Page 15 of Old Boots (Pride and Prejudice Variations #3)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

H aving seen first-hand that intent was powerfully communicated and impossible to disguise, even under cover of elegant manners, I could not erase the realisation from my awareness. What better example did I have than my hostess?

When I announced my plans to leave briefly for London, Miss Bingley professed herself to be crestfallen while wishing me to the devil.

She had good reason for her feelings, for she also perceived my intent from the very beginning, which was to harass and snub her, all while attending to her with an air of benign innocence.

Whether she was conscious of this or not did not matter.

She felt it, as had Elizabeth Bennet that same morning, though the latter was acutely aware of and could articulate what had displeased her so very much.

Well, I would not give the lady the satisfaction of condemning me twice for the same sin.

I would adjust my intention before I spoke and made sure I was clearly on the right side of things.

Certainly, I now intended to meet Mr Gardiner with a proper degree of respect, and having admonished myself sufficiently, I moved on much as a man does when he loses a substantial wager at cards.

I folded, paid up my note of hand, per se, and in a state of well-earned sobriety, I went to the stable.

John Reese was returned from Scotland, and he met me with an air of mischief satisfied. I spoke of my intention to travel to London and when I would need him to be ready, and we walked towards the paddock for a private conference.

My coachman gave me a full account of his errand.

He was pleased with his success and said as much, claiming if there was ever a rascal in need of a lesson, it was George Wickham.

He did not know of Wickham’s villainy with regard to my sister, though he probably suspected it, having been with me at Ramsgate.

But he had ample reason to relish our deed, for as the son of my father’s steward, Wickham had made himself infamous with the servants of Pemberley.

While the matter was fresh on my mind, I went to Bingley’s library to write a letter to my cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam.

There was not a soul alive who hated Wickham more.

By divine timing, while I was still paring my quill, the post arrived with a parcel from my butler in London containing the society notices from three different newspapers as requested. I took up my pen.

Dear Richard,

I enclose three clippings which may be of interest to you.

You may be surprised to read that our friend has married.

As I understand it, he was lately an officer in the militia but left his post unexpectedly, having fallen in love with the daughter of a blacksmith from Luton and flown to Gretna Green.

The lady’s father, apparently in company with his two grown sons, felt compelled to pursue the couple to assure they were in fact married and even went so far as to pay for notices to be printed in the gazettes to satisfy themselves of the legality of the matter.

An unusual step for that class of person, but I suppose since his daughter was marrying an educated, gentlemanly fellow, he was making a show of her conquest. I could write more, but your time is valuable, and I should wait until I see you next to tell all.

I trust you are staying out of harm’s way, and I wish you Godspeed and an early leave.

Darc y

This tantalising morsel of information would cause my cousin to burn with curiosity, and I chuckled for the first time since the day after the Netherfield Ball. I sent the note express to his regimental headquarters on the hope it would be taken across the Channel in the next packet.

The journey from Meryton to London was not long when a man has the luxury of his own coach, prime horses, and competent people.

I took up Mr Bennet at ten o’clock in the morning, and when he asked whether we could stop at Lucas Lodge to say a brief farewell to Sir William, I was happy to comply.

Mr Bennet was surprisingly garrulous for such a retiring, sad old gentleman, and even offered to bring Sir William anything he wished from London.

Sir William, equally garrulous, wished for nothing, and we were away before Reese had to walk the horses.

Only when we were a mile up the road, and after seeing a peculiar look about my companion’s face which reminded me of his second daughter, did I perceive that I had been the brunt of a joke.

I hardened my jaw. “I suppose our going to London together will only add fuel to the speculation.”

“Did you just now think of it?” He chuckled. “I had thought you more perceptive, Darcy. ”

“I am pleased to have amused you, sir,” I said stiffly.

“Come now. Even you must admit that there is pleasure to be had in confounding our friends and neighbours?”

“I do not enjoy being classed as a rake and a libertine who leaves a trail of broken hearts behind him.”

He smiled at me enigmatically and said, “I doubt that will happen. Meryton society is curious and prone to chirping, but like birds, their memories are short. It is not as though you have left one of my daughters at the altar, after all. The fact of the matter is they have misrepresented your friendship with my family. The fault is their own if they come to the wrong conclusions because you have, in fact, raised no expectations in us.”

“Well,” I conceded irritably, “were I not personally involved, I might find the situation mildly diverting.”

“I knew it. I knew you could not be so punctilious in your heart as you appear to the world.”

I could hardly continue to sulk when faced with Mr Bennet’s triumphant grin. And so I said, almost in a tone of resignation, “Lately I have begun to think I am downright wicked.”

“Oh?”

I told him of my surreptitious arrival at Netherfield, of Miss Bingley’s marital aspirations for me, of the conspiracy of the servants and my complicity, of my dance partners at the local assembly, and of the tea, the capon, and the Mozart.

Mr Bennet was momentarily amused and even laughed aloud. And then, likely thinking of his own case, he said in a more serious tone, “Those are mild pranks, but perhaps the lady has suffered enough?”

“My sentiments exactly, sir,” I said, and we lapsed into silence.

My London house was always a source of pride to me.

Impeccably furnished and the best example of understated elegance, it had the added intangible of being a peaceful, well-ordered establishment.

Not out of fear of me but out of respect for the house itself, my servants would never engage in the chicanery I had witnessed at Netherfield Park.

These impressions flashed through my head as the carriage pulled to a stop, but I managed to stifle the impulse to show Mr Bennet into the hall as though he were being welcomed into a rarified palace.

The thought of Miss Elizabeth’s reaction to the merest flourish of pride on my part was sufficient to dampen my enthusiasm, and the gentleman once again reminded me of his dark-haired daughter in that he expressed no awe or admiration.

One house was much like any other to Mr Bennet, or so it seemed, and when he said he would like a short rest, I asked Carsten to show him to his rooms and to unpack his things.

Not being an elderly man, I had no excuse to retire, though I longed to do so.

I had gone to Hertfordshire in a state of ennui, and I returned to London with something of the same affliction.

The urge to wallow in the weariness of my heart in a darkened room, perhaps with a glass or two of brandy, was strong but not yet insurmountable.

I knew the source of my oppression, and yet I refused to name it, as though in doing so, I would somehow seal a fate I did not yet want to face. Instead of thinking any more about it, I did what every man does who wishes to avoid something—I sought distractions.

Thankfully, I had the means to forestall introspection. My private secretary had a parcel of letters for me to read, a stack of invitations to be politely refused, and a few summaries of matters of interest for my edification.

The war slogged on and looked, from the current vantage point, to be interminable.

The Prince Regent was at odds with the Prime Minister, and the Admiralty was once again in turmoil over the distribution of prize monies.

I heard nothing I did not know, but the habit of receiving information from multiple sources was one I learnt the hard way, having once invested and lost three thousand pounds on the basis of something I read in The Times.

I listened in perfunctory fashion, dictated a few replies to my man of business and Pemberley’s steward, and then went to find my sister.

Georgiana was shy of me, as always. But I had come away from Hertfordshire in humbler boots and possessed of a wider perspective.

I had unwittingly run shy of her too. I had become grave in response to her dismay in my presence, and between the two of us, we made for a miserable, downcast pair.

Thinking to break the pattern, I went to her and warmly kissed her cheek.

“How are you faring, Georgie? You look well.”

I greeted her companion, Mrs Annesley, told them of my guest, Mr Bennet, and drank a cup of tea. As my sister poured under Mrs Annesley’s watchful eye, I felt a rush of compassion. What a parade we have made of such a simple act.

“I did not know you do not use sugar in your tea,” I remarked.

Georgiana blushed. “I stopped using it when I began to pour yours. That way, I can remember you do not like it, and I shall not make a mistake.”

“I have lately had tea prepared every possible way, and I have discovered that I do not much care one way or the other. Perhaps we should have tea as you like it for a change?”