by Mary Street
‘I cannot believe he is so wholly lost,’ said Georgiana tearfully. ‘And he loves me, I know he does. I am sure he would change, for my sake.’
‘I am sure he would not. If he really loved you, he would make some effort to re-establish a character and hope to win you when he had done so. He would not try to persuade a fifteen-year-old girl to an elopement, of that you may be sure.’
‘He is all idleness and dissipation, Georgiana,’ added Fitzwilliam. ‘And you have a fortune which would enable him to live exactly as he chooses. I am sorry to give you pain, but you must face it, that is Wickham’s design.’
‘His chief design, certainly. I cannot help wondering if he has an additional motive. Had he succeeded, he would certainly feel he had revenged himself on me, would he not?’
‘Revenged himself?’ Georgiana turned to me. ‘What have you done, sir, that he should wish to revenge himself?’
‘Deprived him of the living at Kympton, or so he maintains,’ I said. ‘Papa hoped he would make the church his profession, as you know. That living was intended for Wickham as soon as it fell vacant. Long before it did, Wickham told me he had no intention of going into the church and asked if he might not reasonably expect some monetary compensation, instead. I agreed to that.’
Fitzwilliam was laughing again. ‘Somehow, we were not quite happy with the notion of Wickham becoming a clergyman.’
‘A devil’s advocate, if ever there was one,’ I agreed. ‘Well, we paid him off. He had a bequest of a thousand pounds left to him in our father’s Will and we gave him an additional three thousand on condition that he resigned all claims to the living, which he did. We have the documents which he signed at the time.’
‘I confess, I have to admire his impudence,’ said Fitzwilliam. ‘He took the money and left debts all over Derbyshire, which your brother discharged as soon as it was known to us.’
Fitzwilliam often seemed to find some humour in Wickham’s perfidy, which I myself have never perceived. ‘I hoped I had seen the last of him,’ I said. ‘But three years later, when the living fell vacant, he informed me that he now had the intention of being ordained and felt sure I would present him with the living which Papa had intended for him.’
‘Sir, how could he have done such a thing?’ said Georgiana in astonishment.
‘I still have his letter,’ I assured her. ‘He told me his circumstances were in a very bad way. He had professed to be studying the law, but that was a mere pretence. His substance had been squandered on his indulgences, mainly hazard, I believe. Never could he resist placing bets on a throw of the dice.’
‘Is this true?’ Georgiana turned to Fitzwilliam.
‘Do you call your brother a liar?’ Fitzwilliam was at once all severity.
‘I … er … no! Sir, I beg your pardon. I am confused, that is all.’
‘Well, it is not to be wondered at. You knew nothing of these matters and it is hardly surprising that you relied on your memory of Papa’s good opinion. But even a father such as ours could be deceived, my dear.’
Georgiana sighed, knowing she must accept it. ‘What do you mean to do now, sir?’
‘Tomorrow I will take you to Rosings Park and place you under the care of our aunt, Lady Catherine. I am sorry you do not like the idea but, until I have found a new and proper companion for you, there is nothing else to be done. As for the rest, that is something I must discuss with Fitzwilliam. You may leave us, now.’
‘You are tired and upset, Georgie,’ said Fitzwilliam with more kindness, perhaps, than she deserved. ‘Try to get some rest, and do not fret too much over Wickham. He is not worth your pain.’
But there were tears in her eyes as she went and we both knew there would be suffering for some time to come. ‘Better this than what might have been,’ observed Fitzwilliam.
Between us, we agreed that we could not let Georgiana’s indiscretion become public knowledge. The affair must be kept as secret as possible, for the sake of her good name.
Unfortunately, the same consideration prevented any public exposure of Wickham. Since neither of us saw any value in confronting that gentleman, we merely despatched a letter, telling him that he would not be allowed to see my sister again and advising him to leave the place immediately.
I had heard nothing of him since and had supposed him to be in town for he is more inclined to city life than the countryside. Never had I expected to see him in Hertfordshire.
At first, I suspected him to be here because he had learnt of my own presence in the county and had some new scheme afoot, for always he seemed to look upon me as his own personal financier. In this, at least I did him an injustice, for when he saw me he was clearly astonished, and looked as though he hardly knew how to support himself. But he recovered more quickly than I did and managed, damn his impudence, to touch his hat. I returned the salute and rode on, fuming with anger.
If Wickham was rusticating, I reflected, it must be because he had pressing reasons to get away from town. There could be no other explanation. But why he should have come to Meryton was beyond my comprehension.
Bingley joined me after taking his leave of the ladies and I said, ‘You know most of the gossip, Bingley. Are there any young ladies of fortune hereabouts?’
Bingley would have his little joke. ‘Heavens, Darcy! Never did I expect to hear that from you. What have you done? Lost all your fortune at faro?’
‘Indeed, I have not!’ I retorted. ‘But I have just seen a known fortune hunter. Come, now, I am serious. I want to know what he is about.’
‘Caroline is the only lady with any fortune that I know of, and I think she is safe enough. Who do you mean?’
‘That gentleman with the Bennet sisters.’
‘Do you mean Lieutenant Denny, the odd-looking cleric, or the tall, handsome one?’
‘Was there an odd-looking cleric? I did not see him. No, I meant the other: George Wickham.’
‘That name I have heard before,’ said Bingley frowning. He looked at me. ‘Did not you have some trouble with him once?’
‘More than once,’ I admitted. ‘We need not concern ourselves with what is past. I am curious, however, to know what brings him into Hertfordshire.’
‘I gathered he has arrived but lately and is about to take up a commission in the regiment.’
‘Wickham? In the army?’ I was all astonishment. I could not imagine how he had raised enough money to purchase a commission, or that he would use money for that purpose if he had it.
Most likely he had found a benefactor, I thought. Always, he was plausible and he could easily persuade someone to bestow favour upon him. On the other hand, someone less innocent might have felt it a small enough price to get rid of him.
Wickham’s vanity would be gratified with the notion of strutting around in a scarlet coat adored by all the ladies. He would also, I was persuaded, believe regimental dress would make him even more attractive to any passing heiress.
I had a more informed view of army life, gained from the conversation of my cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and it was one I was sure Wickham had not considered. Regimental discipline, regimental training would be irksome indeed to a man of his stamp.
Whoever had purchased Wickham’s commission had my fullest approval. Indeed I wished I had thought of it myself. Had I had the wit to think of it, I would have purchased for him a commission in the regulars, for in the militia it was less certain that he would be drafted into any military campaign.
I sighed for a lost opportunity: it would be diverting to entertain myself with pleasing notions of Wickham on the march and, best of all to my mind, Wickham on the battlefield!
I was recalled to the present when Bingley said, ‘What do you wish me to do about the ball, Darcy? I had intended to send a general invitation to all the officers, but if this man is now among them, there could be some awkwardness.’
‘There could indeed, should he be unwise enough to come,’ I agreed. ‘But I think he will not. Should he be foolis
h enough to do so, I shall know how to deal.’
‘Darcy, I do not want trouble.’
‘Would I cause any?’ I smiled at him. ‘You need not fear Wickham, my friend. What I would say to him would be short, to the point, and anyone hearing me would think no evil. But he would take my meaning, you may be sure of that.’
‘Then I will follow my original intention and issue a general invitation to all the officers,’ said Bingley, half-questioningly, waiting for my concurrence. ‘Wickham, I will leave to your discretion.’
‘He will not come.’
But my happy thoughts about Wickham in the army had vanished. For the winter, he would be quartered in Meryton and during that time his life would not be much troubled by regimental duties. I had heard Colonel Forster saying his officers were in need of rest and if that did not apply to a new recruit, Wickham would certainly enjoy the same benefits.
He would be here in Hertfordshire, where none had reason to suspect him and he would be received into society as warmly as all the other officers. Perhaps more so, for the insinuating charm that had enabled him to deceive Georgiana was always his greatest advantage.
Already I had seen that charm at work upon Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and although it did not surprise me, I did not like it.
A few moments of reflection taught me Elizabeth could be in no danger from Wickham. I knew nothing of her fortune, but I could not suppose it to be large: and fortune was Wickham’s chief design. That being so, he was unlikely to single out Elizabeth.
I shook off this concern and applied myself once again to the task of subduing my feelings for Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
It was by no means easy: whenever I reminded myself of her family and her low connections, an image of her face came into my mind, and she was laughing, as though she considered these objections quite absurd.
I knew they were not: I am Darcy, master of Pemberley. My family is ancient and, though untitled myself, I am of noble descent. Was I then, to disgrace myself in the eyes of everyone by connecting myself to such an inferior family? I could not. I knew I could not. It was quite out of the question.
On Thursday, Bingley and his sisters sent out their invitations to the ball. They went personally to Longbourn to issue their invitation to the Bennet family. I declined the invitation to go with them. I had business letters to write and I made that my excuse.
When they returned, the ladies were full of giggles, which they explained by telling me they had met an extremely odd relation of Mr Bennet.
They told me his name. They refused to tell me more. It was to be a surprise. They had included him in their invitation to the ball where I was to see him and judge him for myself without forming any preconceived ideas. They were eagerly anticipating whatever I might later have to say about him.
I looked at Bingley. He was laughing, too. ‘Do your worst, Darcy, my lips are sealed. The girls have threatened me with death if I dare say a word.’
I frowned, for I had the feeling I had come across the name of Mr William Collins before, and not so very long ago, but I could not remember where. ‘Well, at least you may tell me where he comes from?’
The three of them looked at each other and burst into fresh laughter. ‘Oh, no! That is the best part of all. Oh, it is too rich! You would never believe how rich!’
The laughter continued until they had to wipe the tears from their eyes, and I perforce, could only watch them with growing unease.
Five
FOR THE NEXT four days there was so much rain that we were confined indoors for most of the time. I had no opportunity to learn anything about the mysterious Mr Collins.
This did not trouble me. Whatever had so diverted Bingley and his sisters would, no doubt, be explained in time. Though I confess I was dismayed to learn there were relations, even upon Mr Bennet’s side of the family, who could occasion some ridicule.
I became angry with myself, for such dismay showed me I was wavering about what I should do, when I knew perfectly well what I must do. Although I had said nothing to my friends of my plan for departure, I intended, on Wednesday, to make some excuse to Bingley and take myself off to town, remaining there until I had conquered my feelings. Never again would I visit Netherfield until I was certain master of myself.
At present, I had not much thought to spare for Wednesday: my mind was occupied with Tuesday’s ball, for I was going to dance with Elizabeth. Unwise it might be: the delight of doing so would, I knew, make the pain of leaving her harder to bear, but that I would face alone and in my own time.
On Monday, Bingley sought me out. ‘This is a confounded nuisance, Darcy. A business matter has occurred and really, I ought to go into town today but I cannot, now the ball is arranged for tomorrow. But I must go on Wednesday, at the latest. Sorry I am to leave you with only the ladies and Mr Hurst for company, but it cannot be helped. I should be able to return on Saturday.’
‘If I can be of any assistance,’ I said, ‘I would willingly go with you.’ And remain in town when he returned.
‘No, no, I thank you. It is merely a matter of drawing up some papers: stay here, Darcy, and keep the ladies company.’
I gave an inward sigh. The presence of Bingley’s sisters and their demands upon my attention were not going to assist my endeavours to overcome my partiality for Elizabeth Bennet. For that I needed time alone, to reason myself out of it.
Tuesday dawned and as preparations for the ball began, we gentlemen escaped into the billiard room, leaving the ladies to give directions to the servants. At last, feeling strangely nervous, I went to dress for the ball.
The officers were the first to arrive and it did not surprise me Wickham was not among them. Afterwards came the Gouldings and the Lucases: several other families arrived before the Bennets made their appearance.
Elizabeth took my breath away: she wore the simplest of gowns in a deep rose-pink satin making all the more elaborate fashions there seem fussy and overstated. She was easily the most striking woman in the room: even her sister Jane paled into insignificance beside her.
I did not go near her until my heartbeat had settled into a more steady rhythm. When I did, I was quite taken aback by the short way she answered my greeting: however, she was equally short with Bingley and upon closer observation I perceived she was in some perturbation of mind.
I watched her move around the room, apparently looking for someone and felt absurdly gratified when I saw she had been seeking, not a gentleman, but rather her friend, Charlotte Lucas. She drew that lady aside, and seemed to be spilling out her trouble.
Trusting her friend would succeed in restoring her usual good humour, I turned away, for I had other duties, other people to greet and be civil to. Eventually I was able to stand back for a while.
A man’s voice, spiced with malicious amusement, caught my attention. I looked up and saw Mr Bennet: he was treading backwards delicately, one arm around his eldest daughter. ‘I will swear,’ he said happily, ‘I have not been so excessively diverted this last twelve months.’
The lady seemed equally diverted, although her voice held a hint of sympathy. ‘Oh, poor Lizzy!’
I followed their gaze, seeking out ‘poor Lizzy’. She was dancing prettily enough, but without, it seemed, much enjoyment. Then I caught sight of her partner, an awkward, thick-set fellow dressed in clerical garb, solemn-faced yet somehow quite ridiculous, moving wrong, scurrying back into position, moving wrong again, and causing stifled ripples of mirth among all who watched.
Poor Lizzy, indeed. Like Mr Bennet, I was more diverted than sympathetic. And why not? Miss Elizabeth Bennet had enjoyed more than one chuckle at my expense, it was a most unexpected pleasure to find that advantage was mine, if only for a moment.
It was clear she found nothing diverting in the situation. Had Miss Lucas succeeded in soothing her initial ill-humour traces of it had returned to her expression. I determined to wait a while before asking her to dance.
I partnered Caroline Bingley: Elizabeth was pa
rtnered by a scarlet coat and, I was relieved to see, more like herself by the end of the set. She returned to Miss Lucas and was in conversation with her when I approached to make a formal request for the honour of the next two dances.
There was something rather haughty but not unpleasing about her manner when she took her place opposite me. Her chin was tilted slightly, her mouth unsmiling, her eyes half hidden by her eyelids.
Something absurd and tender caught me by the throat: how I looked I know not, but I could not trust myself to speak and the dance commenced and continued for some time with no conversation between us.
‘This particular dance fits well with the music,’ observed Elizabeth, after a while.
‘Yes, indeed.’ I managed, astonished to discover my voice was perfectly sound.
The mouth curved, the eyelids lifted and the sparkle was there in her eyes. I waited with keen anticipation for whatever was coming next.
‘Now it is your turn to say something, Mr Darcy. I talked about the dance and you should make some kind of remark about the size of the room or the number of couples.’
‘I am your servant, madam. Whatever you bid me to say, that I will say.’
She nodded, rather like a governess teaching an awkward child. ‘Very well, that reply will do for the present. Perhaps by and by, I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones: but now we may be silent.’
‘Do you talk by rule while you are dancing?’
‘Sometimes,’ came the airy reply. ‘One cannot be entirely silent for half an hour together. Yet for the advantage of some, conversation ought to be arranged so they may say as little as possible.’
By ‘some’, I suppose, she meant me. I asked whether she was consulting her own feelings or mine.
‘Both,’ she replied. She went on to say we were both of a taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak unless we said something amazing.
She was too intelligent to believe that about herself. I did not think it was true about me, either, though looking back on our acquaintance she might be excused for thinking so.