The Curse of Land's End

by Rose Lorimer

  I was grateful Richard would have a good road to travel, and God willing, we could begin our trip towards London on the following day. As much as I loved Pemberley, I needed some time away from there.

  As I feared, the book in my hands soon became neglected and recollections of those things I feared most started to intrude once more.

  And the first of them was about Wickham.

  It had been one of my father’s last wishes to encourage his godson — our late steward’s son and childhood friend, George Wickham — to take orders and grant him the important role of spiritual leader in our parish when Mr Kilber would join our creator. My father had been so fond of Wickham that he had paid for his studies.

  But as we shared a year at Cambridge — my last year, and his first — and were together in society, I knew that Wickham was not a man proper for the cloth. Actually, far from it. His behaviour, to my great surprise and disappointment, became too reprehensible: always charming his way, always involved in gambling, tricks and deception. Frequently, I was forced to buy his debts to avoid local shop owners going into bankruptcy.

  It was with no little relief that some months after I left Cambridge, I received a letter from him saying he had abandoned his religious career to study the law instead. I could not in sound mind disagree with such a decision; I was already considering not trusting the lives of so many innocent people in his hands, even if it went against my father’s wishes. Relieved, I presumed it was Wickham’s way to honour my father’s memory. I was happy to compensate him for the exchange. After that, our paths followed different directions, and for three years I had no news from him.

  Until last summer.

  Again my life was severely shaken. Wickham came back into my life and the deceitful circumstances of his return only became clear to me when it was almost too late.

  Almost, thank God.

  Early June, I had sent Georgiana and her lady companion to Ramsgate, for her summer holiday. Wickham, in some unknown way, learned about her vulnerable situation, away from an overprotective older brother, unfortunately too distressed with his personal affairs to care for her safety and well being. Pretending an unintentional meeting at the promenade, he persuaded not just Georgiana to agree to some secret meetings, but also her companion, a greedy woman with hidden motivation who accepted his generous bribe. Wickham spent as much time in Georgiana’s company as he could, being careful not to call too much attention to his false pretences. After almost a month of some public meetings — and many others not so much — he led Georgiana to believe herself irreparably compromised, finally forcing her to agree to an elopement with him as the only way to ‘make things right’. “That is the only way to restore honour to your family again. We need to marry, and as soon as possible,” he had told her.

  Settling my business before expected, I decided to surprise her. I arrived in Ramsgate just two days before the intended elopement. Upon seeing me, instead of a happy girl, I was greeted by a broken one. In tears, she revealed the whole plan, telling me of his aggressive behaviour, showing me the evidence of his savagery, when he forced her to allow him to kiss and touch her. By God’s mercy, she had avoided being completely dishonoured. But, in her innocent mind, the guilt had been strong enough for her to believe herself beyond redemption.

  Dumbfounded and blinded by the betrayal of someone I had once considered a friend, I did what any gentleman would do to defend the honour of a sister: I called Wickham out for a duel. I knew he was not a gentleman and, therefore, not suited for such a challenge. But in my rage, I did not care. The only thing in my mind was killing Wickham with an honourable excuse. How could he, a man my father once cared for, who had shared with me some of my precious moments as a happy child, impose himself and seduce a fifteen-year-old girl? The same girl he had held in his arms when she was only a babe? It was too much for me to understand. My indignation was far beyond my reason. He turned out to be the perfect Brutus, stabbing us in our backs.

  We had a sword fight; I had granted him the benefit of choosing weapons. I believed Wickham hoped to have a better chance, as he knew about my skills with a gun.

  He was wrong. I bested him, and despite receiving a cut on my left shoulder, I marked him across the chest, and punched him in the face, breaking his nose. It took all my strength and two other men holding me back to spare his life. I declared the fight over when he, already on the floor, bleeding and humiliated, begged me for mercy.

  Despite my victory, that had been a sad day, and emptiness assaulted me. As I saw Wickham being taken away, my hand pressed against the bleeding wound on my shoulder, the raw reality of what I had become confronted me: an implacable and resentful man, able to hurt an old friend.

  I hated myself for that.

  I wished I could have dealt with those things differently as the pain of that betrayal was never placated.

  At that time, Richard was in Matlock recovering from a serious injury contracted during the decisive battle of Toulouse, which ended up with Napoleon’s abdication. When informed of what had happened, he contacted a detective in the London Magistrate’s Court, a former army friend, and used my letters of credit of Wickham's debts I had bought in Cambridge and Lambton, and sent Wickham to the debtor’s prison. Wickham had crossed an important line by putting my sister in danger and dishonouring my father’s name—things we could not take lightly.

  Georgiana, although not physically hurt, fell into a dark period of introversion, shame, and guilt. Nothing I tried seemed to work with her. Richard wrote her several letters, trying to make her see it had not been her fault, that she had been deceived by a wolf in disguise. But to no avail. The only truth she could believe was that she had shamed our family’s name.

  After a long time of consideration, as days became weeks and weeks became months with no change, the three of us decided it would be good for her to spend some time with my father’s relatives in Scotland. As the younger brothers and sisters on my father’s side of the family, there were plenty of cousins of Georgiana’s age with whom she could relate and have a better chance to recover. We decided that by mid-September I was to escort her to Scotland.

  It was when the unimaginable happened.

  Two days before the planned trip, I received an unexpected visit from my aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who wasted no time in making the reason for her visit clear.

  “You must know why I am here,” she said, a strange sparkle in her eyes. “I heard about Georgiana’s scandalous behaviour, Fitzwilliam, but took measures to avoid the story spreading. Poor girl. Imagine the scandal! It would ruin her!”

  Suddenly, her unusual kindness triggered a disquieting suspicion. “Indeed,” I said, cautiously. How did she come to possess such information?

  “What you need,” my aunt continued, “is to provide Georgiana with a home where she can find the support she needs. A strong female presence—”

  “Aunt, desist,” I said, finally understanding her real meaning. “As I said before, I am not marrying Anne. And that is final.”

  She sneered at me. “Oh, do not be a simpleton, Fitzwilliam. I would be glad to keep Georgiana’s secret if — and only — I have a good reason for it.”

  I leaped to my feet, unable to acknowledge her meaning. Was she truly blackmailing me?

  Her eyes narrowed. “Well, I cannot see another way, so I will just say it. If you do not marry Anne, and soon, I will make sure this scandal spreads throughout all London. It will throw your beloved Darcy name into the mud and condemn Georgiana to a shameful spinsterhood!”

  I knew my aunt had no scruples to get what she wanted, but I never imagined she would use Georgiana’s circumstances to force my hand. “Why are you doing this? You are my aunt, my mother’s sister. How can you?”

  But I already knew the answer. For the last four years, since Anne’s coming out, my aunt had been tormenting me to marry her. Her intention was my father’s fortune. With her increasing expenses in frivolities, and her particular wealth steadily decr
easing for lack of proper management, marrying her daughter to me was the only way to guarantee her future. Once married, Anne would be easily persuaded to keep her mother’s comfort. My cousin was not a bad person; she was just too weak to fight against her mother’s whims and expectations. Unfortunately for my aunt, Anne, her only child, was too frail and unattractive, and with no money, her meagre dowry was no guarantee to an advantageous marriage elsewhere.

  I was trapped.

  If I thought I had already tasted bitterness, resentment, and betrayal, in that afternoon I had a new and fresher flavour. The almost half an hour we spent shouting at each other was the most painful and distressing conversation I have ever had in my life.

  But I needed to consider my sister’s prospects in life above my own. She was my only direct family left, and I had already failed in her care. I could not fail her again. So, with a bitter taste in my mouth — and God only knows with how much hatred in my heart — I gave up and surrendered to almost all of my aunt's terms. Almost. My only condition was that I would live my life as if they did not exist. I could impose nothing more on my shoulders.

  She immediately agreed. She did not care if her only daughter would suffer my indifference. And indifference it would be, because the mere thought of bedding my cousin and everything she represented, even if in time I would need an heir, was so disgusting, so inconceivable, that I swore in that moment Georgiana’s children would inherit the Darcy’s fortune. But for that, God help me, I would need to marry her to an honourable man.

  Letting all the fight abandon me, I agreed to marry Anne. My fate had been sealed.

  Some days later, Georgiana and I left for Scotland. Regardless of our low spirits and silence, our trip was better than expected, and soon we had arrived. I was happy to see my cousins, aunts and uncles, who even not knowing all the details of what had happened to Georgiana, were kind and caring toward her. Georgiana had closed herself in an impenetrable shell, but seeing her among our cousins gave me hope she would eventually recover.

  Unfortunately, that was not my case. My time with them, which could have been a balm to the wounds of my soul, was sadly wasted. There was no medicine for this new wound inflicted on me. I had no reason for hope, thanks to my aunt’s machinations.

  Gradually, I slipped into a deep melancholy, and when my time to return finally arrived, my heart was in pieces; I knew what was waiting for me. Our wedding would be a discreet ceremony in Pemberley some days after my return. Mr Reynolds, the only one aware of the sordid arrangement, had been delegated to obtain a special license for the occasion. I did not want to announce the wedding in our parish.

  I had not said a word about this to Georgiana either. My plan was to send her a letter when everything was finally settled, sparing her the details. Not even Richard knew of the unspeakable way our aunt had trapped me. I knew if I had told him, he would involve his father — our aunt’s elder brother, the Earl of Matlock. Knowing the siblings as I did — both strong willed and stubborn — I knew it would be impossible not to ruin Georgiana’s reputation.

  Resentment began to eat my insides. Because of my negligence, I had been forced to sell my soul and body to a loveless and cold marriage. But I would suffer in silence the consequences of my omission. If marrying for love, as my parents had done — one of the few things I had really desired in my life — was now an impossible dream, so be it. Loneliness would be my punishment.

  Once back at Pemberley, I sent my aunt a letter informing her of my arrival. She had demanded me to send word of my departure as soon as I was leaving Scotland, so she could arrive at Pemberley around the same time as I did. But I could not. I needed some time alone back home to prepare my spirit. I informed nobody about what was to happen, not even Mr Kilber who would preside over the macabre event. My mind was set for a private and short ceremony, after which my life would go back to the same routine. All of my servants and close relatives were never to talk about this subject ever again in my presence. I would provide for their needs and comfort, but they would be no more than ghosts in my house.

  In the following week, her hateful letter finally arrived, asking me to meet them on their way. I just crushed the piece of paper, wishing with all my heart never to set my eyes on them again. May God forgive me for that wish—

  A knock on the door interrupted my unpleasant deliberations. I checked my pocket watch and sighed. Three o’clock in the afternoon. How had I been so caught up in those unpleasant thoughts?

  Mrs Reynolds opened the door. “Sir, Colonel Fitzwilliam has arrived.”

  I closed my book and sighed. At last a respite from that miserable life. “Thank you, Mrs Reynolds. I will be down shortly.”

  On the following day, and with great relief, Richard and I left for London as planned.

  A week later, as we were in the library of my London house having a heated discussion about my social life, I received a letter from my good friend Bingley.

  What I did not know, however, was that from that day on my life would turn upside down as the events of the next month would prove, in a most unbelievable way, if my principles as a reasonable man were as solid as I believed them to be.

  Chapter 2

  Darcy

  “Richard, I beg you, desist from this idea once and for all! I do not want to go to balls and even less be around people whose aim in life is as frivolous as redecorating their parlours in the latest French style!” I retorted loudly. “The idea is preposterous! We were at war with France, for goodness’s sake! And the events with Aunt Catherine and Anne are still too fresh in my mind to be good company…”

  I knew my cousin well enough to know how worried he was about me. But how could I force myself to do what he was asking me? Going back to a ‘normal life’, attending balls and soirees? This was beyond any struggle I could muster at the moment. I was never comfortable in big gatherings when I was well enough. What could I say about it now? It was impossible for me to oblige him.

  But, alas, he would not give up.

  “Darcy, it has been over two months since you returned from Scotland. Two months after this… well, this event with Lady Catherine and Anne as you prefer to call it, but none of this was your fault! You need to be happy again! This last week, your life has been swinging between this library and your study, working as if the devil himself were behind you with a whip! You look pale and I suspect you have been losing weight—”

  “You are right! I am not in my best shape. Just yesterday, I went to see Dr Alden, and he told me to be careful…” I chuckled mirthlessly. “Unlike you, he did not save words to express his concern, adding that a man needs his food and his rest, and that was why he was going on some kind of vacation to the south-west coast, Exeter, or somewhere like that. He left the address in case I need him.”

  Richard stared back at me. “So I am right! Good to hear it once in a while, but now that the doctor said you need to change your lifestyle—”

  “I never said you were wrong. I am just not ready yet.”

  “Then just come with me to my mother’s soiree. It will be more like a family gathering. I know it will delight Mother. If not for yourself, then do it for Georgiana. She will not be at your uncle’s house forever. What will happen when she returns, Darcy? What about her marriage? You need to keep a social life for that.”

  I turned my back to my cousin and went to the window feeling again a sharp pang of bitterness. Beyond my sad reflexion on the windowpane, my mind digressed about how that day could have been so much worse considering it was January. Some sunlight filtered through the trees from the other side of the street and, as I closed my eyes, its brightness and warmth reached my face. I gave a deep breath and opened my eyes, trying to control my frustrations. Richard was right. But I was not prepared to face society. I doubted I would ever be. I could only hope that in time I could recover enough and carry on with my life — for Georgiana’s sake. But that moment had not yet arrived.

  I glanced around, feeling the comfort of the room
. My study was exactly as my father had left it. The dark mahogany wood used in the furniture contrasted with the jovial pattern of the fabric my mother had chosen to upholster the chairs, the wallpaper, and curtains. I missed them so much.

  For some precious moments, I was lost in my own thoughts, and almost forgot Richard was there, behind me.

  Almost.

  A familiar noise brought me back to my much more painful reality. The quiet in the study just emphasised the systematic sound of Richard’s fingers drumming on the arm of his chair. It was an annoying habit he had developed along the years to force me into some kind of reaction.

  Fortunately, before I could do something I would regret, Osmond, my butler in London, knocked on the door.

  “Mr Darcy, a letter has just arrived.”

  “Thank you, Osmond,” I said, taking the letter and examining it. A frown wrinkled my face. “It is from Bingley.” As Osmond closed the door behind him, I returned to the window and, ignoring my annoying cousin, I began to read it.

  Richard did not disturb me this time. He seemed content in seeing my interest in something that was not work or responsibilities.

  As I perused its content, a smile reached my lips, perhaps the first real one in the last months. “He got married, Richard. Bingley is married! He is now a respectful member of the country society of Meryton, in Hertfordshire. Oh. He says he had sent me an invitation by the end of September. Well, that explains why I was not aware of the fact. He had initially sent it here, believing I would be in London for the season. Osmond must have sent it to Pemberley after receiving… that news.”