Miss Darcy's Beaux Read online

  Miss Darcy’s Beaux

  A Persuasion, Mansfield Park and Pride and Prejudice Continuation

  Eliza Shearer

  Copyright © 2017 by Eliza Shearer

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For my very own Captain Wentworth

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Miss Price’s Decision

  Chapter 1

  The nervous steps up and down the main Pemberley staircase must have woken me up. When you've spent most of the twenty years of your life in a house, you know its every single sound and murmur, and the slightest nuance can raise you from your sleep. The staircase, in beautiful Italian marble, was a striking feature and a suitably grand adornment to the vestibule of one of the most coveted properties in England. It was also perilously slippery underfoot for those in a hurry. That wasn't so much of a problem for us, the family, as we were going about our business, but it was the main reason why the servants avoided it whenever possible, especially when they were on an urgent errand, and preferred to use the service stairways crisscrossing the building instead.

  I opened my eyes but couldn't see a thing. No light was filtering into my room through the thick blue velvet curtains. I sighed, turned in my bed and tried to go back to sleep. Then I heard those footsteps again, now followed by hushed voices. Something was going on. A thought startled me. Elizabeth's baby! I quickly pulled back the covers, threw on my shawl and headed downstairs, holding a candle in my shaking hand.

  I walked towards the flickering lights and human shadows at the other end of the corridor, where my brother and his wife had established their rooms. I heard the voice of Dr Robertson, the physician. He had only recently settled in Lambton, but he had quickly become a regular visitor at Pemberley, mainly due to my brother's faith in modern medicine. However, Elizabeth's attitude towards the new medic was not as enthusiastic, and I had my reasons to suspect why.

  The main door to their apartment was ajar. Right outside was an old crone I recognised immediately as Mrs Brown. She was a local midwife with a reputation for being very competent and knowledgeable, but a most disconcerting local accent and the unfortunate habit of always sniffling and mumbling to herself. I had always fancied the woman to be some sort of a witch, but Elizabeth had taken a liking to her during her first pregnancy and requested she visit on a few occasions during this one. I remembered the look of shock on Mrs Reynolds, the old housekeeper, when my sister-in-law insisted on Mrs Brown waiting in the kitchen when she was about to give birth, should complications arise. Elizabeth seemed to have blind faith in the crone’s abilities in the event of an emergency, and Dr Stuart, Dr Robertson's predecessor, had been happy to indulge her.

  Thankfully, the midwife's services weren't required when my first nephew Will was born. Dr Stuart himself had remarked on the ease of the birth. But this time things were different. For starters, Dr Robertson didn't approve of Elizabeth's continued pursuit of long country walks and exercise in the fresh air in her condition. It had taken a number of worrying and unpleasant incidents, each of them closely followed by a visit from Dr Robertson, to convince her to alter her energetic habits. My brother's support of the physician's orders had been paramount to ensure Elizabeth's reluctant acquiescence.

  Eager for news, I accosted Mrs Brown, but she barely acknowledged my presence. She was mumbling something unintelligible, and her eyes were focused on what was taking place inside the rooms. I followed her gaze and saw Fitzwilliam, his back stiffer than usual and his head slightly tilted in what most people would say was impatience and even self-importance, but I quickly identified as helplessness. He was waiting in the small study adjacent to the main bedroom he shared with his wife, longingly glancing towards the closed door with the look of a dog awaiting his owner. I tiptoed towards him and hesitantly put a hand on his shoulder. He shook under my touch, then realised it was me.

  "Georgiana, I hope you have not been disturbed".

  "What's the matter, Brother?"

  His eyes hadn't left the door.

  "Mrs Darcy was feeling some discomfort, and Dr Robertson has been called for. He is attending to her at the moment. It shouldn't be long now."

  "Is that the reason why Mrs Brown is here?"

  Fitzwilliam faintly nodded.

  "Mrs Darcy made me promise that, should Dr Robertson come to see her, Mrs Brown would be called for as well."

  The bedroom door opening interrupted him and we both turned to Dr Robertson, who was coming out of his patient's bedchamber. The physician's face was as grave as always, but there was no second-guessing him. One always had to wait for the very end of his speeches to find out the gravity of any situation. I suspect he enjoyed holding his audience in suspense at times like these.

  The physician slowly placed his bag on a chair next to the door and took from his pocket a perfectly ironed white handkerchief, with which he proceeded to clean his spectacles with deliberation, as if the centre of the universe revolved around the hygiene of this particular item. My brother was impatient. He looked at Dr Robertson pointedly, as if to remind him that he was expected to provide news on the lady of the house, but to my surprise, the physician addressed me first.

  "Miss Darcy, I see that the events we're presently dealing with have interrupted your sleep. Such an ungodly hour, but that is the nature of the matter we have in our hands."

  I acknowledged him with a tilt of my head but didn't say anything. Dr Robertson then gave my brother a stern look.

  "Mr Darcy, as I have explained in the past, Mrs Darcy has an enviably healthy constitution, but she is in a most delicate state. I realise the first time around everything went very well, and that no assistance was required over several months other than the little support that was provided by that… woman".

  Here, Dr Robertson shuddered slightly. I wondered if Mrs Brown, who was waiting just outside the room, could hear us.

  The physician put his spectacles back on. Behind the lenses, his eyes grew notice ably bigger, and made me think of the big and cumbersome flies that tended to congregate around the picnic basket fare during summer day trips. With the utmost gravity, the physician continued.

  "On that occasion, Mrs Darcy was most fortunate. Not all ladies can say the same when it comes to their first confinement, and later ones don't necessarily become easier either. In fact, it is no surprise to me that this time around she is not feeling as energetic as in the past. It is just what's to be expected".

  Not for the first time, I pondered whether Dr Robertson's fondness for leeching his patients, a practice he recommended most vehemently and that Elizabeth had recently undergone, had helped or hindered my sister-in-law's natural vigour. However, I didn't open my mouth. In spite of my misgivings, I wouldn't have dared to challenge the physician's knowledge, much less in front of my brother.

  "Mrs Darcy apparently believes the old wives' tale that exercise is not to be shunned by expectant mothers. Never
theless, as I have made clear to her on numerous occasions, although women from the lower classes do not cease to go about their business in their usual manner, the situation is very different for ladies of her position".

  Dr Robertson arched his eyebrows, and allowed the silence that followed to speak for him.

  My brother swallowed hard, and I felt myself blush. It's not that I didn't like Elizabeth, or didn't think that she was the ideal wife for my brother. Quite the opposite, in fact: she was perfect in every way, the best sister-in-law I could have wished for. She was witty, amusing and affectionate, and had transformed Pemberley from an overly formal stately residence to a family home full of laughter, not least thanks to the presence of my cherubic nephew, Will. More intriguingly, since her appearance in our lives I had begun to see and love a different side to my brother, one he had always kept to himself until that point. Elizabeth was a wonderful mother to little Will, but she was an even better influence on Fitzwilliam, who so readily bore the full weight of all sorts of responsibilities, from the financial situation of the estate to the wellbeing of every single one of its residents and tenants, on his shoulders.

  However, at times like these, in passing comments such as the one Dr Robertson had just made, we the Darcys were mercilessly reminded of the change my sister-in-law’s alliance with our family had meant to her station. Elizabeth's marriage to my brother had required no small transformation in her habits, but no matter how successful her achievements as mistress of Pemberley, a role most young women would be ill-prepared to embody, no matter how careful their upbringing, with every one of her actions she faced the age-old prejudices of some of our friends and family, with my aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, at the helm. Even some servants at the beginning of their married life had shown their displeasure at the new lady of the house, their disapproval swiftly nipped in the bud by my brother, who had chosen for them alternative placements in rarely visited family properties away from Pemberley.

  Asserting herself as a Mrs Darcy worthy of the privilege was an eternal struggle that someone less capable than Elizabeth would not have found the strength and inclination to continue. However, my sister-in-law was always gracious about the stares, the suspicious looks, the schadenfreude comments that pretended concern for that which she had not yet mastered. She was so lovely, graceful and clever that most people forgot about their reservations surprisingly quickly upon meeting her in person. But some resistance always remained. And then, of course, there was her family.

  The Bennets represented a far from desirable alliance for the heir of the Darcys of Derbyshire. On a rare occasion, a few days before his wedding, Fitzwilliam admitted as much to me. I caught him admiring the portrait of Mama that hung above the fireplace in the library, painted when he was a toddler. She looked radiant in a cream silk gown in the old fashion, her tiny waist cinched by a thick black belt and her elaborate powdered wig covered with a beautiful little hat secured with a muslin scarf. My brother confessed that, from the moment he had met the Bennets at a ball in Meryton, he had questioned the propriety of some family members. However, he had also been quick to recognise what a wonderful Mrs Darcy Elizabeth would make. As he said so, his dark eyes softened, and they rather reminded me of our old pointer Sarpedon’s, the one I had begged Fitzwilliam not to put down because the thought broke my heart.

  The fact was that my brother had made his choice with as much deliberation as a man in love can muster, and now he had to bear the consequences of his actions. Most of the time, fortune and privilege meant that he had the power to remove himself from any unpleasantness, but on occasion, he simply had to grin and bear it. His relationship with the Lambton physician fell squarely in this second category. I doubted Fitzwilliam was very fond of him, but my brother adored his wife, and was convinced that Dr Robertson’s services were paramount to ensure a healthy and happy delivery of their second baby.

  As if to break the silent spell cast by his words, the physician coughed and adjusted his lenses. My brother's gaze hadn't left him for a single second since he had stepped out of the room where Elizabeth was resting, and he surely knew it. Puffing up his chest with self-importance, Dr Robertson finally delivered his verdict.

  "Mrs Darcy must go into confinement with immediate effect. I am afraid I cannot allow her to leave her room or her health may be severely affected."

  Fitzwilliam's eyes widened. Dr Robertson raised his right hand with authority.

  "I must insist, Mr Darcy. Absolute rest from now on. I will be back tomorrow morning for some bloodletting."

  I heard a grunt coming from behind me. It would appear that Mrs Brown not only had witnessed the whole exchange, but also didn't quite agree with Dr Robertson’s remedy. As was his custom, the physician ignored the old woman. He put his handkerchief back in his pocket and, after commending my brother be most pressing in convincing Elizabeth to follow his instructions, he left.

  All of a sudden, Fitzwilliam looked fatigued.

  "Doctor's orders, then. She won't be able to say no," he said, rubbing his forehead with his long fingers. In a soft voice he added, "Georgiana, it's very late. I will see you in the morning."

  He opened the door to his bedroom and went back inside without making a noise. I headed towards the dark corridor, my candle now about to perish, and immediately bumped into someone who smelled of hay, sweat and sour milk. It was Mrs Brown. But the midwife didn't appear to take any notice of me. She was shaking her head, and this time I was able to make sense of her words.

  "Poor lady, poor lady..."

  Slipping through the shadows like a cat, with my heart filled with worry, I went back to my bedchamber.

  Chapter 2

  The following morning I breakfasted alone. I was informed that my brother had had to leave early after receiving an urgent notice from Mr Harvey, the estate keeper, and that Elizabeth was convalescing in her room. I was eager to see her, but it was still early. Looking out of the window I saw that the sun was out and the ground was dry, so I fetched my warmest shawl and stepped outside.

  It was a bright, mild day in late February. The grounds at Pemberley had not looked as inviting in months. The winter frost was giving way to patches of green, and tiny buds were visible everywhere. I first thought of heading west towards the formal garden, but the pull of the morning sun was strong, and I headed eastwards, towards the majestic willows that grew by the stream, imposing in the barren landscape. Here and there, I could see timid dashes of colour. Where there had been snowdrops, there were primroses, their beautiful blooms opening as if they were as starved of sunlight as I was after a long winter confined in the house. The nests that had shown such industriousness in the summer and spring had been empty for months, but would soon have new occupiers.

  The sun was getting stronger by the minute, and I realised I didn't have a parasol with me. I hadn't thought I would need one this early in the day. Mrs Younge's words resonated unwelcome in my thoughts. ‘Your porcelain skin is your best asset, Miss Darcy, and you should make sure it remains so,’ she used to say. She was extremely vigilant when it came to my complexion; unfortunately, she was much less concerned about my virtue. I blushed in spite of myself. The disgraceful event was safely in my past, at least.

  My walk had led me to the pond where, as a little girl, Wickham had taken me on tadpole hunts. I remembered the long summers together, his playfulness, his attentiveness, the way he had of combing his hair back with his fingers. Wickham was fond of telling me stories. According to him, the tadpoles were an army of disguised soldiers, ready to defend Pemberley from a terrible dragon that hid behind the hills. He used to say that the minute the beast attacked us, Mr Tiddles the cat would become a white horse, and his trusty pocket knife would turn into a majestic sword, ready for action. As he said this, his arm would be up in the air, waving an invisible weapon, and his eyes would sparkle, eager for the fight.

  I sighed. The stories came when my brother was in the study, learning the ropes of estate management. From an ear
ly age, my father had been eager to educate his son and heir in the affairs that in due course would become his responsibility, and my brother had applied himself to the task, his conscientiousness and sense of duty as much a part of him as his dark hair. But away from the house, things were different for Wickham and me. In those long afternoons, if the weather was good, we were allowed to play outside under the supervision of Nanny Fraser, the Pemberley nursemaid. Wickham would walk by her side, his charm oozing from his every pore. We'd reach the pond, the poor woman quite out of breath as she was getting into old age; after all, Nanny Fraser had cared for Mama and her brother and sister when they were little. Wickham, ever the gentleman, would then guide her towards a lonely bench in the perfect shady spot, overlooking the house, and say ‘Nanny Fraser, won't you sit down? We've had a fair bit of exercise. I'll play with Georgiana right there. I'll look after her, don't you worry.’ The old nursemaid would grumble a bit, saying that she just needed to get her breath back, and take a seat, insisting that she would be with us in a few minutes, but invariably she would be snoring after a short while.

  As soon as Nanny Fraser was asleep, Wickham would take my hand and drag me to the pond. He taught me to put my hands in the water slowly, fingers gently touching, so as not to scare the tadpoles, then bring the edges of the palms swiftly together around an unsuspecting victim. Then came the hard bit, lifting the cage with the tadpole inside and enough water to keep it from wriggling out. Wickham often had to help me, and he would do so by covering my pudgy child hands with his.