Darcy & Elizabeth (28 page)

Alas, the fires that burn brightest fizzle fastest. When at last their affair began to ebb, it was not love's flame that was the actual betrayer. Indeed, it had come to Wickham's notice that Césarine took no precautions after lovemaking. He supposed that whatever purgatives she undertook to avoid pregnancy were administered privately. Unlike most gentlemen, this was not a subject that he usually left to chance. His usual methodology was to confine his affairs to wives whose husbands were not too long absent. If said paramour happened to turn up with child, the husband would not be suspicious. Falling with child was a profound danger for his lovers, of this he was certain. His seed had borne fruit far too prolifically in the past.

He was well aware of his potency. It was one of his many conceits. His seed was unrivalled not only in begetting, but also begetting the most prized of offspring—the male child. Had not he, George Wickham, fathered three sons by Lydia and at least one other by some long-lost lover? Four sons. What had Darcy done? His bed was fallow, his wife barren! Aha! Who was the better man now, Darcy? Wickham may have daydreamt about throwing that in Darcy's face one day, but that was not truly a confrontation he longed for. What he truly wanted was Darcy's money, Darcy's house, and Darcy's wife—in that order. What he did not want was a confrontation the result of which he could not be certain.

Wickham had nothing to prove and a great deal to lose when a woman he bedded got herself with child. Children were of no good use in the world. But as a veteran observer of female fecundity, he recognised the subtle signs of impending confinement when he saw them. And Césarine had become a veritable signpost of parturiency (up to and including the occasion upon which he had witnessed her rudely upended and heaving her breakfast with the utmost indelicacy into her chamber-pot).

“
Ma saucisson
!” he commiserated, “My poor little sausage, are you unwell?”

“You fool! Do not speak to me of food!” she squawked.

No other words could have spoken the truth of her condition to him more plainly.

In the past, it would have been his inclination to take his leave with no compliments and the utmost rapidity—if at all possible, without leaving a detectable trail. However, the circumstances in which he found himself were unlike any he had known before. At long last he had found a woman both worthy of his seed and willing to take it. But with ever-increasing tightness in his chest, he watched her ever-increasing waistline for what it bespoke was a cruel blow.

His sweet little dewdrop of honey, his
inamorata
, his darling, most adored,
sa petite saucisson pauvre
Césarine was indeed with child, and she told him it was not his.

The Colonel Fitzwilliams Meet Lord Beecher

The autumn following the glorious defeat of
Le Petite Usurper
, all of England had recognised the folly of their initial belief that it would be not only an expeditious victory, it would be relatively innocuous. When it came to pass that although the victory was compleat, its toll was extensive, few citizens did not feel an obligation to those who fought. Indeed, it was as if all of England had embarked upon virtual idolatry of any and all veterans of the Napoleonic campaign—the degree of their adoration relative to said veteran's rank. If the soldier was both an officer and an actual military hero, society's aspiring generals, phrenic camp followers, and fashionable battle mavens were thrilled beyond all reason to behold his company. There were no lengths they would not go to fête him, no compliment too grand, no admiration too adulatory.

For one whose recollection of the rigours of battle was something he would have liked to consign to oblivion, this turn was altogether vexing for Fitzwilliam. He had thought to escape such talk by retreating far from London. As it was, absolute avoidance was impossible. Even in Bath, the war and its heroes were very much the topic of discourse. However, no one wore the black of bereavement. In the Pump Room it was still the season of victory and to those who sipped there regimental losses were merely a statistic. It would be some time before the full cost was felt by all classes. The fathers of the dead who had betaken themselves on the brief voyage to Flanders to pay witness to the soil that bore the remains of their sons were only then making their way home.

Therefore, for those still in the heady riot of conquest, no detail of those victorious engagements was too small to entertain their fancy. Hence, there were few men in Bath more in demand to grace various soirées
than an officer who had been in the thick of battle. Of those choice men, one who served a cavalry regiment was elite again by half. As colonel and commander of his regiment, Fitzwilliam's service had not only been notable, it had been chronicled in the
Gazette
. (This put those persons of society in a quandary—they, to a person, had read with zealous fervour every word written by the low publication, but were loath to be the first to admit to having been a reader. Ultimately, curiosity prevailed.) Colonel Fitzwilliam had been unaware both of the excited temper of the Pump Room and his celebrity. Even so, wearing his regimentals had never been a consideration. Upon their second day in town they had deliberately made an early start to avoid the crowds. Regrettably, the news that the good colonel was about had preceded him. Such was the alert that upon his entrance the orchestra's soft strain ceased and was replaced by the regular beat of a march. As the music altered, the milling people ceased their discourse and looked about accordingly, straining to see what personage inspired the triumphant sounds.

Appalled, Fitzwilliam slowed to a stop. Georgiana clung fast to his elbow and could feel his indecision. She waited for him to resolve whether to go on or turn back. His hesitation was quite brief. But in the end, he moved on—all in the room conspicuously aware of his stiff-legged gait. Due to the crowd and his limp, the Colonel Fitzwilliams could not cross the room to the tap with much haste. Therefore, they were assaulted by a number of undesired salutations—none were more imprudent than that of an old man with an ear-horn. Himself a veteran of Yellow Fever in the West Indies, he was of the opinion they were military peers. Indeed, he stepped forward with outstretched hand.

Said he, “I am proud to offer my hand to you, sir. Your name will stand first whenever English courage is mentioned.”

Regrettably, that single overture served as the finger removed from the dike—immediately a torrent of adorers came forward, each with inquiries of the particulars of his engagement. Most were far more exclamatory than interrogative.

“Pray, were the Belgians compleatly disaffected?”

“There is nothing like old blood if one is in want of gallantry in battle!”

“Is it true that the German militia were without shoes?”

“Pray, did you not ride by His Grace the Duke of Wellington's side up the hill of St. Jean?”

“Word has it that infernal Bonaparty stole away dressed as his servant. Pray, did he?”

With the onslaught, Fitzwilliam cursed his lack of two good legs, quite certain had he been able he would have liked very much to flee. Because he was hobbling, his inclination to escape was not only unfeasible, it was unapparent. True to his breeding, he murmured thanks to compliments of his service, shook his head in disapproval to those more outrageous suggestions honouring him, and forged on. All the while, Georgiana's grip on his arm became ever more fierce, her mortification over suggesting they come to Bath compleat. The fault for this debacle was hers and hers alone. The previous night's triumph was fast being usurped by this disaster.

Their progress across the room was excruciatingly slow. But directly after someone shoved a tricoloured flag into Fitzwilliam's hands (for what reason he could not fathom), they at last gained the taps and, with great deliberation, turned their attention to the water. As Georgiana set the flag aside, the mob of well-wishers began to disband. They dissolved back into their previous cliques, but one party stood their ground. It was a threesome that Mrs. Col. Fitzwilliam could not ignore.

Lady Catherine de Bourgh stood mid-most of Lady Anne and a young gentleman not of their acquaintance. Knowing full well Lady Catherine's keen attention to rank, witnessing her literally rubbing elbows with the middling society of a public pump house was unprecedented. So taken aback was Georgiana, her countenance could not decide which expression to engage first. Forthwith, however, it settled upon gaping in amazement.

Even more extraordinary than seeing Lady Catherine there was that she seemed all too pleased to behold them. Fitzwilliam was no less apprehensive than Georgiana. For Fitzwilliam's manners had once bid him a favourite of Lady Catherine's, but his continued alliance with Darcy and Elizabeth in the face of her displeasure suggested that his place in her warm regard may well have waned. Since Darcy's marriage, he had not had cause to travel to Kent to discover her sentiments on the matter and had been happy to remain unenlightened. However, circumstances had altered of late. As he and Georgiana were both quite witting of Darcy's most recent visit to her, they were prepared for the possibility of a cut. Indeed, her ladyship's intractability was of legend.

Therefore, Colonel and Mrs. Fitzwilliam froze in their tracks. Colonel Fitzwilliam, leaning heavily upon his stick, bore an expression of apprehension that exceeded the one he wore upon his last cavalry charge. Georgiana's eyes resembled those of a trapped rabbit, wanting, but daring not, to look for the nearest burrow.

Lady Catherine de Bourgh erupted into a gesture of welcome that was as obscene in its insincerity as it was in enthusiasm. She walked a full ten-feet with arms extended, fingers waggling until their serpentine grasp entwined Georgiana into an embrace. Once sufficiently hugged, Georgiana's cheeks were endowed with an enormous wet kiss. Both were planted with an emphatic “mmm-ahh!” Her ladyship's arm-clinch was so assiduously applied that it lifted Georgiana upon her tiptoes. Thereupon, her ladyship quit her niece and attacked Fitzwilliam in similar fashion. (Lady Catherine released Georgiana with such haste that she nearly toppled and she stood weaving for a moment, stunned as much by the effusiveness of the affection as from the unlikelihood of its source.) As it was viewed over first one, then the other of his aunt's shoulders, Fitzwilliam's countenance betrayed an inclination towards panic. Although Georgiana had squirmed in her turn a bit, Fitzwilliam had stood still as a stone. Nonetheless, her ladyship continued her hold on him for a full minute, all the while gushing compliments upon their marriage—tidings that they only accepted with a noncommittal nod. They dared not do otherwise; they were far too perplexed. To have Lady Catherine de Bourgh's congratulations extended in so eagre a fashion was a far more frightening event than had she taken to them with a horse whip.

When Lady Catherine finally stood back, her countenance was afflicted with a smile of the sort that sent a small shiver down Georgiana's spine. As for Fitzwilliam, of the many disconcerting confrontations he had weathered of late, he thought one with his aunt was less preferable by half. Yet so little did he want to give her any excuse for offence that he undertook the extraordinary risk of taking a low bow whilst using his walking stick as a pivot.

“It is so good to see my dearest nephew looking so well!” Lady Catherine trilled.

Dearest nephew? First in deed, now in word, her aunt's design was lost on Georgiana. She endeavoured mightily to determine what it all meant, but alas—intrigues other than by her own design were opaque to her. More acclimated to such manoeuvrings insofar as battle logistics, Fitzwilliam entertained the probability that it was simply false diplomacy. Indubitably, his aunt was labouring under the supposition that in incurring Darcy's wrath, she could recoup family disfavour through him. If that was her design, her terriers were barking up the wrong tree. His allegiance was to Darcy. His marriage to Darcy's sister merely sealed any cracks that fealty may have weathered. Hence, he looked no less warily at her ladyship than Georgiana did.

If she sensed this mistrust, Lady Catherine gave no indication of it. Indeed, she prattled on like a Folkestone ferry-woman, eventually returning to her more officious self. Nor did she scruple to inquire of her beloved nephew Darcy and his “precious newborns.” In omitting Elizabeth's name in her inquiries after the health of the Darcy family, Lady Catherine inadvertently exposed a chink in her scheme for family reconciliation. (This omission was not overlooked by the Colonel Fitzwilliams, but neither betrayed their notice.) It was only after remarking upon the fineness of the weather that her ladyship introduced the de Bourgh ladies' consort, Lord Winton Beecher “of Trinidad.” Although Anne was neither addressed nor alluded to by her mother, Colonel Fitzwilliam had given her a curt bow all the same.

Georgiana smiled amiably and curtsied to Lady Anne. Although they had a few commonalities, the timidity of each had made any intimacy between them challenging. Therefore, they were not fast friends, but neither had they entertained any particular animosity. Hence, Georgiana looked upon the young gentleman who accompanied Anne with interest. Indeed, it was difficult for her to ignore him—Lord Beecher's fingers snaked around Lady Anne's forearm with possessive determination. For her part, Lady Anne's narrow countenance bore an expression of unmitigated pleasure. (Clearly, she was only a little less happy to encounter her relatives than to have an occasion for Lord Beecher's interest in her to be on display.) Try as she might, Georgiana could recall neither Beecher's name nor his face. Clearly, he was not of the Darcys' acquaintance. She covertly took what measure of him she could, for she knew that she would be called upon to relate the particulars. In fortune, he was of short stature, hence her powers of observation could be employed from a lowered gaze while still keeping him in her eye.

Her initial surveillance revealed little beyond his youngish appearance and well-tailored coat. Further study saw him as not particularly strong featured. From what she could see of his cheeks (which were half hidden by his starched collar), they were florid enough to insinuate a predilection for spirits. It took little time for her to sniff out a pronounced superciliousness and more West End airs than any pink of the ton. As they conversed politely about the weather, Lady Anne looked upon him with such simpering approval—neither his swagger nor his pomposity drew her censure. Lo, there was little left to the imagination that, was one in a mind for matches, love (in some form or another) was ripe.

It could be said that upon Beecher's introduction, Lady Catherine's carefully arranged attitude of charity for all and sundry wavered. Although it was not readily apparent, Georgiana sensed that Sir Beecher was less in Lady Catherine's favour than he was in her daughter's. Hence, when her ladyship spoke of and to him, her voice was a bit pinched. Still, she tendered him the reins of the conversation (an unusual capitulation for her) allowing him to inquire of Fitzwilliam the telling of every skirmish, every cannonade, and every French soldier he witnessed taken down. Save Georgiana, all stood transfixed in wait of his retelling of those horrific events. Fitzwilliam was in no better humour to suffer Beecher's impertinences than those of the man with the ear-horn, hence what he did recount was told in so succinct a fashion that had one not known otherwise, it was a tale indiscernible from one who had not set foot in combat. This spare telling was met with disappointment, but he politely refused to elaborate.

Georgiana had grown as discomfited as Fitzwilliam by then and begged their leave. Only after several such entreaties did Lady Catherine relinquish their company—and allowed their leave-taking only by issuing several admonitions of questionable medicinal merit. (One included viper flesh and wood lice.) Whilst Lady Catherine advised, Lord Beecher stood by doltishly in nodding agreement—an attitude most desirable in a future son-in-law.

As the threesome moved on, Beecher bade, “Cousin Georgiana, do have the colonel submit to a tar and seaweed scrub, for it does wonders for the complexion. The sun, you know—it steals one's youth.”

They turned to leave and Georgiana gave him a curt nod—but under her breath she hissed, “Did he call me Cousin Georgiana?”

Fitzwilliam allowed that, indeed, he had.

By then they were far enough from their recent company for her to further fume, “Call me by my Christian name? Jumped-up midge of a man!”

Fitzwilliam was just happy to be rid of their company, and sought no insult, “There, there. Lord Beecher…”

She interrupted, “If he's a lord, I'm good Queen Bess!”