Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife (79 page)

In the next half year, the few letters Darcy had managed to hand to someone to carry from Belgium would betimes find way their to Pemberley, tattered, weathered, but intact. When the first one arrived, Elizabeth came upon it first, read it, and thereupon brought it to show him, thinking he would be amused he had found home first. When she realised it pained him to be reminded of that time, she notified the help to be certain if any more such posts arrived to bring them directly to her.

For she read and kept every one. It was through the letters that she eventually understood the peril and desperation that was endured. Darcy had forgotten that he had written to her when John died. He had forgotten that he had written of Wickham’s treachery. Possibly, it was best he had, for Elizabeth surmised it unlikely to hear it from his lips (not in defence of Wickham’s newly unsullied memory, but repugnance of speaking the name at all).

Hence, it was Elizabeth who addressed the subject, aghast at what she had read, and it gave Darcy momentum to tell her everything he had uncovered and believed. It was true. Wickham was a venal rogue who had murdered John to desert. The only uncertainty was whether he survived.

Elizabeth had thought him no worse than an ever-dissipating lecher, so she spent a few moments diligently excavating for some blame for herself that he was not unveiled for the venal rogue he truly was. So relentlessly did she propose herself somehow responsible for the train of events that had unfolded, that she was in danger of usurping Jane’s firmly held office of martyr.

She sat there muttering these opinions to herself and was only distracted from her guilt of omission by Darcy drawing his chair next to hers. They had shared very serious moments of crisis, and she fully understood by his expression that what she had heard might be the worst, but would not be all. And that was alarming.

There was no way to say that Wickham was possibly his miscreant half-brother than just to speak the words. So he did. When he announced it, she almost laughed—but stopped herself—so astonishing was the revelation. Even fully explained, Elizabeth (not having the opportunity of discovery) would have been doubtful of the truth of it, had it not been verified by the independent information of Darcy’s mother’s good friend, Lady Millhouse.

The uncovering of the secret of Wickham’s connexion with the family, of course, revealed the mystery behind the sadness she had sensed in Darcy’s mother’s portrait, but this was not an observation Elizabeth would have bestowed upon Darcy’s already overworked sensibilities. Nor did she tell him of the conversation she had had with her mother over her own father’s coffin. If she truly was to believe what she told her husband about accepting those they love for who they are, there was no point.

* * *

Lydia would spend a year happily glowing in widowhood, for Wickham was much improved as a dead war hero than a live philanderer. And Lydia would, eventually, give up claiming access to her sons’ fortune and marry another major in the regulars. (There was an unfortunate incident when, a widow yet, Lydia produced a daughter of uncertain paternity. “That? Well, I couldn’t help that,” was her only explanation when she was scolded for the indiscretion.)

It was doubted her new husband fathered the child, but his new wife’s easy virtue was overlooked by his own easy nature, hence, no true injury was inflicted. Lydia said that he was not quite so charming as Wickham, but he was quite dashing, and that met the only other standard Lydia set for a husband (that and a proposal). What he lost in beguiling wiles was made up for in great, if blind, devotion to his wife, which met the only standard her family hoped for him as well.

True love found Kitty by way of a vicar in Shropshire (nary a swoon came to pass during courtship, but bridesmaid Maria Lucas managed to be felled at the wedding breakfast). Mary was quite content to live a life of introspection under the unrelentingly disapproving gaze of her mother. Mrs. Bennet, however, would never tire of thanking Darcy for making arrangements with poor Charlotte and her unfortunate son for her to live out her life at Longbourn. (Her happiness at residing in Hertfordshire was exceeded only by his in that as well.)

Young Hinchcliffe was one of the Derbyshire soldiers who were left in a grave in France, forever removing from Darcy the opportunity to belittle. Young Henry Howgrave however, came home from war bemedaled and beribboned, was knighted, then elected to Parliament. It was in London that he met an exceedingly beautiful older woman and, thoroughly smitten, proposed marriage. There was talk at first that the lady of French birth was of dubious reputation, which only increased Howgrave’s margin of victory when he was elected Prime Minister.

It was somewhat scandalous that his new wife took such an avid interest in her new husband’s career and politicked for him relentlessly, awarding kisses to costermongers and butchers in exchange for their vote. When accused of relinquishing any claim to respectability by mingling with the coarse masses, Lady Juliette Howgrave merely tossed her curls. She was most happy in her elevated social status, but noted wryly to herself that, except for the currency, her situation had changed not a whit.

* * *

Never known to be the snitch to Lady Catherine, Cyril Smeads was given office as butler to Pemberley. But under the stern glare of Mr. Darcy, his guidance of the household became more outwardly circumspect. Goodwin and Hannah never actually found romance either with each other or another. Both remained quite content with continued furtive looks, rather than suffer the insult of sullied reality.

One of the lesser evils with which Darcy had to cope was an unexpected foaling by Boots. Darcy had always wanted to extend her bloodlines, but Elizabeth had not, always keeping her fastidiously in a stall when she was in season. In querying the grooms, it was understood the only horse that had been near her was Scimitar, the night before Fitzwilliam took him to France.

And, indeed, it was exactly ten months later (the precise date of Fitzwilliam’s departure was etched in the Darcys’ memory) when Boots presented without a complication. Elizabeth had insisted upon being called and, clad in coats over respective night-shirt and gown, she and Darcy went down to the stable to witness the birth. It was a beautiful young horse, all wobbly legs and stockinged feet. In want of hiding his pleasure at the sight, Darcy retook his position of opposition that the sire was Scimitar, not Blackjack. He groused about it unreasonably, and Elizabeth understood he did that in lieu of his sister’s husband.

* * *

Once Darcy accepted the inevitable, he also admitted that the single man he could find no fault in as a husband to Georgiana was Colonel Fitzwilliam. No ambitions to entailment, after a lovely (but hurried) wedding at Pemberley, they were happy to reside at Whitemore and welcome their new daughter. Georgiana continued to write and reminded Fitzwilliam often how dashing he looked with a patch over one eye.

The colonel’s leg wound did not entirely heal, but he insisted if his good leg was strong enough to lift him into a saddle, Scimitar’s son’s eyes would help him find his way.

So decidedly did he want to reach it, the crest of the knoll loomed before Wickham as precipitous as the cliffs of Dover. His horse’s breathing was laboured, but he knew only that hill stood betwixt him and escape of Armageddon, hence he dug his heels into its flanks once more. The last few strides to the top of the hill seemed to take forever, but finally his mount conquered them. At the crown, Wickham stopped and giddily looked over his shoulder in reassurance that he was, indeed, free.

The cannons below were booming yet. He could see that his company’s position was all but annihilated. A few scattered horses ran about, reins dangling precariously, skittishly trying to avoid the incoming fire. Grenades long expended, none of his men were standing, and only a few moving. Wickham stared at the sight dispassionately, turned, and kicked his horse into an easier lope down the reverse slope of the rise.

Yet in his pilfered corporal’s uniform, he slowed to rid himself of the detestable jacket. The French were taking his flank and British forces ahead. Now that survival was likely, Wickham knew if he could get behind Anglo-Prussian lines without being stopped, there was a chance for compleat freedom. Not once in his life had he made an uncalculated move. It was a point of pride. But it had stayed only in the back of his mind, was he to fake his death, he could not sell his commission, Lydia would.

At the time, it had seemed unimportant. But as he wove his way through British lines toward Belgium, he thought again of what he had to sell or barter. It took him less than a mile of rumination before a scheme fell apparent. He spurred his horse past a plumed hat resting upon a sabre driven into the ground. Picking it up on the run, he pressed it upon his head then tapped it down. A small amusement crossed his mind and forced the corners of his mouth into an unseemly smile.

He rode on.

Have you been to Waterloo?

I have been to Waterloo.

’Tis no matter what you do,

If you’ve been to Waterloo.

My eternal gratitude is extended to Deb Werksman, Sourcebooks Editor, who took up The Bar Sinister and had the vision to see what it could and should be. Deb told me that she would see to it that the essence of the book would not be compromised in the process of revision. She kept her word. Thank you, Deb. My thanks also go to Susie Benton, whose guidance through the sometimes treacherous editorial waters was both kind and patient.

Had it not been for my sister, Kathryn Baker (a brilliant writer in her own right), I would never have embarked on such an adventure. Her counsel and encouragement were invaluable.

Most of all I must thank my husband, Phil, for inspiring me to write and giving me the courage to follow through.

Linda Berdoll is a self-described “Texas farm wife” whose interest in all things Austen was piqued by the BBC/A&E mini-series of Pride and Prejudice. Four years and much research later, her effort, Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife (originally titled The Bar Sinister) appeared, to the acclaim of readers and the horror of Jane Austen purists. This is Berdoll’s first novel, but she has since published a humorous book of euphemisms. The sequel to the sequel, Darcy & Elizabeth: Nights and Days at Pemberley, is available now in stores everywhere. She and her husband live on a pecan farm in Del Valle, Texas. Although she admits that she eloped in a manner similar to Lydia Bennet's, to her great fortune it was with Darcy, not Wickham.