London, February 10, 1814
“Darcy, you are avoiding me.”
“Not at all, uncle. My business takes me to Whitehall, yours to Westminster.” They were meeting at Brooks’s and took a private dining room away from the prying eyes of members. Naturally, Lord Matlock ordered an expensive wine—from Madeira—together with oysters, mussels, and jugged hare. The meal was to Darcy’s account.
“So, have you come to ask for Felicity’s hand, for I cannot think of another reason for your invitation?”
“Sir, I am in mourning—six months, at my father’s request. ‘Tis now February; therefore, some two months remain. Until then, please leave me be.”
“Not too long, for we need a resolution of the matter. This is Felicity’s third season. People are asking why I haven’t settled her yet. She has excellent connections, the daughter of an earl—you couldn’t do better.”
“For whom? The Fitzwilliams or Darcys? Mayhap Anne would be the better prospect. Next month, at five and twenty, she inherits Rosings. After moving Lady Catherine to the dower house and installing a good steward, with some repairs, I could rent the place. But the marriage could never be consummated, and there’s the risk it could be annulled.”
His uncle eyed Darcy with suspicion. “And why is that?”
“I’m sure you know, Uncle, that Lewis de Bough died of the pox, the French disease. He was syphilitic, had been before his marriage and, of course, afterwards.”
“Those are dangerous words, Darcy, to imply my sister, the daughter of an earl, married such a man…”
“Come now, sir, you already knew.” It was a statement offact, the clay that Darcy, as a lawyer, used to mould his arraignments and depositions.
Matlock growled. “Indeed, I see why Bathurst and others speak so well of you. You were Judge-Advocate for New South Wales; you apply those same skills here. By what authority?”
“Blunt. Silver is preferred, for it is easily exchanged. Gold begs too many questions.” In the colony, the threat of incarceration, flogging, or the stocks was sufficient to loosen tongues; in England, thanks to Darcy wealth, he achieved the same with bribes.
“Sir Lewis’s physician, I found, had been paid three hundred pounds to remain silent. I paid him four hundred, and he described the symptoms and the treatment with mercury.”
“A long time ago, what relevance does it have now? Surely, you wouldn’t expose Catherine to ridicule when Lewis died fifteen years ago?”
“Of course not. Contrary to your current opinion, I still believe in family and duty. But tell me honestly, would you have me consummate marriage with Cousin Anne?”
His uncle looked away and gave a dismissive laugh. Darcy felt exhausted, hiding his true feelings. When had his uncle begun to disgust him, putting reputation before all else?
“So, you’d have me marry a woman infected with congenital syphilis, contracted in the womb. Undoubtedly, Lady Catherine is also infected. She’s not the same lady she was before she married—the disease has driven her mad. Oh, not so much, but her delusions, irrational behaviour, and the wig she wears hides her loss of hair.”
Matlock stared at Darcy, comprehension dawning. It was clear he had never thought about his sister’s condition. But then, when Lady Catherine had married, he was not head of the family—that was the old Earl, Darcy’s grandfather. Darcycontinued his exposition, the truth of it corroborated by months of diligent research by his clerks and investigators.
“Anne was poorly from birth, but over the years her lung inflammation and weak heart have continually worsened, despite the best physicians. And her teeth, the incisors are deformed—a characteristic, I’m told, of syphilitic infants.”
Reginald Fitzwilliam—now Lord Matlock, then Viscount Milton—had returned from his grand tour accompanied by Sir Lewis—for they were at Cambridge together—to see the marriage of his sister, Catherine, to his friend. It appeared a good match. He buried his head in his hands. Realisation dawned on him.
Darcy felt no compassion for the man—did he really care for his sister?
“At Cambridge, did you not visitThe Crooked Staff,a tavern with good ale and buxom wenches? Away from the prying eyes of the proctors.”
“Still there? Of course, a hundred years before, and will be, most likely, a hundred years after.” The earl’s eyes lost their focus. “There was a lovely girl,Betsy Smith, though I suppose that wasn’t her real name, poor thing. I would ask for her. She was clean, though I always used a Johnnie.”
“There was anotherBetsy Smith,” said Darcy, “but not the same girl, for mine could have been no more than five and twenty. Like yourself, I was careful; and, to speak of the devil, I never contracted the disease. But what of Sir Lewis?”
“He spent much of his time in the tavern. Always above stairs with a different girl. And then, picking up some floozie from the street and smuggling her into his rooms—silly man, the proctors could have had him expelled. Then on the tour… I had been warned off continental women by my father. I was already thinking of the earldom. And politics, sitting in my father’s place in Parliament—catching the pox would have ruined me.”
“And, Sir Lewis?”
“Looking back, the man was addicted. After a time, as I recall, they banned him fromThe Crooked Staff—I thought it was because of his wild behaviour, for he was a raucous drunk. But, of course, they must have seen the lesions. Afterwards, he would only tup street girls.”
“And in town, after he had married?” Darcy wished to expose the whole of the matter, for this secret had been kept hidden away for far too long.
“We no longer moved in the same circles…”
