Page 16 of Mission to Meryton (Pride and Prejudice Variation #25)

Darcy had hoped that after an extremely busy day, he would be blessed with calm and peace at the dinner table. Sadly, he was to be disappointed. He had no sooner taken his place at dinner when Caroline Bingley shot a vituperative glance at her brother and leaned toward Darcy.

“Mr. Darcy, I do beg of you to intervene with my brother, who clearly is infatuated with a pretty face to the point that he is unable to use the brains that God gave him.”

“Caroline, this is entirely inappropriate,” Bingley snapped angrily, casting an uneasy glance at the servants who were bringing dishes and drinks to the table.

Miss Bingley was too furious to heed her brother’s sensible words.

“Miss Bennet is unsuitable, Charles, that is obvious! I can only be thankful that you were not fool enough to actually offer the woman marriage! A courtship can be ended without loss of honor on either side, and you must withdraw as soon as possible.”

“Miss Bennet seems very kind and gracious,” Georgiana ventured in a soft voice. Darcy smiled at her encouragingly; his sister was so shy that it was a significant accomplishment for her to openly disagree with her hostess.

Miss Bingley opened her mouth to hiss an irate reply, only to recollect herself.

“I have an excessive regard for Jane Bennet,” she stated with a frown that belied her words.

“She is really a very sweet girl, and I wish with all my heart that she were well settled. But with a mother who has connections to trade, with Longbourn entailed away from the female line, with a negligible dowry, there is really no chance of it. Certainly we should not connect ourselves with such a family!”

Bingley glowered at his sister, “I would not say that twelve thousand pounds is an insignificant dowry, Caroline.”

Darcy inhaled quickly and shot a warning glance at his friend, but Bingley was too outraged to pay heed to anyone but his sister, who was now staring at her brother in astonishment.

“Jane Bennet has a dowry of twelve thousand pounds? That is quite impossible, Charles! The Longbourn estate cannot possibly produce enough income for even one such dowry, and there are five daughters in need of portions!”

“Dowries do not always come from estate income,” Darcy pointed out repressively. “At times, distant relatives leave money for such purposes.”

Bingley blinked in confusion and then, recollecting that the tulips were a secret , leaned back against his chair and moderated his tone, “You know that is true, Caroline; our cousin Amelia benefited from just such a bequest from her maternal great-aunt. In any case, Mr. Bennet is an honorable man, and I trust him completely. I will also add that I did offer marriage to Miss Bennet, and she requested a courtship to ascertain whether we are indeed compatible. I would marry her tomorrow if I could, Caroline. Now, shall we speak of other things?”

Louisa Hurst, who had been looking uncomfortable throughout this exchange, spoke promptly, “Miss Darcy, did I hear you playing Mozart this afternoon?”

“Yes, Allegro in F Major,” Georgiana replied, her expression brightening.

“I adore that piece,” Mrs. Hurst said enthusiastically, “especially the transitional passage between the second and closing theme.”

“Miss Bingley, may I inquire as to where you acquired that particular fabric on your gown? It is truly lovely,” Mrs. Younge asked.

Caroline Bingley’s face was still slightly pink from fury and shock, but she responded quickly, “I bought it on Bond Street, from the mantua maker ...”

Conversation became general, and Darcy attacked his beef with more than his usual vigor. He dearly hoped that Bingley’s exasperated words to his sister would not pass beyond Netherfield’s walls. It could be dangerous if word got out that the Bennets were far wealthier than was generally known.

/

“A dowry of twelve thousand pounds? That cannot be right, Molly!”

It was closing on midnight, and the Netherfield lower servants were drinking tea and eating trifle left over from dinner. Molly had just been promoted to upper housemaid, and she was all too ready to lord her new superiority over the lower housemaids.

“ ‘Tis true,” she averred, taking an appreciative bite. “Mr. Bingley said it in my own hearing, that Miss Bennet of Longbourn has a twelve thousand pound dowry.”

“Twelve thousand pounds,” declared Emily, the youngest of the maids, her eyes wide in amazement. “Such a sum seems beyond belief!”

“Miss Bingley has a dowry of twenty thousand pounds,” Agnes declared, “but she will need it with that sharp tongue of hers. Miss Bennet is a very nice young lady and always treats the servants well, unlike Miss Bingley, who looks at us as if we are dirt on the soles of her shoes. I hope Miss Bennet makes a match with the master.”

“My half day is tomorrow,” Dorothy mused.

At six and twenty, she was the eldest of the housemaids, but had not been promoted because while she was strong and quick in her duties, she was not pretty, and Miss Bingley wished for pretty servants to serve at table.

“I will ask Mama about the Miss Bennets. If all the girls have such large dowries, I would think the gentlemen would be beating down the front door of Longbourn.”

/

Brahe Mansion

Stockholm, Sweden

Monsieur Chauvelin stepped thankfully into the small parlor, which was, while cold, not as frigid as the rest of the mansion he had seen thus far.

The elderly man waiting for him did not rise from his ornate seat, but that was no particular surprise.

Count Brahe, Swedish noble, was not likely to stand in the presence of a mere agent of the French Empire.

“Come in, Monsieur, and do sit down,” the Count said in perfect French, gesturing imperiously toward a chair nearby. It was, Chauvelin noted with gratitude, quite close to the roaring fire which battled the cold that snaked under the door and through the heavily draped windows.

“Thank you, my lord. May I compliment you on your home, and your French?”

“Well, as to my home, I inherited it from my father but my French – I always had a way with languages, and a governess from France of whom I was most fond. It obviously has proven advantageous that I am skilled in your language since the Crown Prince of Sweden speaks only French. But before we get down to business, let us drink.”

The old man gestured to a servant standing nearby, and the man, dressed in the Brahe livery, carefully poured two glasses of wine for his master and the guest. Chauvelin accepted his glass and waited tranquilly for his host to speak.

“To the tulips!” the Count declared, and his austere expression shifted into one of almost infantile merriment. “To the flowers!”

Chauvelin allowed his lips to quirk up a little in response as both men raised their glasses to one another and then drank. The agent noted with wry amusement that the wine was a French one, and very expensive.

“You may go, Hugo.”

The servant nodded, his face impassive, and carefully withdrew, causing the candles to flicker as he pulled the door closed gently.

“How was your trip, Monsieur?” the Count inquired, leaning languidly back in his well-padded chair. “I regret that you do not see Stockholm at its best.”

Chauvelin cast an irritable glance at the window nearest him; in spite of the fact that it was but three hours after noon, the sun had already sunk most of the way beneath the horizon. “It was well enough, my lord.”

“You are most courteous, sir, most courteous indeed, but I am certain the cold and darkness quite freezes your French bones! Ah, but you should see Stockholm in the spring, when the days lengthen rapidly, when the new plants push their way out of the dirt to revel in the light and sun and warmth, when the blossoms fill the air with fragrance.”

“It sounds very pleasant,” Chauvelin said. “Indeed, either I or another ambassador will make another trip to your fair country in a few months to deliver your prize.”

The old man’s face seemed to sharpen in the firelight, and his eyes grew intent with passion and yes, greediness. “You believe you will succeed in obtaining my tulip bulbs from England?”

“Certainly,” Chauvelin responded with mendacious assurance. In truth, his agent had thus far not succeeded in his task, but surely he would. How difficult could it be to find flowers?

“Good, good,” the Count declared before focusing a glare on his guest. “It must be from the English source, mind you. I can purchase tulips from Holland, but the English ones are impossible to obtain now.”

“Since Sweden is now at war with England, you should find it impossible,” Chauvelin pointed out grimly.

Count Brahe shrugged irritably. “That war is forced on Sweden by France, as you well know, and yes, it makes it difficult to obtain treasures from England. I want the bulbs from the source, and I want as many as possible. My old friend and fellow horticulturist, Count Legerberg, will be quite green with envy. Say what you like about the English, but there is someone who lives on England’s shores who is a veritable genius with broken tulips, and I want many original bulbs from the greenhouse from which these brilliant beauties emanate. ”

Chauvelin could think of many things to say about the English, none of them courteous, so he contented himself with a firm nod, “It will be done, Lord Brahe.”

Silence fell for a full minute, and then the Count abruptly let out a braying laugh, which startled even the phlegmatic Frenchman. “I suppose you think me quite insane, do you not? To care so much about tulips?”

“It is not for me to question your interests, my lord.”

The nobleman sighed and his eyes lifted to a painting above the fire, a massive portrait in a gold frame of his family from many years previous.

“My wife and sons have passed on before me and left no grandchildren. When I die, all this around me, all my lands and wealth, will pass on to my brother’s son, whom I heartily despise.

There is not much left for me in this world, monsieur.

Soon, this year, the next, maybe five years, or ten years from now, I will die and be buried in the earth.

But the flowers remain, sir, the flowers come back.

Long after I have gone, the tulips will rise and die back, only to rise again. Do you understand?”

Chauvelin thought the man quite unhinged, at least where flowers were concerned, but he was not about to say so. “I do, my lord.”

“I doubt it. You probably think me quite mad. But I am not insane, you know. I believe that I am by far the winner in this arrangement. You are moving heaven and earth to get me my precious tulips from England, and I sit peacefully in my parlor and enjoy wine and the warm fire.”

Agent Chauvelin sat up and stared directly into Count Brahe’s face. “You have pledged, on your honor, that you will support Emperor Napoleon against Bernadotte if necessary.”

“If necessary, I will,” Brahe responded irritably. “On my honor, I assure you that I will. But Crown Prince Karl Johan ...”

“Marshal Bernadotte,” Chauvelin interpolated sullenly.

“Here in Sweden, he is Crown Prince Karl Johan, as you know. The Crown Prince was born in France, served under Napoleon as his marshal for years, and the Crown Princess, his wife, is related by marriage to Napoleon himself. I see no reason for these two men, gifted in both war and diplomacy, to ever come to blows.”

Monsieur Chauvelin narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “No doubt you are correct, Count Brahe. But yours is an ancient family, and many owe their allegiance to you. If Sweden should turn against France, you are bound by honor to work with Emperor Napoleon against your Crown Prince.”

“Only if you get me my tulips!” Count Brahe assented jovially.