Mysteries of Pemberley — Chapter One

Welcome back to the Mysteries of Pemberley! To read the Prologue click here

Chapter One 

Michaelmas 1816, Hertfordshire

There was in that year a cold, a pervasive greyness that covered the land and made warmth impossible. Spring began late, with snow and flooding interrupting the attempts of the trees and flowers to bud, and killing the rabbits and other small game just as they began their capers and frisks about the land. Summer was little more but a succession of rain, never-ending rain that brought an unseasonable chill to their bones and flooded their roads.

The crops in the field could not withstand such rain and cold and soon died, their bloated, pale green corpses turning brown and floating into the swollen river. The game were soon to follow — did they leave or did they die? Elizabeth had no idea.

She soon learned that not only Hertfordshire suffered under this strange curse; the effects were felt all over the kingdom, with reports of beggars from Wales who had been driven from their home and Irishmen, desperate and poor and facing their starving families, who turned their guns on themselves.

Elizabeth suspected their trials had, in truth, merely just begun. An unprecedented number of their tenants — as well as those of the neighbouring estates — would not make their rents this quarter day. The harvest, such as it would be, was not sufficient to enable many to endure the winter and already many families had left, seeking employment in factories or other situations.

Longbourn was as prepared for difficult times as any seat of its size but she knew, nonetheless, that straitened circumstances were upon them. She worried about it though it did her little good; her father had never been one to economise or save and even now, when widespread disaster seemed nigh, her father was as he ever had been, more inclined toward making some jest about their misery than seeking to relieve it. So they ate potatoes as often as they could and were thankful they had at least that much.

“Lizzy! Lizzy, come see! Come see!” Little Charles did not intend to await her response; even as he bid her come, he came to her, grabbing her hand and tugging her toward the tree where he had been playing.

She laughed as she rose. “What is it?”

“See! See!” He pointed and gestured toward the house that was visible to them, though Elizabeth had had her back to it. She turned to look.

In front of Longbourn sat an exceedingly grand carriage. It was a regal dark blue colour and was trimmed in muted gold and cream colours. There was a crest on the side of it but Elizabeth had not before seen it. “Someone has quite made the wrong turn on their way to London,” she said to herself.

“London!” Charles replied agreeably.

“Well!” She smiled down at him. “We know how much Grandpapa despises exerting himself for visitors so let us go rescue him, shall we?”

She watched the little boy bobbing happily along the path before her. He was her light, her small bit of colour in the grey, sodden world she lived in and she could not begin to think what she would have done had he not survived. She understood now her mother’s nerves; truly, nothing was quite so terrible as fully comprehending the dreadful terrors that the everyday world posed to a small child. At times, it seemed that to grow to adulthood was a miracle and the anxieties provoked in a mother’s heart — for indeed, Charles was her own now — were never-ending. How her mother had managed to hold her sanity through five daughters was quite beyond Elizabeth’s understanding.

She hastened — as much as a four year old boy with the curiosity of six boys would permit her to hasten— back to the house and entered to learn that her father was entertaining one guest, a gentleman who was a stranger to them. Mr Bennet had left instructions with Hill to direct Elizabeth to them in his study as soon as she returned.

The gentleman who sat with her father was a small, neatly turned out man. He wore a dark coloured suit and greeted her with the air of a capable man who anticipated the easy disposal of a bit of business.

Her father looked considerably less easy, a worried crease marking his brow. He introduced the man who, it turned out, was the man of business for a gentleman called Darcy from somewhere in the north of England.

“Elizabeth, this is Mr. Pritchard,” said Mr. Bennet. “Pritchard, my daughter Miss Bennet.”

“How do you do, Madam?” The gentleman offered a correct bow.

Hill had already served watery coffee—the best they had—to the men and there was a short delay while Elizabeth sat and declined her father’s suggestion that she take some as well. Mr. Pritchard, she noticed, sipped at it in a fussy, displeased sort of way and she did not like him for it. He made her uneasy. His air of competence, his sedate humour soon seemed rather arrogant, as if he considered himself far above that which he saw, but was enduring it as best he could.

Her arrival into the room required some amount of polite conversation: observations about the weather were made as well as enquiries into the history of Longbourn. The tedium of it could only increase Elizabeth’s anxiety and soon she felt she might scream from wondering what all this was about.

“Well then,” said Mr. Bennet at last. “You were saying before that you are an agent of a man called Darcy. I cannot say I know the gentleman nor can I imagine what business he might have with me, but pray do speak your piece. Has he died and left some extraordinary sum of money to me?”

Mr. Bennet chuckled heartily after the last sentence and Mr. Pritchard acknowledged the jest with a tight smile and a clearing of his throat. “I am afraid not. No, this matter has to do with the boy.”

The smile that had lingered on Mr. Bennet’s lips faded immediately. “The boy?”

“The heir of the late Mr. Charles Bingley.”

Elizabeth felt her mouth drop as a stab of fear went through her. “What about him?” she asked in a voice that seemed strangely high and rudely loud.

“Mr. Darcy is his rightful guardian. Young Master Bingley was left to his care.”

“That cannot be true,” Elizabeth exclaimed even while her father replied, “And what if he was? Mr. Darcy has shown no concern for the boy’s whereabouts these four years. Pray do not suggest he wishes to be an active guardian now.”

Stunned, Elizabeth stared at her father. He had not once, ever, suggested that he was not little Charles’ legal guardian. Of course she had never asked, but why should she have wondered? It seemed the most sensible course, to leave the child among his relations.

“Mr. Darcy has been away,” said Mr. Pritchard. “And much engaged with other business.”

“Engaged in business for four years?” Mr. Bennet’s expression conveyed his doubt with great eloquence. “So much engaged that he was unable to respond to letters?”

“Just so,” said Mr. Pritchard crisply. “He has only now been made aware that Mr. Bingley had issue left behind.”

“Not issue,” Elizabeth protested. “A son. A living, breathing child.”

Mr. Pritchard gave her a small nod. “My apologies. Yes, a child. As soon as Mr. Darcy knew of it, he dispatched me to retrieve his ward.”

“Retrieve him?” Elizabeth exclaimed.

“Mr. Darcy lives in Derbyshire,” said Mr. Pritchard primly. “The boy will reside with him there.”

“Derbyshire!” Elizabeth was on her feet before she knew what she was about. “You cannot think we shall allow you to take him to Derbyshire!”

“I am afraid I do, Madam.”

“I am the only mother he has ever known! This is the only home he has ever known!”

“Unfortunately, in the eyes of the law, that does not signify.”

“In the eyes of a child, it is the only thing that signifies!”

Mr. Pritchard sighed and raised his hand to rub his forehead. “I do understand that there has been an attachment as well as some expense and allow me to assure you, Mr. Darcy intends to see you compensated for that.”

“Compensation? I do not want compensation! I want little Charles to remain where he belongs!”

It went on in the same vein for some time, Elizabeth insisting, in an increasingly heated manner, that the bonds of family and love be considered over the substance of wills and wards and legalities. Mr. Pritchard sat calmly throughout, deflecting her claims with the irrefutable claims of the law. It was a frustrating business and Mr. Bennet, at last, reached the end of what he could tolerate of it.

“Sir,” said Mr. Bennet. “While neither Elizabeth nor I can dispute the hold that Mr. Darcy has on the child, you do not surely did not come here today thinking I would remand the boy to your care.”

It was the first time in the course of the whole wretched interview that Mr. Pritchard was caught unprepared. He blinked, owlishly, for a moment before saying, “It is, naturally, my object to take care of Mr. Darcy’s business.”

“Naturally,” Mr. Bennet agreed. “And yet, why should we trust that you are who you say you are?”

Mr. Pritchard was momentarily flustered before drawing up and replying, haughtily “I have a copy of Mr. Bingley’s last will and testament in my valise.”

“What I am saying is that you, personally, have no more claim on the child than any stranger passing on the street.”

With a frown, Mr. Pritchard said, “I have a letter of introduction—”

“As I have said, I do not know Mr. Darcy and therefore his letter has no meaning to me,” replied Mr. Bennet smoothly. “Any one could have penned the letter in your possession and claimed it came from Darcy — I do not know his family or their mark and therefore have no notion of whether it was indeed written by the man himself, or by some charlatan in a tavern.

“You must understand, sir, that my grandson is a wealthy little boy. He holds the fortune of several generations in his hands and therefore is an attractive object for an unscrupulous person. I cannot simply turn him over to the first person who presents himself and calls himself a man of business for some unknown gentleman in the north.”

The panic that had produced nausea in Elizabeth’s gut turned, unexpectedly, to delight. Her dear Papa had found the solution. Call it all a humbug, run the man off, and forget this had ever happened!

Mr. Pritchard rose, fastidiously inserting and arranging papers that had been laying on her father’s desk into his valise. “Alas, I cannot dispute you in this matter. Indeed I might say it does you some credit though it does make my task more difficult.”

“If Mr. Darcy indeed wants the boy so badly, he should come himself to retrieve him. It would be a kindness to Mr. Bingley’s memory to act in the best interests of his son — the gentleman must surely see that.”

“I do not know that Mr. Darcy will agree although he will comply if he thinks it necessary.” Mr. Pritchard had finished with his papers then and offered Elizabeth a brief bow. She rose, joining her father in seeing the man to his carriage, which still waited by the front of the house.

She gave her father a glance as the man was handed into the conveyance; it was surely the finest either of them had ever seen, and the four animals that pricked and pranced before it were equally impressive. Her father’s gaze was unreadable. His stare into the carriage was unwavering, and remained fixed until the wheels began to roll away.

Elizabeth turned to go back into the house and her father followed her quietly. She turned to smile at him once they were safely enclosed within the vestibule and was disheartened to see his pensive air.

“Papa? Why do you look so?”

“I fear,” said Mr. Bennet, “that we have not heard the last of this Mr. Darcy.”

*

And so they had not.

The first thing they did was consult with Mr. Willard, husband of Elizabeth’s younger sister Mary and a man of the law. He had been a clerk for Mr. Philips, Elizabeth’s uncle, and was now his partner, helping Mr. Philips extend the reach of his business into the nearby villages of St Albans and Harpenden and even, on occasion, into London. He was a shrewd man and did not believe in hiding the truth.

“I am afraid not,” he replied on Elizabeth’s inquiry as to whether or not they could challenge Mr. Darcy’s claim of guardianship. “Mr. Bingley’s will is unmistakable in the matter. The best you can hope is that Mr. Darcy will willingly surrender the child to your care — and perhaps he shall. Otherwise it must be put before the courts.”

Elizabeth did not hold out much hope for a willing surrender, but as weeks passed a small font of hope began to spring up. Perhaps Mr. Darcy had forgotten? Or realised that his life could only be infinitely more complicated with a small child in tow?

“I wonder if Mr. Darcy is married?” she asked her father one evening in the drawing room, as little Charles played in front of the fire.

“I heard no mention of a Mrs. Darcy. Perhaps he is a bachelor.”

“A bachelor would surely not wish for the strictures of a child about his neck all the time.”

“That is true,” said Mr. Bennet, “though I must observe that any man who could afford that carriage is likely able to afford an army of servants for the child, if he so wished it.”

Elizabeth sighed. “But why go to so much trouble only to turn a child over to servants? Why not leave him where he is then? Are not we, his family, better for his care than even the most loyal servants?”

Mr. Bennet nodded. “Indeed we are and perhaps that is why we have seen neither hide nor hair of the man.”

It was a dank, grey October; the disappointment of summer faded into a misery-stricken autumn as the failed harvest was ignored and everyone contemplated the meagre rations which were at hand to sustain them through the winter. Elizabeth thought herself rather fortunate to have so many things to fret over: she need not spend all her time fearfully contemplating some stranger tearing baby Charles from her. She could worry about all of them starving to death, too.

Each day that passed brought with it a tiny measure more of hope, chasing away the fears that circled endlessly about Elizabeth’s head. Each day she considered the date, thinking that surely this Mr. Darcy, if he cared about his obligation to her late brother Bingley, would have already come.

*

The hamlet of Meryton was but half a day’s ride from London and yet Darcy felt as if he had traveled to another world. People gawped at him as if he bore two heads on his shoulders and the proprietor of the only inn stared at his purse in a manner almost feral. It was a dismal little place and the people were uncouth, uneducated, and illiberal; he wondered how on earth his late friend Charles had permitted himself to become entrenched in such a place.

He sighed. His disappointment in his friend’s choices aside, he did miss the man, though it had been above five years since he last laid eyes on him. Five years… how much had happened that he would never wish to live through again and yet how he did wish to return to that simpler, easier time. Do things the right way this time perhaps.

He was and always had been a man mindful of his duty and yet, time and again, he had failed. Time and again those who he loved had met a fate they did not deserve because of his negligence.

It would not happen again, in that he was certain.

“Sir, I have arranged our finest chambers for you,” the innkeeper was telling him. Lord only knew what ‘finest chambers’ were like in such a dank hovel as this — likely worse than what most of his servants were accustomed to. “Do you know how long you will be with us?”

“One night,” he replied crisply, extracting some coins from his purse. “No more. Can you direct me to Longbourn perchance?”

*

With grain being in such short supply, the bakers had little to offer so Elizabeth went into the booksellers, an equally disappointing venture. The day had offered a scant bit of sunshine and she had been mad to get out of the house, to go somewhere, but it seemed Meryton would provide nothing to engage her spirit.

And then she saw him.

That he was a gentleman was immediately apparent, but he was surely unlike any gentleman she had known before. The gentry in Hertfordshire did not have such well-cut, obviously fashionable clothing, nor did they comport themselves in such a way — tall and noble and assured. His was a figure that demanded admiration, though the man seemed rather unconscious of it.

He spoke with another man who appeared to be a servant, his tone low but with clear authority. The man nodded and asked his master a question;  Elizabeth drew near just in time to overhear the gentleman’s reply.

“From what Pritchard said, the woman is a bit of an ape-leader, clinging to the child as if she had any claim to him. He believed the estate looked desperate for money, I am certain once it is offered, they will forget there ever was a boy.”

Elizabeth could not help herself. She gasped and in so doing, drew their attention. The tall gentleman — who by now she suspected was Mr. Darcy — caught her eye then withdrew his gaze, a deeper shade of hauteur spreading over his already-haughty countenance. The shorter man was kinder.

“Miss, pray can you tell us the way to Longbourn?”

The tongue lashing she wished to deliver was overcome by good sense — and a spirit of mischief. She forced herself to drop her eyes and bob a curtsy. “I can indeed, sir.”

A deep voice informed her, “The man in the inn told us—”

She interrupted him with a sweet smile that masked her insistent tone.  “The man in the inn is not from around here. The innkeeper passed last week and his family are doing all they can to keep things going for his family.

“Now,” she squared her shoulders and looked at the gentleman directly. “You will want to follow that lane about, oh, two miles or so. You will reach an estate called Netherfield; Longbourn adjoins it. There is a smaller road, more of a lane, you can follow southerly.”

The man looked about him for a moment; she had to admit, he was a quick study. “Will that not merely turn me about?”

“The bridge is out,” she said with a guileless smile — for, indeed, the bridge was out over the road which led direct but it did not follow that another, temporary bridge had not been installed. “Beg your pardon for the inconvenience.”

“I see.” The gentleman sighed and his manservant said something to him in a low tone. Something about a horse’s shoe and arranging a conveyance but the gentleman shook his head.

“No, no, the walk will do me some good.”

“Best be at it then.” She curtseyed and he bowed and with a few more words to his man, set off in the direction she had set him.

With studied nonchalance, she examined the cloth in the window of the milliner nearby, just long enough to see the gentleman and his man disappear to their various tasks. When they were gone, and had hopefully forgotten all about her, she turned in the direction of the lane which led directly to Longbourn. Picking up her skirts, she ran as fast as her legs could take her.

It was only a mile but she was gasping and breathless when she arrived, bursting in the door with her bonnet swinging from her hand. “Miss Elizabeth,” Hill exclaimed. “Such a fright you—”

“Sorry, Hill!” she tossed over her shoulder as she flung her bonnet towards the hall table and raced towards the nursery.

Charles was seated at a small table therein, his rosy cheeks and wildly corkscrewed hair attesting to the fact that he had just awoken from his nap. He stared, dazed and still lethargic, at a dish of tea in front of him.

“Charles! Sweetling!”

Charles startled a bit to find his aunt so near him and so clearly in a panic.

“Come with me! Come let us … let us go see Auntie Charlotte. Would you like to see Aunt Charlotte … and her pug?”

Dazed incomprehension gave way to delight as Charles recalled the squirmy, furry mass he had met at Lucas Lodge recently. “Barney!” he cried out.

“Yes! Barney the pug! Come now, we must not delay.”

She reached for him, sweeping him into her arms, and knocking the dish of tea with his foot. It splashed and flew, spraying around the nursery but she paid no heed to it, resolving to clean it later. His coat was hung on a hook in the nursery and she snatched it up just before she ran out the door.

She carried him down the back stair on silent feet and they gained the yard with no one else in the house any the wiser.  Elizabeth looked around somewhat maniacally before she trotted through the yard, but saw no one. The gentleman could not, of course, have travelled almost five miles in the short time that she had run one, but she feared that he had somehow suspected her deception, perhaps had followed her.

Charlotte was only too glad to watch after little Charles for a time. Her own, very brief, marriage had not been blessed with children and Elizabeth could always tell that Charlotte hungered for a little one. At the age of two-and-thirty, it was to be supposed Charlotte had likely surrendered any hopes in that quarter; it was not a subject that Elizabeth could speak of to her.

In any case, the visits of little Charles were always welcomed both by Charlotte and her father. They had a small trunk wherein toys were contained and this trunk had moved, gradually, from an attic, to a guest bedroom and at last, the drawing room. It did not escape Elizabeth’s notice that the toys contained therein were no longer the old, discarded pieces from  Charlotte’s brothers; rather, they were newer items, some of them quite expensive in Elizabeth’s estimation.

“Perhaps we shall go to the orchard,” said Charlotte with a smile. “Maybe we will find an apple or two.”

“No!”

Charlotte drew up. “No? Is he ill?”

“No … erm … no, he is perfectly well … oh Charlotte I cannot explain it to you now but pray, keep him inside and if any stranger should come to the door, deny his very existence, I beseech you!”

Charlotte’s eyebrows flew up and she surely would have inquired as to her friend’s meaning — but it could not be done for Elizabeth had already turned her back, ready to return to Longbourn and await the odious Mr. Darcy. “You may depend upon it!” she cried out to Elizabeth’s departing form.

*

Darcy imagined he had been played a fool within the first mile of his long walk; by the time he reached Netherfield, he was certain of it. He cursed the impertinent little hoyden who had sent him off in such a way. Likely one of those village-types who was instinctively wary of anyone who was a stranger.

The miles gave him a chance to have a good look at the country and he found little to please him. The environs of Meryton contained the class of people he considered barely gentrified. He saw a few unimpressive estates, some shabby manor houses and acre after acre of what might, under better management, be called farmland.

It seemed the harvest had come and gone in Hertfordshire, with as little creditable result as had been seen in Derbyshire. He counted himself fortunate that his storehouses, and those of his people, had enough laid by to last out this damnable weather; he had heard tell very often of how many were already starving and the winter not even yet upon them.

Thinking of that, he did feel something of a pang for the people whose homes and land he viewed. From the looks of things, they would not make it through the Festive Season. He was glad to extricate Bingley’s lad from such as this, glad for the chance to give him better than he had seen in the first tender years of his life.

With such thoughts in mind, he arrived at Longbourn. As he approached, he gave it the same appraisal he had given the rest of what he had seen. Nothing of note, he decided. It was likely one of the principal estates in the region but given the desolation of the area, that was no source of great pride.

A sickly looking housekeeper took his greatcoat and hat while an elderly manservant took his card to the master of the house. “The name is Bennet, is it not?” he asked her while he waited.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Bennet is the master of the house and his daughter, Miss Bennet, is the mistress.”

“Very good.” He nodded, imagining an old man and his spinster daughter.

He was led into a drawing room that was clean if a bit worn and left there for enough time to exhaust his already-limited stores of patience. After all, he was not here because he wished it; he was here to discharge a duty, and no matter what, he would not allow it said that he did not do his duty

Eventually the master deigned to join him. He was a scholarly looking gentleman, wearing the comfortable attire of a country squire, right down to spectacles. He held a book in his hand as if Darcy had interrupted him reading but he expected to return to his pastime soon.

“Mr. Darcy, I am Thomas Bennet.”

“Sir.” The gentlemen greeted one another and Mr. Bennet invited him to take a seat. He took the chair indicated, finding it lumpish and lopsided. He twisted in a surreptitious manner, hoping to look as comfortable as Mr. Bennet himself did.

As soon as they were situated, Mr. Bennet spoke, his eyes twinkling as if he found a great deal of amusement in his guest. “I understand you have come to tear my grandson from his home.”

“I do not think I should put it in exactly those terms.”

“But so it shall be nevertheless.”

“I am regretful that you see it as such.”

“And your wife? What are her thoughts on the matter?”

Darcy shifted uncomfortably. “I do not have a wife.”

Mr. Bennet’s brows rose to an almost comical height. “You are unwed?”

Darcy replied crisply, “Is that very shocking?”

“What shocks me is imagining that a young buck would wish to undertake the care of a young child.”

“I am not a person who shirks my duties, Mr. Bennet. My father passed when I was only two and twenty and I assumed the guardianship of my sister and my family estate at that time. I am no stranger to responsibility.”

Mr. Bennet did not answer him, instead tilting his head as if listening for something. Somewhere else in the house, a door closed and light footsteps were heard approaching. Moments later, the door to the drawing room opened.

It was her: the hoydenish woman from the streets of Meryton. He rose instinctively, taking in her flushed cheeks and untidy hair. He quirked a brow at her. “Quite a walk from town, is it not?”

She smirked at him. “’Tis but a mile. I suppose if one was accustomed to being more in town, a mile might seem daunting.”

Mr. Bennet, who had not risen, spoke in the same amused tone he had been using for Darcy.  “Lizzy, this is the Mr. Darcy of whom we have heard much. Mr. Darcy, my daughter Miss Bennet.”

“Would you like some tea, Mr. Darcy?”

“I thank you, but no.”

“Mr. Darcy was telling me all about his responsibilities,” said Mr. Bennet.

Shockingly, Miss Bennet took a seat; evidently it was the custom in this house for ladies to take their place among gentlemen, to be party to the business of men and sit as their equal. Darcy frowned at the notion.

He spoke slowly such that she might understand him; he had no wish to be burdened by an excess of questions or feminine sentimentality. “The child was left to my care in Mr. Bingley’s will. He is, by rights, my child and I shall remove him from this house forthwith. I thank you for all you have done for him and if there is any recompense I may offer for expenses incurred, I urge you to submit to my man of business.”

So much alike! Mr. and Miss Bennet regarded him in like form with amused twinkles in their eyes and heads tilted, one left, one right. As if by unspoken communication, they gave one another a sidelong glance before returning their eyes to Darcy.

“No,” said the lady in a pleasant, lilting tone. “I am afraid you shall not be taking him anywhere.”

 

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