Mr Darcy Requests the Pleasure

by Elizabeth Aston

  “That is my aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh,” Georgiana said, pointing to another one.

  “Of course, do you think I do not remember that we met under her roof? An admirable woman, one I greatly respect and admire. I shall be very happy if, as you grow older, you become such a one as her.”

  “Heaven forbid,” Georgiana said, laughing. “She overwhelms everyone, you would not wish to live with such a woman.”

  Privately, she thought, What a dreadful fate, were I to become like Aunt Catherine. And if I did, I don't believe my brother would ever speak to me again. However, she did not say so, but took Mr. Moresby across to another group of portraits of bewigged gentlemen and ladies in panniered skirts, distant members of her family who aroused no uneasy thoughts or memories in their descendant as she looked up at them.

  They stood for a moment by one of the window, and Mr. Moresby grew suddenly animated. “Ha, is that not Bingley setting off with a gun under his arm and a dog at his heels?”

  “Why, they must have returned from their ride, we have been a good while.”

  “Bingley did not mention he intended to take a gun out. If you will excuse me, I believe I will go and join him.”

  “Yes, do,” Georgiana said, with a guilty feeling of relief. “I have shown you everything of interest in the house, and more guests will be arriving. Elizabeth will be wondering where I am.”

  Chapter Nine

  Mr. Moresby hurried away, and Georgiana went out of the other end of the gallery and on to the main staircase. “Why, Colonel Hawkins, are you not also taking a gun out?”

  He fell into step beside her as they went down the wide staircase. “No, I am not in a shooting mood and I did not bring my guns. So, although Darcy offered me the use of a gun, I declined. Your brother is looking for you, by the way, I think he is in the ballroom.”

  “Then I will go to him.”

  “You look pensive, Miss Darcy.”

  She smiled at him, “No, indeed, although I have things on my mind. I wish you will call me Georgiana; after all we have been acquainted long enough.”

  “Indeed we have, although I seem to remember annoying you greatly when you were a girl by calling you Georgie.”

  “You did, just to tease me, for I hated being called Georgie.”

  “What a very irresponsible fellow I must been, to tease you so. But you took it all in good spirit, and gave as good as you got.”

  Did he wonder why she was now quiet and withdrawn? “Young ladies calm down and change as they grow older, as I'm sure you are aware. One has to leave behind childish boisterousness.”

  “I should have called it high spirits and a joy in life, it would be sad to lose that as the years pass. But your future husband is a serious man, he will appreciate a thoughtful wife.”

  “Yes, he is indeed a serious man. It is one of the things I like about him. He is good through and through.”

  Colonel Hawkins raised a quizzical eyebrow, “That is indeed an encomium, that is not something I could say of many people I know. My opinion of him goes up, for I am sure you are a good judge of character.”

  It was true, Georgiana was a good judge of character and she was right, Mr. Moresby was a good man, a very good man. and she was fortunate that he was going to become her husband. With him, however much they might disagree about things as horses, she could be happy. There would be no wildness in a life with a man such as Mr. Moresby.

  Almost as though he had read her thoughts, Colonel Hawkins said, “You were such a wild little thing, always up to mischief, always in trouble. And then like some woodland creature, the minute strangers appeared you were away hiding up a tree or behind a bush or somewhere up in the loft where you were not allowed. Do you still have such a dislike of company?”

  Georgiana said, “I do not care to be among strangers, I will confess. It is a matter of temperament, I think. My sister, Elizabeth, loves company and takes a good deal of pleasure at making new acquaintances. I feel safer with familiar friends.”

  There was that word again, safe. It carried a world of meaning for her, she needed to be safe. Colonel Hawkins was smiling, not the youthful grin she remembered, but the smile of a man who understood too much. It occurred to her that she would not call Colonel Hawkins safe. He had nothing of the rake about him, but she sensed a spirit of danger in him. No doubt that came of his being a military man.

  “Here I am,’ she called out to her brother. “Why do you need me?”

  Chapter Ten

  Caroline, watching from an upstairs window, saw Mr. Moresby returning from his shooting expedition. This might be her opportunity, time was slipping away. She needed to speak to him as soon as she might.

  Her struggle with her conscience had been brief, and any concerns about the bonds of friendship quickly dismissed. She owed it to Mr. Moresby to tell him the truth about his betrothed, he deserved to know that she was not what she seemed, that the oh-so-perfect Georgiana Darcy was a young woman with a past.

  What would he do now? He would go to his room to change from his outdoor clothes. He must be hungry after his exercise, he would surely go into the dining room, where a cold collation was laid for those who wanted it.

  She made her way to the dining-room and lurked in the passage, pretending to look at the pictures of old naval battles that hung there, biding her time. Yes, her surmise was correct, here he was, out of his breeches and gaiters, neatly dressed in pantaloons and boots, making purposefully for the dining room. She came forward, wreathed in smiles. “You are going to have some refreshments, let me join you. Did you enjoy your tour of the house?”

  He stood back to let her go ahead of him, and she was pleased to find they were to have the room to themselves. “I did, it is a fine house.”

  “Has Georgiana now abandoned you?”

  “Her presence was required by her brother, I believe there are matters to do with the ball this evening that she has to attend to.”

  She wasn’t in the least hungry, but she took a little of the ham he offered. He helped himself more liberally, carving several slices of cold beef and pouring himself some ale.

  How could she introduce the subject of Georgiana’s trip to Ramsgate?

  Luck was on her side, Mr. Moresby was himself giving her the opening she sought.

  “You have not congratulated me on my forthcoming betrothal to Miss Darcy, Miss Bingley. I hope that you did not feel– that is, that there was anything between us that might have led you to suppose–”

  “Good gracious, no, Mr. Moresby. There was never any question of an attachment between us. Of course I take pleasure in your company, but I am sure Miss Darcy will be the perfect wife for you.” She hoped she had managed to keep the insincerity out of her voice. Her dear friend Georgiana Darcy would not make a good wife for any man. “Georgiana is an engaging creature, with an open and frank nature among those such as her family. Although there is sometimes a little reserve; however, that is a Darcy characteristic. Once mistress of her own home, she will be more inclined to share the secrets which she does not care to reveal to those she knows less well.”

  “Secrets?”

  Now he was frowning, she had judged him correctly, he did not like the word secrets. “An engaged woman should not have secrets from her betrothed. Since she will be guided by him in all things, there must be perfect trust,” he said.

  “Oh, you are perfectly right,” cried Caroline. “No doubt she has already told you all about that incident in her past which she might prefer to have forgotten, but which she would of course make sure that her future husband was aware of. And if she didn’t, then undoubtedly Mr. Darcy will have appraised you of those circumstances.”

  Mr. Moresby’s frown deepened, his lips pursed into a stern line. “What are you talking about? What is this about Miss Darcy’s past?”

  Caroline hid a smile. She had baited her hook and the fish had caught. “Oh, it was all a while ago, what happened at Ramsgate.”

  “I never heard anything r
elating to Miss Darcy, I did not know that she had even been to Ramsgate.”

  “It was when she was very young, fifteen or sixteen I believe. She went for her health. The air there is supposed to be very bracing and she had had the influenza, quite severely. Perhaps it was the illness that left her, well, not quite herself, shall I say?”

  “Was she ill in Ramsgate, is this what you want to tell me? Is she of a sickly disposition?”

  “Oh, no, she is a perfectly healthy young woman, you need have no fears on that score. No, it was a different kind of business altogether, an affair of the heart. You are acquainted, possibly, with Mr. Wickham?”

  “Mr. Wickham? A connection of Mrs. Darcy’s? No, I have not been introduced to him.”

  “He is married to Mrs. Darcy’s youngest sister, Lydia Bennet as was, and that was another scandalous affair. Scandal follows Mr. Wickham around and I believe he is no more respectable in his behaviour now that he is a married man than he was before.”

  “But what has Mr. Wickham to do with Miss Darcy?”

  “You must be aware that they eloped together.”

  She gave a swift, sidelong glance at Mr. Moresby. A look of astonishment was spreading across his face.

  “Eloped? I cannot believe what you are saying. Miss Darcy eloped, actually eloped with Mr. Wickham? How can this be? Mr. Wickham is alive and married to another woman, and Miss Darcy is not married at all.”

  “Even so, there was an elopement. However, Mr. Darcy heard about it and, like a good brother, put a stop to it. Pray, do not look so astonished. She was very young, you cannot blame her for what she did. And the whole matter was hushed up, as of course it must be. Only I thought that you would certainly have heard about it from her, it cannot be news to you.”

  Mr. Moresby’s voice was tight, “An elopement! I heard nothing of this.”

  She had said enough, she did not want him to be questioning her about how she had this information. No, she had planted the seed, and judging by his enraged countenance, it would take little time to bear fruit. He did not know about Georgiana’s escapade, that was obvious. So much the better, it was as well that he learned of her behaviour here, at her home, where he could have an account of what happened from her, or, if she denied it, question her brother. Mr. Darcy’s fine sense of honour would mean that he could only tell Mr. Moresby the truth. And that must make Mr. Moresby consider whether he did indeed want to marry a woman with a tarnished reputation.

  “Now I must excuse myself, I promised dear Jane that I would spend some time with her.” With that, Caroline whisked herself out of the room, her heart beating, a flush of excitement on her face.

  She longed to know what the outcome would be. Would Mr. Moresby simply pay no attention, would he raise such a delicate subject with Georgiana – or would he speak to Mr. Darcy? Caroline would prefer that he address his questions to Georgiana. She would be flustered and unable to think in a rational way, while Mr. Darcy, with calmer nerves and a keen intellect, might want to know how Moresby had come by his knowledge of the whole sad affair, and that could reflect badly on her. No, Moresby would first interrogate Georgiana, she would have to admit the truth of the affair and then, surely that would drive a wedge between the couple.

  Caroline wished she could be a fly on the wall at any conversation between Moresby and Georgiana, but, with her sharp eyes and shrewd awareness of how other people were feeling, she would be able to judge if and when an encounter on this subject had taken place.

  Chapter Eleven

  For Georgiana, the lighting of the Yule Log marked the true beginning of Christmas.

  The children watched in silent and happy expectation as men from the estate heaved the huge log into the wide fireplace, settling it on the glowing embers and ashes. The steward kindled a flame and, lighting a charred remnant preserved from the previous year’s fire, Mr Darcy thrust it under the Yule log. Silence fell, until, at last, the flames began to flicker around the log.

  Louise Bingley was concerned, “What if the log burns to its end before Twelfth Night? Then there won’t be any left over to light the log next Christmas,” she whispered to Georgiana, whose hand she was holding.

  Georgiana reassured her, “Look at the size of the log, how big it is. And it knows its duty, you may be very sure there will be enough for next Christmas, there always is.”

  All the guests had now arrived, and for the next hour or so, there was cheerful noise of conversation, games with the children and the sense of the magical world of Christmas drawing in on the company. Elizabeth liked to keep up the tradition of decorating the house in the old style, with branches of pine and holly and bunches of mistletoe brought in from the woods and hung in swags on the staircase and in the rooms.

  Bowls of Christmas roses stood on tables, and the soft candlelight gave a warm glow to the ladies’ complexions. The children were held up to attach their bells and stars and hanging ornaments, saved from year to year and brought out to the accompaniment of shrieks of joy and discovery. The smell of wood fire mingled with the resiny scent of pine and yew, and the warm fragrance of mulled wine and hot mince pies.

  Then the nursery staff took their hot and dishevelled charges off, and family and guests went upstairs to dress for dinner and the ball.

  Georgiana, accustomed to being among the first down from the time when she was the lady of the house, finished her toilette quickly and set off along the landing. Her brother was just starting down the stairs, and he waited for her, remarking that she looked very fine. “Happy, my dear Georgiana?”

  ‘Why, yes, of course, everything is perfect,” Georgiana said, tucking her hand under his arm and walking down beside him. “How could it not be?”

  Guests were arriving, exclaiming at the brilliance of the night, “A full moon and starlight, it is as clear as day, and only a slight frost, nothing for the coachmen to be concerned about,” said their neighbour, Mr. Harlowe, ushering in his party, all of them looking cheerful and happy at the expectation of an evening of pleasure.

  Georgiana had noticed that Mr. Moresby hadn’t spoken to her since the tour of the house, had almost seemed to be keeping away from her since then, and had hardly been filled with the Christmas spirit while the Yule log was brought in. And now, when they went into dinner, he sat at some distance from her. Busy with greeting guests and chatting to old friends, she hadn’t given this behaviour much thought, merely supposing him disapproving of too strong a pagan element in the afternoon’s activities. Well, tomorrow was Christmas Day and they would all go to church, surely that should restore his equilibrium and satisfy his sense of propriety.

  After the meal was finished and the guests were making their way towards the ballroom, Georgiana felt a touch at her elbow, and there was Mr. Moresby.

  He looked solemn, but Georgiana was used to that, and thought nothing of it. Even so, there was an unaccustomed formality about him as he said he would be obliged for a few words with her.

  “In private,” he added, he said glancing around the hall, thronged as it was with guests and servants.

  Georgiana led the way into the library, which she knew they would have to themselves just then. “You are very gloomy, is something amiss?”

  “There is, although I hope it may be a misunderstanding that you can clear up for me. I have come by some information today that worries me greatly, and, if it is true, indicates a failing in your understanding of how a young lady in your situation should behave. There can be nothing but perfect trust and honesty between a husband and wife, but before we become husband and wife I think that any secrets should be brought out into the open.”

  Georgiana was becoming alarmed. The only secret she had was that dreadful affair with Wickham, and that, after all, had been a matter of intention and not execution. She had been on the verge of eloping with Mr. Wickham and, had not by some miraculous intervention her brother arrived in Ramsgate just at that time, she might have done so and ruined herself forever. Seeing what a wretched affair the m
arriage between Lydia and Mr. Wickham was she was daily thankful that her girlish fancies had been nipped in the bud in the way that they had.

  She examined her conscience. Did she have any other secrets that she was holding from Mr. Moresby? And was this indeed a secret that she needed to tell him? Was it a surprise that a young woman could have had her fancy caught by a man considered by most people to be attractive, even though now she regarded him with loathing? No, this was some trivial fault he had detected in her. He was sometimes inclined to make much of what she considered little matters.

  “I do agree there should be no secrets between man and wife.”

  “It has come to my attention that there was an incident in your past, a disgraceful incident. A grievous indiscretion, to put it no more strongly.

  Indiscretion? A grievous indiscretion?

  “One so grave that, had it become known, would have ruined your reputation for ever. Yet neither you nor your brother when I asked for your hand in marriage thought fit to mention it to me. I have to say that, if what I have heard is true, I would have to consider whether we have any prospect of happiness in our marriage together.”

  She met his frowning look with a clear and steady gaze. “I can think of no secret so grave that it would jeopardise our marriage.”

  “I refer to what happened in Ramsgate when you were younger.”

  Dear God, so that was it. Indiscretion? Grievous indiscretion? No, it had been folly and she regretted it bitterly. And, she realised with sudden clarity, that dreadful, shaming episode was one of the reasons why she was drawn to Mr. Moresby. It was because he was so unlike Wickham in every way. She had never since then allowed herself to succumb to the attraction that she might feel for any man, since the moment she did find a man attractive in the way that Wickham had been, she assumed that he would be as hollow and unreliable as Mr. Wickham was. She had truly learned her lesson, was she now to be punished for what she had not done?