The Plight of the Darcy Brothers (18 page)

“I was inquiring as to my family, and he said he had a proper heir, which is you, Monsieur, and a young daughter and another son he raised as well, but his identity kept secret, for the scandal and not to hurt his steward's pride during his waning years. So, four of us, and he was named George, after his supposed father.”

“And Mother knew of this?
My
mother?”

“I know little of her, but apparently she did, because she insisted on naming Georgiana such in spite.”

It was too much. Elizabeth saw it on Darcy's face. As much as he had come to have some attachment to Grégoire, perhaps now severed, he could not begin to fathom accepting George Wickham as a brother. And Georgiana—perhaps it was having a monk in the room, but Elizabeth could not help but think that God Himself must have intervened to prevent that elopement from coming to be. How close, unknowingly, the entire family had come to terrible danger. She looked to Darcy with a look that she couldn't help but have be a piteous one, and he sighed and stepped out without a word. “Darcy!”

But he did not return the call. She did not find him in their room or downstairs in the tavern. The front door was open, and he was gone.

DARCY DID NOT REAPPEAR until mid-morning. Elizabeth had finally fallen asleep after trying to stay up, and then, too exhausted from sobbing, had allowed herself to crawl into bed. When she closed her eyes, Grégoire was still standing vigil, but when she opened them, her husband was sitting on the bed next to her. She wanted to wrap her arms around him, and for him to do the same, but he just sat there, as if in a daze, his clothing from the day before thoroughly soaked in the morning dew and the mud from the road. Had he spent the whole night walking?

“Darcy.”

He took off his waistcoat and boots, which was a considerable process, before silently climbing into bed next to her. His body alone was a comfort, the way he slid his fingers along her side before collapsing on his pillow. Clearly, he had not slept at all. She thought he might go right to sleep and continue her torment, but instead he spoke.

“I cannot do it.”

She turned over so she was facing him. She wanted to feel
his breath, know he was alive and breathing, and smell his scent. They had been separated before, when he was on an errand or such, but never had she been so bothered by the absence of his physical person. “I did not ask you to,” she said softly.

“I cannot accept him. Or these actions of my father, truth or lies. It is too much.”

She took his hand, and he returned the grip, even tightening it in seeking her comfort as much as she sought his. “I will not ask you to. We can never speak of it again, if you wish.”

“I tried—all night. It was not until the sun was rising that I realized how late it was and how far I had wandered. I cannot turn it over in my head and make it fit. On a logical level, yes. But the mind is not very logical.”

“No, it is not.”

“Wickham could not know. He would have pressed that advantage long ago.” He sighed. “I have decided that perhaps my father was not perfect in everything he did in his life. We have enough proof of that in the next room. But this is different. I am not prepared for it. Lizzy, I cannot bear the thought.”

“I hardly can fathom it, either,” she said. “But that is life, and men—and perhaps, sometimes, women—err in their ways.”

“You are too good a woman for Pemberley,” he said, and kissed her knuckles. “I do not deserve you.”

“You are not your father's son in every respect, Darcy. Don't take this burden on yourself.”

“It seems I must,” he sighed, turning onto his back. “But… when we return to England. For now, let us let the matter rest and talk no more of Wickham. Agreed?”

“Happily agreed,” she said, kissing him on the cheek.

One other person had Wickham on his mind. Charles Bingley sat in his office at Chatton, the papers on his desk untouched. Idly he glanced out the window, where Geoffrey and Georgie were playing with Darcy's dogs, also in his care. His contemplation was only broken by a servant's entrance. “Mr. Bennet, sir.”

“Of course. And have my son brought in.”

The servant nodded, and Mr. Bennet appeared. Bingley rose to greet his father-in-law, who merely nodded and went to the window. Mr. Bennet had calmed considerably since the Darcys were on their way, but he had not settled into the library as he usually had during his visits to Chatton or Pemberley. He was not at ease, and there was no wonder in that, but Bingley could think of nothing to say to him that would be further comfort. What he could do, however, was provide him with his grandchildren, for whom Mr. Bennet had obvious affection.

Fortunately little Charles Bingley the Third appeared with Nurse and was handed to his father. “Please, Mr. Bennet, do have a seat.”

“In a moment,” Mr. Bennet said. He did lean over and kiss little Charles on his blond head. Then he returned to the window, leaning one arm on it and watching his other grandchildren. “I was always a bit partial to daughters, myself. Perhaps that is why I had so many of them.” He looked over. “What in the world are you reading?”

“These are some papers I've collected on the Hindi language.”

“Hindi?”

“The language of the Indians. I'm learning it,” Bingley said.

“I'll be sure to send Kitty to India for her studies, then,” Mr.
Bennet said. So he had not lost all of his humor after all. “And don't you dare go taking my Jane to India. I have my own concerns, of course, but I would have to listen to my wife's ranting about diseases and danger for the entire duration of your travels. Though I am thoroughly accustomed to such things, so I suppose it would not be so bad. Still, my request stands.”

“With three young children, you can hardly expect me to go venturing across the world, Mr. Bennet.”

“My sons are always surprising me,” he replied. “As are my daughters. I will say that I am certainly not bored in my old age. I have that much to be grateful for, but I do not feel very grateful.”

“'These things, too, shall pass,'” Bingley quoted, though he did not know from where. In response, his son babbled in his arms.

Mr. Bennet paused before sighing and saying, “I do hope you will do a better job of raising your children than I did. Certainly, I have great faith that you will.”

“I must disagree with you in the first respect, Mr. Bennet,” Bingley said. “I have no complaints of any of your daughters, certainly. In fact, I am especially fond of at least two of them. And
exceedingly
fond of one.”

Mr. Bennet did crack a smile, but his mood would not be stirred. “I am serious, sadly. I was—I suppose, too fond of my daughters in a certain way. I did not want to see them go. I put them out as early as possible because they wanted to go out. I did not take them to Town or go with them to public balls, where the gentlemen would have been plenty. I was not stern enough with some of them about their behavior, because I could deny them nothing, except perhaps a suitable dowry. I left it all to poor Mrs. Bennet, who became a mess because of the stress,
because I could not give her sons. That two daughters managed fine marriages beyond all expectations I can assign only to happenstance.”

“I would not agree, again, sir,” Bingley said, more insistent this time. “Jane and Elizabeth are your daughters in every respect. Mary is exceedingly intelligent and was only foolish once in her entire life, and there is much hope for Kitty. Mrs. Wickham was a victim of circumstance.”

But this pill seemed too large for Mr. Bennet to swallow, at least for the moment. “I think of Lydia every day and wonder how she is doing. Perhaps I may request that you
do
invite her to Chatton, even if that brings Mr. Wickham as well? Perhaps marriage has softened him… who knows. But I confess a desire to see them together.”

“Done,” Bingley answered without hesitation. “Allow me the time to compose the letter, and they are invited.” He added, “Oh, and please also allow me to consult with my wife, as she is the more sensible one of us.”

Finally Mr. Bennet laughed. “I think you will do well enough in this life, Son.”

When they rose from their delayed rest, Elizabeth was quick to remind her husband that he owed someone a significant apology. Darcy found he could not disagree, and with his temper thoroughly cooled, he sought Grégoire and found him kneeling on the floor of his room. “Excuse me.”

“Monsieur,” Grégoire said, rising and closing his prayer book. His bed was unused.

“I do hope I'm at the point beyond being Monsieur Darcy,”
Darcy replied. “I've come to apologize for my unsuitable behavior last night. My fury was designed for someone else.” He bowed. “I hope you will forgive me.”

“It is not for me to judge any man,” said Grégoire, “but if it gives you peace, I do offer forgiveness on my own part.”

“Thank you. And, as a gentleman, I am obliged to fully explain myself and my actions. It is a rather long story and a terrible reflection on our family, but you must hear it. Have you eaten?”

“No, I have been fasting.”

Darcy decided it was best to not inquire as to why. “Then come. I've not had a thing since last night myself, and we will break the fast together.”

Darcy put his arm around him, and Grégoire winced. Maybe he had shoved Grégoire up against that wall a bit too hard. They entered the inn together, now late in the afternoon, and took seats in the back corner. Slowly and carefully, Darcy told Grégoire the story of his youth, his experiences with Wickham, the attempted elopement, and the scandal with Lydia Wickham (née Bennet). Darcy told the tale with what he hoped was a calm voice, even lacking in emotion, and ended with the last time he had seen the person in question. On that day, he had had no desire to see him again, and now he still could barely bring himself to think of it. “Now tell me, please, if our father mentioned any other children to you, so that there may be no more awful surprises.”

“None.” During the entire tale, Grégoire had said nothing, his face all concentration, but looking down and not at Darcy. The Darcys had noticed the monk was often even afraid to look people in the eye. “None that he mentioned, and I do not believe he was holding back,” Grégoire said.

“Then we must conjecture he had only four children, two known, and he must have told Mrs. Reynolds about the other two before his death. This, sadly, did not prevent Wickham's courting of Georgiana, as it was done in secret from all of us, including the one person who would have put a definite stop to it beyond myself. I am so rarely abroad; perhaps that explains why she now directed me to you, without saying it outright.”

“I would have stayed hidden to not bring this shame on the family,” Grégoire said.

That was a very Darcy family thing to say, Darcy had to admit to himself. “The Darcy family has taken a few blows over the years, as has every good and proper family, and none of this was our doing, so we have nothing to be regretful for.” He said it for Grégoire's sake, as the poor boy obviously tortured himself with the very idea.

He himself had a ton of regrets, most of them involving not seeing the obvious earlier. He had grown up with Wickham, himself remarking that his father had treated him “as his own son.” But he was blind to the possibility because his father, Mr. Geoffrey Darcy, was a proper gentleman in all manners. Or so Darcy had thought. But that was the problem, not this young man, who was so thrown out of his only element. “But, if you would, no more of Wickham. I—we, if you agree to return with me and see Pemberley—will deal with it upon my return. At the moment, there are more pressing matters.”