Chapter 18
This time, the Darcys did not return to Pemberley with any degree of contentedness. But for the recent upheaval in the neighbourhood, they would have remained in town for much longer, for Charles's health seemed little changed regardless of whether he was in town or country. They returned out of duty, therefore, Elizabeth's visits that first morning after their return the same ones she had made before, but the tenor of one very different.
She went to see Mrs. Sinclair first, wearing a plain lilac day dress out of respect for her friend and Clarissa. Those two seemed far better than they had before the Darcys had journeyed south; Elizabeth had been right that Mrs. Sinclair could not fully feel her grief – not begin to move past it – until any confrontations with Laurence Sinclair were over. The lady and her daughter were now living a quiet life in Fitzwilliam House, gradually making it their own, grateful for Elizabeth's visit and for the use of the house itself. The servants at Berewick having formed an opinion of their new master long before he had become thus, Mrs. Sinclair had seen no shortage of interest in following her to her new home, and thus tea was very promptly served to the ladies in the front parlour.
"'Tis such a fine house," Mrs. Sinclair said. "Your husband had everything fitted up just perfectly."
He had done this for his wife, Elizabeth knew: he had done it for her. He had established this ultimate protection for his wife, ensuring she would never suffer the worries Mrs. Sinclair had, the worries Mrs. Bennet might have had, for he had bought the house and what remained of the estate at of the former Barrowmere Park, finally giving Pemberley a dower house. She said nothing of this, however, and merely replied, "With the abundance of labour, he was eager to find projects for them to work on, so it was a convenient time to be fitting up a house."
"You must – you must think me very frivolous, to be speaking of the house at such a time, but I – I find it helps, to have a distraction, to have something to do." Mrs. Sinclair glanced down at her teacup. "I am sure there are those who look at me and think I feel little grief, that a marriage with a man so much older than myself must have been a marriage of convenience, but it was not. I never saw my Laurence's age, when I looked at him. I saw the man that I loved, not a man five and twenty years my senior. I always understood he would die before me, but not so soon. I thought we would have more time together, but still, if I had it to do all over again, I would choose him."
Mrs. Sinclair drew her handkerchief to her face, attending the tears streaming down her cheeks, and Elizabeth said, softly, "He was an excellent man, and I never doubted your love for him. You must grieve in whatever manner helps you most, without a thought to anyone else."
Elizabeth's words seemed to reassure her friend, but they did not do so for herself. Her mind was irrevocably drawn to women who married men older than themselves, and while a difference of eight years was not the same as five and twenty years, it was still a difference. She forced her thoughts away from such matters: Fitzwilliam Darcy had preceded her into his thirties, but if ever there was a man who could be described as in his prime, it was him.
She needed such reassurance to her spirits before her next call, to Mrs. Brown's tiny cottage. Elizabeth – and her alms – were received as gratefully as they had been on her last visit, the widow once again asking Mrs. Darcy to sit with her at the rough-hewn table.
"Jemmy's out, milady," she said. "Got 'im werk on Metcalfe's farm, but t'rest of us're verra glad 'a see ye."
"Has – has he had success, in finding work so far?" asked Elizabeth, hating that a boy of his age was required to do so, and yet admiring young Jemmy for his diligence.
"'Eeee has, milady. 'Eeee ain't so strong as 'is papa, min' ye, but 'eee's young an' nim'mle, 'an that's 'elpful, for some t'ings. Ee'rebody say 'ee's t'best 'a catchin' rats in t'par'rish. It'sa lot for a boy 'is age to take on, but 'eee's 'elpin' keep us fed. An' ye, a'course, I can't tell ye 'ow much yer aid's been a help, milady."
"And the collection from the parish, I am sure," Elizabeth said.
Mrs. Brown looked confused. "Milady, 'ere weren't no c'llexion from t'par'rish. Jus' what ye give us. Not that we askin', milady. We doin' well 'nough ou'selfs, with my washin' an' Jemmy's work."
"Oh – oh no, Mrs. Brown, there was a collection taken up, to provide you with a little pension. But Mr. Sinclair was organising it, the old Mr. Sinclair. I must presume that he did not give it to you before his death."
"Nay, milady. I ain't seen old Mr. Sinclair since a'fore Jim died."
"I am sorry," said Elizabeth. "I will look into what became of the collection."
"Thank'ee, milady. Not as we're lookin' for char'ty, but we're glad'a what 'elp kin be spar'd."
Elizabeth had intended to take the matter of the Browns's collection up with her husband as soon as she could find him. Yet when she located him in his study and entered that chamber, she found he had his own concerns to share with her.
"Houlton called," he said. "He was very glad to see us returned to the neighbourhood, but it seems it is too late for certain things. Laurence Sinclair has succeeded his father, as magistrate."
"But he – he cannot possibly be the most qualified candidate for the post. And is he not still in mourning?"
"His notion of mourning, it seems, extends merely to clothes. Houlton said he talks already of giving a dinner party," Darcy said. "As to the post of magistrate, there are no qualifications, as such. I did not think myself ready after my father's death, and I was glad when Mr. Sinclair took it on, but – "
"But now you are surely more suitable than the current Mr. Sinclair."
"I should hope so, but be that as it may, it is Laurence Sinclair who is now magistrate."
"Did – did you want the post?"
"I cannot say that I wanted it, or even that it was as the top of my mind that Sinclair's death had created its vacancy, but if it was a choice between myself and Laurence Sinclair, I would gladly have done my duty in taking it up over him."
"It would have been much better for the neighbourhood if you had, but you had very good reasons for being away, my love."
He nodded. "Still, it troubles me that such a man will stand in that role here. We will need to be vigilant and ensure he does not abuse his position."
"There is more we will need to do, I fear. Mrs. Brown never received the collection made for her."
He bowed his head in frustration. "Then it is somewhere within Berewick, and we shall have to work to ensure it is given over to her."
Laurence Sinclair did indeed host a dinner party, a mere two months after his father's death. The invitations came to his neighbours on fine little hot-pressed pieces of paper, and his neighbours called on each other and discussed what was to be done about it. Mr. Darcy was of a mind to decline and cite in his response that six months had not passed, and Mr. Houlton, Mr. Watson, and all the rest were ready to follow after him. Yet Mrs. Darcy turned the tide – not because she was in favour of dishonouring the old Mr. Sinclair, but rather because she could not ignore the new Mrs. Sinclair's name on the invitation, nor could she pass up what might be the best opportunity for Laurence Sinclair to be confronted over what had become of the collection for the Browns.
Thus the Darcy carriage came down the drive to Berewick as it had countless times before, now for entertainments with a new master and mistress. Mrs. Darcy, however, had learned very well over the past few years just what fashion could say when words would be uncouth, and she alighted her carriage in the black silk dress that had been responsible for a great many lines of exuberant praise in the newspapers, when she had worn it to the theatre after the queen's death.
Her choice of dress was such as to visibly unnerve Laurence Sinclair when he received her, and it did the same for his wife, who was dressed in grey. Her countenance turned nervous and apologetic, however, at Elizabeth's sympathetic greeting, and she leaned close and whispered, "I didn't want to – I think it's too soon to be in half-mourning, but Laurence wouldn't – "
"I know," whispered Elizabeth. "Let me show that, when you cannot."
It was an awkward dinner; it could not have been otherwise. Elizabeth felt strongly the absence of the previous generation of Sinclairs, the genial host and the gracious hostess. What the assembled company had instead was Laurence openly criticising his wife over how the mutton had turned out, and leading a conversation centred largely on game and poachers. It was his intent to substantially expand the amount of game kept at Berewick, and he was so concerned about poachers that he had ordered man-traps laid across his land. "I am surprised," said he, "that the landowners of the neighbourhood have been so complacent about it. As magistrate, I intend to take a much firmer stance on poaching than my father did."
Of those at the table, only Elizabeth knew her husband so well as to understand how very much he was angered by this statement, for when he spoke, it was in a perfectly even tone: "Given the poor harvests of the past few seasons, I believe most of us have turned a blind eye to the occasional poaching."
This argument had no effect on Laurence Sinclair, however, and Elizabeth, suspecting what would affect him, said airily, "And anyway, I daresay we have so many birds we hardly notice if a few go missing."
At this, Laurence Sinclair turned red in the face, and the topic was closed. Conversation through the remainder of dinner was stilted, until it was finally punctuated by Laurence Sinclair's stating to his wife, "Take the ladies through, Abigail. You ought to have done so a quarter-hour ago."
The poor lady flushed and rose from her chair, and Elizabeth immediately followed her, sparing Darcy a sympathetic glance. The topic of the collection for the Browns would need to be raised, and he would be the one to raise it. Elizabeth knew how much he loathed confrontation, and she was glad at least that he would have the other gentlemen of the neighbourhood present for support.
Mr. Sinclair's wife relaxed but little, after departing his company. She fretted over when the tea and coffee ought to be served, unsure of how long the gentlemen would remain in the dining-room, and Elizabeth, suspecting they would not linger as long as they usually did, encouraged her to have it out within the half-hour.
Elizabeth's suspicions were correct, for soon enough the gentlemen came in, looking perturbed. Her husband hid it better than the rest, but the look he glanced towards his wife was pure aggravation, while the young Mr. Sinclair was again red in the face.
"Abigail," he barked, "is the tea ready yet?"
"Yes – you see it is just coming in," she said, with a grateful look towards Elizabeth.
Elizabeth had told her that the Darcys would need to leave early, for she could only leave her youngest son for so long, and she was not entirely surprised that when they called for their carriage, most of the rest of the party did as well. Laurence Sinclair stated loudly as they departed that he had thought it was an older neighbourhood, and he supposed he would have to have some friends up from town if he was to have any entertainment.
"God send they are not so awful as him," murmured Fitzwilliam Darcy to his wife, who merely tightened her grip on his arm by way of acknowledgement. She was indeed very curious to learn the course of the conversation about the alms for the Browns – it was evident it had gone badly, but not how or why – but she would not speak of it until they were in the privacy of their carriage.
Once they were, Darcy exhaled sharply and stated, "It is only because of George Wickham that I cannot say I do not know a more infuriating man than Laurence Sinclair. Several of us saw the purse his father was using for the collection – it would have been the work of minutes to locate it in his study. If I had thought of it after old Sinclair's death I might have done so myself, and saved us all this trouble. Instead, his son insists we each give a written accounting of how much we donated. For the gentlemen that will be no difficulty, but none of us knows who else might have contributed."
"So you must approach every shopkeeper, tradesman, and farmer in the area?"
"Yes, if we are to account for the whole sum," he said. "I have half a mind simply to overestimate what I think Sinclair collected and just give that sum to Mrs. Brown and be done with it."
"Your principles will not allow that," Elizabeth stated. "In times like these it would be much easier to lack scruples."
He chuckled. "Yes, it would."
They arrived home to find Mr. Parker greeting them in the drive with a look of relief. "Thank goodness you are home – we were about to send a messenger. Master Charles is hungry, and he's refused everything they've tried."
Elizabeth rushed up to the nursery and there found signs that a battle had occurred. Charles was being held by Miss Sawyer, while Mrs. Nichols knelt before them holding a pap boat. The remains of various foods were strewn over the three of them – pap, gruel, crushed berries, and what appeared to be mashed pease.
"Oh, thank goodness you're here!" exclaimed Miss Sawyer.
This drew Charles's attention to her entry, and he looked up at her piteously and cried, "Mama!"
Elizabeth ran to him and picked him up without a thought to the ruin this would wreak on her famous mourning dress, and took him behind the dressing-screen. Mrs. Nichols followed her, to help with the dress, and as she was doing so, said, "I wish I could still have fed him, poor child. If it wasn't too late I'm sure I would have broken down and done so."
"Your milk has ceased, then?" asked Elizabeth, then adding, "careful Charles, darling," for her son was rather too zealous in his hunger.
"It has," said Mrs. Nichols. Her eyes filled with tears, and even before she spoke Elizabeth knew what she would say. "The lump is still there."
Elizabeth's own eyes filled with tears. "We'll have Dr. Alderman out, then."
Mrs. Nichols nodded and left them. Elizabeth watched her slip out from behind the dressing screen, then returned her attention to Charles. How they both troubled her, and how she feared for them both. She had wished to have Dr. McMullen look in on them while in town, but he had been called away to an outbreak of the putrid sore throat at a client's house in Sussex. She wished he had been available, for he was her favourite of the two; she found his quiet manners and lilting brogue far preferable to Dr. Alderman's confidence, which at times bordered on brash. More than that, though, she would simply have liked to ensure that their opinions on the health of both patients were aligned. Such things were not to be, however.
When Charles was finished, Sarah came behind the dressing-screen with a nightgown and dressing-gown, and Elizabeth changed before she and Martha brought him down to her dressing-room and put him to bed. He had greatly disturbed their nighttime routine at Pemberley, and yet everyone had just quietly adjusted to the changes, Darcy included. He was waiting in the mistress's bed – the mistress's great, ostentatious show of a bed – for her, and caught immediately that his wife was more troubled than she had been during the drive home.
"Elizabeth, my darling, what is it?" he asked, drawing her close.
"I am worried for Charles. There must be a reason why he will not take anything other than his mother's milk at his age."
"It is the most natural thing for him, is it not? Is that not what Rousseau says?"
"Yes, and I fear that is where I have erred, in allowing him to be nursed by another aside from his own mother."
"She nursed James and George as well, and they are both perfectly healthy boys."
"She did not have a – a cancer of the breast, while she did so for them."
His countenance fell. "The lump has not gone away, then?"
Elizabeth shook her head, and then completely lost control of her tears. He pulled her head against his shoulder and ran his fingers through her hair in a most soothing manner as he murmured, "We shall have Dr. Alderman come out tomorrow to look at them both."
"Tomorrow?" she whispered.
"Yes, tomorrow, unless he has an ill patient he must attend. We may not like the news he has to impart, but I would rather know than spend another day in waiting and worrying."
Dr. Alderman had no ill patients requiring his attention the next day. A Darcy carriage was sent to Matlock to retrieve him early in the morning and he arrived shortly after breakfast. He was shown up to Mrs. Nichols's room again and met there by Elizabeth and the nurse.
"Good morning, ma'am. I understand the lump has not changed?"
"It has not," said Mrs. Nichols, her voice thick.
"I will wish to examine it again," he said.
Thus they were required to repeat that same process that had discomfited poor Mrs. Nichols the first time, the object of the examination far more discomposed than she had been then. Back then, there had been hope that it was something other than a cancer, but after Dr. Alderman had palpitated it, he stated, "I am sorry to tell you that I cannot think it anything other than a cancer of the breast."
Mrs. Nichols nodded, but she was trembling. Elizabeth drew her arm around her nurse's shoulders as the physician continued, his tone grave:
"You have two options. Removal of the breast is the one with the greatest chance of longevity, but you must understand that the surgery itself is exceedingly painful, and not without its own risks. Your other option is to let the cancer run its course. It is impossible to say precisely how long you would have left, if you did so. Perhaps a year, two if you are very fortunate. It has not affected your health yet, but the time will come when it does, severely, and then – "
He did not complete his statement. It was evident enough to both Elizabeth and Mrs. Nichols what the outcome would be.
"I must have the surgery, then," stated Mrs. Nichols, pulling her dress back up over her shoulders.
"You understand – you understand the degree of pain you must endure?" asked Dr. Alderman.
"I have a son," she whispered fiercely. "I will do whatever I can – I will endure whatever pain I must – so that I can live to protect him to his majority."
He nodded. "There is a surgeon in Manchester I have worked with before – you may recall Mr. Robinson, Mrs. Darcy. He is the surgeon we had intended to trephine Lady Stanton after her fall, although thank God it was not needed. I will write to him and see if he has experience with the surgery."
Elizabeth and Dr. Alderman left poor Mrs. Nichols to finish dressing, and after he had closed the door behind him, she said, "Doctor, I would like for you to look at Charles, as well – he has never been particularly healthy and still refuses to eat solid food. I fear it is because he has been nursed by Mrs. Nichols, that – that perhaps the illness has spread to him through her milk."
"I have never heard of a case of a cancer spreading in such a manner, but let me examine him."
How poor little Charles howled, as he was examined. He required Elizabeth, Miss Sawyer, and Martha to hold him as Dr. Alderman prised his mouth open, the other boys looking on in abject horror. It took Elizabeth a very long time to calm him after the physician left, and when she went downstairs, she was told Dr. Alderman was taking a nuncheon with Mr. Darcy in the saloon. Elizabeth entered and poured herself a cup of tea, more to endeavour to calm her trembling hands than anything else; she had found the last hour's events almost as distressing as Charles and Mrs. Nichols had.
Dr. Alderman waited until she sat and then said, "I found no evidence of any tumours or lesions within his mouth. He did seem distressed by the examination, but I believe that to be more the natural reaction to having a stranger probe his mouth than anything else. As I said, I have not heard of any instances of a cancer transferring in this manner, but I will write to a few of my colleagues to see if they are aware of any."
Elizabeth exhaled, and the physician added, "Until then, I hope you will not worry. The child is of a healthy weight – he has no hesitance in nursing?"
"No, he always has his fill," replied Elizabeth. In truth at his present size his fill was rather substantial, and she sometimes worried she would not have enough milk to sustain his hunger, now that it was just her to feed him.
"Pray do not let it worry you then, unless we hear there is cause to worry," he said, and returned his attention to the cold ham and sallad before him.
Elizabeth went up to see Mrs. Nichols, after they had seen Dr. Alderman to the entrance-hall. Knocking softly on the nurse's door, she found herself almost as softly bade to enter. Mrs. Nichols was seated upon her bed with her head bowed, glancing up as Elizabeth entered, her countenance wrought with pain and fear, her eyes bearing the redness of earlier tears.
"Ma'am," whispered Mrs. Nichols, acknowledging her entrance.
"I am so sorry," said Elizabeth. "I had hoped for better news."
"I know ye did, as did I, but it's not a time for hoping, anymore."
"What can I do?" asked Elizabeth. "We will continue to pay for your care, of course, and we will have one of the other maids help mind the children, while you convalesce after the surgery."
Mrs. Nichols's eyes filled with tears. "Thank ye, ma'am, that's very generous of ye. But there's something else I've got to ask of ye, and I know it's too much but I've got to ask it anyway. If I – if I pass, will you look after my George?"
Elizabeth had thought things would come to this at some point, and given the worry on the woman's countenance, she understood why Mrs. Nichols would rather raise the subject sooner than later. Laying her hand over the nurse's, she gave the answer she had come to as soon as it had crossed her mind that this might be requested of the Darcys.
"I hate to think of the possibility, but we will look after him if it comes to that, I promise you. And we will see to his education regardless of what happens to you. Have no worries for his future."
"Oh God bless ye, ma'am – God bless ye." Mrs. Nichols drew a very damp handkerchief to her eyes. "As long as I know George'll be safe, I can face this."
Elizabeth left Mrs. Nichols and went down to her bedchamber. To be in such an ostentatious place while feeling such emotions gave her an even greater distaste for the décor than usual, but it was the place where she could be certain of privacy from the rest of the staff. Not from her husband, however, who entered quietly and found her weeping on the chaise. He said nothing, merely sat beside her and enveloped her in his arms. This prompted a sob, at the thought that she had him to comfort her, that she had family, protection, all those things Mrs. Nichols did not. She recalled, as well, Dr. Alderman's statements regarding Charles's health, and while they had not been so affirmative as to cheer her, they were some comfort beyond what could be found in her husband's arms.
The next morning, he sought to cheer her, informing her that he intended to have both horses and ponies saddled after breakfast, and they were finally going to go for a ride together as a family. He had remained in bed with her to inform her of this, unusual enough in itself; he often rose earlier than her, and she had been sleeping later since becoming Charles's sole nurse
Darcy drew her close and said, "I know things are difficult right now, and they will be more difficult in the future, but it is a beautiful day, and you are going to go for a ride with your family."
Thus after she and Charles broke their fasts, the four oldest Darcys walked to the stables, James holding his mother's hand, and George his father's.
"Papa says we're gowing on a long ride," James informed his mother.
"Yes, my darling, we are," she replied. "Are you ready?"
"I'm ready!" James exclaimed. "I couwd ride all day if papa lets me!"
"I think you would be a very tired little boy if you did that," Elizabeth said. She was the recipient of a dubious gaze from her oldest son for this. Turning to George, she asked, "And what of you, George? Are you ready for a long ride?"
"Yes, mama," he said solemnly, giving her yet another glimpse of what his father must have been like as a boy.
They walked through the coachway and into the yard, where grooms were holding Flora, two ponies, and a colt the colour of a stormy sky. He was of a height comparable to Peregrine, and Elizabeth presumed him to be her half-brother, Gannet.
Darcy led George over to his pony and said, "Now what do we do first, George?"
"Check the giwth, papa."
"Very good, son," Darcy said. It seemed checking the girth was not yet something a boy of George's size could do on his own, and so one little hand and one larger one slipped beneath the leather band around the pony's belly, and then Darcy pronounced it to be good and tight, lifted his son up, and placed him in the saddle.
James was very nearly hopping with anticipation by the time his turn came. He helped his father check the girth, and when finally he was placed in the saddle, he picked up the reins eagerly, a look of raw delight on his little countenance.
"No cantering outside of the paddock, boys, do you understand me?"
"Yes, papa," was George's firm response. James's was less convincing, which prompted Darcy to add,
"Do you understand me, James? No cantering outside of the paddock."
"Yes, papa," was said firmly, although with evident frustration.
Satisfied with this response, Darcy walked over to Flora and slipped his hand beneath her girth. Elizabeth had always noticed him doing this before she rode, but had paid it little mind until seeing him instruct his sons on it.
"Why is it so important to check the girth?" she asked.
"Boys, would you like to tell your mother why we check the girth?"
"A'cuz if it's loose the saddaw will slip off," said George.
"The powny takes a big bweath, like this," added James, puffing out his chest most adorably. "Then the gwoom bucaws the giwth and the pony lets his bweath owt and the giwth is woose."
"And why was I never taught to check the girth?" queried their mother.
"Because it was quite enough of an accomplishment to get you upon a horse at all," answered Darcy. "I always check it when we go out together, and Marshall does so when you go out with one of the grooms, although Flora is generally too well-behaved for such trickery."
"Still, I think I ought to learn," said Elizabeth. "My horsemanship must be up to snuff if I am to be a true Darcy."
The man who had given her that name smiled warmly at such a pronouncement, then lifted the flap of the saddle, exposing the leather straps the girth was buckled to and naming them as the billets. He loosened the buckles by one notch and then took Elizabeth's hand, slipping it beneath the girth.
"Pull back on the girth," he instructed. "Do you feel the slack? That is too loose."
Elizabeth nodded, and then since the obvious solution was to tighten the billets, reversing what he had just done, she did so. Slipping her hand beneath the girth again, she found it to be much tighter.
"Are you ready, then?" asked Darcy, and upon her response that she was, he lifted her up into the saddle. She adjusted her leg over the pommel and slipped her opposite foot into the stirrup, then took up the reins and found herself the recipient of very curious glances from James and George.
"Mama, what is you doing wiss your legs?" giggled James. "You so silly!"
"Your mama is riding side-saddle, James, because she is a lady."
"I don't wanta be a lady," replied James.
"Well, then that is fortunate for you, because you are a boy and will grow up to be a man, not a lady," replied his father drily, springing up onto Gannet's back. Unlike his sister, the colt took this without antics, and although his eyes were bright, he seemed capable of holding his temper through a staid family outing. Darcy motioned to Elizabeth that she should lead the way. She did so, but once they were through the coachway, the party realigned themselves so that Elizabeth rode beside George and Darcy beside James, the family crossing the field leading to Pemberley Woods. George had a faint smile on his face, but it was evident he was very focused on his pony and his own horsemanship, and so Elizabeth did not seek to distract him. It was a glorious spring day, of the sort she had used to take for granted before the poor weather of the last few years, and she rode along in simple enjoyment of the day, of her family. Darcy had been right in thinking this to be what she needed, in understanding that this day, by his philosophy, needed to be seized before the difficult ones came.