Page 20 of Mrs Darcy’s Dilemma

Joyful relief was felt by nearly all in the household when the coach carrying Mrs. Wickham rattled away down the sweep, and quiet descended upon Pemberley.

There was some bustle, indeed, in the ensuing days, with the preparations and then the departure of Jane for Buxton.

Mr. Darcy thereafter spent half his time in overseeing repairs to the house and the rest reading or walking and talking with his wife, occupations for which he never felt he had enough leisure.

Elizabeth, though she might have wished for a more congenial female companion than Mrs. Clarke, still rejoiced in the absence of Mrs. Wickham.

She knew herself fortunate in being always satisfied in her husband’s company and confidence, and frequently her days were enlivened by Henry’s riding over from his parsonage to tell her of his difficulties and experiences and, perhaps, his wishes and hopes.

One very muddy afternoon early in March, a horseman was seen galloping along the ridge from the direction of Lambton, and crossing the stone bridge toward Pemberley, and Elizabeth went so far as to step into the garden.

Mr. Darcy, who had been in his library, joined her, book still in hand.

“That is not Henry; it is from the wrong direction, and he is riding too fast,” she said.

“It looks like Fitzwilliam,” said Darcy, with a keen look. “Yes, it is—I am certain of it.”

“Fitzwilliam! And alone!” The parents stared at each other and said no more as the sound of rapid hooves came closer and Fitzwilliam, with the same jaunty wave as he used after a day out hunting, thundered past and turned into the stable.

“Yes, my dear Father and Mother,” he said after making his perfunctory bow in the drawing room, “I have come to stay, with your permission, if you will forgive me for giving you no notice. I was happy enough to get out of London and would not go back there for love or money, I can tell you! A horrid hole; no sport but talk, talk, talking, which I never cared for. Standing up on one’s hind legs in a drawing room—that is all.

And nothing is as it was, for Bettina has left me, though to say the truth it is for the best.”

“Left you—has she!” Elizabeth cried in horror.

“Yes, yes. Did I not write? Did not she? Oh, confound it, I cannot think how that did not happen. No: we did not agree, that’s the long and the short of it, and I am happy to be no longer encumbered.

But enough of that. I have invited some friends here.

They will arrive tomorrow. You will not mind, Papa, if we shoot a few birds?

If the coveys are down, we can ride and jump fences in pursuit of a few foxes—either way, I am agreeable; it’s all one.

And we can have comfortable dinners, and so I told them—Pemberley is enough of an inducement to travel a hundred miles, and everyone knows it.

You won’t mind these fellows: it is Lord Farley, to be sure, and my friend Vickers, and then Moles.

He’s a wonder, knows everything there is to know about the horse trade. ”

“Your mother has particularly been enjoying the quiet of the season at Pemberley,” said Mr. Darcy austerely, “and we had not figured to ourselves filling the house with a set of fast sporting men.”

“Oh hang! There’s nothing in that. They won’t trouble you, be out in the field all day, and Farley’s a lord, I tell you, and even Vickers is an Honourable and in the stud-book and all that.

Can’t vouch for Moles, but he’s a quiet fellow enough.

But it’s as you like, yes, perhaps it will be better if they put up at the Fox and Dog at Lambton.

Don’t want them bothering you, Mama. I will tell them when they get here. ”

“But Bettina,” pursued Elizabeth, “you really must sit down, Fitzwilliam, and stop pacing in your boots and telling us about your friends: I must know about Bettina.”

Fitzwilliam looked restless and disinclined to speak.

“You must tell us what has happened to the young lady, Fitzwilliam,” said Darcy, “your cousin.”

“Bless me, so she is! I had forgot.”

Elizabeth lifted up her eyes expressively, and waited.

“She is well,” he said uneasily, “at least she was when I left her.”

“So you left her,” said his father sternly, “I hope not in want. Is she provided for? Do you return to her?”

“No, hang it, I’m damned if I go back to the creature. She’s led me a pretty dance, and I’m not the man to stand for it.”

“Your language has coarsened, Fitzwilliam, in your new mode of life,” said Darcy austerely. “I beg you will remember your mother is present.”

“And Fitzwilliam, even if you have quarrelled, you must not forget your responsibility,” said Elizabeth earnestly. “You have taken Miss Wickham from a respectable home—you cannot leave her to shift for herself. And excuse me, but is there any, any prospect of a child?”

Fitzwilliam turned red. “I know you think me devoid of all feeling, and principle, and all that,” he said sullenly, “and my behaviour I know has not shown me off. But I hope I am not as bad as that. I never said I would marry Bettina; she knew that. You did not like it. That was enough, and I was not inclined to the married state. In short, I never thought seriously of such things, but I assure you it never was my intention to ruin her.”

“Ruin her!” said his father, angrily. “Well, you have done that pretty thoroughly, upon my word, whatever your intentions. Can you deny it, sir?”

Fitzwilliam looked uneasily from his father to his mother. “I, I do not—that is, I was not—oh, it is hard to say.”

Elizabeth astutely regarded her son. “Would it be better,” she inquired compassionately, “if I withdrew? It may be easier for you to speak of such things to your father, alone.”

He looked at her gratefully, and she nodded kindly and withdrew. “I will be in my sitting room. I only condition, Mr. Darcy, that you come and tell me what I am to know of Bettina as soon as may be.”

The gentlemen were not closeted long; the story was soon told and soon heard, and by noises going on downstairs, Elizabeth collected that Fitzwilliam had left the house and gone to the stables. Her husband was presently in the room with her.

“I do believe I have got it all out of him, my dear, and a pretty story it is,” he said in a tone of emphatic disgust. His face was flushed darker than usual, and Elizabeth looked up at him, alarmed.

“Oh! Do not keep me in suspense. Is Fitzwilliam very much to blame? What has become of that poor girl?”

“Poor girl!” exclaimed Darcy. “She is not to be pitied.”

“What do you mean? The gentleman, in such cases, does not suffer as the lady does. His reputation is not spoilt—his prospects not ruined forever. You know very well, Mr. Darcy, that be a woman ever so charitable, and kind, and selfless, as true and as clever as possible, a fall from virtue means, in the eyes of the world, that she is ranked no better than the lowest—how shall I say it?—Winchester goose.”

He held up a hand in protest. “Yes—I know all that. And Fitzwilliam does not pretend not to bear culpability. It is too much to hope that he will do a foolish thing only once in his life—but I do not believe he is as much at fault as might be. Elizabeth, how shall I say it? He was not her first seducer.”

Elizabeth rose from her seat in indignation.

“Oh! He does not scruple to lay the blame on her frailty alone! When she is helpless, her life spoilt beyond redemption. I could not have believed it. How could he behave so abominably? Not her first seducer, indeed! Why, there never was a whisper of ill repute attaching to poor Bettina’s name before this disgraceful episode. ”

“Can we be quite sure?” asked Darcy. “What do we really know of her life in Newcastle? And her character—were you always perfectly satisfied with that?”

“I admit I did not like the girl,” said Elizabeth slowly.

“I thought her manners vulgar and impertinent, which was not surprising, considering the disadvantages of her home—the wonder was that Cloe should be so superior. But in all this, no one ever breathed that Bettina was not virtuous. How can he say so!”

“Hear me out. He fully accepts blame in being the means by which her unchastity was exposed to the world, which is bad enough. But while her character is now publicly known, its nature was not called into existence through Fitzwilliam’s actions.

She was only clever in concealing her former intrigues, for she certainly had them. ”

“If she was unchaste, he was a fool,” said Elizabeth, with emphasis, “and we have only his word about her!”

“Only listen. I will not tell you proof, but he found her not inexperienced, and she was so eager for the adventure herself—being very sure he would eventually marry her—that she spurred him on to the London journey. There could be no concealment, and so they set up housekeeping.”

“I have not patience to hear of their arrangements. But come: how does this serve to put either of the young people in a reasonable light? They are both to blame, as far as I can see.”

“So far, yes. But as they lived together, he found her extravagant, imprudent, anything but a peaceable companion. She nagged and blamed him continually for not marrying her, but to his credit, though he very soon tired of her and was no longer in love, he had no thought of abandoning her.”

“How very kind of him! It is very well Fitzwilliam has gone out riding, for it will be many hours before I can bring myself to look him in the face again, my own son though he is.”

“Elizabeth, you are too harsh. You still have not heard all his recitative, if such a thing may be so called.”

“Then tell me.”

“The details, you know, are not fit, but, Elizabeth, he suspected she had lovers, and then one afternoon he did find her with another gentleman. Her vices are really undoubted, and depend upon it, Fitzwilliam has returned home a wiser, humbler man, for all his bluff manner.”