Mysteries of Pemberley — Chapter 2

 

Previous installments of this story can be found by clicking: Prologue, Chapter One

 

Chapter Two

The tall gentleman, with his fine clothes and noble countenance, was nothing short of menacing but Elizabeth would not be daunted, not with the life of little Charles at stake. She straightened herself, determined to appear larger and yet equally determined to appear pleasant and unruffled.

You are a mere nuisance to me. I am not afraid of you.

“How do you propose to stop me?” Mr. Darcy asked.

“Charles belongs with us, here at Longbourn,” she said adopting the tone of a governess instructing a particularly wilful pupil. “With his family who have cared for him all his life.”

“And you have done well,” said Mr. Darcy in a tone that matched her own, “but legally he is my duty and I shall not be deterred in discharging my duty to my friend and his heir.”

“Your scruple towards your late friend is admirable, though it comes somewhat late. Your friend has lain cold in his grave for many years now.”

“Cold in his grave, it is true. But for Bingley there will be always warmth in my heart.”

“But what is a friend to a most beloved sister? Jane was there when I was born and I was there when she breathed her last. Can you say the same for Mr. Bingley, sir?”

“What I can say about Mr. Bingley is that regardless of who was present at his birth and his death, in his will he left his child to my care.”

“And my sister, on her deathbed, extracted from me a promise that her child would remain in my care,” Elizabeth insisted firmly. “Can the dying gasps of a sister be discounted on the basis of some hastily scrawled notes in a will? I know my brother Bingley, sir, and his will was likely no more considered than anything else he did. He could not have anticipated leaving this earth so soon and therefore what name he pronounced in reply to the questions of his solicitor had little forethought ascribed to them.”

Throughout this confrontation, Mr. Bennet had remained silent. His gaze danced merrily from Elizabeth to Mr. Darcy and back again as if this was some marvellous play he beheld. Elizabeth found herself vexed, as often she did, by his tendency to sit back and cast his satiric eye on everything rather than enter into the fray.

Mr. Darcy appeared equally annoyed, though Elizabeth knew not what vexed him most: Mr. Bennet? Or the need to speak to those so clearly beneath him? He raised his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose for a moment.

“The length of time that Bingley considered naming the child’s guardian is immaterial,” he said, speaking with excessive deliberateness. “It is a legal document and as such, it must stand. If you would like to take it before the courts, pray do so. For now, however, the boy is mine and I intend to see him into my care directly.”

The gentleman was completely lacking in feeling. The fact that Elizabeth had lost her most beloved sister, had seen her and her husband in the throes of illness meant nothing to him. The attachment she had to little Charles was immaterial; likely he had never loved anyone, never been loved by anyone before and therefore had no idea what such love meant.

But she had one card left to play and it seemed now was the time to play it. “Very well, sir, but…”

He stared at her with deadened eyes.

“You will have to find him first.”

*

Elizabeth’s turn to be indolent and amused in her chair had arrived; meanwhile, Mr. Darcy did his best to find men who would help him search for the boy. Meryton had always been possessed of a friendly character, but a stranger with no claim to anyone, who behaved in such a haughty, authoritative manner, could only give uniform disgust to all who he met. Nevertheless he eventually assembled a group of young ragamuffins from amongst the stables who made a show of going about to the houses seeking little Charles.

As Elizabeth would have expected of her good neighbours, the answer was no, they had not seen him that day and had not the least notion of where he might be.

“Shall I invite Mr. Darcy to dine, Lizzy?” Mr. Bennet’s eyes twinkled as the last of the boys was returned to the house bearing a negative report.

“I daresay he has not had many meals that were less than two courses,” Elizabeth replied. “I do not think Longbourn’s tables, such as they are for now, can support it.”

“You worry too much.” Mr. Bennet gave Elizabeth a fond smile and a pat on her back.

And you, not enough. Elizabeth sighed. Those were fears for another day. For today she would concentrate every effort on keeping little Charles in the bosom of his family.

Mr. Darcy’s face was nearly purple with rage and a vein in his head jumped and twitched in an amusing manner. These involuntary facial tics were the only things that betrayed his true feelings.

“These sorts of high jinks are likely nothing more to you than a way to pass the evening. You must know however that you cannot succeed. I will remove the boy from this place tonight or tomorrow or the next day; it does not signify to me.”

“This place,” said Elizabeth, “is his home.”

Mr. Darcy did not give consequence to her protestation. He addressed her father directly.

“See the child ready for travel tomorrow at an early enough hour to make London. I will return and will not suffer further delay.”

He was gone then, with a measured step when Elizabeth expected a stomp. Not long thereafter, Charlotte and her father, Sir William Lucas, escorted Charles back into the house.

Charles had borne the travails of the day with excitement and interest. Charlotte had clearly indulged him, playing games and teaching him to write the letters of his name. He was filled with little breathless stories to tell his Grandpapa and Aunt Lizzy: Barney had managed to catch a small mouse; Charlotte gave him a biscuit; and, Sir William said it was going to snow.

Elizabeth heard it all with only one ear, for in her mind was a fretful litany that obscured any hopeful chattering: I cannot lose him to Mr. Darcy.

*

Mr. Robinson arrived after dinner. Mr. Robinson was an exceedingly tall, thin gentleman with a shining bald head and a kind face. As seemed to be the wont for men of his type, he had married a short, round little lady and together they were generally happy and cheerful.

Elizabeth and her father were sitting in the drawing room, reading by the modestly warm fire, when he was shown in. Though Mr. Robinson and Mr. Bennet had always been friends of a sort, Elizabeth knew immediately it was not a call of friendship. Mr. Robinson was the magistrate of the area and his countenance bore a look of kindly concern. Nausea immediately twisted in Elizabeth’s gut at the supposed meaning of his call.

“You have left the comforts of your own hearth at a strange time, sir,” said Mr. Bennet when all the usual pleasantries had been offered.

Mr. Robinson offered a gentle smile. “Business of a particular nature has called me forth.”

“Well, out with it then,” said Mr. Bennet, leaning back in his chair. “Lizzy can hear whatever it is as I should imagine it concerns her too.”

Mr. Robinson shifted in his seat. “I am too well acquainted with your discernment, sir, to attempt to deny that. Moreover I should think you have, already, some idea of the nature of my task.”

“I presume it is the matter of the boy,” said Mr. Bennet. “I am only surprised that this Darcy fellow sought you out.”

Mr. Robinson replied gently, with a steady gaze. “He has the right of it, as I think you already know.”

There was then a short silence while the fire crackled and cast shadows about. Elizabeth thought of how it might have been if her mother were still alive; Mrs. Bennet would have shrieked and cried and called for her salts. She would have bemoaned the incontrovertible legal realities of the matter and she would have refused to see any argument of sense or reason. Elizabeth was determined she would not behave as her mother would have.

“Is there…” Her voice emerged thin and high, embarrassing her. She paused and cleared her throat. “Mr. Robinson, what is there to be done? I am sure you can imagine our distress, to think that this man, who we never heard anything about until very recently should be able to take our Charles from his home and his family.”

“It would be a matter for the courts, I fear.”

“The courts?” Elizabeth felt a sinking feeling within her chest.

With this Mr. Robinson engaged in a brief but depressing overview of the limited means by which Mr. Bennet might reclaim possession of his grandson. There would be two things required of which Mr. Bennet had in limited supply: money and zeal.

Elizabeth surreptitiously watched her father while Mr. Robinson spoke. Mr. Bennet listened in a half-hearted manner, casting several longing glances at the book on his lap and going so far as to yawn once. No, Mr. Bennet could not be counted upon to fight this particular fight. She swallowed against the painful disappointment lodged in her throat.

“It seems a costly venture,” said Mr. Bennet when Mr. Robinson’s summation was done.

“Costly, yes,” agreed Mr. Robinson. “Costly, lengthy and, I fear, quite unlikely to succeed. Mr. Darcy is vastly wealthy and he has the means and the inclination to fight you at every step. Furthermore, he is the nephew of the Earl of Matlock.”

He did not need to say more. Any one who ever read a newspaper knew of the Earl of Matlock and his influence over … well, nearly everything it seemed sometimes.

“For reasons only he can know,” Mr. Robinson continued, “Mr. Darcy is as determined to have Charles as you are. Unlike you, however, he has the late Mr. Bingley’s will on his side.”

A tear fell from Elizabeth’s eye; she hardly knew it was coming and turned her head too late to conceal its appearance. Both gentlemen looked at her with some alarm, with Mr. Bennet offering a mild, “Now, Lizzy.”

“Forgive me,” she murmured. “I would just … I would do anything to see Charles left in our care.”

Mr. Robinson took an excessively delicate sip of his coffee, then offered, “Mr. Darcy is unmarried.”

Elizabeth’s mouth dropped and her father’s head immediately jerked towards Mr. Robinson. Mr. Robinson was sheepish, holding his hands in the air. “Forgive me if I speak out of turn.”

“You do, indeed,” said Mr. Bennet wryly. “You cannot mean that Elizabeth should …”

“From the looks of him, I should imagine that he has a very grand, heiress-type bride in his mind,” said Elizabeth tartly. “I doubt the likes of me could entice him.”

Mr. Robinson gave her a kindly grin. “I cannot speak to Mr. Darcy’s matrimonial ambitions, but I think any man should count himself lucky to have you, Lizzy.”

“Robinson, you are trying to remove my grandson and now my daughter from me?” Mr. Bennet offered a weak chuckle. “It is ungenerous of you.”

“I only beg that both of you would act with prudence.” Mr. Robinson set his coffee on the table and crossed his hands in front of him. “The law is not on your side here and the avenues of redress are few and unlikely. It is a difficult circumstance, tragic really, but I fear that such shenanigans as happened today can do no good. I urge you both to consider carefully whatever further actions are undertaken.”

With that, the conversation ended. Elizabeth thought she understood very well what Mr. Robinson said—it was hopeless. She would lose little Charles to a man who neither knew him nor loved him—and there was nothing Elizabeth could do about it.

She sat up very late that night, in a window seat of the bedchamber she once shared with her sister. The moonless sky watched her as tears came and went, followed by intense rage, and then, more tears; eventually a headache beset her alongside dispirited ennui. She looked at the bed that was once Jane’s. Dear Jane, dear, dear Jane. I have failed in the one thing you have ever asked of me.

*

The first fingerlings of another grey dawn were hailed with relief. Elizabeth’s fears and sorrows had by then grown tiresome and she longed to escape the scene of such ponderous regret. She dressed herself quickly, pinned her hair as best she could and was soon out into the morning.

She could not determine, with any satisfaction, whether it was raining or merely cold; in any case, she was immediately chilled to her bones, but she began a brisk pace that soon warmed her to a tolerable degree. It had always cheered her, a good ramble, and if it could not make her exactly happy now, it did at least clear her thoughts.

For an all-too-brief time, she was able to put aside her worries in favour of thinking of the cold air in her lungs and the sights and sounds of nature around her. It was true, the countryside she beheld inspired its own sort of worry—lifeless mud, swollen streams and no sign of the sun—but it diverted her from her own troubles.

But reality would intrude and, soon enough, little Charles was present again in her thoughts. Some part of her had begun to accept the reality that he would be taken from her even as the rest of her railed against it and frantically searched for some way, any way, that she could keep ahold of him. Running off with him to the continent was one notion that gained favour with her by the minute—though Upper Canada might do better. She could not think Mr. Darcy would go over the ocean just to carry his point.

With such ideas tormenting her, it was no wonder she did not recognise the odious, looming creature before her in time to avoid speaking to him.

Mr. Darcy stood frowning in the morning mist, looking as if his night was no more restful than hers. He greeted her with a grave bow, speaking her name as if pronouncing something of great import. She bobbed an indifferent curtsey and did not speak his name. “I am surprised to find you here.”

“This is your father’s land?”

“No,” she said. “This is part of Netherfield.”

“Ah.” His gaze was assessing and critical as it swept over the land. “Bingley’s land then.”

“No,” she said very deliberately. “My brother only leased the manor. He intended to purchase but took ill before he could.”

“I see.” Mr. Darcy nodded, his eyes still traveling over the countryside, swift and dismissive. “Yes, I should have realised that from my study of his books.”

“Is that what this is about? My brother’s fortune?”

Mr. Darcy drew back. “I beg your pardon?”

“You are certainly keen to gain control. Is not fortune generally the inducement in such cases as these?”

“You would ask this of me?” Mr. Darcy gave a scornful bark of laughter. “In matters of fortune, I am and always have been superior to Bingley.”

Fortune, perhaps, but gentleman-like behaviour?—never. Elizabeth bit her lip to keep the thought from escaping her.

“If anything, I should think that his relations—who are clearly in straitened circumstances—might bear that suspicion more readily than I.”

“Straitened circumstances?” She glared at him. “We do face the same challenges as the rest of the country, Mr. Darcy, but Longbourn is unencumbered by debt which is more than many can say.”

“Unencumbered, but entailed away,” said Mr. Darcy. “Do not think me ignorant of your situation, Miss Bennet.”

“Then if you know so much about us, you will know my father’s heir passed without issue,” she retorted. “Not that it is any concern of yours.”

“No, it is not,” said he, “but it improves my understanding of why you should cling, so desperately, to a little boy with one hundred thousand pounds sitting in a bank. What has come of the interest these years I must wonder?”

Elizabeth gasped and felt herself blush scarlet. Hot denials rose to her lips, but she stopped herself before she could speak them. She knew her father would never resort to thievery; however, in a certain circumstance, if it so suited him, she knew he would be able to acquit himself for whatever actions might best serve his purpose, no matter how others might perceive it. But to take money from his grandson? Surely not? But she had enough doubt to prevent her tongue from offering the angry rebuke she wished for.

Her voice shook as she said, “I will not stand here while you insult me. I am better bred than to reply to your accusations and in any case, I do not concern myself with such things. I will bid you good day.”

She turned and began to walk away, tears stinging her eyes even as anger rose in her throat. How dare he! Money! As if she had ever cared one bit about Bingley’s money or little Charles’s fortune!

It would not do. She could not simply walk away with the cloud of Mr. Darcy’s suspicion attached to her. He must know how wrong he was. She whirled around, facing him once again, her hands on her hips like a scold.

“You are wrong if you think fortune has anything to do with why we wish, so very desperately, to keep him here. Had he inherited nothing but a mountain of debt, we would still love him and hold him dear.”

“If you love him so much, you should see the wisdom in having him sent to a better, more prosperous life. I can give him the life his father, and his father’s father wanted him to have.”

“And you think we cannot?”

Mr. Darcy forbore to answer. He stood and stared at her, the mist and his hat rendering his face unreadable, and even a bit frightening. She drew her pelisse about her more closely.

“As my sister lay dying, I promised her that I would care for him as a mother would. I solemnly swore it to her. Jane was … she was an angel, too good for this earth and she never wanted to ask anything of anyone. Never wanted to cause any trouble! But in this she needed me. She needed my help and I cannot fail her. Have you never made someone a promise that was so important you would rather die than fail?”

Something in his face changed then; it grew more stiff, harder somehow. He stared at her until at last her disgust overcame her and she turned from him.

He could not understand for he was lost to every comprehension of kindness, this hateful man. Shocking really that she could so heartily despise someone she barely knew, but she did indeed despise him with her whole heart.

“I have disappointed people enough in my life,” he said at long last. She turned to face him again while he continued to speak. “While my mistakes have perhaps not been many, they have had dreadful consequences and it is those consequences which have made me determined not to fail again. Your sister might have asked this of you, but similarly, Bingley has asked it of me. I cannot, nay will not, allow you or any of your family to stand in my way.”

“Why now?” she cried. “Why must you remove him from everything and every one he knows?”

“He will learn to know different places and different people and I daresay it will do him no harm.”

“Four years,” Elizabeth replied immediately. “For four years you have been indifferent to his very existence and now you wish to take him into your care? To raise him?”

“I was not indifferent to his existence,” Mr. Darcy replied. “I knew nothing of it.”

“I had not understood that Derbyshire was beyond the reach of the post,” Elizabeth retorted. “I should have thought four years sufficient to receive a letter, maybe even two.”

“I cannot account for the inadequacies of the post, nor explain what came of the letters that must have been sent to me. What I can say is that once I knew I had a duty to my friend, I came at once.”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “You mean Mr. Pritchard came at once.”

She spun on her heel, intending to storm off towards Longbourn and leave this hateful, odious man behind her. Perhaps she would have some good fortune and he would fall down a ravine or be eaten by some vicious woodland creature.

But such fortune was not to be hers. Instead it was she who fell, slipping on a bit of the wet, muddy path. With a small cry, she fell, her knee striking a rock and her gloves becoming immediately soaked and dirty. Mr. Darcy was upon her in a trice, his hands beneath her elbows hauling her back to her feet. It was a minor mishap, but humiliation, pique and the feel of wet mud soaking into her skirts combined to produce mortifying loud sobs nevertheless.

It was the sort of cry that is impossible to suppress; indeed all attempts to stop only made it worse. She pressed her handkerchief to her eyes willing herself to stop, stop, stop—but she could not, not for far too many long minutes.

“Madam, have you injured yourself?” Mr. Darcy’s attempts to soothe her were as stiff as he was. “Shall I summon assistance?”

“No,” she gulped, attempting to restore herself to equanimity. “No I am … I am not injured.”

She swallowed and hiccuped a few sobs while at the same time removing her gloves and shaking them in some vain hope of making them dry or at least more dry. Her knee she dared not consider but it felt merely bruised, not bleeding.  She dabbed and scrubbed at her face, unwilling to consider how she might look and at length her humiliating display ended. Several deep, bracing breaths more and she was prepared to make her last intercession.

Mr. Darcy was plainly lost to every sense of decency and civility. He had no feeling, no tenderness, and no better nature to be prevailed upon. So she would degrade herself, desperation providing the impulse.

“What if I came with him?”

Mr. Darcy simply stared at her.

“As … as a governess for him.  After all you will need a governess for him soon enough, why should it not be me?”

Mr. Darcy’s stare had changed from mere indifference to alarm. His mouth hung slightly open though when he saw her notice, he quickly closed it.

“I loved my sister with all my heart. She was all that was good and kind and sweet and when I lost her I knew not what I would do. Little Charles has been … well, he is his father in name and appearance, but in his temper, he is Jane, through and through. Seeing him leave will be like losing her all over again. I will do anything I must to avoid that, even if it means taking employment for him.”

To think of that brought fresh dampness to her eyes, but she would not give way again. He made no answer to her plea, but he did, at least, stop staring at her. He stared at the wet ground where she had so recently fallen, no doubt congratulating the mud for having its way with her.

She soon understood she would not receive an immediate reply and at length, walked on. He followed her though she might have liked it better if he just left her. At least he is silent enough that I may pretend I am alone.

It was not until the gate of Longbourn was within view that she spoke again. “May I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

She studied him closely, this strange, enigmatic man. He bore her examination unperturbed and silent.

“It would be quite easy to leave him where he is. You could be his guardian; we would raise him, but still heed your authority. He could be your ward and yet our family.”

“That would not do.”

“Why not?”

Mr. Darcy shook his head.

“Why not? It answers both your claim of duty and our claims of attachment and affection.”

He dropped his gaze. His hand was clenched on his walking stick and he began to make a slight digging motion in the path with it. She waited with decreasing patience, finally prompting him. “Sir?”

His reply was given in a low voice. “Because I do know what it is to make a promise to someone that is so important that you would rather die than fail, and I do not intend to make a poor show of this.”

That seemed a rather definite thing to say and she did not dare ask more.

She waited several moments and then reduced herself to pleading. “His governess, Mr. Darcy. That is all I ask. You need not pay me. I only want to stay with him.”

He raised his head from the enchanting view of his walking stick. “Pay you?”

She staved off her frustration with a heavy sigh. “To be his governess. I need not have any salary. I will come for no reason but to remain close to him and I shall superintend his education while I am at it.”

To her utter amazement a smile seemed to play about his lips. “Miss Bennet, do you really think yourself capable of superintending the education of a young gentleman? In any case he is only three years old.”

“Three years old?” She rolled her eyes again. “He is four and, yes, I think myself perfectly able to manage his education and had already planned to do so.”

“And where,” Mr. Darcy asked carefully, “were you educated?”

They stared at one another for several long moments before she, with a small tilt to her chin and a straightening of her shoulders, replied, “At home.”

He raised one brow with an imperious look that was painfully insupportable. “I suppose you must have been often in London for the benefit of masters there?”

“We went but rarely.” Against all inclination, Elizabeth felt herself sink a bit under the weight of his scorn. “My father is not fond of London.”

“I see.”

He was back to his careful regard of the path, digging and probing with his stick. With each passing moment, Elizabeth knew her pleas were futile. A sob rose up in her throat, but she swallowed it forcefully.  The notion of this man seeing her cry again was insupportable.

Abruptly, he raised his head, touching the brim of his hat. “I must return to the inn. I had intended to depart today but must forestall it until tomorrow for some business which remains.”

A short and inadequate delay of the inevitable misery of parting with her boy. Tomorrow! The thought chilled her much more than the weather ever could.

“Sir, please!” she cried out, unable to stop herself. “I beg you. Please permit me to attend him.”

And he, without deigning to look back, he said, “As you like.”

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