Page 7 of Mrs Darcy’s Dilemma

On the following morning, the Miss Wickhams began their lessons.

Cloe read Italian with Jane for several hours, and in the afternoon, as it was a clear and sunny day, Jane and Henry showed her the woods, the maze, and the conservatory.

If their ramble did not convey much solid information to her, at least it had the merit of perfecting their friendship.

Miss Wickham had her riding lesson with Fitzwilliam, but they were not seen by any one else until four o’clock, when they came in for tea with flushed faces, not saying very much.

Mr. Darcy came in from seeing his agent and had changed his boots and was crossing to his library when his wife stopped him. “I should like to speak to you, Mr. Darcy,” said she.

“I thought so; is it about your niece? Come into the library, my dear, and we shall be quite undisturbed.”

He seated himself at his desk in the long room with its curious white plaster moulding, carved in the seventeenth century and one of the wonders of Pemberley. The late afternoon sun slanted through the diamond-paned windows and lighted up the old, golden-bound volumes.

“Well, what is it? It is not like you to be at a loss for words. Has that baggage, Betty or Bettina or however she calls herself, turned out a second Lydia and run off with Fitzwilliam?”

In spite of her anxiety, Mrs. Darcy laughed. “That is so exactly what I fear may happen. Really, Mr. Darcy, I do not like her. From observation, I can see that she is certainly very vulgar and very likely without principles. I fear she means mischief.”

“You are decided in your opinions, Elizabeth. But your condemnations are not so extensive as to include the younger sister.”

“Oh, no! Cloe Wickham seems to be everything she should be. I like her not being afraid to work. She is a good little thing and clever, too, I suspect.”

“And a fit wife for Henry? Have you got that far?”

“Mr. Darcy! How can you? They have not known each other two days.”

“But he is taken with her.”

“I have never seen him so interested in a young lady before,” she confessed.

“Then both our lads are in danger.”

They looked at each other soberly.

“I begin to fear it was ill-considered,” said Elizabeth, “bringing my nieces here, and since it was all my own wish, I have nobody to blame for it. Oh! What a pity. How much lighter my spirits would be if only I could blame you.”

“Well, and what do you want to do, my dear? Send them off?”

“Oh, no! That would be too unkind. I think that Cloe, at any rate, will profit from her lessons here, and her desire to be a governess is so laudable I cannot put obstacles in her way. She will be a real help to her mother. And Jane will so enjoy her company, in the gaieties to come.”

“Yes, and the boy is going. He will be in York before Ember-week; that is the thirteenth of December.”

“Very true. Henry is safe enough. But Fitzwilliam—that Bettina is a vixen. And her manners! I fear it is a case of courtesy being cumbersome to those that know it not—and with such a father and mother, how should she? Bettina is exactly like Lydia—no, worse, for she has more craft about her than poor heedless Lydia ever had. It is like her father’s craft.

Oh, dear, it is horrible to have such suspicions, but I am afraid she is determined to turn Fitzwilliam’s head entirely. ”

“There is some safety,” her husband observed, “in that her methods are so obvious.”

“I do not agree with you at all. Fitzwilliam does not see through them.”

“I perceive, then, that this is all leading up to a request that I have a word with our eldest son.”

“How nice that I do not even have to ask you. Yes, I would wish it. He may listen to you, where he will not to anyone else. He respects you so.”

Mr. Darcy’s lips curled in diversion, but he only said, “I will do it, my dear; I only hope it may produce the desired result.”

Mr. Darcy spoke to his son at breakfast. Fitzwilliam was up early, for he meant to take the train to a race-meeting, and Miss Wickham was so annoyed to learn that her charms were not sufficient to fix him to her side for the duration of her visit that she made no effort to come down to an early breakfast. Only Mr. Darcy therefore joined his son, and as they helped themselves to chocolate, honey, bread, and cold meat from the sideboard, Fitzwilliam cheerfully opened the conversation.

“Good morning, sir. I’m off to Newmarket this morning, to see a man—early start, you see. Train is a fine invention; only I’m afraid if they ever run it through here, it will disturb the fox coverts.”

“Of course, if the railway ever approached here, the track would have to be concealed, not to ruin the prospect,” said Mr. Darcy impatiently, “but, Fitzwilliam, there is something I wish to say to you this morning. You are getting along well with your cousins—find them pleasant, do you?”

“Certainly sir, certainly. I am not the man to neglect my own relations, even if their station in life is inferior to my own.”

“An elevated sentiment. And the elder girl—you like her, do you?”

“I should be telling an untruth if I said otherwise, sir. I think she is the handsomest girl that ever was seen, and the best natured. Do you know that she took a spill yesterday that was absolutely my own fault, and when I helped her up she only laughed. That is what I call a good spirit, in a woman.”

Mr. Darcy had heard enough. “Fitzwilliam, I must not forbear to say what is my duty. You must not think of Miss Wickham.”

Fitzwilliam looked mutinous but said nothing.

“My reasons for saying this are few, but they are good. First, I cannot approve of cousin matches. They are not absolutely proscribed by the laws against consanguinity, but they are generally unhealthy and to be discouraged. However, even if her blood were no objection, the girl’s family is more disgraceful than you, perhaps, are aware. ”

“They are my mother’s family,” said Fitzwilliam resentfully.

“Unfortunately, that is true, and we have paid for the fact,” said Darcy dryly.

“Mr. Wickham has always been totally without principle and has now nothing to look forward to but the last stages of a drunken decline, I comprehend—he is a most revolting and degraded object, and his wife, I fear, is hardly more respectable. We have supported them these twenty years and more, you know. You could not want such as they for your parents-in-law, I think.”

“No; certainly not; but hang it, I would not marry them. And I am not marrying anyone at present, for that matter.”

“I am glad to hear it, but sometimes, you know, a preference can lead farther than you, perhaps, at your time of life, may realize.”

“Oh, damn it, I am not one to be caught. The fox is clever, but more he that catches him, ha? No, no, wedlock is a padlock, as they say, and I have no thought of it, sir.”

“Pardon me, but you should think of it, long and seriously. You are four and twenty. Too early, perhaps, to settle; but your means make it highly eligible. I should wish my sons to marry well and wisely, and be happy, as I have been, in marriage.”

“Well, but, sir, you chose for yourself. Surely I may be trusted to do the same.”

“There is something to that, and your mother and I have no wish to ally you to an heiress or anyone you could not truly care for. Where there is one fortune, that is surely sufficient; purposely seeking for a rich marriage is hardly decent. But I would hope that you, choosing for yourself, would select a gentlewoman, one brought up so as to be a suitable mistress of Pemberley one day, and everything that your mother is. This, I am convinced, is not the case with Miss Wickham.”

“Such a rout,” muttered Fitzwilliam. “I hope I can be pleasant to my cousin without being suspected of such designs.”

“Certainly. I am glad to hear that you have none. But Fitzwilliam, I would be gratified if you would give me your word in this matter.”

“My word? Oh, dash it, yes.”

“Very good. I know you do not wish to marry where it would displease me and grieve your mother, by choosing a young woman whom you could not respect, who would not be a fit lady of this house, whose education is scanty, and whose manners are imperfect. You have not been brought up to that. You are our eldest son, but remember well that although you are to be master of Pemberley one day, there are bequests that may or may not go along with it, by my desire, and you are advised to keep this in mind. The word ‘disinherit’ surely never need be spoken between us. Do you understand?”

“By Gad, yes, I do, very well, I’ll swear however much you like.”

“That is not necessary. But I do want your promise that you will make no proposals for your cousin, without our consent.”

“No, no such thing. Though I do think it is a pity, so handsome as she is, and as jolly as any girl I ever met.”