Darcy's Tale, Volume III_The Way Home Read online

  © 2014 by Stanley M. Hurd.

  All rights reserved, including reproduction in whole or in part, in print or electronic media, except by Amazon and its affiliates for the purposes of marketing the work through their online program.

  This is a work of fiction, and all characters, character names, places, and events were created as such to meet the needs of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, or any locale, or any event, is purely coincidental.

  Publisher: Stanley M. Hurd

  First paperback edition, published 2014.

  ISBN 13 978-09910382-2-0

  Cover design: J. E. Hurd

  My thanks to the many readers whose encouragement has seen me through those times when an author inevitably doubts his or her ability and worth; without the inspiration of your praise, and the burden of my obligation to you, this might not have been completed, and certainly would not have been half as carefully crafted.

  One special thank you is due my friend Janet Rutter, whose standards of excellence and execution are far beyond my own; I always feel her looking over my shoulder, unfailingly polite in the face of the most egregious errors, and uncannily correct in all her comments.

  Thank you, one and all.

  To Miss Jane Austen, with sincere thanks.

  FOREWORD

  Darcy’s Tale has been presented in three volumes, as was the original Pride and Prejudice 200 years earlier; this has been done both for reasons of historical accuracy and because the story naturally divides itself into three major sections.

  For those interested in such matters, the series is set in 1799-1800, rather than the more commonly accepted 1811-1812, for arcane reasons only Austen scholars would trouble themselves with.

  The Correspondence section is included as a secondary view of the story, primarily from the viewpoint of Darcy and Georgiana, and is intended to be read after completing the story; the letters contained therein form a more condensed, personal, and yet somehow stately version of the events that occurred when Darcy and his sister were apart. Their letters are not requisite to the story—or, rather, where they are, they are included in the main text. The reader is invited to take this alternate route through the story at his or her discretion.

  Table of Contents

  Volume III

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  Correspondence

  Letters from Miss Georgiana Darcy

  Letters from Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy

  Volume III

  Chapter One

  Darcy’s wretchedness was not soon to release him, and his scene with Elizabeth ruled his thoughts completely in the days following his return from Kent; he could find no diversion, neither place nor pursuit, which could offer relief. All his accustomed self-command was gone, and as much as he wished never to think on the matter again, he was unable to think of his proposal and its sequel less than constantly: whether seated in his library or straying through the haunts of London, he was never free of the events in Hunsford Parsonage. Trapped in a mortification of spirit compounded of anger, shame, and a bleak melancholy, he nevertheless found himself still plagued by the ideal of love now denied him. In spite of every thing, Elizabeth had been so nearly the embodiment of that ideal—how he could expect to find any one better suited to him, he could not imagine; he had to remind himself very often of her manner in refusing him, to keep from regretting her. These conflicting thoughts and sentiments hung heavily on him throughout the weary hours, leading his mind in a futile vagary that never arrived at any conclusion; his harrowed and disorderly emotions making him unsuited to idleness, he drifted about as aimlessly as his thoughts: through the house, or out into London’s streets, and the days and nights passed.

  Having once made the mistake of admitting his sister into his private struggles, he would never allow himself to do it again, on this subject most especially. She had moved back to her own establishment in Davies Street directly after his return from Kent, but she visited almost daily; whenever she was about the house he was most diligent to hide how he felt from her. In those first days, he was wont to become careless in his appearance, until one morning, when Perkins had been adjusting his cravat, he had tried to wave his hands away; Perkins had said quietly: “Your sister will be here this morning, Sir; she will notice.” This was the only exchange that passed between them on the subject, but from that point forward Darcy was more attentive to preserve appearances. Keeping his sister from knowing that he was in any way suffering became his guiding principle; her happiness became nearly his sole purpose and objective; and, as she was so often about, he was required to be conscientious in maintaining his ways.

  He had his duties to attend to, and, more from habit than any sense of purpose, he pursued his daily affairs; but even they had lost their power to shield him from the tumult of his emotions. It occurred to him to wonder at the fact that hearts, when broken, do not fail of their purpose; of all things fine and fragile, why should this one in particular be spared from all natural consequences, and endure when it ought to perish? But there he was, still in his customary place, going about his customary activities, with neither cause nor desire to do so—yet somehow unable to stop.

  His friend Bingley was a boon, as he could always count on a welcome from him; but even seeing that good gentleman was not without its freight of distress, as Darcy could not but associate his friend with certain of the scenes that night at Hunsford. Bingley, too, he kept in ignorance of all that had transpired: he could not speak to him of either his injuries or his anger, and, gathering the fox to his bosom, he had only to suffer in solitude the daily gnawing away of his self-regard, and his future hopes.

  Those truest friends of the spurned, anger and pride, stood always ready to his side, and in them lay his one sure source of energy and will. When needed, he would enter into their embrace in order to stir himself to action, scourging his lethargy and despair and driving them down; but they were dangerous companions, as his anger was like to break free and overwhelm him, forcing him to absent himself from company for long periods until he might regain his self-control.

  In the low and enervated state which followed such fits of wrath, he began to apprehend how his striking out at Wickham that night with Elizabeth had caused him to say things he now wished he might have back. As ever, in his anger lay the seeds of remorse and shame, and never more so than in this instance: his comments regarding her family had been deplorable, and ought never to have been spoken—no matter how true they might have been. And then, in light of her refusal—and the fact that she had shared none of his concerns on the subject of misalliances—he cursed his want of control, knowing he had made himself look a vain, posturing fool in front of her. Never had he been
more mistaken, nor could he imagine a more humiliating point on which to be so. Each time he reached this point in his thoughts, however, he would again fall prey to his anger, both at her, for her uncaring rejection, and at himself, for having put himself in such a position—and the thing would repeat itself.

  At such times, out of an exigent need to divert his thoughts, he would often send a message to Bingley, or simply run up to Manchester Square himself, and carry his friend off to White’s for an afternoon of cards—listening to others talk, losing himself in the play and whatever conversation there was to be had. Even this was not entirely free from aggravation, as he would at times perceive certain of the other members looking his way and speaking behind their hands, letting him know that his encounter with Miss Chesterton had yet to lose interest among that set in Society whose lives revolved around such things.

  Late one morning, some two weeks after his return, Darcy was restlessly drifting about his silent library; a footman appearing at the door provided him with a letter which more than succeeded in distracting his thoughts; it was an express, with the man waiting for a return. The letter, from his cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, was as follows:

  Clereford

  6:00 p.m., Monday, May 12, —

  Darcy,

  I write to apply to you for a kindness: my mother has not reacted at all well to the news I brought of my assignment in Italy, and has grown so insistent and immoderate in her representations of the thoughtless imprudence of the idea, that your uncle and I are at our wits’ end. She has been speaking of Georgiana and yourself, and I cannot but think that the two of you might be of material relief in dealing with her distress. I am hoping therefore that you and she can see your way clear to coming to Clereford, that you might aid in helping your aunt to see reason, and that our dear Georgiana might assist and support her in this difficult time. My father desires I should add his hopes for your soonest assent and arrival.

  I am very much aware that you have concerns of your own at present, but I hope you will be able to find it in you to satisfy our faith in your compliance; I trust to your being sensible that I would not make this request lightly, to guide your decision.

  With confidence in a return at your earliest convenience, I remain,

  Your obedient &c.

  Col. Edmund Fitzwilliam

  Spectemur agendo

  Darcy immediately approved this application; he would have done so, even had his cousin’s letter not been couched in such pressing language. Without stopping to think, or to realise how neatly it would meet his own need for diversion, he wrote back a brief note, stating that he and Georgiana would arrive in Hampshire as soon as might be, and hopefully the very morning following. His sister had stopped at Grosvenor Square that day after her morning calls; seeking her, he found her reading in the front drawing-room. “Dearest,” he said, “the Colonel has written to say we are needed at Clereford; do you have anything in hand that would prevent us from leaving?”

  “No, Fitzwilliam, nothing: what is wrong? Is any one unwell?”

  “No, not precisely; my aunt is exceedingly distressed at the thought of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s assignment in Italy: both the Colonel and Uncle Jonathan would like us to be there, to be of comfort to her.”

  “Oh—oh, dear! Of course—can we leave immediately?”

  “I had hoped we might. Take only what you will need for to-morrow; you can have Goodwin send most of your things on.”

  “For only to-morrow I have what I need here, I believe; I shall go up, now, to be sure,” said his sister, hastily leaving the room; Darcy picked up the book she had left behind, that she might have it if wanted: it was entitled Evelina, by a Miss Frances Burney, with whose works Darcy was unfamiliar. Tucking it under his arm, he then rang for Goodwin and gave him his instructions. It was well short of two hours later when they made their way out of Grosvenor Square and skirted the Park headed west.

  He had tucked the letter into Georgiana’s book and now handed both to her that she might peruse the letter; she thanked him for the book and read the letter with care. As they passed the outskirts of London and into the countryside, they could not but conjecture as to the state of affairs that must exist at Clereford, which would call for their presence.

  “I cannot imagine what can be going on,” began Darcy. “What can my aunt be doing that would so disturb the Colonel?”

  “He has been home a fortnight,” Georgiana observed. “I should have thought that sufficient time to talk through almost any disagreement; but my cousin indicated that she was become ‘immoderate’; what could he mean?”

  Darcy could only shake his head. “Insistent I can well believe—even imperious; but on what point? That the Colonel must go is beyond contestation, and what else could be at issue? And my uncle, surely, knows better than we can how best to manage any such dispute.”

  “I can only think there must be some misunderstanding,” Georgiana said.

  “It must be that,” Darcy agreed. “And I can believe that each might become so fixed in their positions as to invest the matter with more import than it actually merits; or it may be owing to some other point of contention altogether, and is being fought out on this point instead. We must tread carefully in the beginning, until we learn what is truly behind it all.” While this did not end their conjectures, as may well be imagined, in their discussion they found little of substance to add through the rest of the afternoon’s travels. Spending the night in Basingstoke and rising early, they reached Andover before noon the next day, and turned south on the old Roman road the four miles to Clereford.

  Clereford Manor was a striking building, some parts of it quite ancient, whilst others were more recent, but all so thoroughly and properly blended as to make the whole an object of delicate grace and stately elegance. The drive through the Park was extensive and delightful, leading through gentle sun-lit dells and deep hangars of shaggy hardwoods, giving eventually onto an expansive lawn, which led in turn to a small formal garden just about the front entrance-way. There was throughout a dignity and elegance that spoke of generations of taste, discrimination, and refinement.

  On arriving they were informed that Her Ladyship had kept to her rooms that morning; this intelligence was given to them in the muted tones of a house in bereavement. “Do you go to my aunt and see what may be done to comfort and condole with her,” Darcy told his sister in a low voice, “Be not alarmed if she should appear distraught, and remember: try not to let her colour your judgement just yet; we have no real knowledge of what is going forward, and until we do, we must not commit to any decided partiality in the dispute. I shall see what Edmund and my uncle have to say.”

  Colonel Fitzwilliam just then appearing at the top of the stairs, Darcy and Georgiana stepped forward to meet him, but Lord Andover emerged from the library at the same moment and beckoned to them all. After hushed greetings and quick embraces, Georgiana hastened up the stairs.

  Closing the library door quietly behind the three of them, Darcy’s uncle, his gratitude evident on his face, motioned him to a chair. Taking his seat, Darcy spread his hands and looked enquiringly at his uncle, as one who would ask, “What on Earth is this all about?”

  “Darcy,” his uncle began in a low voice, shaking his head, “Edmund’s mother has set herself utterly against this commission of his on the continent. She doesn’t eat, and I doubt she has slept six hours in as many days; she is making herself very unwell. She has forbidden Edmund to leave; she has written to friends, the mothers of men in Parliament and the War Office, asking them to bring their influence to bear; she has all but forbidden me from leaving Clereford.”

  While this confirmed some of Darcy’s surmises, it only heightened his confusion. “But what can she hope to gain in taking up such a position?” he asked.

  “I am sure I do not know,” replied His Lordship. “At first I thought it no more than a mother’s natural fear for her son, but I was wrong, apparently; now when I ask her, she will only glare at me; she
does not even hit my shoulder any more,” said he in a worried tone, “and that has never happened in all the years we have been married.”

  “What can have brought on such an extremity of feeling?” Darcy asked.

  “You shall hear for yourself, I am certain,” supplied Colonel Fitzwilliam. “But the gist of it is that she has lost her first son to politics—she refuses to lose her second to war.”

  Darcy considered this and found his opinion divided; his uncle, watching his face, correctly interpreted the ambivalence of his expression. “Looked at from her point of view, she is not wrong,” he acknowledged. “That is the difficult part. We are faced, not with an hysterical woman, but with an exceedingly determined one.”

  “The real issue, Darcy,” said the Colonel, “is that I should have been in London this last week and more. There is a great deal to study before I go over, and the situation, apparently, is changing daily. We had thought there to be no pressing urgency, but the Russians have called Field Marshall Suvorov back to take on a new campaign, and Bonaparte has not been seen in Paris for a fortnight, opening the possibility that he has gone to take command of the French forces in Italy. That leaves the Austrians by themselves in Italy with a great deal too many open questions floating about. I must get to Whitehall! My only hope is that Mother will hear this better from you; at this point, she is not even speaking to Father and me.”

  Rising to his feet, Darcy nodded. “Georgiana has gone to my aunt, and I shall see what might be done as soon as I can see her.” He left the library, and, sending word through Her Ladyship’s maid that he waited on her convenience, he went up himself, and settled into his rooms. He had yet to receive a summons from his aunt before dinner, and she was not to come down; as Georgiana remained with her aunt, it was only the three gentlemen at table.