Page 79 of Lizzie’s Spirit

Finally, the house was empty of visitors and those offering their condolences. Just Georgiana, Mrs. Annesley, and Darcy—now, Master of Pemberley.

Lady Catherine and Anne returned grumbling to Kent, and the Bingleys and Hursts to their rented manor, Netherfield, in Hertfordshire.

Lady Matlock and Felicity departed to join the earl for the start of the Parliamentary session.

Was his absence a deliberate snub or just the carelessness of rank—that Parliament was more important than paying his respects to his sister’s husband of thirty years? Darcy knew not, and cared less.

Their neighbours had attended the funeral.

George Darcy was laid to rest beside his beloved Lady Anne and his son, Frederick.

He had died content, his body knowing that it was time to go; that there was little more to add to his legacy—not only had Frederick been a great man, but Fitzwilliam also, and Georgiana, so lovely of heart and mind.

His remaining regret was never meeting Elizabeth, but some things were not meant to be.

Reluctantly, Darcy returned to London. The Parliamentary session meant fulfilling his duty to Governor Macquarie with meetings with government and influential members of Parliament, and visiting the Darcy family solicitor.

Winthrop wished not to travel, wearied by having served and lost a kind, benevolent master of more than forty years.

But he remained as butler at Pemberley. At the House, Darcy promoted the head footman, Mathers, to the post.

“Your coffee, Mr. Darcy. Very hot without cream.” Mathers placed the cup onto the large mahogany desk in the study. “Is there anything else you require?”

“Please, to be undisturbed. If you will, remove the knocker from the door.”

Later that morning, Darcy had an appointment with his solicitor for the official reading of the will, but he already knew its contents, his father having given him a copy when he first returned.

There was nothing unusual—bequests and pensions to servants, a painting that a neighbour had long admired, and other such items. He would have his man of business take care of the details.

But for each beneficiary, he would write a personal letter expressing his father’s gratitude for their years of service or neighbourliness.

But there was a surprise, a codicil written only recently, a signed copy placed in the drawer with his other personal papers.

Lady Anne’s jewels were to go to Georgiana, but of the Darcy jewels—the sapphires were to go to Darcy’s wife.

Additionally, there was an annuity of fifteen hundred pounds and the title to a cottage in Lambton.

Well done, Father! You took care of my Elizabeth from the grave, in spite of anything that Matlock can do. For the wording made it clear that he meant wife to include cohabitation as man and wife under common law.

Amongst his personal papers were the results of searching the patent rolls for details of any title that may have come down to the Darcys.

There was little of interest, save that his father had passed copies to the Lord Chancellor’s office, together with a sufficient sum to finalise the search.

Though he would read them in detail later, it was possible a barony had survived extant, though in all likelihood, it had gone extinct centuries ago or passed to another branch of the family .

My apologies, Father, but we are not destined for rank and privilege, other than what our wealth can buy. ‘Tis ironic, thought Darcy, but in this new world of trade and manufactories, wealth will, most likely, purchase more prestige and influence than even an earl could wish for.

Mr. Simmonds, the Darcy solicitor, was a brusque man and quickly moved to the business at hand. “Mr. Darcy, I received your note. Your father’s will and other personal documents are prepared for the reading and your perusal. Shall I read the will, or are you already familiar with its contents?”

“The reading is not necessary. But I believe he made some recent changes with notarised codicils. Perhaps you can expound on any legal issues that you feel are relevant.”

“Firstly,” began Mr. Simmonds, “I am confused as to the provision he made for your wife. It is worded very strangely, though perfectly legal and to the point, but he makes provision for your having a common law wife. I was not aware that you are married.”

“Mr. Simmonds,” said Darcy, “I do not doubt your integrity, but you may be offended by my request that anything said in this office remain confidential to you alone. In particular, you must not talk of it to any partner or clerk of your practice.”

“Of course, Mr. Darcy. I shall make a note that none other than myself can access any matters concerning your family or estates.”

“Indeed, I am married—before God and witnessed by Governor Macquarie and his wife in St. Phillip’s Church, New South Wales, in May of the year ‘10. My wife, at this moment, journeys on the ship Grosvenor and, Poseidon willing, will arrive in London by the end of the month. The matter, which was of great concern to my father, is that the Earl Matlock, my uncle, wishes me wed to his daughter. He is a prideful and vindictive man, accustomed to having his way. If he were to learn of my prior marriage, he, together with the archbishop, could have the marriage annulled.”

Simmonds was astonished. This was grave indeed; that the earl would take such an action implied there was much at stake. Darcy continued,

“My wife is with child—‘tis likely she has already birthed onboard the vessel. When she arrives in England, we will marry by common licence. Even though the law of this country recognises marriages that have taken place abroad, the power of an earl and that of the archbishop combined is not to be ignored. You can see my father’s concern. Were Lord Matlock to prevail, by virtue of the codicil, my wife would be protected.”

“And you, sir. What would your course be if the marriage were annulled?”

“She would be mistress of Pemberley, my companion, and the mother of my children, who I would legally adopt as my own. There is no entail on the estate; therefore, I can choose the heir—even an adopted child. But let us pray it does not come to that.”

“I now understand the disposition of the guardianship of your sister, Miss Darcy. Your father has made you sole guardian. Such a course would be unusual if you were a bachelor, but, married, it makes perfect sense.

“We are almost finished. The will must be proved in the Prerogative Court of Canterbury, but since your wife’s codicil is effected by your hand, it becomes an estate matter; thus, its existence need not be disclosed.

However, the guardianship must be lodged with the Court of Chancery.

It is unlikely that any would challenge this, especially given your being married, but if your marital status were uncertain, then it could come before the court. ”

Simmonds took another document, studied it briefly, and then handed the same to Darcy. “For the codicils to come into effect, they require your signature. Particularly, for the payment of your wife’s legacy from the estate. If you agree, can you sign these authorisations, which I shall witness.”

Darcy signed, then relaxed into his chair. His Lizzie was safe, even if he were to die before her.

That evening, there was a note from his agent. The best of news—the Grosvenor sighted in the Thames estuary.

***

London, December 15, 1813

Mr. Gardiner carefully locked the door to his office, banked the fire in the vestibule, and exited his warehouse, securing the grill.

A grey, chilling drizzle assailed him, but the new gas lamp, just installed outside in the street, cast a welcome, though feeble, light illuminating the front of the building.

He heard a muffled sob and was instantly alert, his hand fingering the small flintlock pistol he always carried.

He thought to reenter the vestibule, but the hackney would soon be here.

On a night as dark and damp as this, he wished not to miss it and be forced to walk the length of Gracechurch Street to his house.

There was that sound again, close by—on the bench, a man, slumped, his head bent between his knees, his beaver fallen to the ground.

Was he drunk? Perhaps, best to leave him be.

But, even in the weak light of the lamp, Mr. Gardiner saw the quality of the fine woollen coat.

Perhaps a gentleman, robbed, rare this side of the bridge.

He approached gingerly, alert for some pretence.

“Sir, can I be of assistance?”

The man stirred, aware of Mr. Gardiner’s presence. He staggered to his feet, then slumped once more onto the bench.

“Lost…” Cambridge accent, well-spoken, even as he mumbled. Somehow, the voice seemed familiar.

“Sir, let me assist you. Have you been assaulted? Are you unwell?”

Suddenly, the man lurched upright, towering over him. Startled, Gardiner took a hurried step back, hand tightening on the pistol. Recognition came in a rush.

“Mr. Darcy! Whatever is the matter? Please, sir, let me help!”

At that moment, the hackney arrived, a familiar face holding the strings. “Eh, Guv’, is ther’ a problem?”

“Thomas, help me. Assist this gentleman onto the seat. Then away to my home, as quickly as your horse can fly!”

With Thomas’s help, Mr. Gardiner eased the stricken gentleman into the hackney. The ride through rain-slicked streets was silent, save for the clatter of hooves and Darcy’s muffled grief.

Darcy sat huddled before the glowing fire, yellow flames and red coals attempting to displace the drear chill of the December evening.

“Lizzie…” Surely, when he awoke, she would be here—laughing, her bright smile warming him as no fire could.

“Sir, Mr. Darcy. Please, take this tea; it’s well-sweetened. If you wish it, I’ve brandy.”

“No. Yes… tea is perfect. Mr. Gardiner? Your house? I recall nothing after leaving that accursed ship, the Grosvenor .”