Chapter 17 #2
“I am only attempting to assist. Your mother is a marvel, and you do not know what you are missing.” Wickham lifted his glass. “Nor you two either. A good woman is the best part of life.”
Darcy knew that had proved true for Wickham.
As boys, they had played together, but by seventeen, George Wickham had fallen in with the wrong sort and been on a path to a very different life.
He had begun cultivating his godfather’s favour in a cynical manner, and the first signs of rivalry between him and Darcy had already appeared.
Then his course changed.
He had attended Cambridge and enjoyed himself a good deal more than Darcy. But he had also applied himself to studying the law with enough diligence to make a respectable beginning.
Em had done the rest. She was the only person in George’s life who came before Darcy’s mother. She had met them all, insisted they call her Em—which he could only do when they were with family and sometimes not even then—and settled into their lives as though she had always been there.
Darcy privately considered Wickham’s marriage the crowning triumph of his mother’s talent. For while she was an expert at creating compatible and therefore happy marriages, this pairing was special.
Miss Emmeline Hopkins was the daughter of a wealthy gentleman, well educated, lively, and possessed of a spirit a deal too bold for most of the men who sought her.
Those who were not frightened away by her confidence had generally intended to curb it.
Fortunately, her father had been too wise to give over her care to anyone who might mistreat her.
Em’s parents had nearly resigned themselves to her remaining unmarried when Darcy’s mother had suggested they meet the well-educated son of the Pemberley steward, a young barrister with a close connection with the Darcy family.
From their first meeting, George and Em had taken a decided fancy to one another.
Emmeline Wickham would never have allowed a husband to master her.
What she had required was a man who could keep pace, and Wickham was that man.
He delighted in her mischief and her willingness to show affection.
She loved to dance upon the boundaries of propriety, but she never stepped over—and Wickham was too enamoured of his wife to travel where she would not follow.
Despite Darcy’s distaste for his mother’s efforts on his own behalf—and his growing alarm that she might yet succeed with Miss Elizabeth, he had to own this much: Wickham and Em were a perfect match.
They moved on to other topics, but Darcy’s mind had been wandering all evening from Miss Elizabeth to Wickham’s happy marriage and ultimately to Bingley’s disappointment. He lost the thread of conversation until Richard’s voice broke through his reverie.
“—Darcy’s occupation of the field is the sole reason the rest of us are able to sleep at night. You said it yourself, Cousin, back in December. So long as you remain your mother’s principal object, we are comparatively safe.”
“As to that,” Milton said wryly, “you overrate your safety and underrate your attractions.”
This caught Darcy’s attention, for it sounded dangerously like a compliment.
Richard stopped with his glass halfway to his mouth and regarded his brother with deep suspicion. “I beg your pardon?”
Milton did not look at him. “Father has given me permission to tell you, as he dislikes maudlin scenes.”
“I am aware of that much,” Richard said. “Is that all?”
“No. He has completed the arrangements. I saw the papers earlier today.”
Richard’s brows drew together. “What arrangements?”
“Fifteen thousand, settled,” Milton said, and took a measured sip of port. “And Fernilee Manor besides.”
“Fernilee Manor is a house. I have been there.”
“Yes, very perceptive, Dickie. It is a decent size and has land, a home farm, and a new roof. It is also in the Peak, near Matlock, which Father knows is the country you love best.”
For once, Richard had nothing droll to say.
“You have not sought out a wife because you did not think you could afford one. Now you can. Which means you should leave the army and come home.” Milton took a sip of his drink. “And find yourself a woman who will take you before your aunt realises you are eligible.”
For a moment, no one spoke.
Richard looked down at his glass. His hand was quite steady, but Darcy, who had known him all his life, could see that he was deeply touched.
He rallied quickly. “I feel I am being insulted,” he said, “but the figures are making it difficult to be certain.”
Milton cleared his throat and returned to his wine. “You are being handsomely insulted. Do try to keep up.”
George looked from one brother to the other with a wide smile upon his face. “The earl has provided Richard with a dowry?”
“Would you take him for nothing?” Milton inquired.
George made a strangled sound into his glass, and even Darcy had to smile.
Milton continued, unmoved. “Father has assembled every inducement short of livestock to persuade some poor woman to take you off the family’s hands.”
Richard sat back. “There had better be no livestock. I draw the line at being offered alongside a pair of dairy cows.”
“The ground there is better suited to sheep,” Darcy said. “You could breed Dale O’Goyts there.” He sat up straighter. “I have been wanting to crossbreed my Dishley ram to see whether we can improve the wool.”
Richard lowered his glass. “I beg you not to discuss my marriage prospects in terms of lambs, rams, and wool.”
Even Darcy had to laugh. The sound came before he could prevent it, and once it had come, he found he did not wish to call it back. He sorely needed the relief after a day such as this.
“The south paddock will be for Countess,” Richard said, settling back.
“You see the difficulty,” Milton said wryly. “He has provided for his horse first. The wife is to fend for herself.”
“To the poor woman,” George said and raised his glass.
“Long may she remain theoretical,” Richard added.
George was off, then, speaking of the state of the Bath road, a member of Brooks’s who had lost his curricle at hazard, and then the war. “Now that Wellington has taken Ciudad Rodrigo—”
“But how long can he hold it?” said Milton, and the talk rolled on.
“Matrimony,” Richard announced some time later from the depths of his chair, having consumed several glasses of wine after the discovery that he was now a gentleman with prospects, “is a tax upon optimism.”
“You will pay it,” Milton said. “One day. I daresay we all shall.”
It was a good evening. Darcy knew it was. Yet he kept finding himself apart from it, looking at the firelight, the lamp, the workbasket, the book lying open on its face—all the quiet signs of a house where two married people were pleased to live together.
At one o’clock, the door opened without a knock.
“Gentlemen.” Em stood in the doorway with a shawl over her long silk dressing gown. “It is time to go home. I mean to have my husband to myself for what little remains of the night.”
They all rose. George put his arm around Em and kissed her soundly, wholly unrepentant. In response, Em removed the glass from his hand and finished the wine herself.
There were hats, coats, gloves—the usual muddle of leave-taking. But on the step, while the others went down to his carriage, Em caught Darcy’s arm.
“You look as though you have been at one of your mother’s parties, Fitzwilliam,” she said quietly.
He might have said that he had been nowhere near a party since Monday. He might have said it was Bingley. She would hear about it soon enough.
But neither answer would satisfy her. She would push, and after the wine he had consumed this evening, he might tell her who it was he was thinking about.
“Good night, Em,” he said.
She released his arm, but her eyes remained on him.
In the carriage, Milton sat upright in his corner while Richard slouched opposite, hat tipped down.
“A new roof, you said?” he asked as they turned a corner.
“This past autumn,” said Milton.
“Hm,” said Richard, and nothing more.
Darcy looked out at the street. The rain had turned to frost, and each streetlamp appeared to have a halo around it.
He was sorry for Bingley—sincerely sorry.
But there had been no engagement. There had been only the beginnings of a courtship.
And Bingley was three-and-twenty, at a time of life when a man’s friends and engagements were greatly increasing.
He would suffer for a few months but be laughing again by summer, because that was his nature and because Miss Bennet had been kind.
Miss Elizabeth was another matter.
He could not call in Gracechurch Street.
He had no claim of his own to take him there.
The weather had been foul of late and was likely to remain so, therefore he could not count upon Tuesday walks in Hyde Park.
His mother seemed to be interested in finding a match for Miss Elizabeth, at least. But could he bear to see her only on the days when she was speaking to someone else?
He looked at himself in the dark glass. His reflection looked back. This was the man who had insulted her before all her neighbours and had yet to offer so much as an apology for it.
His mother had warned him against it, concerned, no doubt, that he not make it worse. But she was wrong.
Before he could consider approaching Miss Elizabeth for a call, he must first give her reason to forgive him.