This is my last entry, dearest William—the 17th of June, two months since I left Sydney. We’ve arrived at Point de Galle in Ceylon, and the captain has flagged a Falmouth-bound packet to collect our mail. We will not tarry here but sail directly to Bombay, taking advantage of the monsoon winds, which I’m told,become fickle and variable as the season progresses. The captain hopes to depart Bombay by the end of July.
Bless you, bless your dear Father and your sweet sister, Georgiana.
Your loving wife—Elizabeth.
Oh, William—my love. I’ve marvellous news! Just today, as I folded these writings, I felt flutterings, like butterflies in my womb. It’s the quickening—yes! I’m with child. My courses didn’t come in February, after you departed Sydney, but I thought it was my grief for your going that held them back. And then, in March and April, with my departure on the Grosvenor, I forgot about them completely. But, I must admit, I felt ill and sometimes could only eat a little dry toast for breakfast—so unlike my robust appetite on the journey out to Port Jackson.
What joy, to carry your child! The babe will be my welcoming present when I arrive in London. It will be a close-run thing; by my reckoning, ‘tis due the last week of October. Will the Grosvenor have reached port by that time?—with favourable winds and a quick passage… Oh, I do hope that you are there to hold my hand during the birth. You must set up a nursery in Darcy House. And your father will be astonished to find he’s a grandfather, as well as my dear Papa and Mama—and my sisters and your Georgiana, aunts!
The packet has come. The next time we meet, perchance you’ll be a father. How wonderful!
Chapter 31
London, June 5, 1813
Darcy arose at two bells of the morning watch, just five o’clock, but the sun had already risen an hour and a quarter before. He had much to do—to see to the immediate needs of Pemberley, to review the accounts, to sort through Frederick’s papers, and to become familiar with his will. He dressed and went to the study. Some two hours later, at seven o’clock, Winthrop entered and informed him that his father was at breakfast.
Darcy senior looked to his son as the latter entered the small dining-room, overlooking the courtyard. “’Tis so good to have you home, Fitzwilliam. See, already I’m recovered enough to rise early and sit at breakfast.”
“Pardon my discourtesy, but let me take some refreshment, for my body is still keeping ship’s time, and I’ve been awake and working on Frederick’s papers since five o’clock.”
Darcy selected toast and, after a short period of hesitation, took some coddled eggs. A footman poured him coffee once he sat, opposite his father.
“Ah, what a treat—coddled eggs! In the colony, eggs are very expensive, and, our house being exposed to the commons at the rear, they would often disappear before we could benefit from them ourselves.”
“You must tell me of life in New South Wales, for I hear so many conflicting accounts. Castlereagh and Liverpool wish it to be a place of punishment, leg irons, and hard labour, but from your letters it seems a much more agreeable, even pleasant, place. You write of dinners, soirees, and balls. Is such society compatible with a penal colony, a place of thieves and other miscreants?”
“Such a view is misleading. There are four classes of people in the colony, two of which are scarcely noticed by the others. Of course, being a penal settlement, there are convicts, many of whom have harsh lives, but the others—the majority—work for settlers and merchants and enjoy almost as much freedom as their nominal masters; but still, they are, for all intents, slaves. In the environs near Sydney, the Eora are the original people. On the shores of Port Jackson, many are relatively untouched by English settlement, maintaining their traditions and rites. But the race is dying. Not only from diseases such as smallpox, which halved their number in ‘89, but also from our encroachment on their land and fishing grounds. On the frontier they fight, literally, to maintain what was theirs, but it’s a losing battle.”
Darcy looked to a footman to refill his cup. He saw his father was listening intently to his dissertation. He continued,
“The remaining two classes constitute what we would callSociety. There’s anupper class, associated largely with Government House and the regimental Officers, and alower classof poor free settlers, emancipated convicts, soldiers, and their children. Such is similar to that here, except there’s no aristocracy, noton. Many of the upper class are very wealthy, both merchants and settlers holding large tracts of land. And, though it may shock you, several of the wealthiest are emancipists. Indeed, many sat with me as magistrates on the tribunals and courts.”
“And you, Fitzwilliam, what’s your place in this society?”
“I’m both judge-advocate and lieutenant governor, second only to His Excellency the Governor. When Macquarie was absent for some six months, Iwasgovernor in fact and rank—the apex of Sydney society.” Darcy smiled. “No! ‘Twas not I who was at the pinnacle: that place was occupied by my lovely hostess, Elizabeth. I was but a poor companion to her grace, elegance, and charm.”
“You spoke ofElizabethin your letters, that she was your hostess at vice-regal events. But we know nothing further of her—was she some grand lady come out from England, condescending as such to assist you?”
“Whatever can you mean?” Darcy stared at his father in confusion. “No! Elizabeth is my wife! We’ve been married these past three years. My letter informing you of our marriage told it all.”
George Darcy looked anxiously about the room, which was empty apart from himself and his son—the footman had returned to the kitchen to refresh the coffee pot.
“Fitzwilliam,” said he, an urgency to his voice, “please close the door. There’s much we must discuss.”
Darcy went to the door and instructed the footman who was standing in the hallway to prevent anyone from entering. Once the door was closed and he was seated, his father stood and walked to the window, rubbing the back of his neck.
“You know of the Rosings' mortgage; I presume the details were contained in Frederick’s correspondence?”
“Indeed, what delusion gave Lady Catherine the idea that she could indebt the estate to such a degree? It’s unimaginable.” Darcy threw his arms in the air, exasperated by such folly.
“Matlock is livid. He discovered where a portion of the money went: the chimney-pieces in her drawing-rooms at eight hundred pounds; the glazing of the windows; gilded furniture; heavy drapes of silk damask and velvet with gold thread and other elaborate embellishments. Thousands of pounds of unnecessary expense. Perhaps ten or fifteen years ago, after Lewis de Bourgh died, she borrowed against the estate. Indulging herself, mortgaging the future of Rosings for some fleeting gratification. But that is only a fraction of the lost monies.
“Still unaccounted for is at least one hundred and twenty thousand, possibly more, for not all of the relevant deeds have been located. Lady Catherine refuses to discuss the matter. She disdains an earl, the head of her family! It is extraordinary.”
“Indeed, sir. Extraordinary! But why is the door closed? Why are we hidden away?”
“’Tis Matlock. He looks to Pemberley and sees a solution to this fiasco, one that limits knowledge of Catherine’s ruin to the Fitzwilliams and the Darcys. You are the heir, Fitzwilliam; you bear their name; he demands that you marry either Anne or Felicity.”
