Page 40

Mrs. Scorton’s House

Scarborough

Yorkshire

Caroline Bingley sat in the sitting room of her aunt’s house and stared blankly out the window into the darkness, which was close enough to the seashore that she could, if the window was open and if she was paying attention, hear the sound of waves breaking on the beach in the distance.

Not that she cared a great deal about the ocean, or waves, or anything of the sort. She had always been a lady who much preferred London to anywhere else in Britain. After all, where else could she enjoy elegant operas and dinner parties and balls attended by cultured gentlemen and ladies? All she had ever wanted was to marry Mr. Darcy of Pemberley and become a leading society lady. Surely that was entirely reasonable?

And yet, somehow, it had all gone wrong. That wretched Elizabeth Bennet had compromised Fitzwilliam Darcy, and Jane Bennet had enraptured Caroline’s brother Charles, and everything she had done to break up both engagements had backfired spectacularly, to the point that she had been forced to depart her beloved London.

Now she was here in Scarborough, living with her aunt, far away from the bright lights and refined atmosphere of London. Mrs. Scorton, her mother’s sister, was widow to a wealthy man of trade, and the house was, she supposed, well enough. But the society in Scarborough was almost, if not quite, as dismal as in Meryton in Hertfordshire.

Moreover, for the first time, she had no idea what her goals in life should be. She had always intended to wed Fitzwilliam Darcy, but she had received a letter from a London friend informing her that Darcy was well and truly married to the former Elizabeth Bennet now. That door was now firmly closed.

She has also managed to upset Lady Matlock, Darcy’s aunt, who had threatened her with social ruin if she did not leave London.

Was she permitted to come back, ever? If not, what could she do? There were no eligible bachelors in Scarborough, after all.

She moaned aloud. How had her life come to this?

** *

Sitting Room

Milton Wray

Ten O’clock in the evening

Lady Catherine took a sip of tea and frowned at the butler, who was standing patiently nearby.

“Add another log to the fire,” she ordered, “and inform Penelope that I will ascend to my bedchamber in thirty minutes.”

“Yes, my lady. Will that be all?”

She looked around, hopeful of finding something else for the butler to do, but the wax candles were lit, and she had a book, and hot tea, and a blanket as needed.

“Yes,” she said and watched as the man bowed and walked over to add a log to the fire, and then departed without a word, shutting the door behind him.

Catherine de Bourgh turned her attention on the book on a side table, a volume of Shakespeare’s tragedies, but decided she was too upset to read. Instead, she stood up and began pacing up and down the floor, her heels clicking on the wooden boards, and the sound dampened on the scarlet and blue Oriental rug in front of the fire.

Fury and incredulity coursed through her, and the more she thought about her predicament, the more outraged she became.

It boggled the mind that Matlock had carried her all the way out here to his hunting box – so masculine and distasteful to the sensibilities of a refined woman – and abandoned her here! She was far from anywhere; even the backwater that passed for the local town was a full ten miles away, much too far to even consider walking. When she had furiously ordered the carriage prepared and brought around, the butler had – quietly and very politely – refused.

It still made her blood boil to think of it! That any mere servant would dare to refuse any order of hers!

Of course, they were not her servants. They were all loyal to her brother Matlock, and while normally she would approve of such sentiment in a retainer, in this instance, it was infuriating. Matlock was behaving outrageously and had plainly shown that his judgment was not at all to be trusted. What sort of unnatural man would carry his only living sister away into isolation and then leave her in the care of mere servants while he departed to his own home? What sort of callous brother could keep his own flesh and blood prisoner ?

He had not even appeared angry, and that puzzled Lady Catherine. He had not raised his voice to her at all or spoken one harsh word. He had only told her that due to her own behavior – ridiculous! – she would be staying here at Milton Wray indefinitely. As if there was anything wrong with her behavior! She was the only one acting sensibly, trying to save their family from a ruinous connection!

Nonetheless, Matlock had stubbornly refused to hear reason and instructed the servants to look after her and departed. Catherine had been in shock, and for the first day after his departure, she had gone through the familiar motions without attempting to leave. On the second day, she had tried once more to order the carriage, and once again been refused. It had put her into a towering rage, and she had retired to her room and sent for her maid, a middle-aged woman with a sober manner, whom Matlock had assigned to her. The woman, Penelope, had been unable to do anything properly to please her mistress, and finally Catherine had been tried enough. She had erupted from her chair with a furious shout, haranguing the maid for being an idiot at the top of her lungs.

Penelope had simply turned around and walked out of the room, the click of the door closing behind her, lost in Lady Catherine’s screams. It had silenced her, however, for a few moments, as she gaped in surprise at the closed door, before striding after the impudent maid to demand the meaning of such disrespect.

To her amazement and disbelief, the maid had said, very calmly, that if Lady Catherine was going to scream at her, she would not remain to fulfill her duties. Disbelief had rendered Lady Catherine silent for several seconds before her outrage found voice once more, and Penelope had continued down the hall and vanished down the servants’ stairs.

Despite repeated commands to return, she had not done so, and Lady Catherine had been forced to fumble with the fastenings of her own dress and the ties of her own nightgown and retire to bed without any assistance. No warming pans had heated her sheets, no fire was built to roar in the grate, and she had been miserably chilled all night.

As if that were not quite enough, an express from her treacherous brother had arrived with her breakfast. She had read it in increasing disbelief as her tea cooled at her hand and her marmalade congealed on her toast. As well as holding her prisoner, Matlock had threatened her. If he received word again that she was, in his words, mistreating his servants, he would order them all to leave. She would be left to fend for herself, which, as he pointed out, she was incapable of doing.

The very thought made her snort. Of course she was! What self-respecting earl’s daughter learned to build fires or cook, or worse, clean ? Her education had not encompassed such plebeian skills! And surely, no matter how unnatural he was proving himself now, Matlock would not be so cruel as to strand her without even a cook and butler and maid and footman?

She had realized with horror and disgust that she did not dare to test this certainty against her brother’s familial loyalty. It had required an immense effort on her part, but she had begun to rein in her displays of displeasure towards the servants, who remained infuriatingly indifferent and unruffled. Any time her own temper rose, Catherine checked her words, contemplating the terrible fate of long stretching days of hunger and dressing herself.

It was all quite intolerable – unthinkable, even – for her entire family to turn on her this way. Had she not always looked out for Anne’s well-being first and foremost? Had she not tried to save Darcy from a most imprudent marriage? And this was the gratitude she got. Locked away, out of sight and out of mind, her faithless family abandoning her. It was enough to break a weaker heart than her own, but Lady Catherine had ever prided herself on her strength. She would endure this, too.

** *

Darcy House

London

Midnight

Elizabeth hastily pulled the blankets across her body and rolled over as the door to her sitting room opened. Her beloved husband, dressed in night attire, hurried in, shut the door behind him, and joined her in bed.

She scooted a little closer, and he wrapped his arms around her, bringing a welcome burst of heat to her chilly form.

“Are you well, my dear?” Fitzwilliam asked softly, and Elizabeth said immediately, “Of course I am. It was an enjoyable evening, and I am grateful for the Matlocks’ invitation.

Darcy grunted and said, “It was kind, but I do not like everyone gossiping about us and staring at you.”

Elizabeth chuckled and said, “Darling, I am an unusual wife for a rich, intelligent, highly connected gentleman, and I am entirely at ease with curious stares and occasional supercilious remarks. ”

“Who was supercilious? My cousins?”

“Not at all. The ladies were very kind. Miss Goldsmith and Miss Haskett were obviously envious of me, and who can blame them?” she finished with a smile.

“If anyone is unpleasant to you, let me know, Elizabeth. I will not allow it.”

She yawned and said, “I do not intimidate easily, and I appreciate that you are eager and willing to protect me. Now, I do not know about you, but I am tired after a long and busy day.”

“I am as well,” he agreed immediately and lapsed into silence. She rolled over and cuddled up against him, and within two minutes, both were asleep.

***

On Board the Anna Maria

Atlantic Ocean

Two O’clock in the Mornin g

“Get up, Wickham,” the rough voice said. “It is time for your watch.”

Wickham groaned but quickly rolled out of his hammock and onto the hard floor. He knew from experience that if he delayed in replacing the watchman on deck, his food and grog would be docked the next day and Wickham knew he needed to keep his strength up.

With now practiced ease, he slipped on his dirty but warm jacket, his hat, and his sturdy boots, and ducked his way out of the crew’s smelly, if warm, cabin.

The heat was almost entirely due to the presence of five other men sleeping soundly in their own hammocks, and Wickham was already anxious about the upcoming journey across the equator. According to the experienced sailors, the equatorial regions were brutally hot, and in that small, stinky cabin, the air would barely move, making sleeping a difficult and unpleasant experience.

He stumbled up the ladder and onto the deck, and he pulled his coat tighter around himself, even as he mournfully considered the changes between his life now and two months previously. He had often been awake at two hours past midnight, but not to keep watch on a ship at sea. No, he had played cards, and drank great quantities of ale, and enjoyed himself in cozy barracks or pubs. Now he was in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by endless waves and wind, and …

He looked up and was suddenly awestruck. The sky was entirely clear of clouds, and the moon was but a crescent, which allowed his wondering eyes to observe hundreds, no thousands, of pinpoints of light scattered across the heavens.

He had, of course, seen stars in the past. But he had never paid them much attention, as his mind and eyes were more concerned with cozy lights and comfortable mattresses and, on especially good nights, an amiable woman to warm his bed. Now, looking around from horizon to horizon, he was suddenly aware of how small he was in the universe. He was unexpectedly, painfully, aware of how little he mattered to anyone at all. His parents were dead, Darcy despised him…

“Amazing, isn’t it?” a male voice came from his right, and he jerked in surprise and said, “I am sorry I am late, Duncan.”

“’Tis no problem, Wickham,” the other man said easily. “I do not mind being out a bit later on a night like this, with little wind and such a view of the heavens. Glorious it is! Reminds me of the nineteenth psalm in my grandma’s Bible:

The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament showeth his handywork.

Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night showeth knowledge .

There is no speech nor language, where their voice is not heard.

It was too dark for Duncan to see his face, so Wickham allowed it to relax into an expression of surprise. Duncan was, of all the sailors on board the Anna Maria , the kindest and most patient with Wickham. Now it appeared that the man was also moderately educated, or at least enough to memorize Scripture and use it appropriately.

Wickham had never had much use for the Bible, but these words resonated in his heart in a new way. How vast the heavens were! How small he was, in this ship in the middle of the ocean, which rocked beneath their feet as the endless waves rolled in from one horizon to the other.

“Well, I will be getting to my hammock,” Duncan said cheerfully. “The sun will come far too soon. Good night.”

“Good night,” Wickham said quietly. “Thank you.”