by Jann Rowland
“Can the Bennets not keep their repulsive cousin at Longbourn where he belongs?” demanded Caroline in one loud burst of displeasure.
“He is a guest at their home, Caroline,” said Mrs. Hurst, a rather surprising voice of reason. “Even if they wished it, they cannot control his movements.”
In Darcy’s opinion, the Bennets would have no interest in keeping their cousin at Longbourn and relished every moment he was away from them. ‘Repulsive’ was an accurate word for Mr. Collins, in Darcy’s estimation.
Miss Bingley huffed at her sister’s reasonable words. “I am sure they must push him out the door, for even they cannot stand him. What manner of man walks three miles of country roads to impose upon a woman who does not know him, and does not wish to?”
“It sounds much like accounts of our father’s pursuit of Mother,” said Mrs. Hurst in a dreamy voice. “Mama often claimed our father was a romantic.”
The only reply Mrs. Hurst received to her wistful introspection was a sour look from her sister, who continued to pace. Though he sympathized with Miss Bingley in a general sense, Darcy found the situation amusing. The relief he received from Miss Bingley’s insufferable attention was akin to the icing on the cake.
Be that as it may, it was clear someone would need to do something to rein in Mr. Collins’s ardor. It was not Darcy’s responsibility to be that voice of reason; however, Bingley was self-effacing and Hurst was so clearly on the edge of hilarity whenever the parson was present that Darcy knew it may fall to him. In fact, Hurst was not above tweaking his sister’s nose at every opportunity, and this was one he could not pass up.
“I think you are not seeing the possibilities inherent in the situation, dearest Caroline. This Mr. Collins is, perhaps, not the most impressive of specimens I will grant you. If you were to marry him, you would have the constant attendance of Mr. Darcy’s aunt. It sounds like he would be an excellent husband!”
“Perhaps we should go to Meryton for a time,” said Mrs. Hurst, eager to avoid an argument, even as her sister whirled on Hurst and fixed him with a hateful glare.
Miss Bingley turned a horrified glance on her sister. “Why ever would we go there?”
“Caroline,” said Mrs. Hurst, her tone reasonable, “it is clear this business of Mr. Collins is affecting you more than you realize. Would it not be beneficial to take your mind from your troubles?”
“If it was not Meryton, you may be correct,” spat Miss Bingley. “What is there in that speck for us? I should not wish any of my friends to know that I went there except under the most extreme duress.”
“If you do not recall,” said Mrs. Hurst, “none of our friends are here. And what better amusements do we have? Our preparations for the ball are complete. Shall we sit about, bemoaning our fate, wallowing in our misery? I should much prefer to go out for a time.”
“Oh, yes, let us go,” said Georgiana, much to Darcy’s surprise. “I should like to walk about for a time. Shall we not go Miss Bingley?”
“Yes, perhaps you are correct,” said Miss Bingley. “It would be a relief to leave Netherfield for a time.”
It struck Darcy that he had underestimated his sister. Georgiana, he saw, had learned how to deal with Miss Bingley in a way that eased her own experience with the woman. The simple mention that she would like to go to Meryton had the effect of changing Miss Bingley’s opinion. Miss Bingley, eager as she was to impress Darcy, had always felt that acting the sycophant with his sister would garner his approval, as strange as that may sound. Georgiana had recognized that fact and was using it to her advantage.
Darcy wondered for a moment if he should be concerned that his sister was manipulating Miss Bingley into doing what she wanted. Then he decided there was no reason to do so. Having endured Miss Bingley’s ways for the sake of Darcy’s friendship with Bingley, he could not begrudge her any advantage she might gain.
“What of you, Mr. Darcy?” asked Miss Bingley, turning her predatory gaze on him. “Shall you not join us also?”
“Thank you, Miss Bingley,” said Darcy, “but I think I will ride out today instead.”
The woman’s smile had grown larger when he first spoke but ran away from her face when Darcy declined. For a moment, he thought she might protest. The reality of her inability to direct him must have returned to her mind at that moment, for she hid a grimace and wished him a pleasant ride.
With a nod, Darcy smiled in parting at his sister and went to his room to change. Though it was later in the day, he wondered if he might see Miss Elizabeth again. Had Miss Bingley known of his thoughts at that moment, Darcy was certain she would not have been so willing to allow him to leave unmolested.
If there was one thing Fitzwilliam could not abide, it was poor behavior. It was one of the—many—reasons he had always despised George Wickham, for though Wickham affected the best manners and an amiable demeanor, his behavior was atrocious.
Fitzwilliam’s father, the Earl of Matlock, and one of the best men Fitzwilliam had ever known, had raised both of his sons to believe in the basic principle of respecting one’s fellow men. Though his father possessed a streak of pride for his family, his name, and his position, he was kind to all; he had never believed in his superiority due to his title, the accident of birth. Fitzwilliam’s experience in the army had reinforced these lessons, teaching him that nobility was not confined to the “noble” classes. More than once he had witnessed men of impeccable descent flee in panicked terror at the first sign of enemy activity, where the common men would stand strong, defending their fellows to the very death.
Worse, in Fitzwilliam’s opinion, were those persons who attempted to portray the possession of nobility when their claims were suspect at best. There were several among his acquaintances who fell into this category, but the one present who vexed him was Miss Caroline Bingley.
The town of Meryton, Fitzwilliam had decided early in his tenure there, was populated by good people. What the town lacked in the charm of some of the northern towns near his father’s or Darcy’s estates, it more than made up in the solid dependability of its citizens. Knowing the townsfolk had welcomed his company with open arms, Fitzwilliam made it a point to do business with them, drink with them, show them he and his men appreciated their welcome. It was when he was walking in the town that day that he heard Miss Bingley—well before he saw the woman, which spoke to how loud she was speaking, uncaring of who overheard.
“What a quaint town this is,” said she, alerting Fitzwilliam to her presence. Stopping, Fitzwilliam found Miss Bingley—recognizing her at once due to her tall stature and the fineness of her dress. “I dare say I have never seen its like, and for that, I cannot but be grateful.”
Walking by her side was her sister, and a little away, as if to inform anyone looking that she did not agree with Miss Bingley, was Georgiana. Mrs. Hurst, it seemed, was more aware than her sister of the difficulty a landowner could have if the townsfolk turned against them.
“Come, Caroline, let us enter this establishment. It appears charming.”
The blazing look Miss Bingley directed at the inoffensive window—it was the town’s milliner’s—spoke to her wish to be anywhere else. Fitzwilliam turned toward the trio, intent upon saving Miss Bingley from making another mistake. Unfortunately, his hails went unheeded and he was too far away.
“Perhaps good enough for you, Louisa,” said Miss Bingley with a loud, disdainful sniff. “But I require something more in the places I support. Should Lady Diane Montrose see me in such a place, she would rightfully abuse me as provincial and unworthy of notice in town.”
Though Miss Bingley took no notice of the looks she was receiving from those nearby, it was clear from their nervous glances about that Mrs. Hurst and Georgiana did. One of these was the cobbler, a man walking nearby toward his shop, watching Miss Bingley as if she was something foul. The man had also done an excellent repair on Fitzwilliam’s favorite pair of boots when the heel had cracked not long after his coming.
; “Mr. Garner,” hailed Fitzwilliam, distracting the man away from Miss Bingley and his dissatisfaction with her, “how do you do, sir?”
“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” said Mr. Garner, turning toward him. “I am well, thank you. That boot I repaired for you is still sound, I hope?”
“Excellent work, sir,” replied Fitzwilliam, raising his boot to emphasize the point. “Captain Carter informed me yesterday he has a pair of dancing shoes that have a hole in the sole.”
“Then send him my way, Colonel. It will not take long to fix them, and I will give him a good price. We cannot have the men of the regiment unable to dance with the local ladies, can we?”
Fitzwilliam laughed and slapped the man on the back. “You have seen through to what is important. I shall be certain to tell him.”
Smiling, Mr. Garner nodded and turned to leave, but not without fixing Miss Bingley with a disapproving stare. The woman did not notice, but her companions did. Then he departed, leaving Fitzwilliam in the ladies’ company.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” said Fitzwilliam, accepting Georgiana’s girlish embrace with a grin. “How are you all this fine morning?”
“We are tolerable, Colonel Fitzwilliam,” replied Miss Bingley. She did not see Georgiana rolling her eyes.
“Shall we walk this way?” asked Fitzwilliam, gesturing toward the end of town, offering his arm to Miss Bingley. While the woman would have preferred his cousin’s arm to Fitzwilliam’s, she could not refuse and remain polite.
“What brings you to town today?” asked he, thinking it might be beneficial to make a little light conversation.
“I have asked myself that question,” replied Miss Bingley with a superior sniff. “There is little here of interest, and less of quality. We should better have stayed home.”
Fitzwilliam gave the woman on his arm a glare, which she did not notice due to her expression of disgust at the sight of another shop they passed. It was then Fitzwilliam decided there was no reason to attempt diplomacy and every reason to prevent her from offending any other townsfolk.
“Perhaps it might be best, Miss Bingley, if you avoided affronting everyone in town.” Fitzwilliam stopped and turned to face her, ensuring there was no one near enough to overhear.
“What can their opinions mean to us?” demanded the woman. “This is nothing but a backwards speck of no significance in the hinterlands of the kingdom. No one of any import lives here. None of these townsfolk are of any consequence.”
“It is people like this, Miss Bingley, who provide the goods many in positions of greater wealth and privilege take for granted. They provide clothing, accessories, foodstuffs, and other such items we use daily.
“Furthermore,” said Fitzwilliam, ensuring she could not misunderstand his chiding tone, “not only do the townsfolk rely on the local estates for their custom, but the estates rely on the goodwill of the merchants, for they can make it very difficult if they take it into their minds to do so.”
Miss Bingley gathered herself for a retort, but Fitzwilliam spoke again, not allowing her to make a larger fool of herself. “I understand your brother will not live here long, Miss Bingley, but he is bound to this neighborhood for the next nine months. Furthermore, is it not the height of poor manners to strut about as if we expect those around us to genuflect in our direction? Even my father, who has more reason to be proud than any of us, does not behave in such a manner.”
Whatever she would have said remained unspoken, for Miss Bingley colored a little and looked down. Fitzwilliam had no intention to cause an excess of embarrassment, but her behavior must moderate if her brother was to find success in his first attempt to navigate the waters of a landed gentleman. A moment later she looked up, and against all hope, Fitzwilliam could see he had chastened her.
“You are correct, Colonel Fitzwilliam,” said she in a small voice. “It is simply . . .”
“My sister is out of sorts today,” said Mrs. Hurst. It was, perhaps, an oversimplification, for Fitzwilliam suspected Miss Bingley often behaved thus. “Mr. Collins came to the estate this morning and plied her with his attention. Nothing anyone says lessens his ardor.”
“Then I sympathize with you, Miss Bingley,” said Fitzwilliam. It was no exaggeration, for even a few moments in the parson’s company was enough. “But let us not take our frustrations out on the townsfolk, for they have done nothing to earn our ire.”
Miss Bingley nodded and allowed Fitzwilliam to lead her away again. They visited some few businesses, even the milliners which she had denigrated not a few moments before. In time, Fitzwilliam could see an improvement in her demeanor, and he thought she enjoyed her time in the dressmaker’s shop. She was not a bad woman, he decided—often she was a misguided one, as she behaved as she thought those of the higher classes did. With women like Lady Diane Montrose for examples, it was no wonder she thought those of their level cared nothing for those beneath them in society’s eyes!
It was well that her cousin had interrupted them, for Georgiana had been so embarrassed, she wished to sink into the ground in mortification. Anthony’s stern rebuke had improved Miss Bingley’s demeanor enough that Georgiana had enjoyed the outing thereafter. The other problem of the day presented itself after Anthony bowed and informed them of his intention to return to his office.
“Miss Bingley!” exclaimed a voice Georgiana had not heard since that summer. “How fortunate I am to have met you here today! How do you do?”
As one, the three ladies turned to see Lieutenant Wickham regarding them, his confidence in his charm never on display more than it was at that moment. At least it was until the man caught sight of Georgiana. He paled, but it was to his credit that he ignored her and focused on Miss Bingley instead.
It appeared to Georgiana that Miss Bingley was on the verge of saying something caustic to the officer. Her sister, however, nudged her, prompting a grimace. It did what she had intended, however, for Miss Bingley nodded and greeted the man in like kind, and for a moment they exchanged pleasantries.
Georgiana heard little of the exchange. The sight of Mr. Wickham, the sound of his voice returned her to those days in Ramsgate, brought back all the memories of a young, foolish girl, believing herself in love with a charming rake. For a moment, the shock of his appearance froze Georgiana in place, so much that she did not think she would have had the will to respond if Mr. Wickham had turned his attention on her.
Then a curious thing happened. As she watched the officer, noted his practiced replies to Miss Bingley’s statements, watching him as he turned his charm on his chosen conquest, she realized that everything she had ever known about the man was untrue. Mr. Wickham was not an Adonis in the flesh, he did not possess everything a woman wished for in a man. In fact, Mr. Wickham was nothing more than a poseur, a man who used a superficial knowledge of the behavior of polite society and an ability to mimic charming manners to stalk his prey. There was nothing of substance in Mr. Wickham, nothing of use to any woman who wished for a man of dependable character for a husband, or even a friend.
At that moment, Georgiana released the last vestiges of her previous infatuation with Mr. Wickham. The words Elizabeth had spoken to her some time before—the exact phrasing she could not remember—of her intention to marry a man of honor and integrity, a man she could love, returned to her. Georgiana wished for that also, and she decided she would take Elizabeth’s example and find such a man for herself. A secret part of her also hoped William was that man for Elizabeth, for he was as good a man as Georgiana knew.
The result of Georgiana’s musings on the subject was that she missed the entire exchange between Mr. Wickham and Miss Bingley. The woman extricated herself from Mr. Wickham’s company and led them back to the carriage, her previous contentment gone in the face of another man who forced his attentions on her. When they arrived back at Netherfield, Miss Bingley exited the carriage and retired to her room at once, leaving Georgiana and Mrs. Hurst watching as she stalked up the stairs.
“Was Mr. Wic
kham’s behavior that bad?” asked Georgiana.
Mrs. Hurst gave her a queer look, and Georgiana remembered too late that she had been there and to all appearances a witness to what had occurred. When Mrs. Hurst did not press the matter, she exhaled in relief.
“No, he was charming. Too charming.”
“That is not a surprise,” said Georgiana. “Mr. Wickham lives and breathes charm, but it is all a mask for he is an empty man.”
The Bingley party all knew that Mr. Wickham had been connected to the Darcy family in the past, and Mrs. Hurst nodded in acknowledgment.
“Then I will ensure my sister knows. At present, she is out of sorts as neither Mr. Wickham nor Mr. Collins will leave her be.”
“I understand where that might be frustrating,” said Georgiana. “As I am not out yet, I have not experienced it much, but William sees such ingratiating behavior often.”
Mrs. Hurst started, for Georgiana was not subtle with her admonishment. After a moment, she nodded and excused herself. Georgiana was eager to be alone, so she bid the woman farewell and made her way to the music room. Later, she would tell William of her epiphany.
As the three women moved away from him, Wickham watched them go, thoughts of the situation racing through his mind. The sight of Georgiana had almost caused him to lose his countenance; it was fortunate that a lifetime of presenting a mask to the world had allowed him to ignore her.
Miss Bingley, Wickham noted, was nothing like Georgiana. This was a woman full-grown, a woman cynical and calculating, one he knew meant to have Darcy at all costs. Wickham snorted at the thought—even if Darcy was not the prideful man he was, he would never have given the likes of Miss Bingley a second glance. Wickham would not have himself if she had not possessed a handsome dowry.
