CHAPTER XXVII

"My role is educating the whole child, in perfect preparation for Eton – I assume that is where Lord Matlock intends the Viscount and Master Darcy to attend? Yes. This means taking character building very seriously. A young gentleman's experience is as much about learning how to win friends and influence others, as it is about mathematics or Latin. It is that mixture of ambition, self-confidence and charm that sets the English gentleman apart. To display impeccable good manners and courtesy to all as if it is almost second nature, even when it is not. Trust me, Lady Matlock, with your boys in my care you need not worry about breeding boors."

Lady Matlock stifled a yawn. Mr. Wardlaw was the fifth tutor she had interviewed that afternoon, and – quite against all her expectations – he was even more pompous than that previous four. "Thank you, Mr. Wardlaw. I feel I have heard quite enough. You can expect a letter from me with my decision within the week."

"Forgive me, Lady Matlock," the young man twisted his shrewish lips into a misguided attempt at a flattering smile. "Will the Earl not be joining us? I should relish the opportunity to hear his views on–"

"My husband has delegated this task to me. I take a keen interest in all matters of education."

"That is quite the compliment, my lady. He is confident then in your ability to properly assess Latin?"

"The Earl is confident he will be able to properly assess if the Viscount and his brother are not learning as they should be," she said shortly. "It would be a terrible shame, if a tutor was found to have inflated their abilities."

The awkward smile remained fixed in place. It brought to mind her cousin Collins. Lady Matlock stood, offered the young man her hand – only for him to bow over it. She pulled away just as he began to raise her fingers to his lips.

The door shut: Elizabeth allowed herself a satisfying double scratch through Mr. Wardlaw's name. Perhaps the governesses tomorrow would show more promise. When she had insisted she was capable of interviewing the tutors herself, she had not expected it to be so trying of her patience. But then everything was trying her patience of late. Frustration was now her constant companion: it followed her everywhere, rumbling away in the background of every conversation and activity.

She was disconcerted by her walk on Monday morning. Contrary to what many people supposed, Elizabeth did not relish arguments. Not of the personal nature at any rate. And yet, she could not fault Mr. Weir's parting assessment. Too much had gone unsaid between her and her husband these past three months. She was not wholly certain of all of her feelings, but she knew herself to be ill at ease. She had two options; wait it out till Whit in the hope of a return to normality in Derbyshire; or a bloodletting.

After a day's reflection she resolved to speak with her husband about her concerns around his recent behaviour – only to discover on his return from Whitehall that he had been instructed by the Prime Minister to make for the North at the week's end, to drum up support for the Tories in Derbyshire and Yorkshire. Anticipating her protest, he came pre-armed, arguing it was a good opportunity for him to check on Scarcliffe and Pemberley, see Miss Darcy, be present for the Derbyshire contest on the twentieth, all before travelling to York to watch Henry Hunt's sedition trial, going via _caster to call on Bingley and the other principal families of Yorkshire, and then finally returning to London in time for Easter weekend. It was a plan that was very much settled.

She was frustrated with herself for not having argued. It was the perfect opportunity. Instead, she had naively leapt at the chance to return home with him – even for a short time – only to be told there was little sense in spending too long in Derbyshire: combined the Darcy and Matlock estates made up almost all of the freehold land; only two hundred other minor landowners were likely to vote, and few would go against the principal family. No, most of his time would be spent in Yorkshire, and it was too much travel when she had so recently been unwell. Besides, if the whole family decanted north it would look like a concession of defeat, and it was too early for that while contests were still being fought. As a dutiful wife, she obeyed. As a sister, she loaded a chest full of gifts to return with him, hoping Kitty had the sense to work out what was for her, and what should be sent on to Lydia.

That had been Tuesday; it was now Thursday. He would leave in the morning, and she would have two weeks of relative solitude. As they sat after returning from dinner with the Eldons, she thought it might be a blessing in disguise.

"Really, not Wardlaw?" Matlock asked. "He came well recommended."

"I have arranged my life in such a way that I need spend as little time as possible with my cousin; I do not intend to welcome his equal into our house."

He shuffled a stack of papers. In the past week he had started reading when they were alone. In the battle for his attention, she found herself increasingly brief and to the point.

"I will do a second call for interest. The notice will make the weekend papers, and I can have a new set of tutors interviewed by end of next week."

"There is little time for that; I want someone in place for when I get back. Go with Wardlaw; you've probably misread him. Goulburn had a very good opinion of him."

He turned back to his papers: the matter decided. She sucked on her teeth and sipped her wine. She was not such a bad judge of character as her husband liked to make out; with the exception of himself and Wickham, she generally had the measure of people. And the value of Henry Gouldburn's recommendation could be measured in slave sugar. It was not until they were alone in her chamber that she tried a different subject.

"I had a letter from Papa today. He voted for John Sebright. Not that he had much choice."

"I imagine Sir John would have counted on your father's vote even if he did. 'The independent representative of independent constituents'; blunt, petulant man, far too fond of the sound of his own voice."

"Are you implying a comparison?"

As she lay back, she fixed eyes on the spot on her canopy where the golden silk had frayed ever so slightly and reflected on the justice of her father having a vote, when her uncles did not. When Mr. Harrison or Mr. Weir did not. When she did not. Her father, who took no interest in matters of state: who it was difficult enough to make take an interest in his own estate. Yet it was such a fundamental privilege: to have a voice, an opinion that was respected and considered. And there was such a lack of dignity in not having it.

"You are quiet."

She looked across at her husband; she had not realised he had finished. "I'm sorry; I am tired."

"You have been quiet for the past month."

Should she grab a lancet; a bleeding bowl? Was there any point, when he would be gone on the morrow?

"Let us not part on a disagreement."

He nodded, stood, and pulled on his dressing gown. "At least when you are angry you are animated."

And with that, he left.

The search for a governess proved equally vexing. She had the novel idea of having the children sit in with her while she interviewed, but that seemed to incite more disdain than interest. She settled eventually on a Miss Eliza Hindmarsh, who insisted on littering her speech with French phrases. (Lady Matlock tactfully brought her lady's maid in to determine just how fluent the young woman really was.) While her manner was affected, her sketching and needlework was truly beautiful; she was well read, and even if Lady Matlock disagreed with her opinions, she at least had some. And she was pretty. Lady Castlereagh had told her to go for a pretty governess as "only jealous wives have plain governesses." She was sure Jenny would hate the new addition; Elizabeth would have, in her shoes.

She wrote to her husband to confirm the appointments, and almost a full week later, received his response.

"Sandall Hall, _caster, March 21, 1820
ELIZABETH - Derbyshire has gone for us. The turnpikes were tolerable on the journey up. Georgiana is taking prodigiously good care of Pemberley; the gardens will be something to behold when we return in the summer.
Your note on Mr. Wardlaw and Miss Hindmarsh's appointments is appreciated. Do not neglect a pianoforte and dance instructor for yourself. It would be wise to take the opportunity London presents to acquire a proper command of the latest techniques.
Mrs. Bingley and Mrs. Harrison both asked that I pass on their fondest wishes. Kiss the children for me.
Yours, etc,. FITZWILLIAM DARCY
EARL OF MATLOCK."

Her husband had two forms of address when in a temper. Letters that may as well be novelettes and the paltry lines she held in her hand. He will have weighed every word.

She had, in fact, already met with music and dance instructor earlier in the week, but she did not intend to tell him that until he returned. Not that she would be doing much dancing. Annette's pocketbook had confirmed what she already knew. A second missed course, and a week spent sipping ginger tea to calm her stomach: a November babe, if all went well. A Matlock boy – that would be the hope – to signal to the world that the Darcy-Fitzwilliam legacy was secure. Against her own expectations she found she was not looking on the next eight months with trepidation. If anything, she was simply resigned. If this was all society deemed her good for; she might as well do it prodigiously well. What was another, when all she had to do was birth him, then him hand over to another woman to feed and wash and hold, the sooner to get back in bed and onto the next? And she could not claim she had no warning. Early on in their engagement he had told her he wanted a large family; having been the only one for most of his childhood. She had laughed at the time, but she realised now he had spoken in earnest. In this matter taking after her mother would be no bad thing: she had managed five daughters, and kept her looks. The ladies of Almack's liked to remark how the middling sort seemed to have very little difficulty breeding. Elizabeth supposed that was one saving grace of her lack of connections. Her mother's common blood made her good for something in the upper circles' eyes. And at least she had her father's genteel name to add a veneer of polish.

Such were her thoughts when Matlock's missive arrived. She folded it away; there was no point in ruminating over it. There was a break in weather, so she, the children, and Miss Ainscough rushed out to the park to make the most of the sun. Miss Hindmarsh was due to join them on Monday, so she wanted to give them a final few days of fun with Jenny. When the rainclouds drew near again, they rushed back inside and Lady Matlock curled up with the Viscount of Kirkdale and Master Darcy to read through Mr. Scott's latest offering.

"'There is my hand upon it,'" said Elizabeth, as Locksley, who for some reason had a Lancashire accent. "'And I will call it the hand of a true Englishman, though an outlaw for the present.' 'And there is mine in return,' said the Knight, 'and I hold it honoured by being clasped with yours. For he that does good, having the unlimited power to do evil, deserves praise not only for the good which he performs, but for the evil which he forbears. Fare thee well, gallant Outlaw!'"

"What does gall-ant mean Mama?" asked her eldest.

"Brave, heroic, charming."

"Like me!" Bennet cried. "I shall be gall-ant. What is an outlaw?"

"Someone who has broken the law. You see Locksley – who is really Robin Hood – broke Bad King John's law, so he must hide in the forest."

"Why is he not bad then, if he broke the law? That's what wicked people do."

"It is not always so simple, Will-ful Kirkdale. Sometimes there are bad laws."

The return of the rain meant most of Friday and Saturday was spent inside, with Locksley and Ivanhoe gall-antly saving unnamed maidens in need of rescuing (who may have been their mother, sister, nanny, or any number of unsuspecting maids, depending on which room they were in). Their lady mother seized the opportunity of being rescued by Miss Ainscough to sneak off to her study and read through her correspondence. There was nothing new from her husband, so she assumed he still intended to return the coming week, though there was a growing pile of calling cards she had no intention of returning. At the bottom of the pile, she spotted Mrs. Harrison's handwriting. She tore open the seal.

"Kympton Rectory, March 22, 1820
DEAREST LIZZY - I am afraid I write with bad news. Lydia wrote to me two days ago and I am back this evening from Manchester. Wickham has been arrested; we are not clear of the charges, but we think it was likely sedition. He was beaten down by the yeomanry on Sunday. Lydia is distraught. She has lost her babe, a girl, a tiny little thing. I would say this to no one else, but I think in the present circumstances it must be a relief. She will be more at peace wherever she is than she could possibly be here.
I have brought Lydia back with me, just for a time. I promise she will not stay long; I know you would not want that, but I hope Lizzy, you understand I could not leave her there, alone with no one. I am going to write to the Manchester parish and see what funds they might make available for her. I know we cannot use our own and that it would be difficult for you and Jane to help, given the circumstances.
John does not know if anything can be done for Wickham or how long he may be held. He plans to return to Manchester this week, to try to ascertain what evidence there is against him. He says sedition is a hanging matter. Is that true?
We all miss you dear sister. I wish you were here to lend us your courage. I know you cannot return home until Mr. D" (this here was scratched out) "Lord Matlock is released from his duties. But I hope you will not think me ungenerous if I say, I hope that is soon.
Your loving sister, KITTY
P.S. Thank you for the gifts for Johnny and Betsie, and my own beautiful shawl. I gave Lydia's hers in Manchester, as a comfort. She has not taken it off since."

She held the page to her chest. A warm, wet tickle fell down her cheek. She could well believe Wickham would spread seditions, but why had the stupid man let himself be caught? At best he would be transported to New South Wales and at worst – her stomach lurched. In each case, Lydia would be left with nothing. There could be no rescue this time. She read the note again. Kitty's expectation of her being angry stung, but she supposed it was not uncalled for. Just a few months before she would have been angry. Had she grown so uncharitable? Something had to be done.

Grabbing her pen, she scribbled a short note to Kitty. She should of course keep Lydia there as long as needed. No, they could not – legally – use their parish funds to help Lydia, her being resident in another parish, but if Kitty thought a letter from Lady Matlock to the parish in Manchester would help–

She stopped. How pitiful it would be, for a countess to write to a parish, such as those in Manchester overwhelmed already with need, asking them to provide for her own sister. She started afresh. Money would be found for Lydia, even if nothing could be done for George Wickham. Her husband had told her to think of charitable endeavours: she would begin at home. None of them should write to their parents or uncles yet – it could only cause undue distress. The fewer people who knew of Wickham's situation the better. She was confident that the Tories would not win this election and that she and her husband would be home by Whit. She would figure something out.

Historical note: Elections are this time were held over a series of weeks, not on one fixed day. Different constituencies would hold their contests on different days, and all eligible voters were required to travel to cast their votes in person. In some constituencies this meant travelling 50 miles or more in order to vote.

Sir John Sebright was the sole candidate for Hertfordshire in 1820, having held a seat there for many years. He was an independent and by all accounts quite eccentric. I suspect him and Mr. Bennet would have gotten along splendidly.

Ivanhoe was not actually published until later in 1820, but Mr. Scott was such an admirer of Jane's, I wanted him to have a place in the story.

Finally, under the Old Poor Law (pre-1834) relief could only be given by a parish to those who lived within that parish – so Lydia, in this case, could only legally seek relief from the Manchester parish that her home was in the boundary of. The money for the relief came from the poor rate. Each Easter parishes elected two "Overseers of the Poor" who were responsible for setting the poor rate, its collection and the relief of those in need. These overseers were often principle landowners or rectors. Instead of funds, those relying on relief could also be taken on as temporary labourers, being put to work repairing the roads and lanes. In cities workhouses had started to appear, but they grew in use once the New Poor Law came into force, in 1834.