The Plight of the Darcy Brothers (4 page)

“I fear I do not have the energy to contradict you, Colonel,” Elizabeth said. “Four days of traveling has taken it right out of me.”

“And yet I heard once you challenged Darcy's record by riding all the way from Scotland to Town,” he countered.

“Oh God, yes,” she said, the memory painful at its ridiculousness and the days she had been laid up because of that ride, excluding all of the events surrounding it. “But I have no wish to speak of
that
.”

“Then you are just like your husband. And I am one to judge.”

“You are three years older than Darcy, correct?” Jane asked.

“Yes, and it seems I was charged with keeping Darcy and Wickham in line when we played together, or preventing them from doing stupid things. I failed on all accounts except for the fact that they are at least both alive and have all their limbs.”

“Maybe it's not all from your side after all,” Jane whispered to her sister, who giggled.

The doorbell cut off Elizabeth's response.

“At this hour?” Colonel Fitzwilliam rose and went to the door of their modest Brighton home. Almost no one was surprised to see Mary Bennet, looking a little shabby from all the
traveling and just a little ill. “Miss Bennet.”

“Colonel Fitzwilliam. I hope I'm not intruding—”

“Not at all. We were sort of expecting you, actually, though perhaps not this very night—but we are all very glad to see you. Your sisters are here.”

“Mary!” Jane said, running to greet her sister. “It is so good to see you.”

“And you.” Mary was not nearly so exuberant, but that was in her character and surprised no one. In fact, she looked half-terrified, and nodded to her other sister. “Elizabeth.”

“I am sorry for intruding,” Elizabeth said. “Jane was intending to seek you out on her own, but I insisted on accompanying her.”

“Of course,” was all Mary could say, “I—I am not at all surprised.”

This was not the Mary they knew. Though lacking the confidence of her elder sister, Mary was not without her own self-esteem and was usually at the ready to sermonize about something. But now she was not, shifting her weight around and looking very much as if she was at a tribunal—which was honestly not far from the truth, as she could not expect to explain her circumstances.

“Mary,” Jane said, in her usual warm tones, “I am very happy to see you safely home, but I would kindly inquire what I am doing in Brighton. If Papa knew you were in England—”

“Papa will know I'm in England,” Mary said. “We will tell him at once. But you will understand why I did not want to see him first when I explain the circumstances. For I know he sent me to the Continent unattended expecting only the most pious behavior of me—”

The elder sisters exchanged glances, and Jane continued, “Yes. Now, what has happened?”

“Nothing. I mean, to say, nothing
can
happen, and it was an awful, awful thing for me to have been distracted from my studies so—”

“—but you met a man,” Elizabeth said, because she could not think of anything else, with Mary standing before them unharmed. If Mary had been somehow expelled from school— and there was no reason to believe she had been, as all of the reports were most excellent—then Mr. Bennet would have gotten a letter from the Dean and that would have been the end of the matter.

Mary covered her mouth with her hands, as if to muffle her own words, ashamed of them as she obviously was. “Yes.”

“And—it was a hindrance to your studies?”

“Quite the opposite. I was—his tutor. To be a tutor, you must do some work to prepare, so actually I was learning quite a bit—”

“You were
his
tutor?” Jane said in shock.

“Yes. The Headmistress said I was doing so well, and perhaps I could do some tutoring on the side to pick up a little money— Oh, not that Papa was being ungenerous. He was being
too
generous. Surely you know what I mean?”

“Of course,” Elizabeth assured. “Do go on.”

“So, I tutored some girls, but there was a young man, an Italian who needed to perfect his French, and I thought, perhaps if we met only in public, this would not be a terrible impropriety—and this was in France, so—”

“So it was not,” Jane said, because Mary was having trouble. Anne and her husband had long since disappeared, and she
helped her sister to the couch so she could settle, because Mary was trembling. “You have feelings for him?”

“I—I do not know. Yes, I suppose,” Mary said. “Giovanni's feelings for me may have been stronger. He was only there for a short while. He attends a school in his native country, but he was taken to Paris to be treated for his epilepsy, which was interfering with his studies. I am not a fool to go boundlessly declaring myself in love.”

So, Mary still had it in her to be dismissive of the expressions of others. It was almost a relief to see the old Mary, instead of the person before them, who was so remarkably different, so ashamed of her own feelings.

“But the situation is untenable. I cannot marry him. Papa would never approve, and Giovanni is promised to the church. His family expects nothing less of him than a red hat. They may already have promised him a bishopric, if he could only complete his studies and take Holy Orders.”

Admittedly, the idea of Mary living in Italy with this man— Giovanni—was not ideal to either sister present, and Mr. Bennet would not settle for anyone but a son-in-law from the British Isles, for any number of reasons. Jane and Elizabeth would likely not attend the wedding or see Mary again, unless their husbands decided to travel abroad and take them with them, and with one of them constantly with child or nursing, that was unlikely. So Mary was right that her situation was problematic. If Mary was truly in love, it was hard to tell, but she was right that she was not one to go bounding about and announcing it, so they could only guess how she truly felt about this man.

“Mary,” Jane said, with a hand on her shoulder. “Where is he now, this—”

“Giovanni. Mr. Mastai, if I am to be formal and English about it. He has gone back to school, with no intention to return to France.”

“So he rejected you?”

“No, hardly. But as I said—he is studying for the priesthood.”

Elizabeth sighed. Jane was quicker, not in wit but in finding something comforting to say. “Then there is nothing you can do. I know it seems impossible now, but surely some other man, who is English, will find the same qualities in you as Giovanni did. This man will find you so special that he will propose to you and you will be married, and this all forgotten.”

Mary responded by breaking into wracking sobs, and her sisters sat protectively on each side and rubbed her shoulders. “Mary—”

“No,” she said between sobs. “It is so much worse than that.”

“To be sorely in love—”

“Again, no, you are wrong,” Mary said. “That is not all. I am carrying his child.”

IT WAS A LONG time before anyone could say anything. Jane, ever trusting and ever thinking the very best of everyone's actions and intentions, finally blurted out, “You are sure?”

“Quite. So very sure.” Mary sniffled, trying to compose herself. “All of my supposed piety was for nothing, because I am nothing but a whore.”

“Mary!” Elizabeth said. “You are no such thing. You are an innocent, and he seduced you.”

“I will not lie to myself or anyone else. As… persuasive… as he may or may not have been, he did not force himself upon me, and had I known, I could have refused to see him except in public or refused outright the offer, as I should have done—”

“We can only think the best of our sister and the worst of him,” Jane said, some curtness in her voice, not necessarily directed at Mary. “Did you tell him?”

“Yes.”

“And he still left you?”

“What was he to do? Take me home as his bride? He offered some money, but I did not accept.”

“Then you are not a whore,” Elizabeth said. “You do not fit the definition. You were—are—an innocent girl, who was cruelly taken advantage of—”

“No! I will not absolve myself of my own failings or allow anyone else to do so!” Mary replied with surprising indignation. “The problem is mine. I called on you, Jane, because I had to see someone before I saw Papa. Surely now you understand, because he will cast me out—”

“He will not cast you out—”

“He cast Lydia out!”

“Lydia did not—,” but suddenly even Elizabeth found it very hard to argue that Lydia had done anything as scandalous as Mary, or at the very least, presented obvious evidence of it. Lydia quite publicly ran off with the charming young soldier Mr. Wickham, and he would never have married her and saved the family's reputation if Darcy had not forced the issue. Elizabeth set that aside and found her words. “Lydia did what she did wantonly—and made a fool of herself in the process. You are trying to do precisely the opposite.”

“You are being kind,” Mary said, “but I cannot right this wrong. Papa has every right to send me to a nunnery and put the baby on an orphanage doorstep!”

She leaned on Jane's shoulder, and her sister replied with urgency, “How far are you along?”

“Two months.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

The gravity of the situation—already in high evidence— came down like a weight upon them. “Two months?”

“I didn't know—how was I to know? And then we debated what to do about it, and we tried going to a doctor—”

“
You didn't
,” Elizabeth said, but was forced to imagine the desperation of her sister, all alone in France with a probably unhelpful companion. If Mary had found a doctor—could they really have ended the pregnancy?
There
was a question she would never ask Dr. Maddox.

“I did. I mean, the most horrible deed was already done, or so it seemed, and I could not wait out my term in France—not when I was expected home in the summer.” Mary was crying again. “Please tell me at least one of you will take me in when Papa refuses ever to see me again.”

“He will not,” Jane said. “He will be very cross at first, but he will recover, and we will sort this out.”

“But Jane,” Mary said, “there is nothing to sort!”

Unfortunately, no one could find a way to tell her she was wrong.

The Darcys had very good mattresses, properly lined with down and cotton. Unfortunately, the mattresses provided ample soft surfaces on which to bounce—something Darcy found his son quite ready to take advantage of. He rolled over, squinting in the (undoubtedly very) early morning light, as his eyes focused on the image of Geoffrey Darcy, still in his nightclothes, jumping up and down on Lizzy's side of the mattress with such ferocity as to shake the whole bed. Whether Geoffrey intended to
wake his father—or even cared if he did—was not obvious from his expression.

“Geoffrey,” Darcy said in the most commanding voice he could muster, which, at that particular moment, was not very commanding. “Come here.”

His son finally stopped jumping and crawled over to his father as if he expected a joyous celebration of his achievement.

“Now, Son, allow me to explain this to you in the best way that I can at this hour in the morning—and while I hold back my desire to thrash you,” Darcy said. “It is considered
very improper
to enter your father's private chambers uncalled.”

“
Mother
sleeps here!”

Darcy put his head back into the pillow and groaned. His son was technically correct. Darcy was so used to sleeping in Elizabeth's chambers that the habit tended to continue even in her very seldom absences. “While you are technically correct, I will say that the same holds true for your mother's chambers. In fact,
especially
for your mother's chambers.”

His son cocked his head and said curiously, “Why
improper
?”

“Because a gentleman is expected always to act with the most proper of manners. Believe it or not—and at this moment, I do find it a bit hard to believe—one day you will be a gentleman, and that behavior will be expected of you.”

“Do I havta be a gentleman?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Darcy sighed because he knew already where this would lead—down the endless road of whys. He would have to think of something very clever to avoid that, and he was not in the mood to be clever. He was in the mood to call for Nurse to take
his son out of the room by his collar so he himself could go back to sleep. “Because.”