The Gathering
“What dreadfully hot weather this week,” said Lady Catherine, flapping her fan. “I fear it keeps me in a continual state of derangement.”
No member of her company dared to contradict that statement, most certainly not Darcy and Elizabeth. Elizabeth had been jumpy as a cat since their arrival; Darcy was merely glum. Her ladyship’s deportment upon the occasion of the interment of her daughter’s corpse had been curious indeed, and did little to improve their humour. They had been altogether uncertain in what temper they would find her. Anger, melancholy—anything seemed a possibility save the one that greeted them. For Lady Catherine sat in her favourite high-backed chair, directing servants upon their rounds of offering refreshments. (It was an unfortunate irony that chair was the very same one she had awaited that which occasioned this sad gathering.) At that moment, her most pressing interest was for her guests to know what lengths her hospitality knew.
“Do enjoy your sorbets,” she admonished. “It will be the last ice we see this year.”
With every exultation to her guests, Henry the parrot squawked. Lady Catherine sat in her usual majesty, ignoring the fact that every time he did, her guests cringed. She had dressed in half-mourning lo these many years since Sir Lewis’s passing, hence the lustreless black bombazine of her dress was no great departure from her usual attire. Henry the macaw’s garish feathers were at odds with the nature of the gathering. The only clue that there was anything amiss for Lady Catherine herself was that the old-fashioned powdered wig she wore was exceedingly ill-kempt (looking for all the world as if a unsheared ewe had curled upon her head and lately died). Her costume and toilette never quite recovered from the disappointment she had experienced some half-dozen years before when her favourite nephew threw over her daughter and aligned himself with that Miss Bennet. So deeply was she bothered, she had seldom found reason to entertain. Indeed, having fallen into a decided funk, she all but withdrew both herself and her daughter from society. Upon those few occasions when invitations were issued from Rosings, the primary purpose had not been to entertain. It was to offer opportunity to those of her neighbours who desired her condescension and the privilege of laying themselves before her prostrate with obsequiousness. Anne, however, was so seldom in good health that she frequented those events but little. Those of less sympathetic leanings standing patiently in the foyer for the viewing noted that this was the first social gathering that Anne had graced in some time—and glanced with a snigger at her flower-draped body laid out for inspection.
“These ices are the last we can look forward to this season,” her ladyship repeated, still fanning herself, “so you must partake.”
She flicked her fan closed and rapped the wrist of a man sitting to her right. His collar and plain black suit identified him as clergy (had the carefully arranged dolefulness of his countenance not). He had introduced himself to the Darcys immediately upon their arrival. In the few minutes they conversed with him, it was apparent that Lady Catherine had done the remarkable in finding a vicar suitably unctuous to fill Mr. William Collins’s shoes. The gentleman did not actually resemble Mr. Collins in any way but by his grave, stately air and formal manners. He walked in a hunched, prissy manner as if suffering a case of the piles. He looked to be no more than thirty but had a small paunch. The arrangement of his hair was a bit too studied to reckon the modesty of his occupation served. His most prominent feature, however, was his sense of self-importance—rivalled only by his veneration for his patron. He had introduced himself as “Mr. William Henry Pratt, faithful servant of God, dedicated educator of Hunsford Parish, and grateful vicar under the condescension of the illustrious Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”
“It is a sad, sad day for Rosings Park, the County of Kent, and His Majesty the King that we have to lay to rest a true flower of England such as Lady Anne de Bourgh,” he announced. “I have taken pen to page and written, I flatter myself, a sermon to compliment Lady Anne’s memory with the utmost compassion, thereby offering her dear mother succour to her wounded breast.”
No doubt he had repeated that same speech to each and every ear at Rosings Park. That Lady Catherine kept Mr. Pratt at her elbow suggested he had rendered it unto her more than once as well.
Even before she gifted the vicar with a rap as a reminder to partake of his sorbet, few dared refuse Lady Catherine’s demand. Her demeanour, under the circumstances, was so peculiar it had instigated hushed whispers. Although it was her stated office, she did not behave as if bereft. Indeed, had one been unapprised of the circumstances of the gathering, it would have been supposed that she was the hostess of an afternoon tea. She accepted condolences, but did not speak of her daughter’s demise directly. That was a difficult thing to do, as Lady Anne’s mortal remains, cautionary plate of salt sitting upon her thin, dead bosom, was displayed directly opposite her. It sat in the broad doorway, a velvet rope between the coffin and the path designated for tenants and neighbours to pass by to pay their respects. Lady Catherine was happy, however, to expound upon the clamour emanating from the doors that opened onto a grand promenade. As she explained them, her plans were for what could only be described as a shrine.
Indeed, in the distance was the insistent sound of stonemasons’ hammers as they chinked gouges from an enormous slab of Italian marble that lay incongruously upon the manicured lawn. That marble was meant for a twelve-foot sarcophagus that was to adorn Lady Anne’s coffin. Another even larger piece of pink marble was then being unloaded, giving Lady Catherine the great pleasure of describing the levers and pulleys necessary to so. This monstrosity bore the tell-tale traces of delicate grey veining, which announced its rarity. This piece, she explained, was to be sculpted into Grecian pillars upon which crouching male figures’ upturned hands would support the four corners of the mausoleum. Each of the four edges of the cornice would be adorned with a frieze depicting the seasons. The only decision left was for her to determine which of the scriptures would be engraved beneath Anne’s name. That would be transposed upon a replica of a scroll to be held by the figure of a six-winged seraph with bas-relief cherubs tugging at its skirts. Whilst a number amongst her company gave the appropriate sighs of admiration, not all were awestruck. The haste that must have been employed to have the marble and men already hard at work only two days after Anne’s death passed unremarked.
“Who does she suppose she is burying, the bloody Earl of Carlisle?” grumbled Fitzwilliam under his breath to Darcy. “She could better have spent her time getting the body underground than arranging all this folderol!”
It was true. Those who were witting of the ravages the heat wrought upon a corpse also knew that the grimace that was beginning to plague Anne’s pale face did not stem from a lack of peace made with God.
He immediately was regretful of his remark, for he looked about to discover that he stood directly to the left of Lady Anne’s widower, recognising that gentleman by his short stature and elaborate mourning attire. He nudged Darcy and flicked his head in Beecher’s direction. Beecher then moved with amazing grace across the room to his mother-in-law’s side. A bit of a smirk upon his countenance, he took her hand in his and pressed it to his lips. She glanced at him as he did so, but gave him little more notice as she was still enraptured by her architectural creation.
Observing Beecher’s mincing walk and fawning ways, Fitzwilliam forgot all regret upon his behalf, whispering to Darcy, “Still the veritable tulip, I see.”
“I see he suffers his loss well,” replied Darcy. “I have never seen a finer waistcoat sported by one bereaved.”
Whilst consoling his mother-in-law, Beecher’s eyes darted about, appraising the comforters who had gathered in Lady Catherine’s large parlour. His eyes stopt abruptly, having caught sight of the handsome tailoring and, if he wasn’t mistaken, equally exquisite boots, belonging to Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam. Having previously had the pleasure of making their acquaintance, Lord Beecher moved before them, bowing majestically.
Before Beecher could utter a sound, Darcy anticipated him, saying, “I am very sorry for your present sorrow.”
Seemingly taken aback, Beecher muttered, “Yes, yes. I thank you for your kind words. We are very much in grief.”
Fitzwilliam echoed Darcy’s sentiments and Beecher complimented his concern as well, nodding in Georgiana’s direction, he added, “I pray your expected event will end more happily than ours.”
Fitzwilliam was altogether aghast and thus rendered speechless. To have alluded to Georgiana’s condition was unspeakably indecorous. Neither was he particularly pleased to have pointed out the obvious danger that they faced. Had he looked in Darcy’s direction, he would have seen that countenance was remarkably similar. As was Darcy’s nature, he met indecorousness with extreme formality. He bowed curtly, turned his back, and strode away, leaving Fitzwilliam to contend with Beecher’s unseemliness alone. Fitzwilliam knew Beecher had spent time in the West Indies. It had been his observation that after time in warmer climes, it was sometimes difficult to reacquaint oneself with the niceties of society. He chose to believe this indignity and his previous familiarity in addressing Georgiana fell to his being an unseasoned traveller rather than to overt crudeness. Certainly his aunt would not have allowed Lady Anne to have married other than a gentleman. He endeavoured to put those affronts behind him and offer some helpful advice.
“I fear,” he said tightly, “your sojourn in the West Indies has made you forget yourself. Society in England is unused to such frankness.”
“Of course, can you ever forgive such rudeness?” Beecher said. “This sadness has been very trying. I scarcely know what nonsense finds its way out of my mouth. I meant no disrespect.”
His words were humble, but his expression remained somewhat haughty. Still, Fitzwilliam was not the sort to hold mere words against another gentleman. He had witnessed far worse injury inflicted by his fellow man. He was happy to believe Beecher a victim of something recognisable to him rather than a compleat boor—a condition for which he had no explanation. Yet Fitzwilliam had limits upon what ill traits he would accept from another. Beecher was obviously a dandy, but Fitzwilliam had felt pity for Anne all her life and had hoped that his poor cousin at least had been honourably settled for a small portion of her life. Darcy, he knew, held no such hope, privately pronouncing Beecher a fortune-hunter.
Believing himself to have won Fitzwilliam’s sympathy, Beecher took him by the arm and steered him from the others, immediately launching upon a story to test that kindness. It involved Fitzwilliam’s least favourite subject, but one the unsuspecting Beecher thought a soldier of the Crown would enjoy.
“Are you, Colonel, one of those soldiers who considered Napoleon’s disturbing the peace of the Continent as a personal kindness?” he laughed. “Whatever shall you do with yourself now that Wellington has given us peace?”
Fitzwilliam was not unused to such abuse, and he answered mildly, “Once one has witnessed war, there is nothing quite so dear as peace.”
Darcy then approached Fitzwilliam, touching him upon the elbow, “Forgive my interruption, Fitzwilliam. You are needed.”
He nodded his head in the direction of Georgiana, who was sitting upon a settee at the far end of the room. Elizabeth was fanning her. She did not look entirely well and Fitzwilliam nodded curtly to Beecher and hurried to her. Beecher smiled at his hastening and sauntered up to Darcy.
“The colonel is a very dutiful husband,” Beecher sighed. “What is it they say of courtship and marriage, Darcy?”
Darcy stood mute.
Smiling amiably, he answered his own question, “Courtship to marriage—a very witty prologue to a very dull play.”
That was not a theory to which Darcy subscribed. Despite his disinclination to converse with such a man, he could not help but retort, “There are occasions when I have known that to be true. Perhaps it is thus when the match is insincere.”
If Beecher believed that observation was directed towards him, he did not display umbrage. He did, however, defend his marriage, not scrupling to employ his dead wife’s name.
“I am happy to share with you that your cousin Anne often told me that she had loved me from first we met.”
“In cases such as these, I must take leave to observe that there is a road from the eye to the heart that often does not traverse the intellect.”
Darcy did not see what sort of response his remark had upon Beecher’s countenance, for he immediately betook himself in service of his sister. Elizabeth had warned him that Georgiana felt unwell and was much in want of Fitzwilliam escorting her upstairs. That sounded remarkably like an imminent birth to him. He wished that Georgiana had listened to Elizabeth and not taken the journey to Kent. Saying “I told you so” would by no means be helpful and he quashed the inclination to employ it. But he could not keep from worrying. Indeed, he felt himself become increasingly apprehensive as he awaited Elizabeth to return to his side with news of Georgiana’s condition. He stood apart from the other guests, nervously pulling at his cuffs, hoping against hope that Beecher would not again seek him out. Whilst one eye he kept upon his guard for that gentleman, the other he kept trained upon the stairs. After some time, Elizabeth appeared. She had stopt midway down the staircase and beckoned to him. He was to her side in an instant.
Employing no artificial formality, she said, “Her time is imminent.”
The expression she bore suggested just how imminent her time was. That concern was immediately shared by Darcy.
“Has the surgeon been called?”
She nodded that he had, but said, “I fear the baby will arrive ere does he.”
She knew enough of his discomfort of the subject not to employ the word “pain” in her description of Georgiana’s condition. Still, the furrow between his eyebrows deepened and she patted his arm in a motherly fashion.
“Dare not,” said he, “conduct yourself as if I were a child.”
He immediately regretted that objection, but his regret was tardy by half. Her countenance registered a hurt of some magnitude. Still, she remained true to the issue at hand.
“We must perforce be calm,” she said. “We have no reason not to expect all will be well.”
After being petted like an infant, his least favourite thing was being advised to be calm. Hence, his initial pique was reinstated.
“Of course,” he said curtly.
The mood of this wait was not to improve, for once Lady Catherine heard her niece had been taken to the straw, she abandoned her watch over her daughter’s corpse to sit with Darcy and Fitzwilliam. Elizabeth escaped by reason of frequenting Georgiana’s bedside.
Upon the untimely demise of Lady Anne, Dr. Brumfitt had hastily removed himself from Rosings Park. To his horror, Lady Catherine had issued no reproach. Had she rebuked him, had she screamed epitaphs at him (yea, had she threatened to draw and quarter him and throw him to the pigs), he would have been frightened, but not nearly as alarmed as was he in her silence. When he was recalled to Rosings, it was only with the utmost fortitude that he made himself board Lady Catherine’s carriage. He knew not what lay before him and he was far too wretched to inquire of the driver for the particulars. When he arrived, Lady Catherine did not receive him, but he was relieved to learn that his services were welcomed once again. Only upon learning that did he once again draw an easy breath.
Regrettably, that news was met by an equal relaxation of his sphincter (that had been in a puckered state since Lady Anne’s passing), thereby causing him to spend much of Georgiana’s labour perched upon a chamber-pot in the servants’ quarters. Chasing up and down the staircase did not leave him much time to monitor Georgiana’s progress. Of this turn of events her husband and her brother remained unaware. In fortune, Elizabeth had assisted in Jane’s deliveries, therefore she had little trouble performing those duties to which the surgeon was unable to attend. Georgiana was as stout-hearted as any soldier’s wife, bearing down with determination. If she was afraid, that remained unapparent. Indeed, she had enough wits about her to direct Elizabeth’s hands to help her daughter into the world. When she handed the baby to her mother, between them was exchanged an acceptance of a bond eclipsing any that had gone before.
Once she had washed the baby, swaddled her, and placed her in her mother’s arms, Elizabeth betook herself to announce the birth (passing Brumfitt upon the stairs). Both relieved and ecstatic, Fitzwilliam rushed to Georgiana’s side to adore his wife and his newborn, leaving Darcy and Elizabeth with the awkward task of sitting with Lady Catherine and keeping her company.
The line of viewers had dwindled with the light, and Lady Catherine gave the orders to have her daughter’s coffin sealed. As she had gone to await another child to be brought into the world forthwith of those instructions, Mrs. Jenkinson took that private opportunity to creep next to the coffin and place therein the tattered copy of The Mysteries of Udolpho and the cross and chain Anne had received at her confirmation. It lay to her to weep and to keep watch as the coffin was nailed shut.
It was altogether fitting that when Fitzwilliam returned from being introduced to his daughter he announced that it had been their agreement that her name should be Anne.