IN VINO VERITAS
Lesson 1: Do Not Write Letters When Drunk
Mayfair: Sunday, 29th December 1811
Never did he feel as if he should imbibe more than one brandy in an evening, not if he wanted to keep his wits about him, until now. Normally, he kept to one a night but tonight was different, it was about the first month back in London and away from her. Her fine eyes and sharp wit had intoxicated him. Now, nothing else intoxicated him but brandy, whiskey, and other such beverages were needed to keep him in his cups.
He raised his crystal cut glass to the air in silent cheers: "To Mi -hic - Miss Eli (burp) To Miss Eliza - bub - beth Miss Elizabeth Bennet!" he finally stuttered out, before taking what could be his hundredth sip, "Misz Elizabubbubbeth BenenBennet!" His cravat was in disarray, his curly hair a mess, and he sported a rough-looking beard and moustache. Since he left Netherfield he was mourning the loss of Miss Elizabeth Bennet's company.
A small part of his brain realised he could not go on like this but he was not sure if he could carry on without her. He sat up and cradled his head in his hands, combing his fingers through his messy hair as he groaned, before sitting back up and swigging down the rest of the brandy.
He could tell her. He ought to confess. Yes, confess everything. Answer her damnable questions about Wickham. Yes, he could do that. How though? He could not go back there, he did not wish to stay in an inn and had even less enthusiasm about going there and back in the same day. Asking Bingley was not an option due to his friend's infatuation with Jane Bennet.
Pouring out another brandy, he took a big gulp and sighed. For a long moment, he gazed into the dancing flames of his fireplace contemplating his sudden desire. Ah, yes, he could write to her.
He got up and drunkenly swayed on his feet, his head began to throb and his stomach felt tight. He was about to walk to his desk but bumped into a table that he swore was never there before, causing the pile of books on it to topple on the floor, and growled at the mess. Gripping the top of the chair to keep steady, the room spun around him.
Why did he get up again?
Oh yes, to confess to the most handsome woman of his acquaintance of his past with Wickham.
Slowly, he weaved side-to-side through his study, lurching inelegantly around and without any of his usual noble flair, and slouched in the chair behind the desk. He grabbed a sheet of paper, picked up his quill, dipped it in the ink, straightened the sheet of paper on his desk and began to write.
He woke up, slumped over his desk and groaned as his head pounded like someone was hammering the inside of his skull. The early morning winter sun temporarily blinded him as he squinted due to the shaft of light falling over the messy desk. There were several wadded-up balls of paper on the desk, surrounding his feet and some in the bin by his desk. One had even imprinted the rough folds on his cheek from how hard he slept on it.
He glanced down at his hands and there were ink stains all over his fingers, inside his nails and splotches on his palms. There was a knock on the door and not one person knew to disturb him except…
"Darcy!"
"Tristan, for god's sake lower your voice!"
"Been having a rough night again I see?" his cousin sneered.
"What do you want?" Darcy let out a groan and fumbled for the little bit of alcohol left in his glass. Sometimes it helped. He tipped the contents back, the taste sour on his tongue after overindulging the night before.
"For you to get out of this self-imposed quagmire you seem to have got stuck in, I also want to know her name!"
"Who says that there is a woman involved?" Darcy stood carefully, but the throbbing in his head drove him to sit back down again.
"When a stern man like yourself drives himself to drink every night for a week it's bound to be over a woman. Now, what is her name and what stratagems can we put in place for you to win her?" The colonel stood straight, every inch the military man ready to plan a winning campaign.
"I cannot ascertain where I might have to win her, for she is beneath me in every respect."
"Not a maid?"
Darcy turned around and glared at his jovial cousin, "No," he snapped, "not a maid, her name is Miss Elizabeth Bennet - a young woman of no wealth and no connections of any importance."
Tristan rolled his eyes. "Darcy, is she beautiful?"
"The most handsome woman of my acquaintance."
Just then the butler walked into the study bearing coffee, the aroma wafted through the study, the scent luring Darcy to its dark-flavoured depths the way a siren lures a sailor, except this song would not lead to his doom but to his salvation. If anything could cure his hangover it was the faithful blend handed down from his great-grandfather's time to now.
"Thank you, Briggs," Darcy said warmly, "just what I needed. How did you know?"
"Sir, it is my job to anticipate your needs," the butler said stoically. "Also, sir, I have posted all the letters - including the one to Hertfordshire, express as you wished."
"Letters to Hertfordshire?" questioned Darcy. "I have no business in Hertfordshire."
"There indeed was one," the butler replied. "Sir, I hope I did nothing wrong."
"No, Briggs, thank you for your prompt efficiency."
"Who do you know in Hertfordshire?" Tristan asked, tilting his head sideways looking rather like a curious dog waiting for a treat, in this case salacious gossip. His cousin was just as curious as ten mothers of the ton in their drawing rooms.
"No one," he said, "no one except Sir William Lucas and Mr Bennet but only a brief acquaintance I can assure you!"
"Miss Elizabeth's brother?"
"No, father, she has no brothers," Darcy said dismissively. "Letters to Hertford…" he murmured then paled, he dashed over to his desk and unfurled the first ball of paper he could find. In a shaky scrawl, unlike his usually precise script, he read the words: "To Miss Elizabeth Bennet," he scrambled for another one, unwrapped it and again, "To Miss Elizabeth Bennet," at the top. He did this until he smoothed out every piece of paper on his desk and flopped in his chair exhausted and bewildered.
"Darcy, you look like you've seen a ghost out of one of those dashed Radcliffe novels, what's the matter?"
Darcy slouched in his seat, rubbed a hand down his face and gasped, "Damn!" he exclaimed, "Damn, Damn, Damn it all and Damn!"
Now Tristan was anxious, his stoic cousin was genuinely ruffled, "Darcy?" Colonel Tristan Fitzwilliam enquired. "Darcy?"
"I have compromised both myself and a lady," he groaned. "I, who have been hiding from the chase of matrimonial mamas and their insipid daughters for a decade have, in a drunken state, confessed all!"
"The lady?" Tristan asked. "Whoever it is, we can hush it up surely?"
"No father would let an unmarried daughter receive the letter I am sure I sent with calmness, Tristan," said Darcy. "Not ones professing love and…er…other things! Not even an indolent father such as he would let this go unanswered."
"Again, I ask the question," Tristan rolled his eyes, leaning forward, "to whom did you send the letter?"
Darcy gulped, "Miss Elizabeth Bennet!" he sighed, groaning into his hands. "That's not all."
"No?"
"I told her everything to do with Wickham!"
"That bastard?" Tristan swore. Darcy noticed that his cousin had a new sense of urgency to him, "How does she know him?"
"He is stationed in the militia there," Darcy sighed, passing a hand over his face. "and she has taken to him."
"Sounds like a stupid girl to me," Tristan sneered.
"No, and do recall that my father was also taken in by him, and he was a clever man," Darcy defended Miss Elizabeth. "She is just compassionate, and he is skilled in garnering sympathy."
"Well, if she will know all about Wickham," Tristan sat back and tilted his head to the side, "then what could be the problem?"
Darcy hung his head as if he was ashamed, as some parts of the letter he wrote came back to him he had possibly put Georgiana's reputation in jeopardy.
Then another point of the letter crystallised in his brain, "I also confessed something else."
"What did you do?" Tristan snapped.
"Separated Bingley from her favourite older sister!" Darcy groaned.
Tristan got up to his feet and swore profusely to this: "You interfered… again?"
"I had to, there were strong objections to the lady."
"Objections for you - or him?" Tristan demanded.
Now Darcy shuffled uncomfortably in his seat, "He did not seem to be concerned about the antics of her family but they do behave abominably."
"For you then."
"No!" Darcy protested getting to his feet and regretted it immediately as blood rushed to his head and to sit back down again.
"Yes, Darcy," Tristan's eyes blazed. He slapped his hands on the desk, and leaned towards Darcy, "Hang it all, Bingley is a tradesman's son, if he married a gentleman's daughter it would only elevate his status," he spat. "He is marrying the lady, not the family! Was she badly behaved?"
"No, she behaved with decorum and grace at all times," admitted Darcy.
"Then the only one who objected is you!" pointed out Tristan, "and, no doubt, those snobbish sisters of his. Well," he folded his arms across his chest, "well, there is only one thing you can do."
"What's that?"
"Go to Hertfordshire, take Bingley with you, and allow the man to make his own choices," he scowled, "Deal with Wickham once and for all. Stop holding onto the memory of your father, he clearly is not! Send him to Marshalsea - or Van Diemen's Land - I do not care, just make sure he is out of everyone's life."
Darcy groaned. He was wrong, the coffee's song did lure him to his doom!
Longbourn: Tuesday, 31 December
It was a lovely morning and Lizzy was proceeding back to Longbourn from her short walk in the woods, she needed her own company for her home was full of children. Two should be considered children and yet were out in society and as loud and ill-behaved as disobedient puppies. Longbourn's nursery housed two well-behaved young boys, and an equal number of girls. She much preferred her cousin's activities to her foolish sisters. Even four-year-old Lucy was more sensible than Kitty and Lydia.
She entered the breakfast room where her papa was sitting at the head of the table slathering his toast with butter and then, with a different knife, smothered the buttered toast with damson jam. His only reaction to the sight of his red-cheeked, pink-nosed, windswept daughter was an arched eyebrow. She arched one in return and he chuckled.
"Well, Lizzy, Jane is for London in a few days. Any desire to join her?"
"I do wish to, sir, for all I love it here but I shall have to spare Jane with equanimity," she said as she tried to tidy her dark curls before her mother entered the room. Gracefully, she slid into the chair beside her father and unfolded her napkin, then laid it on her lap.
"As shall I," her father said. "For, besides you, she is my most sensible daughter. What are your plans for today?"
"I may go into Meryton to see Aunt Philips," she said, "or perhaps read the new book that I got from Uncle Edward." She tilted her head."I cannot believe that they went to Hatchards for me."
"Well, well, you deserve it, my girl. Now," he dabbed his lips as he took a sip of his coffee, "I must away to my study." He rose from his seat, bent down and kissed his daughter on the top of her head. "I am sure between you, Jane, your Aunt Martha Gardiner and her equally sensible husband Uncle Edward…" he stopped as Mrs Hill entered the parlour with a tray of letters. "I suppose I must go through this pile of missives before I bid you farewell until luncheon."
He sifted through the pile until he came across one that caused him to look at his daughter sitting opposite where he was standing. An arched eyebrow from her father, this time she could see the stunned expression on her father's face, and Lizzy was intrigued.
"I am not sure I should give this to you," he sighed, "for I do not recognise the handwriting and it looks rather like a gentleman's hand to me. Perhaps I should read this to see if it meets with my approval. It could be from a vagabond from your past, after all."
Laughter filled his eyes as she hid her smile behind her napkin after also eating toast, "Papa," she sighed, "I am not sure are you perchance confusing me for…"
She never got to finish her sentence for her father had, indeed, opened the letter, and she saw his eyebrows rise so far high up his head that, if he had hair, would have disappeared under the fringe.
"Vagabond, indeed!" was all he said when he saw who had signed off. "Lizzy, we need to discuss this," Lizzy furrowed her brow, her father had never looked so serious about a matter in all her young life that she had known him. "I trust you shall be there in five minutes?"
Hanging her head, Lizzy was unaware of what she had done."Yes, Papa," she said quietly.
What did the letter contain?
For some odd reason, Lizzy was not sure she wanted to know.