The Winter Of Our Discontent

An excerpt from Grace Gibson's new novel, coming September 8

I left the earl’s house, knowing I would not be missed overmuch, and went to Carlton and Sons, where I found a nearly new Broadwood pianoforte that had been relinquished in a case of bankruptcy. I instantly purchased it and gave instructions for its shipment to Georgiana at Pemberley, penning a note to go with it, saying that I hoped she would forgive the fact the instrument was not custom made for her, citing the two-year waiting list as my excuse. My next destination was Bond Street where I purchased sheet music, books, and gloves, trying to do so with great indifference. Some of these objects constituted gifts for Mrs Darcy, and I found my commissions naturally distressing. As a further torment, the subject of whether or not I should give my wife a gift for Christmas arose.

I would rather give her a one-way passage to Botany Bay than give her a rope of pearls or whatever any new husband would give his bride. But to fail to give Mrs Darcy a gift would have been a noticeable slight and an omission that would be marked by my sister, who was much taken with the woman. I went resignedly to the bank, asked to go to the vault and was shown the family jewels held there for safekeeping. Steeling myself against a wave of revulsion and remorse—I had always had a romantic notion about giving my wife my mother’s emeralds—I selected the poorest, smallest necklace I could find, which was a gold chain with a moderate-sized pearl drop. I resented ‘losing’ even this trinket and swallowed a mouthful of bile as I took it to my jeweller to polish and fit up in a case.

That night, I drank fairly liberally in the corner of the countess’s elegant saloon while the conversation swirled about me. I watched with eyes made of jade, my thoughts dark as shadows.

When had these members of the haut ton become so trivial? I began to listen for something that resembled sense, or reason, or even usefulness. What I heard was mostly scandal, garbled accounts of the war, and glib words of dismissal about every single topic meriting concern. I drank to a state of inebriation just shy of oblivion. My mind became dull and maudlin as I was, historically speaking, a silent drunk. I smelled the tang of sweat on these supposedly well-washed nobles, and I listened to the ignorance spouting from the purportedly educated. I dully reflected that speaking to Mrs Darcy about a venereal complaint, awful as that was, would be a refreshing step up from having to pretend amusement at a parade of bon mots and scandalised titters. The day—the entire visit, in fact—had turned grim.

I was trapped between worlds, fallen through a crevice, now neither fashionable nor quite yet common. A fact seemed to hover around my fog-soaked brain like a home truth I needed to comprehend but could not grasp.

The days passed, and I wandered through my business in a haze of distraction and left Mrs Darcy’s letters unopened on the night table. Indeed, I left all my correspondence in that same

unopened pile.

“Will we pack for Pemberley, sir?” Romney asked in the morning.

“I have not yet decided.”

Romney looked askance at me, undoubtedly debating whether he should point out that we must travel soon or delay until after the yuletide. His training prevailed, and he stayed silent, which was lucky for him.

My head throbbed unbearably, and I was near to biting off the nose of the next person who appeared to annoy me. The valet tiptoed from the room, and at last, I wearily took up my stack of neglected correspondence.

Richard wrote:

Your letter provided the first moment of real amusement for me since

arriving in this diplomatic morass. Perhaps you will find your social

anonymity more comfortable than the prestige of being ‘Darcy’. I have

noticed many advantages myself, since being merely ‘the spare’, I am

free to be agreeable without fearing I shall be used in some way. Oh,

but I forget—you are enjoying the bitterness of life at present and do

not want to give up your brooding.

My cousin, outraged upon first learning I had been caught in the proverbial parson’s trap, now seemed to derive unholy amusement from my marriage. I crumpled the offending letter and tossed it at the fireplace, missing by a foot. I then opened my sister’s letter.

Dear Fitzwilliam,

This was how she always addressed me, but today, I felt the full force of her formality as a sharp pain in my chest.

Forced into a marriage neither desires, Elizabeth Darcy sinks into silence under Mr Darcy's oppressive resentment. Will her natural happy spirit and reserves of strength melt her husband's hardened heart--or will it take a true reckoning?