Darcy's Journey

Darcy’s Journey

M. A. Sandiford

Copyright
© 2016 M. A. Sandiford

All
rights reserved.

ISBN: 1519112939

ISBN-13:
978-1519112934

Cover
art from
The Duchess of Richmond’s Ball
by Robert Alexander Hillingford (1870s), downloaded from Wikimedia Commons

Prologue

May 1814

Cannon Street was a prosperous road populated
more by businessmen than gentry. As the carriage threaded through traffic
towards St Pauls, Mr Gardiner pointed out the residence of a ship-owner he had
once dealt with, and later, a cabinet-maker in demand for his fine craftsmanship.
Elizabeth answered politely, but her mind was pre-occupied with other concerns:
her encounter, just a few weeks ago, with Darcy at Hunsford; and a major grievance
in their quarrel, the plight of her sister Jane, still despondent after the separation
from Bingley.

They dismounted at a narrow terraced
house which had been rented by Giuseppe Carandini, a Venetian trader in glass,
and long-term business associate of Mr Gardiner’s. They had met over a decade
ago and collaborated on several ventures before 1806, when Napoleon blockaded
all trade between Britain and the continent. With Napoleon exiled to Elba this
constraint had at last been lifted, and merchants from all over Europe were
racing to London to renew their contacts.

Signor Carandini had not come alone: he
had brought his daughter Regina, now in her early twenties and still unmarried—although
probably not for long, since if rumours were true she had taken London society
by storm, and caught the eye of a baronet. On learning that Mr Gardiner had a
niece of her own age, the sociable Miss Carandini had begged for an introduction.
Elizabeth, for her part, was excited to meet the young lady who had made such
an impression.

An English servant led them to the
drawing room, where they were received by a young woman with thick auburn hair,
pinned so that curls framed her face and extended to the shoulders of her
silver-blue muslin dress. The contrast of the reddish hair with the pale blue
material was striking, and Elizabeth paused in frank admiration before advancing
with a smile for the introduction.

‘Miss Bennet. Such a pleasure to make
your acquaintance.’ Regina Carandini spoke precisely, with a musical lilt. She
turned to greet Mr Gardiner. ‘My father apologises that he is unable to join us
downstairs.’

Mr Gardiner frowned. ‘Has his condition
worsened?’

For an instant Miss Carandini’s mask
slipped, and Elizabeth saw she was truly afraid. ‘The physician called again
this morning, and insists he remain in bed. However, he is eager to speak with
you. We are assured that his illness is not infectious. It is
idropsia
—how
do you say—dropsy? Of the lungs.’

Mr Gardiner faced Elizabeth, his
expression grave. ‘It would be best if I went up alone, Lizzy.’

Elizabeth agreed, and after the servant
returned for Mr Gardiner, was left
tête-à-tête
with Miss Carandini.

‘You will take the afternoon tea,
yes?’ Regina bounced out of the divan, more animated now they were alone, shouted
an order in Italian to a maid, and returned smiling. ‘We have fresh
frittelle
.
I hope you will like.’

Elizabeth smiled back, warmed by such
enthusiasm in the face of adversity. ‘May I ask what
frittelle
are, or
would that spoil the fun?’

‘Ha!’ Miss Carandini raised her arms
dramatically. ‘No, definitely you must wait. It is—
meraviglioso
,
wonderful, to have your company, Miss Bennet. I have found it so quiet here.’

‘Really?’ Elizabeth dropped her voice to
a whisper. ‘I was informed that you had taken to the
ton
like a fish to
water.’

Miss Carandini looked up sharply, then laughed.
‘You are
teasing
me, Miss Bennet. Yes, my father still has friends in
London, in particular a count who, like us, comes from
Venezia
, Venice,
and kindly invited us to a musical
soirée. This led to a further invitation, to a ball, and a few social calls.’
She spread her hands in another dramatic gesture. ‘And that is all.’

Elizabeth drew back as a maid entered
and placed a tray on the table between them. The tea was served in a
traditional English pot, but the cakes were unusual: they looked like small
fried dumplings, crisp and light, speckled with raisins and dusted with fine
sugar.

‘Forgive me for repeating such gossip,’ Elizabeth
said. ‘I am notorious for my impertinence.’

‘Impertinence.’ Miss Carandini rolled
the word around her tongue. ‘
Impertinenza
. I like it.’ She met
Elizabeth’s eye. ‘Both the word and the—how do you say—the
attribute? Of course you will now have to permit me to be, ah,
impertinent
in return. But wait!’ She pointed to the tray. ‘We have the
frittelle
,
and I am eager to know whether they please you.’

She poured tea, and offered Elizabeth
one of the cakes in a delicate lace napkin. ‘Eat like this, so that your
fingers are not made sticky.’

Inside its crisp outer layer, the bun
was soft and delicious, with hints of brandy and orange zest. Miss Carandini
observed Elizabeth as she ate, impatient for her reaction.

‘Good?’

With her mouth still full, Elizabeth
nodded.

Miss Carandini clapped her hands. ‘I am
happy. Now, to return your impertinence, I should say that I have also heard
certain things about
you
.’ She put down her cup and leaned back, freeing
her hands for gestures. ‘It is told that you are sad because a trip with your
uncle and aunt had to be cancelled.’

Elizabeth smiled, then replied more
seriously, ‘A small matter compared with your father’s illness.’

‘But is it true?’

‘Yes.’ She paused. ‘I have been upset
too over some personal issues, which ought to remain private.’

Miss Carandini studied her. ‘Where I
come from, such issues normally regard a gentleman.’ She grinned. ‘See, Miss
Bennet, now I am being
very
impertinent.’

Elizabeth grinned back. ‘The gentlemen
can certainly be troublesome, Miss Carandini, and for all I know, you may also
have concerns that should remain private.’

‘True.’ Miss Carandini raised a finger.
‘But consider. If you have enjoyed our conversation, and these cakes, you might
call on me again, and in time we might become friends. And once we are friends,
I might share some of my secrets with you, and you with me. Is it not possible,
Miss Bennet?’

Elizabeth studied her beautiful, crafty
face, enjoying her more and more. ‘You may call me Elizabeth if you wish.’

‘And you may call me Regina.’

‘Should we have another cake, Regina?’

‘I think we should, Elizabeth.’

They continued talking until Mr Gardiner
entered with a gift from Signor Carandini. Elizabeth opened the little package
to find a necklace of a kind she had never seen, made of coloured glass beads
in subtle shades of blue, pink and orange.

‘Beautiful.’ She turned to Regina. ‘This
is so kind of your father. May I venture upstairs to thank him?’

‘I will come with you.’ Regina caressed
Elizabeth’s arm lightly as she passed to lead the way.

PART I

1

December 1814

Fitzwilliam Darcy strode along a path
leading from the kitchen garden at Pemberley towards open countryside. The
morning was crisp, rime glazing the hedgerows, and he longed for exercise. The
last half-hour had been spent examining the progress of his steward’s latest experiment
in the
forcing
of rhubarb
. McBride had learned this technique during
a trip to Yorkshire: farmers had begun to keep the crop in the ground for two
years to encourage root growth, then replant it in dark warm sheds where it
would ripen over the winter to yield sweet crimson stalks. A tour of the sheds
by candlelight had shown promising results, but it was a relief to escape
McBride’s overlong explanations, and exchange dank outbuildings for fresh air.

The fine weather was welcome for another
reason: he was awaiting a party from Netherfield, including not only the
Bingleys, but Georgiana. They had planned to overnight at Rugby, and with luck
should arrive before dusk. As the cold snap set in, there was every chance of
snow, with ice thick enough for skating on the lake. Two years ago Darcy would
have been contented at the prospect of a white Christmas. He smiled, recalling
the confident ambitions of that 27-year-old who had never loved—and never
lost.

He had met Elizabeth Bennet in the
autumn of 1813. She was the second daughter of a country gentleman, a lively,
impudent girl with bewitching brown eyes. From the start, there had never been any
question of courting her. Whatever her charms, the family was simply insupportable,
from vulgar mother to eccentric father to flirtatious younger sisters—not
to mention an uncle and aunt in trade in Cheapside.

But the workings of the heart defied
logic, and within six weeks he had acknowledged his predicament, quit
Hertfordshire, and persuaded Charles Bingley (who was besotted with her sister
Jane) to leave as well. The matter should have ended there, but no: in March
the lovely lady turned up again, at his aunt’s estate in Rosings, and this time
he had gone overboard and actually proposed to her. The manner of her rejection
still stung.
Impolite
hardly covered it. He was accused of arrogance,
and disdain for others. He had ruined Wickham’s career and her sister’s happiness.
His proposal had been insulting. He was the last man in the world that she
would ever marry.

To cap it all, on the following day, she
had refused to accept a letter explaining the misconceptions on which her rejection
was based! His sins, already many, were now compounded with another: that of
improperly seeking to correspond with a single lady.

He could see her now, in his mind’s eye,
her intelligent face flushed with embarrassment and anger as he pleaded with
her to read his explanation. The final shake of the head (
No, it is
impossible
), and she span away, walking so fast that she stumbled in her
eagerness to remove herself from his presence.

And that was the last time they had met.

As time passed he realised that her
bitterness was understandable. He
had
treated her rudely, both at the
ball where they first met, and during his proposal. It had been underhand to
separate Charles from her sister. Anyone could be misled by Wickham. There
seemed no point in attempting a further meeting, but he could at least address
his own mistakes. So it was that he had spoken to Bingley when they were next
in town, and confessed his connivance with Caroline Bingley in concealing
Jane’s presence in London during the winter. This initiative had at least
turned out well. Charles had forgiven him, and returned to Netherfield to
resume the courtship.

Unfortunately, Elizabeth was no longer
around to receive this news. Over the summer she had befriended an Italian
woman, recently married to a baronet, and accompanied the couple to Venice.
Jane, according to Bingley, had sent several letters, but only the first had
received a reply; with communications still unreliable, there was no guarantee
that the others had arrived.

Darcy had never met Elizabeth’s Italian
friend, but was acquainted with her husband, Sir Ambrose Havers, through his
younger brother Edward. Darcy and Edward Havers were not close, but they had
overlapped at Cambridge University and kept in touch. The family was respectable,
but no longer wealthy owing to unwise investments by the former baronet, Edward’s
late father.

It was hardly surprising that Elizabeth
had accepted the opportunity of a trip to Italy. Since their early conversations
in the drawing room at Netherfield, Darcy had known of her interest in art and architecture.
The war in Europe had ended, with Napoleon exiled and King Louis XVIII restored
to the French throne. Young Englishmen again ventured to the great cities of
the continent, including the poet Percy Shelley, who had scandalously abandoned
his pregnant wife and run off with Mary Godwin, the 16-year-old daughter of the
author Mary
Wollstonecraft.

Since Elizabeth was in reliable company, there was no reason to doubt
her safety. What he sought was confirmation that she had heard the latest news,
not only about Bingley and Jane, but about Wickham, whose character had now
been exposed in all its venality by his elopement with Lydia Bennet. Had Jane’s
letter announcing the catastrophe arrived? More importantly, had Elizabeth seen
Jane’s
next
letter, recounting that the couple were now discovered,
married, and dispatched to the North of England, where Wickham had taken up a commission
in the regular army?

If only they had a reply from Italy to reassure them that Elizabeth was
well, and had received their latest reports …

Darcy deflected along a track leading to
his favourite spot by the river. The cold weather had firmed up the ground,
leaving only a few muddy patches that he easily side-stepped. He tried to calm
down. Elizabeth was staying with a wealthy family and accompanied by a trustworthy
English gentlemen—moreover, a
recently married
one. Sooner or
later she would learn the truth about Wickham. Bingley would be arriving
shortly, perhaps with good tidings from Longbourn.

He sat on a tree stump and absorbed the
view, allowing himself once again to dream.