This Disconcerting Happiness: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Christina Morland

  Elizabeth paled. “For me? Tell me it is not my sister, Jane.”

  “No, no, Mrs. Bingley is in health, though it is her letter that I…” He stopped, looked beyond her to the Gardiners, and said, “Perhaps we ought to seek the privacy of the house.”

  “No, Colonel, this is my uncle and aunt.” Quickly, she performed the proper introductions and then added, “Whatever news you have for me must impact them, as well.”

  “Yes, but the children…” His face turned bright red. “I do not think it would be advisable…”

  Elizabeth shot Darcy a desperate look, and he said to his cousin, “Can you assure us that all the Bennets are in health?”

  “As far as I am aware.”

  “Then let us return calmly to the house and discuss whatever news you bring. I do not think there will be room for us all in the carriage. Gardiner, if you and your wife would escort my sister and the children in the coach, then Elizabeth and I will walk with the colonel.”

  Georgiana looked as though she might argue, but nevertheless took the two youngest children by the hand, soothing them as they asked why the picnic had to be canceled and what did it mean to be in health, anyway?

  Richard handed off his horse to Frank, and together with Elizabeth and Darcy walked in silence until the carriage had passed them and the pond could no longer be seen from the drive.

  “Mrs. Bingley has asked me,” said Richard in a grave and quiet voice, “to deliver this letter to you, Mrs. Darcy.”

  It seemed to take an eternity for him to reach into his coat pocket and produce a single sheet of paper. There was no seal—just a hastily folded page. This method of writing seemed so unlike Jane Bingley (at least, as far as Darcy could tell, given the many letters he had seen come to Elizabeth) that he suspected the note had been written in a great hurry. He remembered, suddenly, the other hastily folded note Elizabeth had received from her sister. Surely this letter, whatever its contents, could not be as terrible as the news they had received on their wedding day.

  Elizabeth stopped walking as she read, and Darcy had only to watch her countenance to feel his confidence drain. Her hands shook as she handed him the paper and whispered, “My youngest sister has left all her friends—has eloped;—has thrown herself into the power of—of…” She burst into tears and could say no more.

  Even as Darcy pulled her to him, he searched the letter for the name he both dreaded and expected.

  “We can only assume,” Jane wrote near the end of the note, “that she has left with Mr. Wickham, though it was said he departed Meryton weeks ago. Yet Mama heard from Mrs. Forster that Mr. Denny saw Wickham in town the day before Lydia’s disappearance. He must have returned for the sole purpose of spiriting Lydia away.

  “Lydia’s note to our mother,” continued Jane’s letter, “gave us no clue to her whereabouts; Lydia wrote only that she has gone off to be happy. Oh, how can our sister have been so thoughtless! Our mother’s letter was bereft of any other useful details, and we have little chance of knowing for certain where Lydia may have gone. At this point, we may only hope they have traveled to Gretna Green. Otherwise, Lydia is lost to us forever. Bingley writes to Colonel Forster even as I finish this note, in hopes that he will have information to share with us when we arrive in Hertfordshire tomorrow.”

  Darcy looked up to see Richard watching them with a grim expression.

  “Have you read this?” he asked his cousin.

  Richard shook his head. “But I am aware of the difficulties facing your family, Mrs. Darcy.”

  Elizabeth disentangled herself from Darcy’s grasp and wiped her eyes. “How? Did Jane tell you? I was not aware that you and my sister knew each other well.”

  “We do not, but Bingley and I are friends, and it was he who asked me to bring you this letter posthaste. He knew I was on my way to Pemberley and supposed I would reach you as fast as any express—and that perhaps I might be of some service to you, as well.”

  Darcy did not think it possible for his sense of dread to grow, but he could think of no good reason why Richard would have been planning on traveling to Pemberley before receiving Jane Bingley’s letter.

  “Well?” was all he managed, but Richard seemed to understand the question.

  “My father has…” Richard stopped, sucked in a deep breath, and said, “He heard of this business, too. He ordered me to retrieve Georgiana and travel with her to Matlock.”

  Darcy felt himself back in London on that rainy day in September when the earl had requested an audience. Then, too, Darcy had known that the unforeseen arrival of a Fitzwilliam relative could only bode ill, but he had expected nothing worse than a scolding about the Ramsgate business. Indeed, he had stood in the middle of his drawing room, watching the rain and wondering if it might let up enough for Georgiana to accompany him to the nearby bookseller’s later that afternoon. Only after Lord Matlock first suggested, then requested, and finally demanded that Georgiana accompany him to Rosings had Darcy realized what was happening.

  For quarter of an hour, Darcy had raged at his uncle, even as his sister had tearfully begged him to remain calm. He had been on the verge of physically removing the earl from his home when Georgiana had placed herself between the two of them and said that she would obey her uncle’s command.

  It would be the same today—except now he had not even the power to rage at the earl. The decision lay, as it always had, with Georgiana, and she would not stay a second longer than necessary once she knew of Lydia Bennet’s elopement.

  And could he blame her? To discover that the man who had once offered her marriage had now ruined Elizabeth’s sister—and to find this out in the presence of the brother who had failed both his sisters (for was not Lydia his sister, too?)—would only give Georgiana one more reason for wishing to leave Pemberley. To leave him.

  “He feels,” Richard was saying, quietly, “that this scandal will taint Georgiana, if she does not distance herself from…well, from…”

  “From my family,” finished Elizabeth, struggling to hold back another round of tears. “And the sad truth is, the earl is correct. But how could your father have known? If Jane had only just heard from my mother…”

  Richard shifted uncomfortably. “It seems that Miss Bingley was in the habit of opening your sister’s mail before it even reached her and went immediately to my sister with the news of the elopement.”

  Elizabeth and Darcy exchanged startled glances. “I had no idea of her being acquainted with Lady Sheffield,” Elizabeth said.

  “They had been introduced at some ball or another, and it seems Miss Bingley has been trying to curry favor the entire Season. She knows that my sister is unfortunately fond of gossip.”

  “And she thought to win her regard by spreading rumors of her own family?” Darcy shook his head. “She is more of a fool than I had ever supposed.”

  “Caroline Bingley does not consider us her family,” said Elizabeth with a bitter smile. “Even Jane, whom she claims to love, means less to her than her own ambitions. Miss Bingley must have supposed that her knowledge of such a delicious scandal would give her access to your sister and her friends.”

  “Then she is likely mistaken,” Richard said, “for my father has made it clear that we are—none of us—to associate with anyone related to this incident.”

  “And yet you are here, carrying a letter from Jane Bingley,” Darcy said.

  Richard met his gaze. “I told my father he could deliver his own ultimatum to Georgiana if he did not approve of my decision to aid Bingley—and you.”

  “He cannot have liked that,” Darcy said quietly.

  Richard’s careless shrug was at odds with the pained look in his eyes. “It matters not. What can I do?” he asked Elizabeth. “Tell me, and I will help how I can.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes shone with tears, and Darcy felt equally moved by his cousin’s show of loyalty.

  “You must allow us to feed you a good meal and give you a bed to rest in,” replied Elizabeth. �
�Jane’s note is dated only days ago; you must have ridden without pause to reach us so quickly.”

  Richard’s smile did nothing to erase the exhaustion evident in every line of his face. “Riding through much of the night is the life of an army man—or so I had been led to believe before I actually became one and discovered we officers are a shockingly sedentary lot. Truth is, I rode the mail coach half the way, and that was even more exhausting than horseback.”

  Pemberley came into view, and Darcy saw Georgiana waiting for them on the front steps.

  “The best service you can render us,” he said to Richard, “is to follow your father’s orders. Take Georgiana to Matlock and do not let her hear any more of Wickham than she has to.”

  Richard sighed. “She belongs with you at Pemberley, Fitz.”

  “She belongs wherever she will be happiest,” he replied quietly. “And perhaps it is time for me to accept that she has chosen a different course for her life. If she truly wants a Season, then God knows your uncle is right; this scandal will only hurt her, in more ways than one.”

  “Very well. But as soon as she is at Matlock, I will ride north to Gretna Green and, with any luck, find them there—though if I do, it will take all my efforts to stop myself from making your sister a young widow, Mrs. Darcy.”

  “You might also speak with General Burnett of the Northern Regiment,” said Darcy. “That is where Wickham was supposed to have gone after quitting the militia in Meryton.”

  “How in God’s name would you know that?” asked Richard.

  “Because my husband paid General Burnett to take him,” said Elizabeth, smiling sadly. After their disastrous dinner with Miss Bingley all those weeks ago, he and Elizabeth had spent half the night concocting a way to remove Miss Lydia from Wickham’s clutches without at the same time harming their efforts to win back Georgiana. The Gardiners had already offered to invite Miss Lydia to London (at great cost to themselves), but she had refused to leave Hertfordshire, and Mrs. Bennet had been unwilling or unable to force her. Dealing directly with Wickham would only have given the cad greater power over them; he would have blackmailed Darcy to his last farthing if he could have.

  And so they had decided to take a subtler approach to removing Wickham from Meryton: Darcy had written letters to Mr. King and Colonel Forster, laying out the charges against Wickham, though without mentioning Georgiana; and Elizabeth had written to her cousin Mr. Collins at Longbourn, a man who could be trusted to do anything that might help those connected to the Right Honorable Lady Catherine de Bourgh.

  “But I did not suppose Wickham would leave Meryton under the weight of the town’s disapprobation alone,” Darcy said to Richard. “I knew he had to have some new scheme before him, for George Wickham is nothing if not an opportunist. So I bought a new commission for him. My only condition was that Burnett never tell Wickham who had paid for it; he was to suppose that Burnett had heard enough of his talents to take him on at his own cost—an unlikely story, and yet I guessed that Wickham’s belief in his own superiority would be stronger than his reason.”

  “We had hoped,” concluded Elizabeth, “that the new commission, arriving at the very same time that his fortunes were falling in Meryton, would tempt him to leave. Apparently, he thought my sister a better opportunity than a new post in the North.”

  They had reached the steps, and Georgiana came to meet them. She gazed wordlessly at each of them in turn, and it was Elizabeth who finally spoke.

  “Let us find a comfortable seat inside.”

  Georgiana shook her head. “I do not need to sit—only to know that you are all well.”

  Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Darcy, who said without preamble, “Elizabeth’s youngest sister has eloped—with George Wickham.”

  Georgiana did not sway, sigh, or break into the fitful sobs he might once have expected of her. Indeed, she stood quite still, as if she had not heard him speak at all.

  “Georgiana,” he said gently.

  “Ana,” she replied, lifting her chin resolutely.

  He closed his eyes briefly. “Please—let Elizabeth take you inside. She will help you pack.”

  This seemed to shake her more than the news of the elopement. “Pack? Whatever for?”

  “You will go to Matlock with me,” said Richard, “and spend the rest of the summer with the family there.”

  Now Georgiana began to cry, but silently, and with so little motion that Darcy dared not reach out to her, for fear of upsetting her more.

  It was Elizabeth who took her hand, and without protest, Georgiana slipped her fingers through Elizabeth’s. Darcy watched them walk up the steps of Pemberley together for what he supposed would be a first and last time.

  After seeing Richard to a guest room where he might wash, eat, and rest before making yet another long journey, Darcy found the Gardiners in the family sitting room, thankfully sans children, and told them of all that had happened.

  “What will you do?” asked Mrs. Gardiner gently.

  “Go to London,” he said, without realizing until that moment that this is what he ought to do next. “I will search Wickham’s old haunts. If he has not taken Miss Lydia to Gretna Green, I may find them there.”

  “Let me accompany you,” said Mr. Gardiner, “and we may be able to discover something from my contacts, who know many of the innkeepers in town.”

  “The children and I will go with Elizabeth to Purvis Lodge; David, John, and Lottie will be able to keep her spirits up,” said Mrs. Gardiner.

  With as good a plan in place as could be expected for so terrible an event, Darcy strode to his chambers in search of his valet so that he might prepare for the next harrowing week. But before he found his man, he came across Georgiana, who stood in the doorway of her room—her former room.

  “I am so sorry,” she whispered to him.

  He crossed the corridor in three long strides and pulled her into a hug. “I am the one who is sorry.” He tipped her chin up so that their eyes met. “I ought to have been a better brother to you.”

  “You are the very best of brothers,” she said, pulling back. “Your patience and understanding, even when I have been so unkind…”

  “You have not been unkind—only unhappy.”

  “I feel as if I am abandoning you,” she whispered.

  You are, he could not help but think, even has he embraced her again. She was abandoning him, abandoning Elizabeth, abandoning Pemberley.

  But had he not abandoned her first? To have sent her to Ramsgate with only a companion he did not know well, and then to have stood by in London when Lord Matlock had escorted her from Darcy House, and finally to have married Elizabeth when he knew the consequences—were these not acts of abandonment?

  He looked up and saw Elizabeth watching them from inside Georgiana’s room. She held in her hand some piece of clothing that no doubt needed to be packed. Their gazes met, and he could see, even at a distance, the tears in her eyes. She, too, knew what had brought them to this moment.

  “It is not abandonment,” he said, as much to himself as his sister. “It is a choice, and if it brings you joy, then you cannot regret it.” He kissed his sister’s forehead before returning his gaze to Elizabeth. “I cannot regret mine.”

  Elizabeth dashed a hand across her eyes and turned away, while Georgiana threw her arms about him and murmured, “Thank you, Fitzwilliam.”

  It took only an hour before they were all—Richard, Georgiana, the Gardiner family, and Elizabeth—gathered in the drawing room, saying their final adieus. Despite the gravity of the situation, there were very few tears—but then these had been shed so frequently in the past few hours that Darcy supposed they were all, by this time, too worn out to meet this moment with anything but resignation.

  He strode into the room, determined to make his own farewells as swift and aloof as possible; he now wanted nothing except to focus on the task of finding Wickham and Miss Lydia. After a brusque shake of Richard’s hand, and one quick and final embrace
of his sister, he turned and went to the window, unable to watch them leave the room. Elizabeth came to stand beside him, and he took her hand and brought it to his lips. For several long seconds, he waited to hear their footsteps as they left, the click of the door handle as it turned, the thud of the wood as the door closed behind Georgiana.

  “It is abandonment, Fitzwilliam—and I will not do it.”

  He spun around. “Georgiana—”

  “Ana.” She stood in the doorway, her fists clenched at her side. “I want to be called Ana, and I want to meet amusing people and wear fashionable clothes and visit the theater and live amongst all the bustle of London and to…” She paused, glanced at Richard, and then took a deep breath. “What I want most, however, is not to abandon you—not again. That I would regret above all else.”

  “Ana.” For a long moment, he trusted himself to say nothing else but this name she had chosen for herself. Then, hoarsely: “You will always have a home here, Ana—no matter what you are called, who you marry or do not marry, or how you behave. I care not. You are my sister and a Darcy.”

  Georgiana rushed across the room and would have embraced him, had he not held her at arm’s length.

  “Our uncle,” he said quietly, “will not be so welcoming, not if …”

  He glanced at Elizabeth, who sighed and said, “Not if your sister-in-law’s family is embroiled in scandal. Even if Darcy locates Lydia, Ana, the best we can hope for is that she has married the man who once tried to elope with you.”

  Georgiana shook her head. “It matters not. Certainly not to me.”

  “It should,” Darcy said. “If you love London and our uncle’s family, if you want a Season, as I know you do, you would be throwing it away by doing anything except departing for Matlock this moment.”

  “Anyone who would snub Georgi,” said Richard from the doorway, where he stood leaning against the jamb with his arms crossed, “because she chose to stand by her brother and his family, does not deserve her love.”