Page 58 of Lizzie’s Spirit

Darcy arose at two bells of the morning watch, just five o’clock, but the sun had already risen an hour and a quarter before.

He had much to do—to see to the immediate needs of Pemberley, to review the accounts, to sort through Frederick’s papers, and to become familiar with his will.

He dressed and went to the study. Some two hours later, at seven o’clock, Winthrop entered and informed him that his father was at breakfast.

Darcy senior looked to his son as the latter entered the small dining-room, overlooking the courtyard. “’Tis so good to have you home, Fitzwilliam. See, already I’m recovered enough to rise early and sit at breakfast.”

“Pardon my discourtesy, but let me take some refreshment, for my body is still keeping ship’s time, and I’ve been awake and working on Frederick’s papers since five o’clock.”

Darcy selected toast and, after a short period of hesitation, took some coddled eggs. A footman poured him coffee once he sat, opposite his father.

“Ah, what a treat—coddled eggs! In the colony, eggs are very expensive, and, our house being exposed to the commons at the rear, they would often disappear before we could benefit from them ourselves.”

“You must tell me of life in New South Wales, for I hear so many conflicting accounts. Castlereagh and Liverpool wish it to be a place of punishment, leg irons, and hard labour, but from your letters it seems a much more agreeable, even pleasant, place. You write of dinners, soirees, and balls. Is such society compatible with a penal colony, a place of thieves and other miscreants? ”

“Such a view is misleading. There are four classes of people in the colony, two of which are scarcely noticed by the others. Of course, being a penal settlement, there are convicts, many of whom have harsh lives, but the others—the majority—work for settlers and merchants and enjoy almost as much freedom as their nominal masters; but still, they are, for all intents, slaves. In the environs near Sydney, the Eora are the original people. On the shores of Port Jackson, many are relatively untouched by English settlement, maintaining their traditions and rites. But the race is dying. Not only from diseases such as smallpox, which halved their number in ‘89, but also from our encroachment on their land and fishing grounds. On the frontier they fight, literally, to maintain what was theirs, but it’s a losing battle.”

Darcy looked to a footman to refill his cup. He saw his father was listening intently to his dissertation. He continued,

“The remaining two classes constitute what we would call Society . There’s an upper class , associated largely with Government House and the regimental Officers, and a lower class of poor free settlers, emancipated convicts, soldiers, and their children.

Such is similar to that here, except there’s no aristocracy, no ton .

Many of the upper class are very wealthy, both merchants and settlers holding large tracts of land.

And, though it may shock you, several of the wealthiest are emancipists.

Indeed, many sat with me as magistrates on the tribunals and courts. ”

“And you, Fitzwilliam, what’s your place in this society?”

“I’m both judge-advocate and lieutenant governor, second only to His Excellency the Governor.

When Macquarie was absent for some six months, I was governor in fact and rank—the apex of Sydney society.

” Darcy smiled. “No! ‘Twas not I who was at the pinnacle: that place was occupied by my lovely hostess, Elizabeth. I was but a poor companion to her grace, elegance, and charm. ”

“You spoke of Elizabeth in your letters, that she was your hostess at vice-regal events. But we know nothing further of her—was she some grand lady come out from England, condescending as such to assist you?”

“Whatever can you mean?” Darcy stared at his father in confusion. “No! Elizabeth is my wife! We’ve been married these past three years. My letter informing you of our marriage told it all.”

George Darcy looked anxiously about the room, which was empty apart from himself and his son—the footman had returned to the kitchen to refresh the coffee pot.

“Fitzwilliam,” said he, an urgency to his voice, “please close the door. There’s much we must discuss.”

Darcy went to the door and instructed the footman who was standing in the hallway to prevent anyone from entering. Once the door was closed and he was seated, his father stood and walked to the window, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You know of the Rosings' mortgage; I presume the details were contained in Frederick’s correspondence?”

“Indeed, what delusion gave Lady Catherine the idea that she could indebt the estate to such a degree? It’s unimaginable.” Darcy threw his arms in the air, exasperated by such folly.

“Matlock is livid. He discovered where a portion of the money went: the chimney-pieces in her drawing-rooms at eight hundred pounds; the glazing of the windows; gilded furniture; heavy drapes of silk damask and velvet with gold thread and other elaborate embellishments.

Thousands of pounds of unnecessary expense.

Perhaps ten or fifteen years ago, after Lewis de Bourgh died, she borrowed against the estate.

Indulging herself, mortgaging the future of Rosings for some fleeting gratification.

But that is only a fraction of the lost monies .

“Still unaccounted for is at least one hundred and twenty thousand, possibly more, for not all of the relevant deeds have been located. Lady Catherine refuses to discuss the matter. She disdains an earl, the head of her family! It is extraordinary.”

“Indeed, sir. Extraordinary! But why is the door closed? Why are we hidden away?”

“’Tis Matlock. He looks to Pemberley and sees a solution to this fiasco, one that limits knowledge of Catherine’s ruin to the Fitzwilliams and the Darcys. You are the heir, Fitzwilliam; you bear their name; he demands that you marry either Anne or Felicity.”

Darcy’s eyes hardened. “But if I am already married?”

“Then he’ll have it annulled—your wife would become a whore, and any children, bastards!”

***

Darcy’s complexion became pale with anger, and the disturbance of his mind was visible in every feature. He was struggling for the appearance of composure, and would not open his lips, till he believed himself to have attained it.

“We should move to your study, sir. This room is not a fit place to discuss this matter further.”

George Darcy’s gait was unsteady, whether from illness or alarm at the dreadful visage now disfiguring his son’s countenance.

Darcy took his arm and led him, as gently as his dark mood allowed, to the study.

Even though the weather was clement, being summer, a fire was burning in the grate.

They sat beside it, in the great leather chairs that had overset Darcy when he visited the study as a child.

“Before we begin. Never, not ever, will I allow my wife to be so disrespected. Never! Whether it’s Matlock or the Prince Regent himself, they will know my displeasure.

I’ve changed, sir. Previously, in London, whilst a Chancery lawyer, I fought battles over wills, estates, and bequests—these are contests of ink, paper, and words; only occasionally did I come into contact with felons and violent criminals.

But as judge-advocate, I’ve sentenced men to hang, had women flogged, had men condemned to the meanest labour under the burning sun of the antipodes.

“In Cape Town, a Dutch boy demeaned Elizabeth, calling her a whore merely because she wore slippers and her hair was pinned and not covered with a cap—he spent a night in the stocks.

“In Sydney, the wife of Colonel O’Connell, lieutenant governor before me, named Elizabeth a cuckold—with your assistance, they now live in disease-sprung Ceylon, warring against the Sinhalese monarchy.”

“Enough, Fitzwilliam! I’m on your side in this. Regardless, we’re embroiled in Matlock’s machinations. My mistake! For I misguidedly paid the interest on the debt up to July ‘14—I gave Matlock an inch, and he would take a mile.”

Darcy’s father looked to his son. Not only was he physically intimidating, but his mien, his cold, implacable temper, was more terrifying than anything he had seen before. From whence did such indomitable will come?

“Tell me of her, Fitzwilliam, for I must understand how you came to be married. But how is it we know nothing of your marriage?”

“I’ll consult Lloyd’s Register. Our letters were dispatched aboard the Cato —that ship must be lost. However, ‘tis of no account. I’ll tell you of the handsomest woman of my acquaintance.”

Darcy spoke of the Court of Chancery, the Judge’s decision that Elizabeth should marry Collins; of her flight to London and the journey to New South Wales as nurse to the Bent’s children; of her being midwife to the regiment, matron of the orphanage, warden of the female school; of her two hundred and fifty acres at Boondi, twelve hundred acres at St. Andrews; of her speaking eight languages; of her glorious soprano; of her high consequence in the colony, of her being relentlessly pursued; of his need for a wife.

And, finally, his love for her and her love for him.

“Father, if the choice was to give up Pemberley or not to marry Lady Anne, my mother—how would you choose?”

Tears gathered in his father’s eyes. “You’re too cruel—for I would surely choose your mother, for she was my heart, my soul.

Ours was a love match, though both our parents—the old Earl and your grandfather Darcy—thought it a marriage of convenience: her title and consequence; my wealth, once I came into my inheritance. ”

He looked to Darcy. “But in all of this, you’ve not told me Elizabeth’s age? When did she reach her majority?”