Mendacity and Mourning Read online

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three (…and the Very Important, All-Encompassing Epilogue)

  Acknowledgements

  Meet the Author

  Also by J L Ashton

  ~~*~~

  A Searing Acquaintance

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Mendacity & Mourning

  Copyright © 2017 by J L Ashton

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any format whatsoever. For information: P.O. Box 34, Oysterville WA 98641

  ISBN: 978-1-68131-017-6

  Cover design by Zorylee Diaz-Lupitou

  Book layout by Ellen Pickels

  Dedication

  For Emma and Sam, who make everything more fun and more wonderful.

  Chapter One

  It is a truth universally acknowledged that a gossip in possession of misheard tales—and desiring both a good wife and an eager audience—need only descend upon the sitting rooms of a small country town in order to find satisfaction.

  And thus it was that Mr. William Collins—in spite of his generous height, insatiable appetite, and slovenly manner—found himself a welcomed guest in many of the five and twenty households of Meryton. It was fortunate that, as much as he enjoyed his own voice, he could listen as well because he could not tell his own story in full truth. For reasons he did not understand—and at a time when his patroness should have the most need for him—Lady Catherine, reeling in shock and horror, had ordered him to vacate her lands and leave her in peace.

  No one need know that the man of God had unwittingly insulted or shamed the great Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Or, perhaps, that by exiling her clergyman, she had ensured that the true reasons for her distress and disgust remained veiled behind a series of half-truths and twisted meanings.

  At least until the mongrel child of her daughter—and the lowly man who had stolen her away from Rosings—was born.

  ***

  Fitzwilliam Darcy, gentleman of Pemberley and haunter of ballroom walls, was, like the good parson, outside the circle of knowledge of his aunt’s behaviour and his cousin’s true fate. As he understood things, his cousin Anne—to whom only Lady Catherine, Mr. Collins, and assorted long-suffering servants had believed him affianced—was dead. Dead of the pox these two weeks and buried at Rosings before any family members could be notified and roused to her bedside. And now her mother, railing in anger and grief, was installed in London and surrounded by sympathetic family, all the while seething in secret and publicly demanding that no stone be ordered and no family journey to Rosings be commenced.

  “I am bereaved; I am lost!” she cried.

  “And quite red faced with bellowing,” Richard murmured, rolling his eyes.

  Darcy knew the second Fitzwilliam son, nearest in age to him and the closest he had to a brother, did sympathise with his aunt’s loss. Richard had cared for Anne, cared for her happiness. He had related to Darcy that there had been a moment a year or three ago when, lying atop a dirty blanket and nursing a head wound and two broken fingers on the outskirts of Burgos, he had considered offering for Anne himself. The comforts of home and a deep purse, however, could not overcome the spectre of sad, angry, spindly Anne in his bed while the World’s Most Knowledgeable and Imperious Mother-in-Law hovered outside the door shouting instructions on proper limb management and correct rhythms in the most private of marital realms. “I am not so devoted a cousin and nephew,” Richard had said bleakly. “And I am a breast man.”

  Darcy, being a good and proper younger cousin, reacted somewhat differently. Somewhat. When the news arrived of Anne’s sad yet unsurprising demise, he had worried, wondered, and written letters seeking the particulars. While he had been troubled, the malaise that struck him over the loss of Anne was less from bereavement than relief. Guilty relief.

  Anne had been…difficult. She was moody, used to supplicants, and resembled a younger version of her mother. He never would have married her, a fact for which Anne had said she was grateful. They were of similar age, and when she had striven to kiss his twelve-year-old cheek and seen him shrink away, she proclaimed that he had passed “the test” and they were indeed free of each other’s spell. “I prefer a whiskered cat to pet and purr to a boy who cannot hold still and eats too many sweets,” Anne had insisted. Darcy chose to focus on the blessing of self-determination over the insult.

  Still, before he left for Cambridge five years later, he had gone to her and asked whether she remained unencumbered by her mother’s deranged marriage plans. “I do not think we were fixed for one another while still in our cradles, Anne. Do you?” He had hoped his desperate aversion to such a conclusion did not seep out in his solemnly voiced query.

  She had laughed in her wheezy way and cut him to the quick. “You are not meant for me, Cousin. Nor I for you. Go off and read books and ride horses. I shall marry another.”

  But she had not, and now she was dead.

  Darcy sighed. He felt some pangs of remorse for not spending more time with Anne, but she, like her mother, had been a hard lady with whom to converse. Since her death a fortnight ago, he had not been dutiful enough to have dismissed his aunt’s wishes and run off to Rosings to investigate what had happened or to lay flowers on the still-fresh grave. He, in fact, had been quietly relieved to have the onus of a mythical engagement gone away and intensely guilty about feeling so. Neither he nor Anne had ever taken seriously her mother’s claims and threats, but they had also spent little time together since he had reached manhood and Anne’s health had declined. He had been a poor cousin and a poorer friend.

  Never once had he given honest consideration to marrying his cousin. He had cared for Anne as he might have cared for a piece of fruit. She had been enjoyable when in season, but when her temperament turned dark and surly—as it so often had—Anne had a sour bite to her personality. The apple did not fall far from the tree, his uncle Lord Matlock would grumble.

  Occasionally, Darcy wondered whether his family’s reliance on fruit metaphors for ill-behaved relatives did not mask some deep-seated resentment of the French vineyards the D’Arcys had abandoned some three centuries earlier. Years ago, when he had mentioned this supposition to Richard, all he had provoked in response was a raised eyebrow and a reminder that no Fitzwilliam had any envy of the frog-tainted D’Arcy blood. “Just our gold and our art collections…” a thirteen-year-old Darcy had mumbled under his breath, but he had refrained from ever repeating it aloud after Richard bloodied his nose.

  No, he knew there was much to envy about the Darcys—all two of them. He and his young sister, Georgiana, were wealthy, their reputation excellent, and their servants loyal, and they had
the great joy of living in perhaps the most beautiful home in England. Pemberley and its grounds were the envy of all who saw them. It was also, he had thought over the last few years, rather large and lonely and far too quiet. It was a house made for generations to share: for parents, children and grandchildren, aunts, uncles, and cousins to fill with laughter and music and to scatter with stray ribbons, tin soldiers, and muddied boots, tiny and large. While not bleak, worn down, and lacking warmth as Rosings had always been, Pemberley needed more liveliness. Much as the two remaining Darcys treasured their time together in Derbyshire, their home felt happiest and most vital when parties of friends and family gathered and filled its eight and twenty bedrooms.

  Fortunately, the sprawling Fitzwilliam clan of Matlock House and Mayfair was happy to lay claim to Darcy and Georgiana. Lord and Lady Matlock and their sons were as well established as any family could be in the scheme of things: comfortably situated in London’s social and financial spheres, rich in good health, and not overly prone to apoplexies, painful shyness, or horrific childbirth dramas. Darcy enjoyed his hale and hearty relations, tolerated those frail, angry ones at Rosings, and worried that, as she came of age, his sister’s Fitzwilliam blood would be her undoing. No Fitzwilliam woman seemed free of poor health, fragile demeanour, or imperious disposition. Now, with Anne dead and the family in some mutually unspoken state of bewildered, relieved mourning, it seemed the dark fates loomed ever closer to the youngest girl with Fitzwilliam bloodlines.

  Oh, Georgiana. He worried endlessly about his younger sister. She appeared far older than her fifteen years, but she lacked the worldliness and wiles of other girls her age. Her quiet, shy deportment masked her immaturity.

  Their cousin’s death was just the latest example of Darcy’s struggles as not just an older brother but also a father figure.

  Even as witness to Anne’s years of illness, his sister refused to believe her sole female cousin and sometime correspondent could be dead. When she protested that Anne seemed lively enough in her recent letters, Darcy shook his head sadly. Georgiana had had similar difficulty letting go of broken dolls and a dead pet rabbit; the loss of both parents before age twelve had likely prompted such denial. He hugged his sister, patted her head, ordered her new sheet music, and asked Cook to serve her favourite desserts.

  The realist in him warred with the romantic. His sister’s protests that “Anne cannot be dead; she is likely hiding from her mother” evoked rueful smiles but did not budge him or Richard into going to Rosings and inspecting the mouldering pile for all the places that Georgiana speculated Anne might have concealed herself. The estate was full of the pox, after all, and his aunt’s steward, bumbling though he might be, was maintaining it with the little bit of oversight he had been granted.

  Whatever festered at Rosings could be perilous to his sister. Darcy’s hair could turn grey from his fears for her. So many dangers: the pox, rabid dogs, highwaymen, a fall down the stairs, or a kick from a startled horse. And she had just faced down unexpected and startling perils at Pemberley—a brush with disgrace so narrowly averted.

  Who would have thought it would be a footman—a doughy-cheeked, bran-faced footman who was overly solicitous of a lonely young girl’s desire for conversation? Which is all it was, he reminded himself again and again. No more than conversation with a “friend.” A friendly footman.

  In his heart, Darcy knew it was not quite as bad as it might appear to outsiders, nor was Georgiana as horribly wicked as she supposed. Her recent “downfall,” such as it was, had led to her removal from Pemberley and her current situation with the Fitzwilliams in town. There, surrounded by her boisterous uncle and cousin, her ever-occupied aunt, and a stable with two newborn foals, she would be safe from footmen who were too eager to assist her and stupid enough to be found alone with her in a small, dimly lit room. Nothing untoward had occurred, Georgiana haltingly and hysterically had told her companion, Mrs. Annesley. But the mere appearance created by her misjudgment and the social isolation imposed by Pemberley had compelled Darcy to remove his sister from the sprawling estate and ensconce her with family for these final weeks of summer.

  He would have preferred his uncle’s country estate, but Anne’s death had compelled the Fitzwilliams’ return to London where Lady Catherine now dwelled. He dreaded London’s foul air and water and worried for his sister’s health. Worried more than usual, according to Richard, who had determined Darcy needed to fence. Or tup. Or both. Well-regulated man that he was, he chose fencing, and they set off in the carriage to have a match or two. Richard’s glower was a mixture of pity and annoyance.

  “You continue to act like a hysterical woman, Darcy. Georgiana is not a baby to be swaddled nor a teacup to be handled. She is with my mother. Leave it—leave her—be.”

  The glare Darcy shot him would have felled Bingley; the younger man’s buoyant vulnerability to Darcy’s moods was one of the attractions of their friendship. Richard, however, simply cocked an eyebrow and frowned.

  “Leave Georgiana be? Should we have let Anne be? Did we leave her be too long and fail her?” Darcy pulled out his watch and looked at it. “I spent many hours staring at Rosings’s clocks, wishing the hands to turn faster so I could get away from the place. Imagine how Anne felt, can you?”

  Richard seemed to feel true guilt over his cousin’s death. “She was not like us, you know. She seemed…content. Accepting.”

  “Of her fate? Yes.” Darcy pulled his attention away from his watch and stared out the window at those they passed who were scurrying, strolling, or standing idly. All living lives of which I know nothing. “Was her fate assigned at birth? Was mine?”

  “Of course. You are the master of Pemberley. You rule lands and lives and make your elder cousin miserable with your endlessly dour philosophising.” Richard sighed. “And this poor, put-upon cousin must listen and nod for he is dependent upon you for good brandy, a hot meal, and a decent fencing match.”

  In spite of himself, Darcy laughed quietly. “Put that way, mine is not too sorry a fate.”

  Still, he thought there was more than what fate might assign a man. He considered the notion of changing his fate while facing what lies ahead. He would return to Pemberley for the harvest and its accompanying celebrations before settling into Darcy House for the long winter season. He wondered whether Christmas at Pemberley would be too lonely and they should forego their sleigh and skates this year and stay in town. He wondered why it was easier to decide between barley and wheat for the upper fields than to make the best, happiest choices for himself and his sister. He was unable to even define best or happiest, so perhaps settling was the simplest resolution.

  Settling the question of his aunt’s future was one on which he tried not to dwell. He prayed it was enough for now that she had her home in London and seemed content to rule and grieve from her bed. He knew his aunt blamed him for Anne’s death.

  “If only he had married Anne, she would be well and Rosings’s future assured!”

  Darcy wondered which of those mattered more to his aunt. Much as he mourned his cousin, the future of Rosings was not a subject he wished to consider. Darcy was preoccupied with his own. Lady Catherine now refused to allow him in her presence—a blessing he should appreciate, according to Richard.

  He did not care for the black curtains and dark clothing, all the accoutrements of death that seemed too common to his family. Georgiana liked yellow whilst he preferred green—the colours of life, the colours of their mother’s sitting room. He was twenty-eight years of age and tired of wondering whether death and mourning would always determine his path. Death could come suddenly, and fate held surprising turns. No matter one’s wealth or happiness, it could be cut short in an instant.

  An entrapment by a desperate, scheming lady would be even worse. At a few estates, Darcy had evaded some well-laid plans by avoiding oddly darkened rooms and balconies and bolting his do
or. So little was within his control. Wary fear and vigilance were exhausting.

  And then, in the work of a moment, he was decided. He would determine his own fate. He would get through this mourning period for Anne and find himself a wife and Georgiana a sister, and they would fill the cavernous, echoing halls of Pemberley with children, noise, and laughter. He could not bear to go back to that house without such happy assurance, yet he could not imagine meeting such a woman, now or ever, in London. Here ladies preened and smiled; they nodded and touched his arm. Their dresses plunged and their intelligence seemed to follow. Not one had caught his eye in nigh on two years, and none had ever made him catch his breath. His heart remained untouched. But for his sister’s sake and for some grasp of future happiness, he would try. He would exert an effort beyond any he had before, and he would find himself a wife.

  With the summer season of country living still in full swing—and London host only to those most grasping of families who lacked a country house or who, like the Fitzwilliams, were managing a grieving, obdurate relative—Darcy thought it more likely that he could become acquainted with a young lady by visiting his friends’ estates. Prior to the news of Anne, he had accepted three invitations, and he determined to follow through with abbreviated visits. After a farewell to his sister and another attempt to pay respects to his aunt, he would journey off on his assignment. There was little chance he would meet a young lady of quality in a place called Meryton, but he could enjoy Charles Bingley’s happily infectious spirit.

  Chapter Two

  “My friend Darcy is to arrive tomorrow,” Bingley said, happily and heedlessly interrupting the tea his sisters were hosting for their neighbours, the Bennets.

  The lively young man, already half in love with the angel known as Jane Bennet, was as pleased to share his news as he was pleased to please his new friends. He gazed dreamily at Jane while disregarding a few mild concerns over the greeting that the announcement had received from Netherfield’s other occupants. He was certain Darcy’s letter would enliven Caroline’s mood. His sister never had been known for her pleasant demeanour, but her mood these past weeks in the country had been miserable, even ugly. It was clear she did not have a high opinion of the townspeople nor of the shops and their merchandise, but must she be so expressive with her opinions? Did her arms need to fly about when she gesticulated? Her tantrums behind closed doors were of no help to her aspirations for a good marriage to a landed gentleman. Darcy once had caught a glimpse of an argument’s angry aftermath, and Bingley had seen the disgust in his friend’s eyes.