“Then let us speak openly, here and now.” Darcy met his uncle’s eyes. “If you choose to arrange the lives of your children, I can say nothing of that. But I do not approve of your methods, sir. As I am not your son, and Georgiana is not your daughter, you have no claim to our lives.”
“No claim, do I? It is the Fitzwilliam name and your connections to Matlock and the Dukedom of _________ that provide your great stature in society!”
“I would hope, sir, to earn the respect of my fellow man because of my actions.”
“Well, Darcy, your actions do you no credit,” Lord Matlock said. “You are being reckless and selfish! If you carry out this plan to marry your country miss, I will make certain that you have no claim, legal or otherwise, to call yourself guardian of your sister!”
Though she spoke in a whisper, Georgiana’s words seemed to echo through the drawing room: “I will not allow that to happen.”
It was Lady Matlock who first found the ability to speak: “My dear, whatever can you mean by that?”
“I will tell anyone who will listen—in Chancery Court or in society—that it was my decision, and mine alone, to consider an elopement with the son of a steward. I will tell them that I put myself in his clutches, that I spent time alone with him, that I—”
“You would bring scandal on us—on yourself?” Sophia said, coming to stand next to her cousin. “Ana, you cannot mean it!”
“I would rather cause embarrassment to myself than let the world think my brother did anything wrong.”
“Georgiana—” Darcy began.
“No! I cannot abide this!” Georgiana’s eyes filled with tears. “None of you will allow me to correct my wrongs! Instead, you all seem determined to make matters worse! Can you not see, Uncle Charles, that my brother saved me from ruin? Can you not see how false it would be to accuse him of incompetence by bringing a suit against him?”
“And my dear Matlock,” Lady Susan added quietly, “think of the scandal.”
Lord Matlock’s shoulders drooped.
“And Fitzwilliam,” Georgiana said, squeezing her brother’s hand, “can you not see how snatching me from London tonight would do little but cause hurt to the rest of the family?”
Darcy clenched his jaw. And did it not hurt me, he wanted to say, when our uncle snatched you from my home? But as he watched his sister cry, he knew that his feelings could not take precedence, not now.
“So what would you have me do, Georgi?” His voice cracked when he spoke her nickname, one he had not used with her since she had gone away to school. “Would you have me give you up completely? Is that what you want?”
“No,” she whispered, gazing up at him. “I want to return to Pemberley with you—but when the time is right, and certainly not if it means causing an irreparable break with the rest of the family. I would never forgive myself.”
Richard came to stand by his cousins. “Surely we can come to some understanding, Father?”
Lord Matlock sighed. “I do not feel comfortable allowing any of my family to consort with an ill-bred young woman whom none of us know! Are you determined, Darcy, to go through with this marriage?”
Darcy lifted his chin. “I am.”
“Truthfully, I think that is for the best,” Lady Matlock said.
Lord Matlock glared at his wife. “How can such a union possibly be for the best?”
“As regrettable as the match may be, our nephew has made a promise, and his honor is committed. If he were to break the engagement, her family might cause trouble. If, however, Darcy marries quietly in the country, there will be little notice of it here in Town, certainly nothing to distract from Sophia’s wedding.”
“Mother, it will be in the papers,” Grantley said, looking out from behind his newspaper for the first time since Darcy had made his declaration. “I should hate to have to address the issue at the club.”
“Oh, the club!” Lady Grantley waved a hand at her husband. “The gentlemen are too drunk with wine and politics to care about the society pages. It will be Sophia and I who will have to deal with this in the drawing rooms.”
“And what of Anne?” Lady Catherine cried. “What will others say when they hear that she has been thrown over for a fortune hunter?”
“At the very least, it will be more exciting than the usual gossip,” Anne said.
“That is enough,” Darcy said. “I will not stand by and allow Miss Bennet to be insulted—”
Richard reached out and took hold of Darcy’s arm. “Fitz, please.”
“There will be some talk, perhaps,” Lady Matlock said to her husband, ignoring the others. “But it is not unusual for gentlemen, especially those as fond of the country as Darcy, to marry the daughters of other country gentlemen. If we do not make a fuss over it, others will lose interest.”
For several long moments, Lord Matlock said nothing—a sure sign that his wife was winning the argument. Then, he looked at Darcy. “You will not, of course, be invited to Sophia’s wedding, but afterwards, I may deign to invite you and this—this person to visit, if you should be in London at the time.”
It took every bit of Darcy’s willpower—not to mention Richard’s quiet “Do not say a word, Fitz”—to keep him from telling his uncle that he would never be welcome in his home again.
“I think that is a wise plan, my dear,” Lady Matlock said, patting her husband on the arm.
“And as for you, young lady,” Lord Matlock said, frowning at Georgiana, “you have surprised me with your obstinacy.” Then, his face softened, and he reached for his niece’s hand, giving it a quick squeeze. “You remind me very much of your mother. You will remain with us until I have had an opportunity to ascertain the character of your brother’s unfortunate choice of bride.”
“Is this what you want, Georgiana?” Darcy asked in a hoarse voice.
“I think it for the best.” She stared at her feet. “Besides, as much as I would like to be at your wedding, there are those in Hertfordshire I should not like to see.”
Darcy paled. How could he have forgotten Wickham’s presence and how it might impact her?
“Well then,” Richard said before anyone else could ask about Georgiana’s cryptic remark, “I think it is all settled.”
“She remains my ward,” Darcy said, glaring at his uncle. “You will make no decisions regarding her future, is that understood?”
Lord Matlock’s face reddened, but before he had a chance to respond, Lady Matlock laughed. “Oh, Darcy, we are not planning to marry her off! We have our own daughter’s wedding to plan, after all.”
“I want your assurance,” Darcy said, ignoring his aunt.
“I see no reason, at the present time, to involve the courts,” Lord Matlock replied after a long moment. “But I reserve the right to revisit this subject upon meeting your…” He wrinkled his nose, as if catching a whiff of rotting meat. “Your betrothed.”
“Does no one care for Anne’s wishes?” Lady Catherine asked. After the silence stretched out for nearly a minute, the offended mother threw up her hands and marched toward the door. “Come, Anne! Let us retire!
Anne sighed and began to follow her mother from the room. However, as she passed Darcy, he placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Anne, I do beg your forgiveness if I have hurt you.”
His cousin rolled her eyes. “As I said, I would not have welcomed a removal to Pemberley. I find it even duller than Rosings.” Then, with a hint of a smile, she added, “But I will thank you for an entertaining evening. I was beginning to think London was just as tedious as Kent.”
One by one, the others took their leave, each with his or her own peculiar style: Lord Grantley thanked Darcy for ruining his evening, while his wife complained, with a giggle, that this disagreeable business had made her quite hungry; Sophia and Lady Matlock did all that was proper, curtsying and wishing Darcy a safe journey, as if his journey back to Hertfordshire were something quite ordinary; and Lord Matlock—well, Darcy supposed he should c
onsider himself grateful for his uncle’s dismissive wave.
“We will be dining in an hour, Georgiana,” her uncle said before he left the room. “Do not be late.”
“Try not to be over anxious,” Richard said as he embraced Darcy. “The only benefit of being assigned to the General Staff instead of the field is that I will be here in London through the spring and will be able to visit Georgiana frequently. I know I cannot replace a beloved brother,” he added, squeezing Georgiana’s hand, “but I will try my best to be as charmingly officious as Fitz.”
Georgiana mustered a wan smile, but Darcy could not bring himself to do anything except offer a curt nod as Richard departed.
When only the two of them remained, brother and sister embraced.
“Please understand…” Georgiana said, glancing up at him.
“I cannot believe I had forgotten Wickham’s presence.”
“It is not only my fear of seeing him again. When I went to my rooms and began to think what I would take to Hertfordshire, it struck me that I might never be invited to return to this place again. I hold no special affection for Matlock House, but the thought of causing such discordance in the family…it did not seem right.”
“No, I suppose not,” Darcy said, looking away. “And yet I would not have regretted such a break, Georgi, not if it meant securing your happiness. There was a time, before the events of this summer, when I would have placed the family name above all else. I was not so unlike our uncle myself,” he realized with a bitter smile. “Yet when I let our uncle take you from our house, I began to wonder just what family meant. It is not just a name, Georgiana, not just a source of pride. And then, in Hertfordshire…”
Georgiana smiled. “Yes, I suppose a great deal must have happened in Hertfordshire.”
“Promise me, Georgiana,” he said, staring down at her, “that if you are at all unhappy, if you are made to do anything you do not wish to do, that you will not hesitate to write. I will take you away then, family be damned.”
She clutched his hands. “I know, and I will. And you must promise me that you will bring your Elizabeth to London as soon as you are able.”
“Of course.”
Then they said their farewells, and though it might have embarrassed George Darcy to have seen it, Fitzwilliam Darcy was not ashamed to admit that his eyes filled with tears as he left the house alone.
*
December arrived with unexpected companions: a cloudless sky and a mild breeze. Squinting at the sunlight pouring through dining room window, Elizabeth tried to muster up the enthusiasm she should have felt at such a sight.
“I will go for a walk after breakfast,” she announced, more to herself than to her family.
“You will catch cold and die!”
At her mother’s pronouncement, Elizabeth managed a smile; she looked to the head of the table, waiting for the sardonic observation that Mrs. Bennet believed in endangering her daughters’ health before, not after, they became betrothed. But there was no wit to be found at the breakfast table; her father remained in his bed.
“I will not be gone long.” In the past, Elizabeth had made this promise rather flippantly; Mrs. Bennet thought anything above five minutes an unbearable wait, whereas Elizabeth believed five hours no wait at all, not while outdoors.
Her father’s illness, however, had altered her understanding of time, so that she had become nearly as restless as her mother. She had not, in the past fortnight, taken a walk longer than a half hour, and it struck her, as she wandered the park outside Longbourn, that she might never again make the hour-long trek to Oakham Mount. That, after all, had been the favorite walk of a carefree Elizabeth Bennet, one who did not worry that her father would die the moment she was away from the house. A more anxious Elizabeth tried to recall the last time she had walked to the Mount, but she could not remember the particulars of that day. Had she known that it was to be her final journey along the path, she would have noted the number and color of the leaves on the old oak that gave the place its name, would have listened for the song of the skylark, would have taken off her bonnet and let the wind, which she had often regarded as a nuisance for its tendency to muss her hair, muss as much as it wished.
Elizabeth leaned against the stone wall separating the park from the road and stared off into the distance. It would do no good for her to succumb to melancholy; staving off such feelings had been her purpose in escaping the house. Besides, what reason had she to despair? Her father’s condition, while worsening, had been known to her now for nearly two months. Surely her sadness should have become more governable? Indeed, were not her circumstances today infinitely better than they had been on that terrible day in October when her father had told her his secret? She had at least the solace of knowing that her mother and sisters would have a comfortable home after they could no longer claim Longbourn as their own, and in little more than a fortnight, Elizabeth Bennet would become Elizabeth Darcy. Why did she not feel more joy at the prospect of her marriage?
“Elizabeth?”
She turned to see Jane making her way across the park.
“I have an astonishing power,” Elizabeth said when her sister reached the wall. “I will tell you what you plan to say to me before you have had the opportunity to say it. You are here to tell me that Mama’s nerves have made it impossible to ready herself for church.”
Jane smiled. “You are nearly correct. Mama did not say it was impossible—only exceedingly difficult. She is asking for you.”
“For me? What have you done to receive the great punishment of exile from Mama’s chambers? Did you tell her, finally, that you do not want the gloves she has chosen to accompany your wedding dress?”
“Truth be told, she did ask for me, but as I have to dress for church, and as you are to remain here with Papa…”
“I have caught you in a falsehood!” Elizabeth laughed as they headed for the house. “It must be Bingley’s influence. Oh, he may seem all that is good and affable, but he has corrupted you!”
Jane offered a brief smile before her countenance turned serious. “Lizzy, may I assume from your playful manner that you have forgiven me?”
“Forgiven you? For what? Have you taken the last scone? I am not certain I will be able to forgive you if you have, for I am ravenous.”
Despite her teasing, Elizabeth knew exactly what her sister meant. She and Jane had not spoken much since they had both become betrothed, and though their few conversations had been warmer than that chilly exchange on the day Elizabeth announced her engagement, the sisters had not regained their old sense of camaraderie.
Jane sighed. “I am sorry if I was unkind when you told us of your engagement.”
“I do not think it is possible for you to be unkind.”
“No, Lizzy, I cannot allow you to make me into a paragon. When you begin to discuss my perfection, you are attempting to avoid a more serious issue.”
“You have become a better student of character than I have!”
Jane stopped walking, though they had not reached the house. “Once again, you are evading my question.”
“Jane, you sound very much like Darcy; he also scolds me for being flippant.”
“Lizzy…”
“Oh, what am I to say? I cannot blame you for your reaction, yet I wish it had been otherwise. Are we better now? Yes—but the more important question is whether you can forgive me for hiding Papa’s illness from you.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” Jane said, taking her sister’s hands. “I know that you did only what Papa asked of you. Just assure me, Lizzy, that you have accepted Mr. Darcy because you wish to marry him—not because you think it best for our family.”
Elizabeth met her sister’s eyes. “I love him, Jane.”
“Then I am very happy for you. I should have given my congratulations sooner. You see, it is I who should be asking forgiveness! Is that not proof, Lizzy, that I can indeed be unkind?”
“I will never believe you capable
of anything wicked.”
“And yet I am capable of behaving in ways that cannot be considered proper,” Jane said, blushing.
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow.
“I…” Jane leaned her head close to her sister’s and whispered, “I have let Charles kiss me. On the lips. Twice!”
Elizabeth laughed. “Yes, you are wicked indeed!”
“Surely you would know nothing of wickedness,” Jane said, smiling.
“Oh, no, nothing at all. Of course, given Darcy’s absence, I cannot help but be good.”
“Do you know when he is to return?”
“It depends, I suppose, on his family’s wishes.”
“Caroline has said…” Jane sighed. “I must admit to another failing: I do not like my soon-to-be sister nearly as much as I should.”
“I cannot blame you there. What has dear Miss Bingley said?”
Jane hesitated.
“I will have to use my astonishing power again,” Elizabeth said. “Miss Bingley has said that his family will never accept me, that they expect a much better wife for an exalted man such as he. I am afraid, Jane, that Miss Bingley is, for once, correct when it comes to Mr. Darcy.”
“They would not stand in the way of the marriage, would they?”
“They do not have the power to order Darcy to quit the engagement, but they may still hurt him. I cannot explain all of the particulars,” Elizabeth said, “and for that, I am sorry. It used to be we never kept secrets from each other. It is not that I do not trust you, but—”
“I understand, Lizzy. I think it cannot be wrong for a wife to keep the confidences of her husband.”
“Yes, I suppose you are correct. Still, I am feeling wistful for a time before all of these changes came into our lives.”
“Are you not looking forward to the wedding?”
“Yes, and yet…Do you not feel any ambivalence about becoming a wife, Jane?”
“No.”
“No? That is it, no? You feel only joy? No sorrow? No fear?”
“Fear? None at all. I hope I may be worthy of Charles, of course. As for sorrow, I do feel great sadness about Papa, but my grief only makes me feel more grateful for Charles. Surely Mr. Darcy is a source of comfort to you?”
This Disconcerting Happiness: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 22
