Wicklow, to my surprise, replied not a word, but turned to retrace his steps through the archway to the street, only to find his way blocked by a burly figure holding a stout stick.
“Let me pass, fellow,” he cried, making to force his way out.
“No,” replied Mr Kerr, barring the path very effectively.
Wicklow turned again, towards the inn door, thinking, no doubt, to make his escape via the street entrance from the inn, but again found his way barred by a tall, cloaked figure emerging from that self-same door.
The cloak was drawn back from the newcomer’s face, and both men stood aghast, their faces drawn and white.
“You!” cried Fitzwilliam. “I might have known, but that I did not think even you could sink so low.”
This was all very dreadful, but worse was to befall, for Fitzwilliam turned to me next, his face more terrible than I had ever seen.
“Georgiana,” he said, in tones so icy they quite chilled my bones, “how could you? How could you? I never thought to be ashamed of you, but this? And with Wickham, of all people.”
I had heard tales of George Wickham, and his wicked ways, although I had no recollection of the boy he must have been when I was sent away to Aunt Catherine’s, but, now, all of a sudden, everything fell into place. The way he had interrupted Mrs Younge’s introduction, his equivocation about his Irish ancestry, his reluctance to speak about his estate, his refusal to consider asking my brother’s consent to our marriage, it all made sense now, sense of the most miserable and mortifying variety. What a fool I had been!
I did not actually swoon on the spot, but I certainly wished I might, and must have shown as much on my face, for the next thing I recollect is Cousin Edward’s hand upon my arm.
“Your sister is not well, Darcy,” he said. “I will take her inside for a soothing pot of tea while you deal with these… persons.”
“Aye, do that,” replied Fitzwilliam. “Mr Wickham and I must have words, and Mr Kerr will do very well as a witness.”
My next clear recollection is of sitting in a corner of the common room at the inn while Cousin Edward bustled about like an old nurse in the soothing, commonplace business of serving tea.
“Get that down you,” he said. “You will feel better for it.”
“There, there, dry your tears, sweetheart,” he continued, for they had started to flow more extravagantly than I could restrain, “never fret about what your brother said. He will repent it all when he is in his senses again. You did exactly the right thing in writing to him. A little earlier would have helped, but you were not to know.”
“But I feel so ashamed,” I sobbed, “and such a fool. How could I be taken in so?”
“Oh, Wickham can play any part that suits him, till he gets what he wants. He has taken in far cooler and more experienced heads than yours, my pet. Your father’s for one. Mine for another. It is quite as much my fault, you know. If I had recognized him when I called upon you that time, all of this might have been forestalled. My excuse is that I only met him once or twice, as a boy, and I did not make the connection. I think he deliberately put me off by baiting me with that Irish air he played, which set me thinking of Fenians and such and not of Pemberley.”
“He never really loved me, did he? It was all a scheme of revenge upon my brother.”
“I think so, my darling, but whether he did or not, it does not signify. Your brother loves you, and he will tell you so when next you see him. I love you too, and I tell you so now, quite openly and truthfully.”
“It is not the same,” I wailed, and settled back to enjoy a good cry.
“Is it not, my dear? Well, perhaps we shall see. At least I have a large handkerchief at your service, and a nice cup of tea.”
And he began so cossetting me with tea, and muffins and soothing, inconsequential conversation that at last I began to be sensible once more of my surroundings.
“I will tell you what it is,” he continued, “you owe young Bobby Kerr your thanks. I always thought him rather a dull dog when he was my fag at school, but without him we should not be here today. He could have put your message in the post, or ignored it completely, or waited for the next tide to take ship, but he did none of those things. He jumped on a horse and rode straight to Albemarle Street. Not finding your brother there, he began enquiring about town, and eventually came upon both of us at my club. There he waxed so eloquent as to your plight and your distress and so persuaded us both of the extreme urgency of your need that we rode through the night to your rescue, like paladins in some old romance or something equally ridiculous. I do not believe he can have closed his eyes in forty-eight hours or more.”
“Even then we should have been too late had we not gone to the Crown to stable our horses and found Wickham’s chaise waiting on you. A few words and a half-guinea to the postilion soon settled all, but, had we gone to any other inn, we should have missed you.”
What could I say to all this? How could I possibly express my feelings, so mixed as they were?
What I actually said was –
“I must thank Mr Kerr, certainly, as I must thank you all. But first of all, I must thank you, cousin, for being so good to me when everyone else has turned against me, and looking after me and helping make me feel not so entirely worthless.”
“What’s all this?” he replied, “You? Worthless? Never in life! You are a pearl of great price, my dear, and always shall be. And no-one has turned against you, except, perhaps, Wickham and his accomplice, Mrs Younge. All any of us want is for you to be safe and happy. That is certainly what I want, and I am sure your brother feels the same. I cannot speak for Bobby Kerr, but I dare say he will speak for himself one of these days. But here is my cousin now.”
I felt the tears begin to flow again at the thought of what my brother might say, but he merely put his arms about me and held me tight.
“Forgive me for what I said out there, Georgie,” he said, after a while, “it was the shock of seeing Wickham again, and the thought of how nearly I had lost you. I did not know what I was saying, I was not myself, it was the shock, the strain, the surprise, original sin, whatever you care to name it, but it was not me. I could not bear to lose you.”
“It is I who should ask your forgiveness,” I replied. “How could I be taken in so?”
“You are not the first Wickham has taken in, nor Mrs Younge neither. I doubt you will be the last.”
“Good!” put in Cousin Edward, “ Let us all now wallow in an orgy of mutual forgiveness, in due course. But first let us do our duty as guardians and remove our ward from this present source of danger. My Cousin is already packed, after a fashion, and there is a chaise ready and waiting in the yard. Why do the two of you not go back to London now, and leave me tidy up the odds and ends here?”
“I have a better idea,” replied Fitzwilliam. “Wickham is sent about his business, and Mrs Younge dismissed without a character. Mr Kerr is escorting her back to Cecil Square as we speak, to pick up the rest of her traps, and make sure that none of Georgiana’s possessions fall accidentally into her hands while she does so.”
“I must have words with the magistrates here, and with the Master of Ceremonies at the rooms, to make sure that Wickham’s villainy is known and he will not be able to practice upon some other vulnerable young lady, in Margate, at any rate. I will follow you up to town, with Mr Kerr and the rest of the baggage as soon as may be. It will do me an inestimable service, cousin, if you would escort our damsel in distress back to the safety of her castle in Albemarle Street.”
Then he kissed me, once, upon the brow, bade me be a good girl for my cousin, and was gone.
Cousin Edward led me out to the yard and helped me into the waiting chaise, and soon we were swinging through the archway onto the London Road.
I felt strangely drained, and unutterably weary, and soon drifted off to sleep, secure in the comforting arms of my dear, oh so dear cousin.
Chapter Twenty-two : Interviews
I recollect nothing of the journey back to London, and very little of the first few days after we returned to Albemarle Street.
I took to my bed the moment we arrived, and refused to come out of it for any but the most urgent and necessary of occasions. It was the only place I felt safe. I fear I was not really sensible of my actions for a while, and I know my replies to all entreaties were but random and senseless. I could not face the world, and retreated from it whenever I could. I do not think I have ever slept so much in my life, for when I slept I did not have to think. But even in sleep, Wickham haunted me, and I would wake up panting and terrified at the thought of what might have happened.
I am ashamed when I look back on that period, I who had always prided myself on my possession of sense, and absence of sensibility. It was all nervous exhaustion, according to the physician that Fitzwilliam brought to see me after he returned from Margate and I had refused to get up. That name is as good as any other, I dare say, but I still find it galling to have to rely on such a standby as a ‘young lady’s nerves’ to excuse my conduct.
I might have been lying there yet, making the most of having been ‘crossed in love’, giving as much trouble as possible, and revelling in my state of abandonment, had it not been for Cousin Edward, who, with a scant regard both for general propriety and my particular feelings, yanked the bedclothes from me one morning. Hannah was there, too, but even so, I was no longer ten years old, and I told him so.
“Then act as if you were,” was his reply. “It is past time you were up and about, young lady. Your brother may have given up on you, for the time, but I have not. Wickham is not worth a tenth of this notice, and the Georgiana Darcy I remember would be well aware of that. You have lain there long enough. Here is Mr Kerr come to enquire after your health. You owe him your thanks for what he did for you, and it is well past time you told him so. If you are not down to do so, properly dressed and washed in twenty minutes, then I will come back up here and treat you like the ten-year-old you seem to wish to be again.”
He left the threat as vague as that, which made it all the more menacing. I started to drift off into a reverie about what he would actually do if I refused, until I realized that this was but another means of escaping the real world, and I called for Hannah and my clothes.
I found Mr Kerr in the drawing room, talking quietly to Cousin Edward. Seeing the two of them like this made me realize that Mr Kerr had always been generally conversable : it was only with me – or at least in my presence - that he had been so tongue-tied. I feared I knew why this should be.
We made our bobs, and cousin Edward cleared his throat.
“Mr Kerr has asked for a few minutes private conversation with you, Georgiana,” he said. “Since your brother is gone to Pemberley to prepare your return, I have taken it upon myself, as your sole guardian present, to grant his request. You may, of course, refuse to speak to the gentleman, but I do not think my Georgiana would be so cruel.”
Put like that, I could do nothing but comply as he left the room, although I felt a mauvais quart d’heure in the offing.
Mr Kerr began with the conventional enquiry after my health. This could hardly be avoided in the circumstances, but gave no indication of any coming eloquence. He always could start a conversation, I recollected. It was continuing after the start that was beyond him.
I gave him no chance to do so, however. It was absolutely imperative that I should forestall any formal declaration.
“Mr Kerr,” I began, “you have my thanks, and, indeed, my enduring gratitude and good will for the way you acted when I asked you to take that message to my brother. I will not dwell on what might have been had you not done so with so much dispatch and diligence, but I will say that you saved me from myself when I did not know myself, and because of that I will always be well-disposed towards you.”
“It is that feeling of gratitude and friendship,” I continued, “that makes me tell you that I have learned my lesson from my mistake, and do not propose to have anything more to do with the opposite sex for the time being at least. It may be that I shall go to my grave an old maid. At the moment that would suit me perfectly. My sensibilities have been severely tried recently, and I beg you not to place further strain upon them by suggesting, or even referring to, any other possibilities.”
He had been inflated before, poised on the brink of something, I fear I know exactly what. Now he seemed to slump in on himself, but rallied in an instant, and replied,
“Yes,” but not without a sigh.
Unusually, however, he continued.
“I understand you perfectly, Miss Darcy, I fear all too perfectly. I will do as you wish, of course. How could I do otherwise? But I wish you to understand this about me, too. I was your friend once in Margate when I carried your letter to your brother. I am your friend now in London, and will show that by leaving within the hour. I will be your friend in the future, always, and a word to me, should you find your mind changed -or even should you find it the same, but my services may be in any way useful to you – a word to me will find me still your friend. Goodbye, Miss Darcy. Give my respects to your brother and your cousin, and tell them I regret being unable to stay longer to take my leave in person.”
Well! Who was it said of, that “nothing in his life so became him as the leaving of it”? Oh, yes, it was the rebellious Thane of Cawdor in Macbeth, trust Shakespeare to come to mind at a time like this. Mr Kerr, unlike Cawdor, had no treasons very frankly to confess, but, all the same, nothing in our acquaintance so raised him in my esteem as much as the way he retired from it.
But he was away, to the ‘Bonny Banks of Clyde’, or wherever it was, while ‘I must meditate alone upon (Wickham’s) insincerity’.
Not quite alone, however, for as soon as Mr Kerr had left, Cousin Edward came creeping in, looking strangely anxious.
He said nothing at first, merely stared at me with a strangely quizzical gaze, as who should say “Well?”
When I did not respond he was obliged to put his question into words.
“Well,” he said, “am I to give you joy, my dear? Do I behold the future Mrs Kerr of Splitridge or wherever?”
“Neither Splitridge nor Wherever,” I replied, “nor even Mrs Kerr. I have given up men, for Lent.”
“But Lent ended months ago, and will not begin again for months to come.”
“Then my choices are still open, for now at least, are they not. But tell me, cousin, is it possible for a member of the Church of England to enter a nunnery?”
“I think not. But you are not serious, surely? Tell me you are not serious?”
“No, my dear cousin, I am not serious. I have had all too recent experience of what being serious leads to, and I am resolved never to indulge in such a pastime again. In future I shall treat men, and the world, for what they are : sources of mild amusement at best, and of sorrow and despair otherwise.”
“But, Georgiana, is this not serious? I would not have you dwell upon sorrow and despair at your age.”
“Then I must be sure to seek out the best, must I not?”
From that conversation I date the commencement of my return to the world of the living. Mr Kerr and Cousin Edward between them had restored my belief in myself. I had made a mistake, but it need not be the end. I felt – not exactly that there were many more fish in the sea – but that such fish as there were were more worthy my attention than the one that – happily – got away. Wickham I hated, of course. I felt obliged to hate him, and I always honour my obligations. But I did not feel obliged always to be hating him, always to be thinking of him to the exclusion of others.
By the time Fitzwilliam returned I was feeling quite fit to be let out again, albeit under strict guard, and, perhaps, fetters. My brother, however had other ideas.
“I am done placing my trust in professional chaperones,” he announced. “For now any bear-leading you require will be performed by one of the family. Cousin Fitzwilliam has done admirably by you, I see, and quite restored t
he colour to your cheeks, but I have no doubt that hue will be improved still more by the air of Pemberley. We shall set off tomorrow, and remain there over Christmas. If you are a very good girl I may let you go to your Aunt Catherine’s in the new year.”
To Pemberley, then, we went, all three of us. The atmosphere in the carriage was very odd. Cousin Edward did his best to keep up conversation, but Fitzwilliam was strangely silent, and I caught him, several times, staring at me with a dark look upon his face. He might say he had forgiven me, but I wondered. What was it he had said once : ‘My good opinion, once lost, is lost forever”?
Had I lost my brother’s good opinion?
Was it truly lost forever?
Only the days to come would tell.
Chapter Twenty-three :Developments
All the above was written some little time ago. I let Cousin Anne read it over almost as soon as it was finished. She is perfectly aware that I consider her biddable and sickly, and cares not a fig about it, for she knows that I love her dearly for all that. My comments to that effect early in the manuscript consequently came as neither surprise nor aggravation.
“How well you have done, my dear,” she commented when she had finished reading, “and what a revelation it has all been! But, oh! It is so sad at the end. Could you not have written in a happy ending?”
“I am still waiting on such an event,” I replied, “but one can live in hope, I dare say.”
Events have since overtaken that ‘so sad’ ending, however. In fact they were beginning to overtake it before I had even written it, and within twelve months of the proceedings described in my narrative.
The first of these was Fitzwilliam’s trip into Hertfordshire with his friend Mr Bingley. I could quite easily have gone with them, for after all, Caroline Bingley and Mr and Mrs Hurst were making the most of the opportunity. I was not asked, however, and did not wish to make a point of it. Were it Fitzwilliam alone, or even Fitzwilliam and Bingley, I should, perhaps, have done so, not that it would have done any good, they both being so punctilious about chaperones.
Miss Darcy's Diversions Page 19