Miss Darcy's Companion: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Joana Starnes

  “But he did not love me. It was but a ploy to lure me away. In which you lent a hand. Lizzy – Miss Bennet – told me you sought to send my carriage and my people away.”

  “To give him time! Only to give him time to talk to you and disclose his feelings without interference, especially Miss Bennet’s. He said… Mr Wickham said that she was against him. That she was your brother’s tool, fixed at your side to prevent anyone getting close enough – keep you away from everybody until he had chosen whom you were to marry.”

  “So you have cast me in the part of the fair maiden locked up in the tower, Lizzy as the gatekeeper and my brother as the unbending ogre,” Georgiana said derisively.

  “Well, I… You must own, your brother can be so forbidding at times…”

  Georgiana did not know whether to laugh of be truly offended at Miss Fenton’s presumption to pass judgement. On her dearest brother of all people, who was nothing but the embodiment of kindness to her.

  “I would have thought you knew my brother better than this. Or, at the very least, not take a stranger’s word against him and so readily believe the worst as to assist Mr Wickham in his schemes,” she said with feeling, and Miss Fenton hung her head again.

  “Aye. The vile deceiver. He said… Oh, I went back to the parlour at the inn to see how you were, how you both were, and if he was successful in his application, and as soon as I asked him, he sneered that he was not. An ugly sneer it was, Georgiana. He said you ran away like a frightened little rabbit and that the game was up. The game! I was incensed of course to hear how unjustly he had used me, and told him that my brother and Mr Darcy would hear of this. And he scoffed that I should be sure to tell them both, for all the good it would do me. And then I had to rush here to let you know. To beg your forgiveness. And Miss Bennet’s. And your brother’s too, if he would be prepared to listen when he returns from town.”

  “He has returned,” Georgiana calmly informed her. “But he would not listen. Not today.” If anything, he would likely seem more forbidding than ever, but she did not say that. Instead, she quietly added, “If it puts your mind at rest, you do have my forgiveness. We were both deceived by Mr Wickham and I daresay we are not the only ones. At least there was no real harm done.”

  “Thank goodness,” Miss Fenton interjected.

  “Aye. And thanks to Miss Bennet. You will excuse me, but I must ask you to cut your visit short. We still have matters to address and I must leave you.”

  “Of course. Of course. Do come to call at Fenton Park, when you feel… Do come!” the young lady earnestly urged, and charity compelled Georgiana to acknowledge the entreaty and the sentiments behind it with a nod.

  Oddly elated by the whole exchange, or at the very least relieved, she escorted Miss Fenton out of the morning room and then to the door, and remained there to see her rush into the waiting carriage to protect herself from the rain that was now falling in cold sheets, slanted by the rising wind. Miss Fenton gave a conscious wave and told her coachman to depart. With a much lighter heart than when she had first heard of her neighbour’s visit, Georgiana raised her own hand, watched the carriage roll away, then took to the stairs on her way to Elizabeth’s bedchamber, to let her know that the world was not quite as full of snakes and crocodiles as they both thought.

  She walked up, smiling at the wickedly entertaining picture of Miss Fenton masquerading as a bebonneted crocodile, then went to knock on her friend’s door. Still no reply. She did not knock again, but this time pushed the door open and peered in.

  “Lizzy? Are you there?”

  Only the silence answered. She walked in to knock on the dressing room door, only to notice that it was left ajar and there was no one in there either. She frowned in mild puzzlement as she returned to the bedchamber, and it was then that she spotted the folded note on the bedcovers, with her own name staring back at her. She picked it up and opened it at once. A very short note, in her friend’s own hand.

  Dearest Georgiana,

  I am distraught to leave you thus. I would have liked to at least embrace you and thank you for your unremitting kindness. But I had to go. Your brother might be willing to explain the reasons. I can only beg you to forgive me for leaving as I do. I will only add, God bless you.

  Elizabeth

  Georgiana’s eyes widened in horrified dismay.

  Gone?

  Why? When? Where?

  And Fitzwilliam knew of this?

  The note still clutched in her hand, she hastened out of the small bedchamber and then down the stairs, to come upon a startled footman.

  “Peter, have you seen Miss Bennet since I asked you? No? I need your help to find her. And find my brother also. Has he left word where he went and how long he would be?”

  “All I know is that he went riding, Ma’am. An hour gone. Perhaps a little longer.”

  “Where to?”

  “He did not say.”

  Georgiana sighed in exasperation.

  “Send word to the stables to inquire about my brother and if a carriage was ordered for Miss Bennet. Fetch Thomas and Simon. See if they know anything and if not, get them to ask around. The maids. The gardeners. The grooms and stable lads. Someone must know something. Must have seen something. And I wish to hear what that was as soon as may be!”

  Peter nodded and promptly obeyed. Well-trained as he might have been by old Mr Burton, the ever so exacting butler, he could not help wondering about the cause of the upheaval. Nor could he help marvelling as he went, at how shockingly like the master Miss Darcy had sounded just then, for all her commonly subdued and quiet ways. Bound to grow into a formidable mistress someday, and that day not far off either. Proud to serve her, he was, and the master too. Well, they did say that blood would always tell.

  * * * *

  His ill-treated mount had slowed to a halt towards the brow of the hill, and this time Darcy took pity on him and allowed it. He scoffed. It was just as well that he had given him his head to gallop over pastures rather than along the road, and find themselves in Lambton. Then he might not have resisted the urge to seek Wickham out.

  And then what? Challenge him?

  Nay. The vermin did not deserve gentlemanly treatment. Rather be thrashed within an inch of his life like a common blackguard, for coming near his sister and seeking to seduce her companion. Or succeeding to.

  He gritted his teeth. Not enough, by God! Not enough, but it would be some dark consolation to see him turned into a bloodied wreck.

  Still – expose himself and his house to gossip? What purpose would it serve? What purpose indeed, other than feeding his lust for revenge? One might say that was reason enough. Yet they also said that revenge was best served cold. A welcome thought, that. A thousand times better than agonising over Elizabeth’s betrayal. He could diligently apply himself to breaking the rogue instead. Call all his debts. Employ the right men to inquire into his wrongdoings in town. There must be plenty to be found. Enough to have him hanged. Or at the very least transported. Never to see her again.

  She would hate him for bringing it about. He scoffed once more. Let her! It was for her own good. Unless…

  Nausea threatened, worse than ever. Unless matters had gone out of hand already, and they had to marry. It would not come to pass. Not without substantial inducement. How much? Five thousand pounds? Ten thousand?

  The heavens opened. Slowly. A few droplets at first, unnoticeable, to steadily grow into an icy downpour. Yet they still stood there, horse and horseman, dark shapes outlined against the wind-whipped clouds. Stood motionless, as Darcy pondered how he had come to lose his senses so completely that he would even consider bribing Wickham into marrying her.

  * * * *

  Mist had begun to gather around hilltops and stretch long grey fingers down the slopes towards the valley. It was raining heavily by now. The ominous threat from the low-lying clouds had turned real just as Elizabeth could spot the first cluster of cottages that, along with a handful of others, formed the small villa
ge of Kympton. The church spire peeked out of the mist, tall and pointed, so unlike the crenellated church towers of home.

  Home? Where was that? Hertfordshire, perhaps. Town, most likely. But that thought was for another day. If she would only find someone to take her to the turnpike inn, otherwise she would be thoroughly drenched by the time she got there.

  Part of her dress already was. The unforgiving wind and every step she took made her cloak part and flap aside, allowing the rain in, so that the dress was now soaked below the knees and stuck to her legs in ice-cold folds. The heavy bag was cutting into her right hand, and Elizabeth moved it to the other side, then tugged the cloak closer and bent her head into the wind, so that the rain slanting towards her would not drench her face quite as much as her apparel. Which was why she did not notice the two women who had just come out of one of the first cottages, and were now under the meagre shelter of the tiny porch. She only turned in surprise mingled with panic when one of them called her name.

  “Miss Bennet? It is you. Awful weather, is it not?”

  From the first words Elizabeth had recognised Miss Bradden’s voice. She sighed and stopped – there was nothing to be done about it. She pushed her hood aside a little to greet her properly, and likewise the elderly tenant of the cottage.

  “Miss Bradden. Mrs Deane. Good day. Forgive me, I have not seen you there.”

  “Come, Miss. Come an’ take shelter,” the latter urged, but Elizabeth was quick to decline the kind offer.

  “I thank you. But I must not linger.”

  “Ye know best, Miss. This ain’t gonna let up any time soon, I reckon,” the old woman replied, only to break into a racking cough.

  “Oh, do go in, Mrs Deane, and keep warm,” Miss Bradden entreated. “‘Tis too cold and damp for your weak chest.”

  “Aye, it helps none,” the other good-naturedly grumbled. “I’ll do that, if ye don’ mind.”

  “Not at all. I should be gone. I shall walk with Miss Bennet. But I will come to see you on the morrow and I hope to find you better.”

  “Bless yer kind heart,” the woman smiled and bent her knees in an attempt to curtsy at both ladies, before making her way within convulsed by another cough.

  For her part, Miss Bradden covered her bonnet with her shawl, rearranged her wicker basket in the crook of her arm and left the shelter of the porch to join Elizabeth in the lane.

  “I hope you would not mind some company on the way,” she said diffidently and, regardless of the truth of the matter, Elizabeth felt compelled to reply warmly:

  “Not at all. I am glad of it.”

  The parson’s sister smiled consciously back, still obviously ill at ease with her following Mr Bradden’s unsuccessful suit, of which she was doubtlessly well-informed, as her recent reluctance to call at Pemberley had shown.

  “I trust you and your brother are well,” Elizabeth tentatively offered from behind the hood of her cloak.

  She could not see Miss Bradden’s face, just heard her quiet reply.

  “Yes. Yes, I thank you. He rode to Alsop in the morning and I fear he will return quite drenched. I was not expecting such a downpour either when I came to call upon Mrs Deane, but I daresay it had to be done regardless. She is not well, the poor soul. This winter has been such a trial on her weakened chest.”

  “Yes, I heard her cough. Not good.”

  “Aye. Mr Darcy was ever so kind to send the apothecary after Christmas, when she was in a very bad way, but ‘tis not much that draughts could do.”

  They carried on through the unremitting rain in silence after that, the wind tugging at their apparel, and to Elizabeth it seemed like an age until they reached the parsonage at last. She drew breath to bid her adieus, but before she could speak Miss Bradden laid a gloved hand on her shoulder and earnestly entreated:

  “Do come in to warm yourself a little, Miss Bennet. Not for long. Just for a cup of tea and a spell by the fire.”

  “I thank you. You are very kind. But I must not tarry.”

  The friendly hand remained in place.

  “I do not wish to pry. But if you are of a mind to go further than Kympton, pray allow Wilkins to take you in the gig. ‘Tis not the best nor the fastest that could be got, but at least it has a hood that might offer some protection. ‘Tis the wrong time of year for long walks in the rain.”

  Elizabeth could not help wondering if Miss Bradden had spotted the bag she was carrying. Her words gave every indication that she had, but the kindly woman made no direct reference to it, and for that she was grateful. No less for the ever so thoughtful offer. In truth, she had hoped to find a conveyance in Kympton, but not at Mr Bradden’s house. It was too much of an unwarranted imposition on that gentleman’s ill-deserved kindness and affection.

  But Miss Bradden did not seem to regard it as an imposition as she insisted:

  “Do come. I will get us some tea and you might warm yourself a little while Wilkins readies himself and the gig.”

  It was too difficult to refuse. At least Mr Bradden was away. To Alsop, far afield. She would be gone by the time of his return, and trouble him no further.

  Elizabeth pushed the hood back and put into words the gratitude that was already showing in her eyes.

  “Thank you, Miss Bradden, for your generous offer. I will do just as you say.”

  “Good. Very good. Think nothing of it. Let us go in.”

  They did, to be promptly met by a small and rubicund older woman, her bright-red cheeks in sharp contrast to the pristine white cap and apron.

  “Ye’re ‘ere at last. Ye’ll catch yer death going about in this sort o’ weather. Come in, come in. Ah. Miss Bennet too. Good to see ye again, Miss. ‘Tis too long since I’ve seen yer pretty face. Why haven’t ye come in such a length of time?”

  There was no suitable answer Elizabeth could make to the kindly woman who fussed around them like a mother-hen to help them out of their wet apparel, as she thought nothing of chiding both her mistress and the guest with all the affectionate familiarity of a trusted retainer. It was Miss Bradden who tactfully intervened.

  “Do you think we might have some tea, Mary?”

  “Right away, Miss Harriet. An’ some spiced cakes too, if that chit, Janet, hasn’t burned ‘em yet. I were watchin’ ‘em over the stove when ye came in,” she added, thus explaining her overly red cheeks as well as the delicious smell drifting from the kitchens.

  “That would be just lovely. And would you also tell Jonas to harness Nellie to the gig, pray?”

  “Surely ye’re not goin’ out again in this miserable weather!”

  “Not for me. For Miss Bennet. Come, let us go into the parlour,” Miss Bradden turned to her guest and opened the door to usher her into the small and very cosy room.

  Elizabeth had seen it countless times before but, on this day of wretchedness and unrest, its peaceful homeliness affected her more than ever. A well-tended fire burned brightly in the fireplace and two armchairs stood before it, a workbasket next to one and a large marmalade-coloured cat curled up in the other.

  At their entrance, the cat leisurely unfurled and raised its head to blink in their direction and fix the newcomer with an unfriendly stare.

  “Come. Do come and warm yourself,” Miss Bradden entreated, and when Elizabeth did as bid and walked closer to the fire the cat stood and stretched, then arched its back to hiss at the intruder, before jumping off the seat with disgruntled disdain.

  “Now, now, Mr Harlowe, this is no way to greet our guest,” Miss Bradden admonished, then turned to smile at her companion. “I have named him after Miss Clarissa Harlowe’s father, you see, for more often than not he is about as friendly and accommodating as that fictitious gentleman.”

  Elizabeth returned the smile and could not disagree, given the welcome she herself had just received from the namesake of the ill-tempered character in Mr Richardson’s celebrated novel. She took the seat Mr Harlowe had just quitted, to be met with another reproving stare from sharp green eyes, before
the discontented cat settled on the rug on the other side of the fireplace, swished his tail thrice, then curled it under him and closed his eyes again.

  Miss Bradden sat in the other chair and leaned towards her basket to retrieve some needle and thread and a piece of white lawn, then settled back with her work, to hem something that looked like a handkerchief. Most grateful for the welcome and no less for the tactful silence, Elizabeth spread the folds of her wet skirts, the better to dry them, and stretched her hands towards the fire, relishing the glowing heat that sent her fingers tingling.

  “Would you care for a shawl?” Miss Bradden asked. “Or are you warm enough?”

  “Oh, quite. I am very comfortable, I thank you.”

  Yet comfortable she was not. Not truly. She could not possibly be. The word was by far better suited to this room, with its low ceiling and pleasant, unpretentious furnishings, from the cosy chairs to the soft-hued rugs and cushions, proof of skilled and industrious hands.

  Miss Bradden must have sat thus with her brother evening after evening, she with her household sewing or her embroidery, he with his paper or his work, as they exchanged their thoughts on the goings-on of the day with all the affectionate ease of deeply attached siblings.

  She might have become the third in this soothing picture of domestic contentment. Safe. Welcomed. Loved. If only she had not allowed her foolish heart to become so completely ruled by Mr Darcy…

  She sighed.

  Miss Bradden glanced up from her work, but said nothing.

  In due course the long silence was disrupted by the minor commotion of Mary bringing in the tea. She laid the tray on the dresser and busied herself with pouring and fetching, having flapped at both young ladies to sit just where they were, for she needed no assistance. A saucer with a cup of the steaming brew was placed in Elizabeth’s hands and alongside her, on a little table, a plateful of spiced currant cakes, generously spread with butter.