by Pamela Aidan
The pleasurable quietness of Sunday passed into an unexpected tedium on Monday. Bingley’s interest in the intricacies of estate management waxed low and was ill-compensated by the brightening of Miss Bingley’s manner now her uninvited guests were gone. Several of the local worthies and their ladies came to dinner, but none brought the sparkle to which Darcy had become accustomed. Therefore, the following day, when Bingley suggested a ride into Meryton ending in a visit to Longbourn, “to inquire after Miss Bennet’s health for politeness’s sake,” he was disposed to agree with an alacrity that surprised his friend.
The four miles to Meryton by way of winding country lanes gave both men ample time to fill their lungs with the bracing air of a fine autumn day. Catching their masters’ sense of an escape well made, their restive mounts matched it, employing all their cunning toward making the outing an eventful one. In this they were encouraged by their masters’ laughter and affectionately derisive oaths as to their origins until the village itself was in sight; where perforce, gentlemanly manners on the parts of all were once more assumed. As they swung onto the main thoroughfare, Bingley pulled his horse to a stop and all but stood in his stirrups, displaying an eagerness for the scene before them that mystified as well as amused his companion.
“What is it, Bingley? What do you see?” Darcy called to him as he, himself, began to search the street.
“Don’t you see them, Darcy? The Bennet family, or rather the ladies at least, and some other gentlemen. Over on the left, near the linener’s.” Thus directed, Darcy found them, grouped round by several officers and two other gentlemen, one of whom appeared to be garbed in parson’s black.
“How fortunate! Now we need not press on to Longbourn nor, come to that, even stop to make your inquiries in the street. Miss Bennet is here and in obvious good health; therefore, we —”
Bingley’s glare was all Darcy had hoped for. He set his heels to Nelson’s sides and grinned as he shouted over his shoulder, “Gudgeon! Are you coming?”
As soon as Bingley caught him up, Darcy slowed to a sedate pace and approached the group. None in the party had yet noticed them, the ladies’ view being blocked by the unknown gentlemen. A flutter of anticipation welled unbidden in Darcy’s chest as first Miss Jane Bennet and then Miss Elizabeth became aware of their arrival.
“Miss Bennet and, yes, all your sisters! How delightful to meet you!” Bingley greeted as he brought his mount to a halt.
“Mr. Bingley! How do you do, sir?” replied several of the younger girls, flushed with all the agreeable attention they were receiving.
“Sirs, we have just been forming a new acquaintance as we introduce our newly come cousin to Meryton,” Elizabeth explained over the giggles of her siblings. “May I present our cousin Mr. Collins, from Kent?” Aware that the black-clad gentleman had turned, Darcy briefly rested his eyes upon him and nodded. The walk into Meryton had done marvelous things to Miss Elizabeth’s downy cheeks, and the pleasure in her eyes, though not, he knew, for himself, was still wonderful to behold. He tore his eyes from her as she embarked upon her second introduction and essayed to attend to it.
That gentleman had not turned during the previous introduction but had maintained an attitude which kept his face averted from the horseman. It passed quickly through Darcy’s mind that his figure seemed familiar. It cannot be…!
“…introduce Mr. Wickham, who has just joined Colonel Forster’s company.” Elizabeth beamed as the gentleman, in one fluid motion, turned and bowed.
Darcy froze in shock and anger. His face drained of all color save for his eyes, which flashed darkly at the new officer. Immediately sensing his master’s turmoil, Nelson began backing away and threw his head in growing agitation. Darcy’s movements were practiced as he brought the animal under control, but his focus continued to drill into Wickham’s reddening countenance. Unable to hold against Darcy’s furious scrutiny, Wickham flinched but smoothly disguised his reaction with a touch of his hat by way of a salute. With lips clasped in an unrelenting, grim line, Darcy returned the salutation with the merest veneer of civility and turned to Bingley, his mind and emotions in utter chaos.
Mercifully, Bingley continued his pleasantries with the ladies and gentlemen only a few minutes more before bidding the group adieu. To Darcy, the interview was interminable. He sat stiffly in his saddle, hardly knowing where to look, his mind reeling.
How can it be? Joined the regiment? Why? How? Questions and suspicions flowed thick and fast. Why here? Did he know I would be in Hertfordshire…follow me? His object, what can be his object? As he reached down and pretended to adjust a stirrup, a wave of nauseating fear shook him to his core. Georgiana! My God, has he done something to Georgiana and come to throw it in my face! Darcy could not prevent the tremors of rage and fear that coursed through his body any more than he could forbid the sun to rise. His hands shook, the street seemed to tilt crazily, and all his being cried out to leap upon the devil whose discomposure of moments ago was now replaced with an air of modesty and congeniality.
“Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth” — Bingley’s voice broke through Darcy’s turmoil — “please extend my compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Bennet. Mr. Collins, Mr.— Excuse me, Lieutenant Wickham. Your servant, sirs.” Bingley swept his beaver from his brow and, nodding once more to the ladies, nudged his mount into a turn back to the street. Recalled to his manners, Darcy did likewise, glimpsing as he did a questioning frown upon Elizabeth’s face.
How this must appear to her! he thought regretfully as he followed Bingley out of Meryton. Familiar with Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s turn of mind, he guessed that she was examining the incident with dangerous zeal. What will she make of it? Will Wickham offer to enlighten her? No! No, doing so would expose him, and that he surely cannot afford, Darcy thought bitterly. What does a lieutenancy cost? No, he can afford little, to have thrown in his lot with the army! But what of Georgiana? His mind revolved back upon his fears for his sister. Had Wickham attempted to contact her, impose upon her in some way while her brother had been absent?
Bingley’s tone-deaf whistling of a popular love ballad warred with the tumult of Darcy’s emotions and emerged the victor. “You have my attention, Bingley,” he snapped, resolving as he did so to send an immediate express to his sister. “Cease and desist, I beg you!”
“You do not like the ballad, Darcy? It is all the rage, you know.” Bingley smiled imperturbably back at him.
Darcy lifted an imperious brow. “A ballad, you say? I rather feared that you were summoning the local cattle and expect to be inundated by your four-footed admirers at any moment.”
“Darcy! You exaggerate!” Bingley’s charge was met with a snort in a denial of any such tendency. “Well, I have never laid claim to musical talents, at least not in your hearing, but surely a man can be excused for holding forth when under the inspiration of such loveliness as I have just beheld.” Darcy misdoubted that he actually heard Bingley heave a lovelorn sigh. “How fortunate to have met them in the village! We might have missed them entirely.”
“Yes, that is so,” Darcy replied quietly as the fortuitous nature of the encounter broke upon him. He might have first come upon Wickham at a social function in the neighborhood. Forster’s officers seemed to be always about. It was very likely Wickham would be invited along with his fellows to round out a dinner party or liven an assembly. In such restricted society as was to be found in Hertfordshire, they would be continually in each other’s company! Darcy ground his teeth. “Intolerable!”
“What did you say?” Bingley brought his horse up short and turned to stare at his companion.
Darcy stared back uncomprehendingly, then realized that he must have spoken aloud the conclusion of his thoughts. “Charles, I must in all seriousness ask of you a great favor.”
Bingley’s eyes widened at the solemnity of his tone. “Anything within my power, Darcy, anything.”
A brief, reluctant smile creased Darcy’s face at Bingley’s ready agreement; then he took
a deep breath. “I ask that you make it clear to Colonel Forster that his newest officer is not welcome at your ball next week.” The surprise and doubt on Bingley’s face caused him to hurry on. “I am fully aware of the position in which this places you and can only offer my deepest apologies for doing so. An explanation I cannot give, save to tell you that my acquaintance with Lieutenant Wickham is of long standing, his father, before his death, having been steward to mine, and that he has repaid my family’s generosity in a monstrous fashion which will forever stand between us.”
“Good heavens, Darcy! Can Forster know he has acquired such a scoundrel for an officer?”
“Doubtless he will in time. Wickham has never failed to reveal his true colors eventually, but his manner is so plausible, his ability to insinuate himself so uncanny, that the damage he means to inflict is done before his victim knows it.” Bingley’s gathered brows and shocked silence told Darcy that his purpose was answered. “You must, of course, do as you see fit concerning Wickham in all other respects. It is only for this ball that I ask your indulgence in fixing your guest list. If you must include him or suffer his company at a public function, do not think of me. I shall not be missed, I am convinced.” He looked aside, remembering the frown on Elizabeth’s face.
“Not be missed? Rubbish! The man shall not cross my threshold, I promise you.”
“Thank you,” Darcy replied simply, but his words seemed to cause Bingley an unwarranted degree of pleasure. “Bingley?”
“Oh, nothing! It is just so seldom that I can do you a real service that your occasions to thank me are very rare.”
Darcy almost smiled. “Perhaps I should allow you more opportunity, then, as it pleases you so.”
“Perhaps you should!” agreed Bingley, enough sincerity behind his laughing reply to give Darcy something else to think upon as they directed their horses down Netherfield’s drive.
The leaden feelings of apprehension that had plagued Darcy upon discovering Wickham in the shire were little relieved by Bingley’s assurances that “the man” would never be admitted to Netherfield. His past relations with Wickham militated against such complacency; he dared not rest until he had confirmed to himself that Georgiana was not, indeed, involved in some way with the man’s appearance in Hertfordshire. Therefore, immediately after dinner that evening, Darcy excused himself from the entertainments Miss Bingley had planned and withdrew to the writing desk in the drawing room. Drawing out a sheet of paper and finding the quill well pared, he dipped it into the inkwell and put it to paper.
19 November 1811
Netherfield Hall
Meryton
Hertfordshire
Dearest Georgiana,
He paused then, and found himself at a complete loss. What shall I say? How shall I begin what can only bring her pain? He set the quill into its stand, sank against the delicately carved back of the chair, and stared unseeing at the all but blank page before him. Consider, man! Would you not have heard from Georgiana or her companion if anything were amiss? You excuse your temper, plead apprehension on her behalf; but truly, do you do well to seek your own peace of mind at the expense of Georgiana’s, and it so hard and lately won? Darcy closed his eyes, his fingers working at the tension that seemed to have made a home in his temples since the afternoon’s encounter. How should I proceed? If ever I were in want of advice…His gaze traveled to his companions.
Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst were deep in the pages of Le Beau Monde, while Hurst read aloud to them titillating bits of London gossip from a lately delivered newspaper. Bingley was trying his best to ignore their bursts of scandalized laughter and concentrate on Badajoz, his interest having been caught since their reading of it the day before. In this effort he was ill-fated, having been forced to look up repeatedly as Hurst now insisted upon regaling him every few minutes with the results of last week’s races and boxing matches. Darcy sighed heavily and turned back to his letter. There was no help to be garnered from that quarter, to be sure.
A rap at the door and the entrance of Stevenson, silver tray in hand, brought all activity to a halt. The tray, supporting a single letter, passed under breathless scrutiny until it was presented to Darcy. Recognizing the hand that wrote its direction, he swiftly took possession of the post and secured it in his coat pocket.
“A letter, Mr. Darcy?” Miss Bingley’s query betrayed the power of a rampant curiosity.
“A letter, yes, Miss Bingley.” Darcy rose and bowed to his hostess and host. “If you will excuse me. No, don’t get up, I beg you,” he tossed to Bingley, who had begun to struggle out of his chair. In a few long strides he was out of the room and into the hall to the library. Shutting the door of that welcome sanctuary firmly behind him, he went to the hearth, stirred up the coals to a soft glow, and dropped into one of the chairs drawn close to catch the feeble warmth. With fumbling, nerveless fingers, he lit a nearby lamp and withdrew the letter from his pocket.
It lay there in his hands, and on his life, he could not find the will to loosen the seal. Turning it over several times, he read its direction again: “Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, Netherfield Hall, Meryton, Hertfordshire,” in the unmistakable hand of his beloved sister. What should he find within? Dearest sister, are you destroyed? In an agony of dread, Darcy leaned forward, took a deep, trembling breath, and quickly broke the seal.
15 November 1811
Pemberley Manor
Lambton
Derbyshire
Dear Brother,
Your letter of the 11th was of such a tender and amusing nature that I have placed it among my keepsakes to treasure always, as I do your care and affection for such a troublesome sister as myself. Your noble, generous determination to shoulder the responsibility for all that occurred last summer leaves me much affected. I would not presume to contest you, but you must allow me, dear Brother, to bear that which truly falls to my account. You must know that the contrition it called for was needful, indeed, instrumental, in my recovery, not unlike the painful impasse between you and Father which you mentioned. (Yes, I do indeed remember your strokes and the sorrow of our father, although the frights that prompted them have long been forgotten!) I would not have you dwell upon it more. It is done, confessed, and forgiven. I am free of it, save as a lesson learned, and desire that you regard it no longer. I assure you, Mrs. Annesley and I are too much engaged to do so!
Too much engaged…regard it no longer. Darcy’s eyes scanned the paragraph again, fearful he had missed something. Not have you dwell upon it…free…a lesson learned. He collapsed into the comfort of the chair, his eyes closed, pressing the letter against his lips. The throbbing at his temple quieted as relief spread sweetly through his body. Wickham has not troubled her further. Evidently, his appearance here had nothing whatever to do with Georgiana. Darcy savored the alleviation of his fears for little more than a moment before turning once more to the questions of why Wickham was in Hertfordshire and how he would manage him. They seemed fated to meet commonly if he prolonged his stay at Netherfield.
“If I prolong my stay,” Darcy murmured to himself. No one would question his leaving for London. There was always the excuse of unexpected business. He was committed to remain for the ball, but after? Unbidden, a pair of utterly bewitching eyes set above a lovely, dimpled smile recalled themselves to his remembrance. Should he regret leaving? He looked down at the unfinished letter in his hand and lifted it again to the light.
Please extend my compliments to Miss Bingley. She is all politeness to ascribe “perfection” to my small talents. I hope I am sensible to the exactness of her taste and can only be honored that she holds my efforts in such esteem. To your friend Mr. Bingley, please forward my congratulations on his acquisition of a pleasing situation. With you to guide him, his efforts cannot but be successful.
Now, dear Brother, with the remainder of your letter I am more than a little astonished. I cannot think how anyone could deem you, who have been the most considerate and kind of brothers to me, an “unfee
ling, prosy fellow.” Miss Elizabeth Bennet must be an Unusual Female indeed to have defended against your argumentation, dismissed you in such a manner, and taken you into dislike. Perhaps she is one who holds to first impressions, and your acquaintance, in her estimation, did not begin well? That it was a lapse in social grace which occasioned this discord between you I cannot believe. I hope that this letter finds you reestablished in her good opinion, as I cannot bear that someone should so misjudge your character, so dear you are to me!
I close with a fervent wish to see you and pray that God may keep you until you join us for Christmas. There is so much I would say, so much I have learned, but it must wait until I behold your dear face. As you honored me as Pemberley’s “treasure,” so I remind you that you are its heart. Return soon!
Your loving sister,
Georgiana Darcy
Darcy’s eyes lingered over the elegant signature, and then, slowly, he folded the letter along its creases and tucked it securely into his coat’s inner pocket. Georgiana, my dear girl! he mused, templing his fingers and resting his chin upon them as he stared into the glowing coals of the hearth. He tried to imagine her as she wrote, so astute in her perception and advice to him, but he could not picture it. Such a creature was in complete opposition to the one he had placed in Mrs. Annesley’s keeping only five months before! He laughed softly then at her disbelief that all the world did not see him as she did, complimented by her complete faith in his ability to retrieve his standing in Elizabeth Bennet’s skeptical eye. How close she had come to the mark! Indeed, their acquaintance could hardly have begun less favorably!
As ridiculous as he knew it to be, his sister’s confidence in him caused a glimmer of optimism to rise from the morass of irresolution he’d fallen into these several days past. A determination to correct Elizabeth’s estimation seized him. He ticked off the circumstances in his favor: Wickham would not be present, there would be a week’s worth of absence from which to garner topics of conversation, the general conviviality a ball afforded, the distraction provided by a large number of people, and finally, the surprise of his partiality and condescension.
