Pemberley Shades

by D. Bonavia-Hunt

  “He is one of those volatile, uncontrolled persons of whom it can never be assumed that he will do what is right and proper in any given circumstances,” he said. “For example, a man left alone with a young unmarried woman should observe the utmost care and delicacy in regard to her. But Acworth is so careless of appearances that it probably has not occurred to him that to make you conspicuous—as he did yesterday at Clopwell—is to do you a great disservice.”

  Georgiana coloured deeply and looked down. She had remained seated at the pianoforte while Darcy, after a turn or two about the room, was now standing with his back to the window.

  “Are you speaking of our going up to the attic?” she asked gravely. “We found the spinet and he asked me to try it—” she broke off in some confusion.

  “There was no harm in that,” Darcy said observing her attentively. “But to remain up there so long, past the hour fixed for our return, and to keep the rest of the party waiting is an instance of what I mean.”

  “Has anything been said? Would it be thought—by anyone not knowing me very well—that I was accustomed to behave like that?”

  “Certainly not,” he answered. “There is no one here who does not know you too well for such an idea. The most that might be thought is that it showed an unguarded simplicity.”

  “But a stranger could have misjudged me,” she persisted, crimson and distressed.

  “One who did not know your character might. Censorious people do not spare their strictures. But what stranger is there here to misjudge you? I would advise you to put the whole incident out of your head, Georgiana. Any displeasure I may have shown at the time was due to the delay occasioned and to Elizabeth’s running about the house in search of you when she was not fit for it. Nevertheless, before we close the subject, I must warn you to have as little as possible to do with Mr. Acworth in the future. He will not be here very much longer. Until then, treat him with civility, but do not let him inveigle you away again from the rest of the company.” After a short pause he added, “He is not at all as he was represented to me. Need I say more than that?”

  Georgiana bent her head in unhappy reflection. Without looking up she said presently with evident constraint, “I have no special desire for his society. His gifts I do admire, but that is all. I wish that to be generally and thoroughly understood.”

  “Nothing could be less equivocal,” he said smiling. “I will not deny that I am relieved to hear you say so. And now I will interrupt you no longer. You must wish me away.”

  She shook her head with an attempt at an answering smile. “If it stops raining I shall go for a walk through the grounds for the sake of fresh air,” she said.

  “You hate confinement as Elizabeth does. Never were there two such confirmed ramblers.”

  He then went away, satisfied that she was in no danger from Acworth. Her distress and confusion had not gone unmarked, but he attributed that to the shrinking of her native modesty and shyness from the public notice she must feel she had unhappily brought on herself—a feeling which would pass.

  It was now time to be enquiring after Lady Catherine’s degree of comfort and state of entertainment should she have descended from her dressing-room. On looking into the little drawing-room he found her seated there with Mrs. Gardiner and Mrs. Bingley, instructing the latter on the only correct way of blending the different coloured silks of her embroidery. “Taste,” said her ladyship, “is not to be imparted, but there are certain rules of congruity which, if observed, cannot fail to procure a reasonably good effect.”

  She broke off her discourse at her nephew’s approach and the turn of her shoulder conveyed unmistakably that the attention of the two ladies was no longer required and their continued presence in the room rather deprecated than not. Seeing this, Mrs. Gardiner and Jane felt it their duty to withdraw as unobtrusively as they could. More mindful of the feelings of their host than Lady Catherine of theirs, they recollected, as if it had been temporarily forgotten, a promise to visit the nursery.

  Lady Catherine was ever impatient of beating about the bush. Before Darcy could engage her upon the safe and easy topic he meditated broaching, she demanded peremptorily to be informed as to Georgiana’s prospects of marriage. It shocked her to hear that no single suitor had as yet proposed for her niece’s hand. That there was gross negligence on the part of someone she did not doubt. Was it not a chaperone’s first duty to provide the proper occasions and facilities for bringing the young girl in her charge into the presence of the most eligible gentlemen of her acquaintance in such a manner as to recommend her to their favourable attention? A girl of twenty with such excellent connections and a fortune of thirty thousand pounds to be hanging on like a nobody was proof that no attempt to settle her had been made. It was simply disgraceful. The disgraceful circumstance of her own daughter’s forlorn condition did not at first strike her, but it could not long fail to do so, and she said haughtily,

  “Anne’s case is different. Her choice is narrowed by reason of her immensely greater fortune. An heiress to a great estate has a very much more limited range than even Georgiana Darcy.”

  Darcy could only bow in a show of polite acquiescence. Happily Lady Catherine’s outraged feelings or some element of mortification in them reined in her eloquence, and the pause which followed, indicating, as it did, a change of subject, enabled him to ask her whether she wished to renew her acquaintance with the Miss Robinsons. To this she replied that she would take an early opportunity of waiting upon them—that very day if the weather mended.

  “The eldest Miss Robinson is so truly respectable,” said she, “her ideas on all matters so nearly correspond with my own that it is a pleasure to converse with her. I could wish that there were more like her in these days of laxity and slighted authority. And so this Mr. Acworth is to be the new rector of Pemberley.”

  “From whom did you learn that, madam?” Darcy enquired.

  “From Georgiana. I asked her what he was doing here and she replied in some roundabout way that I cannot remember that he had been recommended for the living. The name of Acworth was instantly familiar to me, and on hearing that he was a younger son of the late Lord Egbury I perceived at once that he had inherited the family countenance. He seems an agreeable young man. You are indeed fortunate in having Lord Egbury’s son as the clergyman of Pemberley. It is but seldom in my life that I have made a mistake, but I was most certainly deceived in Mr. Collins. His pretensions to gentility were founded upon his prospective inheritance of the Longbourn estate which of course is too small to confer any consequence upon its possessor. To hear Mr. Collins talk one would have supposed it to be a great family place.”

  In reply Darcy offered the general observation that pretentiousness and conceit were to be found in every sphere of life, not excepting the highest.

  “As regards Mr. Acworth,” he continued, “he was invited to Pemberley for a period of some weeks without prejudice to any ultimate decision affecting the disposal of the benefice—either on his side or mine. There is reason to believe that he has no intention of remaining here.”

  “That is a pity, for he is eminently suitable. Have you tried persuasion? What are his objections? Georgiana did tell me that he is recently a widower and that he is often very melancholy in consequence. If that is so, he should marry again. Would not he do for Georgiana? But perhaps you dislike the idea of a widower for her?”

  Darcy replied emphatically that such a thing was not to be thought of. “In any case,” he said, “I should never urge her into any marriage—even the most advantageous—contrary to her inclinations.”

  “I think you are overscrupulous,” said his aunt. “But I will say no more.” Her features showed some displeasure, and without any change of countenance she enquired after Elizabeth’s general state of health.

  “This modern habit of breakfasting in bed for nothing at all is what I cannot approve of,” said she. “I nev
er did it myself when young, and now that there is rather more excuse I should be ashamed of the indulgence. But I thank heaven that I have always enjoyed the best of health. Your dear mother used to say to me, ‘Catherine, you are indeed wonderful. You never give way under any circumstances.’”

  “Such a constitution is undoubtedly a gift all too rarely bestowed,” replied Darcy. “Fortunately my wife’s health is in general as excellent as your own. Like yourself, too, she will never give way to indisposition if she can help it. Ill as she felt this morning she would have risen at her usual early hour had I not insisted upon her resting some hours longer.”

  “In that case I have no more to say,” returned the lady. “I am glad to hear that you retain your authority, for from observation I should have supposed the opposite. Anne’s character is so different. She does not seek to shine by comparison with others.”

  As Darcy could think of no reply that would be acceptable without offending his conscience, he got up from his chair and walked to the window to examine and report on the weather. From there he was able to communicate the welcome intelligence that the sky was clearing rapidly. Lady Catherine was therefore graciously pleased to agree to a carriage being ordered for her.

  “Miss Robinson will be delighted to see us, I believe,” she said. “It will be the most charming surprise for her.”

  About half an hour later Darcy handed his aunt and her daughter into the barouche that was to convey them to the Parsonage. As he stood to watch them go he descried the figures of two persons crossing the bridge over the river. In a moment the receding carriage obliterated them, then they were seen again and perceived to be Georgiana and Wakeford. Walking rapidly they approached the house. Neither spoke to the other and it was observable that they kept some distance apart. The nearer they came, and the more distinct the view of their countenances, the stronger grew Darcy’s impression that there had been some disagreement between them, so much so that he turned and mounted the steps into the house that he might not increase their embarrassment by openly encountering it. Before he could utter a word, had he wished, Georgiana passed him quickly and crossed the hall towards the staircase, and when he looked round for Wakeford, it was to see him reach the door of the library and disappear through it.

  In default of any explanation, an occurrence so strange and unlooked-for was bound to be disquieting. Delicacy forbidding enquiry, and recollection supplying no key to comprehension, Darcy resolved to think no more about it for the present. It was some hours since he had seen Elizabeth and a wish to know how she was now feeling directed his steps towards her room.

  He found her dressed in readiness for dinner and saw with delight that she was looking once more her usual healthful self. She was reading, and without lifting her eyes from her book, she said, “Listen to this,” and began reciting some lines of poetry descriptive of a mountain scene. He heard her with pleasure for the beauty of the verse and her clear, expressive, yet unaffected rendering of it. But in the same way as music will set the mind drifting along alien currents of thought, so under the spell of Elizabeth’s voice in the surrounding stillness, the events of the past twenty-four hours came thronging into memory, took possession of his faculties and thrust away all else. At length he was brought to himself by hearing her say, “Fitz, you are not listening.”

  “My mind had slipped off for the moment, I confess,” he answered.

  “You always did sacrifice gallantry to truth,” she said, smiling. “Where were your thoughts, may I ask? With Lady Catherine?”

  “They might well be, for she has lost none of her energy, nor her interest in other people’s affairs. But I was not in truth thinking of her.” And after some slight hesitation he told her of Georgiana and Wakeford, of the manner of their return to the house and their appearance of estrangement.

  “It would seem impossible,” he said, “for what could they have to quarrel about? It is besides not in the character of either. They did not go out together—of that I am certain. Wakeford left the house immediately after breakfast, and Georgiana not much above an hour ago.”

  “Then we are to infer that they met, walked back together and on the way quarrelled. No, that will not do. Georgiana would not dare, neither can I believe it of Wakeford. He has appeared silent and preoccupied of late, it is true, but why should he quarrel with poor Georgiana?”

  “Indeed I hope not,” he answered. “It would add one more tangle to the other complications gathering under this roof.”

  “Other complications?” she returned, raising her eyebrows.

  “Are they not always the effect of Lady Catherine’s presence? Has she not already produced a ball? My excellent aunt must have her finger in every pie. She has now gone to visit the Miss Robinsons, and I shall be surprised if she does not return with some scheme for the disposal of the living.”

  Whatever else invisible or imponderable there might be in the carriage on its return from the Parsonage, Lady Catherine had visibly brought back Mr. Acworth. Darcy and Elizabeth were descending the staircase when the sound of arrival at the front door was heard. Following Lady Catherine and Anne into the hall came the gentleman, and then and there was enacted a scene of polished gratitude on the one side and gracious condescension on the other.

  “If ever I can be of use where it will be truly appreciated I am only too happy,” said she. “It is a rule with me that persons in our rank of life should be first in setting an example of obligingness. And it was really no trouble at all. My daughter and I were not in the least incommoded. So say no more about it, I beg of you.”

  Chapter 16

  Elizabeth’s reappearance among her guests brought felicitations on her recovery, even from Lady Catherine, and a resumption of social pleasure. The evening began well. Mortimer, now a daily visitor, came to dinner and fixed all his looks and attentions upon Kitty in the approved manner preparatory to a declaration. The same four sat down to whist after tea as before, and Lady Catherine’s good fortune in the cards she held, and the excellent support given by her partner varied not. All Mrs. Gardiner’s customary good humour was needed to sustain reverse after reverse with tolerable equanimity, for not only were her hands and Major Wakeford’s undeviatingly bad, but Major Wakeford, to her amazement and chagrin, lost one or two tricks that might have been theirs.

  The rest of the party, including Elizabeth, played Speculation again in deference to Anne de Bourgh’s expressed desire. As on the previous evening Acworth sat beside her and in the intervals of play conversed with her about Kent which he said he knew well from having been at school there as a child. He mentioned the name of the place, West Gitting, a village near Maidstone, and discovered to his surprise and that of his companion that it was within ten miles of Rosings. The circumstance proved quite animating and set up a sort of intimacy between them, for they could return ever and again with undiminished interest to an inexhaustible subject which had also the merit of excluding everybody else, not one of them having ever in their lives heard of West Gitting before.

  “I went there when I was seven or eight,” said Acworth in a soft, confidential tone. “My brother and I were entrusted to the care of the clergyman who eked out his stipend by taking one or two pupils into his house. It was a secluded spot, the church and vicarage lying some distance away from the village. We were very happy there on the whole.”

  He sighed gently and his countenance spoke the sad conviction of happiness being no longer possible. Once or twice Elizabeth thought she caught his glance, melancholy and almost accusing, resting upon herself. She took good care to show no consciousness of having seen it and, in fact, felt the greatest impatience with his behaviour.

  Anne did not have much to say, but she listened with instant attention whenever Acworth addressed her, and now and then from her own knowledge supplied the name of a village or mansion on the road between West Gitting and Rosings. All this flow of reminiscence was both distracting and m
eaningless for the other players, and at the end of the game, Acworth being wholly taken up with determining the precise location of a house about which a little argument had developed, Bingley began showing Mortimer a card trick and asked him whether he could guess how it was done. Mortimer with a shake of the head had finally to confess himself beaten, whereupon Jane, who knew, would have told him had not her husband restrained her.

  “No, Jane. Not a word, not a syllable. Now Lizzy and Kitty—and Georgiana too—you are to set your wits to work to solve the mystery. Ladies always say they have sharper eyes than men.”

  Kitty protested that she abominated card tricks and saw nothing diverting in them at all, but Elizabeth, displeased with Acworth’s ill-breeding in keeping the table waiting while he turned his shoulder to everyone but his neighbour, made a parade of accepting Bingley’s challenge. He had picked up the cards and was shuffling them when Acworth suddenly turned round in a manner which showed him perfectly aware of all that had gone on without his participation, and asked for the cards to be handed to himself.

  “I can perhaps show you something you have not seen before,” he said. Then turning to Elizabeth with a slight inclination of the head he asked, “Have I Mrs. Darcy’s permission?”

  “By all means,” she answered, perhaps more archly than she intended, “on condition that you let us in on the secret afterwards.”

  “Would you rob Samson of his locks?” he replied smiling.

  Elizabeth averted her eyes, infuriated with herself for having provoked the sally. With a heightened colour she turned to Bingley and laughingly adjured him to be on the alert.

  “I am the more likely to be made look very foolish,” he answered in like manner. “Acworth means to confound us all, and if he doesn’t I for one shall be disappointed.”