills, would be a wonderful mistress of her ancestral home.”
“I would never have accepted him, Mamma,” Elizabeth said as she passed a steaming cup of tea to her aunt.
“Besides, with our circumstances so improved, I need not tie myself to a clergyman who reveres his patroness more than the Lord Himself. Mary has remarked, more than once, that he misquotes scripture at an alarming rate.”
“Perhaps you are right. Still, when Mr. Bingley returns…”
I fear he shall not,” Elizabeth cut in, glancing protectively towards Jane. “Have you not heard? The Netherfield staff have been dismissed without wages, even those owed for past service. Mrs. Hill’s niece was among them. It appears Mr. Bingley has abandoned his lease entirely.”
Mrs. Bennet untwisted her handkerchief, pressing it dramatically to her trembling lips. “Oh, Sister. Mr. Bingley has used my dear Jane most abominably. My poor, beautiful Jane!”
“In what manner?”
While their mother mourned the loss of Jane’s erstwhile suitor, Elizabeth inclined her head towards Jane and murmured, “Shall we remain in attendance, or might we find occupation elsewhere until Mamma’s spirits are recovered from this most grievous blow?”
“We must not slight our relations who have just arrived. I am perfectly composed.” Jane offered a faint smile that did not reach her eyes.
She squeezed Elizabeth’s fingers before lifting her teacup with a steadiness that belied the shadows beneath her eyes.
Shadows that came from nights spent silently weeping into her pillow rather than sleeping.
Elizabeth’s hands clenched into small fists, her nails pressing into her palms. Had she been born a gentleman, she would have demanded satisfaction from Mr. Bingley on Oakham Mount at dawn for his unconscionable conduct.
The man had practically announced his intentions through his actions.
From dancing two sets with Jane upon their initial introduction at the Autumn Assembly, to claiming her attention exclusively at each gathering they mutually attended over the next six weeks, and, at his own lavish ball at Netherfield, he secured all the major sets in advance of the music even starting.
They later learned that the evening concluded with the scandalous waltz.
Had Jane participated in that particular set, everyone from Meryton to London would have assumed she was engaged to Mr. Bingley.
However, Papa had withdrawn the family before the midnight repast. Had their abrupt departure been the catalyst that spurred Mr. Bingley to abandon Netherfield Park like a thief in the night?
Without Mr. Bingley showing his face again in Meryton, they would never know for certainty, and Elizabeth harboured suspicions that Miss Bingley had conspired to keep her brother in Town indefinitely.
Papa mentioned they had a powerful confederate in the form of Mr. Darcy.
That gentleman, who had deemed her as merely “tolerable,” surely saw nothing of value in any Bennet connection, regardless of their modest estate and ancient lineage.
Darcy welcomed the sting of winter air against his face.
The two-block walk to Matlock House provided a refreshing change after four weeks of confinement to ballrooms and drawing rooms since his return from Hertfordshire.
Unlike many gentlemen of his station who would have summoned a carriage for even such a short distance, he preferred to stretch his legs.
He saw no reason to trouble his horses or coachman.
He was, however, practical enough to arrange for two sturdy footmen to accompany him home later.
Mayfair’s exclusivity offered no guarantee against nighttime miscreants.
He had barely raised his hand to grasp the knocker, when the door to his uncle’s town house opened as if by precognition.
“Good evening, Carlisle,” he said in greeting to the austere butler as he crossed the threshold.
The faithful servant bowed slightly. “Good evening, Mr. Darcy.” With a discreet gesture, he summoned a footman to relieve Darcy of his greatcoat and hat while securing the door. “Lord and Lady Matlock await your company in the family parlour.”
“Thank you, Carlisle. I wish you a pleasant evening.”
“Most kind of you, sir.”
Darcy climbed the grand staircase and made his way to the drawing room.
A chorus of “Darcy!” greeted him upon entry, warming his heart instantly.
In this place, surrounded by family, he found the acceptance he so rarely felt elsewhere.
Since his father’s death five years prior, his uncle, Lord Matlock, had not only provided a manly shoulder to cry upon, but had also been both confidant and mentor, guiding him through the complexities of managing his inheritance and various estates.
Both of the earl’s sons had also stood steadfast beside him, particularly when the treachery of George Wickham came to light.
Even now, the memory of that scoundrel’s scheme to ensnare Georgiana made Darcy’s blood run cold.
Had he not made that fortuitous journey to Ramsgate where his sister had been convalescing under the watch of Mrs. Younge, a woman secretly allied with Wickham, his sister’s future would have been destroyed by that scoundrel and his duplicitous partner in crime.
Merely two days had separated his innocent sister from catastrophe.
Spotting her now, perched gracefully upon a settee, he had a surge of brotherly affection.
Her golden curls framed her face, reminding him of their mother.
He crossed to her side, bent down, and pressed a kiss to her cheek, smiling when he caught the faint scent of gardenias.
His sister had chosen to wear their mother’s favourite fragrance. How very fitting.
“Happy Christmas, Georgiana. You are a vision tonight.” He straightened to his full height. “Is this a new gown?”
“Indeed, it is.” Her eyes brightened with pleasure at his noticing. “Aunt Lucinda took me to Madame étienne’s establishment on Bond Street. I commissioned two for the upcoming holiday festivities, with plans to return in January to complete my spring wardrobe.”
“Pass my compliments to Madame étienne. What she created for you is stunning.”
Darcy shifted his focus to the other occupants of the drawing room. The conversation drifted between fashionable assemblies, court gossip, and inevitably, the Napoleonic conflict abroad.
“Gentlemen,” Lady Matlock interjected with a delicate clearing of her throat. “Perhaps discussions of warfare might wait until the ladies withdraw after dinner.”
Darcy observed how the countess’s fingers tightened around her fan. Her youngest son, a colonel serving under Wellington, was presently stationed in Portugal.
“Apologies, my dear,” Lord Matlock conceded with a wistful glance at his wife. He turned to Darcy. “Tell us instead of Hertfordshire. Bingley took an estate there, did he not?”
“Indeed, though he soon came to regret his choice.”
“Poor condition? Negligence?”
“The property was sound enough with adequate modern amenities, and well-proportioned rooms. The local society, however...” Darcy’s lip curled, as if he had tasted something bitter.
“Come now, Darcy. Not everyone can have the town bronze. You, of all people, should know that and be more forgiving.”
“I found them generally acceptable, with one notable exception. One of the leading families in the area, whose estate is not only mismanaged, but is also burdened with an entail that will see the estate go to a distant cousin upon the father’s death, has a daughter who caught Bingley’s eye.
His sisters and I deemed it necessary to extricate him before the mother’s mercenary schemes, announced with nearly every breath she took, succeeded, and his honour was engaged. ”
“Let us hope his affection was not too involved with the lady,” Lady Matlock murmured.
“Bingley always recovers quickly from matters of the heart. I harbour little concern for him,” Darcy replied with a dismissive wave. “His affections wax and wane with the cycles of the moon.”