A Visit to Scotland

by Meg Osborne

  Swallowing a yelp of pain from the pressure of Darcy’s hand around his, George nodded.

  “You speak as if I had anything other than dear Anne’s happiness in mind when I pledged to marry her.”

  Darcy’s hand relaxed a fraction, and Wickham was pleased to see his comment had struck home. He knew, Wickham was certain, that their marriage had been for the convenience of George’s pocketbook, at least in part. Yet it was narrow-mindedness on Darcy’s part if he thought that Wickham’s only concern. No, he had chosen the wife he wanted for himself, won her and secured her by his own wits, knowing that had he posed a suit as society dictated it would have been quashed at the first opportunity - by Darcy himself, no doubt.

  Darcy smiled, then, a grim, humourless smile that cut through George’s bravado and made his heart sink.

  “You will not object to my staying here a few days, then, and ensuring the newlyweds are readily settled for their future together.” It was not a question, and when George glanced over Darcy’s shoulder towards his wife, he realised this very conversation had already been had in his absence.

  “You’d be most welcome, William, but as you see...” Wickham gestured around them at the cramped interior of their small lodgings.

  “It is no matter,” Darcy said, his grim smile fading into a determined scowl. “I have already secured rooms at an inn in town. The Pale Horse. I do not doubt you already well acquainted with it, as you seem adept at finding your way to such places wherever you land.”

  DEAR MARY,

  We have made good progress: pausing for breaks en route as Mr Bingley deems necessary to the continued health of both myself and his sister. I do not doubt, were he travelling alone as Darcy is, that he would make far swifter progress, yet whilst he is most attentive to our needs I trust he has not lost sight of the urgency of our flight. Still, he makes our progress of chief concern and I have every faith in his ability to ensure our arrival in Scotland as soon as is safely possible.

  Here, we have stopped to rest overnight before going on in the morning. I retired early, claiming a headache, but the answer was only a partial truth. I wished to write, for you know I can so rarely make sense of my thoughts until I set them to paper, and I thought of none better to write to than you, my dear sister, who is already so well-versed in my concerns.

  Lizzy paused, lifting her pen and chewing thoughtfully on her lower lip. That in itself was not entirely truthful. Her first thought for a confidante had been Jane, but then the consideration of having to pour out the entire scandal to her sister seemed utterly overwhelming to Elizabeth and she had chosen the more expedient course by addressing her letter to Mary. Mary knew what had transpired between Anne and Mr Wickham and had known of Elizabeth’s desperation to follow her husband to Scotland, although she felt sure her sister would be surprised to hear that she travelled in company with Mr and Miss Bingley. Her reason for writing, then, was two-fold, for she wished to reassure Mary, and by extension Colonel Fitzwilliam, that his inability to travel had not unduly hindered her plans. Dipping her pen in her ink, she continued with her letter.

  “I hope poor Colonel Fitzwilliam is faring better. You must assure him of my hopes for his full and swift recovery and assure him that he must not worry himself unduly with our concerns. I have complete faith in Mr Darcy’s ability to resolve the situation satisfactorily and trust Anne enough that she will not have succumbed to too great a danger.

  She frowned. Surely running to Scotland intent on marrying a man your family disapproved of could not be considered anything other than folly? Yet, if Anne truly loved him - and of the two who fled, Lizzy placed far less doubt on the depth of Anne’s affections than those of Mr Wickham - then perhaps it was good that she acted in accordance with her heart, rather than her head? Romantic nonsense! Lizzy cautioned herself. It is notions like this that prevented you from intervening and stopping this whole mess from occurring in the first place. Foolish Lizzy!

  She leaned back from her desk, sliding the paper to one side. She had wanted to write to Mary, to pour out her jumble of thoughts on the page and find some hope there, but she found herself too restless to sit still long enough to write more than a few lines. She squinted out of the window, cursing the darkness that already enveloped the small posting inn. It was too dark to walk, and she was agitating for some exercise. Travelling was exhausting, but it did not produce the same kind of peaceful tiredness that a long walk might. Lizzy’s mind raced on, bidding the horses to drive ever faster. She felt certain she would find no peace of mind until she saw Darcy again and could reassure herself that he no longer blamed her for Anne’s predicament. And Anne! Dear, dear Anne. She would be alright, would not she? Lizzy bit tight on her lower lip, wondering how she would feel if it were not Darcy’s relative but her own who had fled the country with a man she scarcely knew. Yet that was not entirely the situation as it stood, either, for Darcy did know Wickham, knew him well and judged him harshly. Surely that made it still worse? For Anne had not fled with anyone that they could believe a good person, a gentleman who had acted flightily and foolishly but could otherwise be redeemed. No, Wickham was a rake, with a mind for Anne’s money and little care if her reputation and prospects were forever ruined.

  Yet, if that were truly the case, why flee for Scotland? They might have set up home in London, surely? Anne was not young, as Georgiana had been, and the pair might have wed even without Darcy’s direct approval: for he was not her brother and unable under the law to prevent such a thing. They need not even marry! Why flee to Scotland if it was merely ruin and recompense that was behind George Wickham’s scheme? Lizzy sighed and turned towards the bed. She might have manufactured the headache that allowed her to retire early but she was tired: mentally exhausted from running through scenarios as they travelled. Would Darcy be pleased to see her? Would he welcome her at all? And how were they even to find him? He might be anywhere. Suddenly the foolishness of her plan encroached upon her, and she blew out her candle, finding her way to the bed in the dark.

  “We have come this far,” she whispered aloud. “I will not allow us to be turned back by my own thinking. I can be of some assistance, I am sure. For Anne considered me a friend, she must consider me a friend still. And perhaps I can help her, can help Darcy convince her to act wisely, though it may cost her. And he...” she shivered, pulling her blankets up to her chin. She feared Darcy’s action without herself there to steady his nerves. He would be angry – he had been angry. She had never seen the depths of rage that he barely concealed as he had read over Anne’s hastily-written letter and seen the name of the gentleman she had fled with written there. He would not act too rashly, would he? Not call Wickham out in a duel, not get himself wounded?

  Blinking back hot tears, Elizabeth stared up into the darkness and willed the morning to come. She would not be able to rest, nor set aside her worries until she saw him again. They would find some way forward together, and whatever happened there would be some solution, she knew it. Dear Anne would rally again, and Wickham would be brought to bear for his cruel and scandalous behaviour. She just hoped that it would not cost Darcy too greatly to do so.

  “I have already cost you much,” she murmured, thinking back over the family rift that had begun with Darcy’s choosing to marry her, in defiance of his aunt. “I could not bear to cost you any more because I chose to keep Anne’s secret to myself instead of trusting you.”

  Chapter Four

  Darcy woke early, while it was still dark outside, and for one blessed moment, all was peaceful. It was with his second breath that the events of the previous few days rushed in upon him, and he groaned, rolling over and burying his head into the pillows, wishing for another moment or two of oblivion before being forced to confront the truth.

  Anne and Wickham are married. There would be no preventing the match, for it had already taken place. Wickham was now, legally, part of his family. He sat up. Yet Anne did not seem to lament the match as he had expected. Clearly, she still fa
iled to see Wickham’s true nature, and the thought of what a crushing blow such a disappointment would wreak upon her settled heavily over Darcy’s shoulders. It was only a matter of time. His mind raced, seeing weeks, months, years stretch on before him. The news of her daughter’s marriage would undoubtedly reach Lady Catherine’s ears before long. Darcy could no longer deceive himself with the notion that he might be able to return Anne to Kent unscathed, and Lady Catherine might never have to know what fate her daughter had narrowly avoided. No, Wickham would be welcomed as her son, and he would, at last, receive his wealth through a dowry that made Georgiana’s seem feeble by comparison. Another thought struck Darcy, and his lips turned downwards. That is if Aunt Catherine does not turn Anne out altogether. He recalled only too well how his aunt had reacted to news of his own planned nuptials falling outside of Lady Catherine’s own plans for the future. How would she take the news that Anne had done the same, and yet made a match even less desirous than Darcy’s had been?

  His memory of his aunt’s reaction to Elizabeth brought his wife to mind again, although she seemed scarcely to have been a moment from his thoughts since his arrival in Scotland. I ought not to have left the way I did, he reasoned, feeling an ache of loneliness that he must face another dilemma of Wickham’s making on his own. It would have been a great comfort and support to him to have Elizabeth by his side, and not many miles away in London. She was more than willing to accompany me: why did I spurn her offer of help? He raked a hand through his dark hair. He had been so used to being master of his own concerns, and certainly never considered himself to have needed to seek another’s counsel. Now, he longed for Elizabeth’s words of encouragement, of comfort. She might not appreciate the grave error Anne had made in marrying such a man as Wickham, but she might offer some hope for the future that all was not yet lost.

  “Well, she is not here. I must do battle alone,” he told himself, speaking the words aloud as if they might offer him some reassurance. Nonetheless, he felt pressed to write to her, for surely Elizabeth would be as eager to hear of his progress as he was eager to vent his frustrations with someone who would understand them.

  He fetched together writing implements, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders against the onslaught of the cold highland morning, and settled into a table and chair, the familiar act of dipping his pen and beginning his letter soothing his already jangled nerves.

  My dearest Elizabeth, he began, remembering they had not parted on the best of terms and suddenly eager to undo his harsh assessment of his wife. He had too readily laid the blame for this turn of events at her feet when she had not deserved his anger. If she kept Anne’s habits a secret from him it was not done out of malice, for surely Elizabeth could not imagine that Wickham was the recipient of Anne’s affections. He had cause to remind himself that Wickham, whilst not well known to Elizabeth, had certainly crossed her path. She must have noticed, even in their brief acquaintance, how readily he sought to manipulate those young women around him, and how successful he could be in such endeavours.

  I hope you are well and write to inform you of my progress north. He paused, wrangling his thoughts into coherence before continuing. I reached Scotland as quickly as I could, though not quickly enough. All we feared has taken place: our dear cousin Anne is wed to Mr Wickham, so all I may have attempted to free her from his thrall and return her to us will come to nought. They are married, and we must make the best of it. I have pledged to stay here some time and ensure for myself that he is treating her well: I know not what their plans are for the future, but presume Wickham will wish to return to London or Kent before too much time elapses. Lady Catherine must be told, and I fear that she will not take the news well. If I can persuade the couple to journey presently to Kent I will accompany them, and perhaps in some way lessen the blow to my aunt by my presence there. I hope that you might consider coming too, to Kent, for, Elizabeth, dear, I feel better able to stand such a trial with you by my side. I have kept much of Wickham’s former misdeeds to myself and am glad that neither Anne nor my aunt is privy to them. Not for his sake, you understand, but for theirs. It would serve nobody well, now, to air Anne’s husband’s past indiscretions aloud. I can only hope that her goodness will work to change Wickham, for he was not always the scoundrel he became as a man. We were once friends, and whilst I do not think us able to be so again, we are now cousins, and must at least act in one another’s interest if familial harmony is ever to be restored...

  A few lines more and his letter was ended, signed with a flourish, and sealed. He felt better for having written. Whilst he would rather have had Elizabeth by his side and able to discuss in person the practicalities of Anne’s marriage, writing had aided some in restoring peace to his troubled mind. The first rays of wintry sun began to lighten through his window, and he stood, determined to embark on an early start to the day. There was much to discuss and arrange with Wickham, and as he wished the task already accomplished, he might as well start on it as early as possible.

  “I HOPE POOR COLONEL Fitzwilliam is faring better. You must assure him of my hopes for his swift and total recovery and assure him that he must not worry himself unduly with our concerns...

  Richard snorted, from his seat in the corner, and Mary automatically laid a hand on his arm, bidding him still. She had read Elizabeth’s letter aloud, that both might hear the news from the north, but judging from her husband’s agitation, wondered if she might not have been better keeping her sister’s intelligence to herself.

  “Tis not undue worry,” he grumbled, but did not strive to haul himself to his feet. “I ought to be there too. Darcy will never forgive me for letting Elizabeth go alone.”

  “Once my sister has set her mind to something, she is not easily persuaded from it,” Mary said, scanning the letter once more for something more positive she might share to ease Richard’s self-reproach. “And see, she does not go alone. Mr Bingley is travelling with her.”

  Richard snorted once more, encompassing all his thoughts on Mr Bingley’s suitability for an escort in one derisive sniff. Mary hid the smile that crept onto her features and passed the letter over.

  “I know she could hardly wish for a better escort than you, but being that you are not well enough to travel, at least we can trust in Mr Bingley’s abilities to see her as far as Scotland.”

  “I suppose for that we must be grateful,” Richard muttered. He scanned the note with his own eyes, narrowing them briefly, before permitting a laugh. “But here, he brings his sister along too. I pity Elizabeth if she must travel with Miss Bingley, as well as her brother. He, I concede, would at least make the journey a relatively cheerful affair. The same can hardly be said for his sister.”

  “No,” Mary allowed, pleased to see Richard’s spirits lifted at the humour of Elizabeth’s predicament, which momentarily overshadowed their shared anxieties at the reason for her sister’s journey. “I imagine she is eager for gossip, though, and as such is not too dismayed to witness it first-hand, even if it means travelling swiftly to Scotland in such a manner.

  “Yes.” Richard’s smile slipped, and a frown that had surely been learnt from his cousin settled over his firm brow. “We must find some manner of silencing her. Bingley’s discretion need not be fretted over: he speaks freely and frequently but is canny at least to know when a subject is to be avoided. His sister, I fear, rather rejoices in such subjects, especially if they might be seen to somehow elevate her own position.”

  Mary sucked in a breath.

  “You do not think she would rejoice in such news as this? To see a friend brought low -”

  “They are not friends,” Richard said, shaking his head. “Oh, I rather think Miss Caroline Bingley had pretensions to the close personal connection she might share with Miss Anne de Bourgh, perhaps she even envisaged the lady being successfully matched with Charles, thus elevating her new sister into enviable social circles. Now that that dream has died, I rather think Caroline Bingley will milk the situation for w
hatever profit she might glean from it, even if that is only scandalous conversation at the dining room.” He sighed. “We must be grateful my aunt remains in Kent, for it buys us some time at least. If Anne can be got home, and Wickham paid off somehow -” he winced, imagining the figure George Wickham might seek to extract from Darcy for his silence. “If it can be done, and done quickly, then Anne’s reputation might remain untarnished, and my aunt forever ignorant of the scandal.” His voice dropped to barely a whisper. “I pray Darcy might succeed, that time will smile on him, as it did before.”

  Mary reached for her husband’s hand, and squeezed it gently, the motion prompting him to look at her with a warm smile.

  “I know I am a bear to you, my dear. Forgive me. It is a frustration to be bound to stay at home when one would much prefer to be of some use.” He shook his head, fiercely. “If only my damned lungs would co-operate -”

  “Then you would flee to the north, as well, embarking on who knows what kind of scrape, and leave me utterly alone.” Mary tutted. “A fine gift to your wife for Christmas.”

  With a laugh, Richard lifted their linked fingers to his lips, dropping a penitent kiss on the back of Mary’s hand.

  “You are right. Instead, I grace you with a bad-tempered, unwell shell of a husband. And in borrowed lodgings to boot! How fortunate you are to have made such a match.”

  Mary stood, snatching her hand back with a serene smile.