by Mary Street
‘How is she?’ asked Georgiana for the second time that evening.
‘She is mending – you do like her, do you not?’
‘Yes, I do. I never felt so much at ease with Mrs Younge, you know.’
‘I did not know,’ I said, startled. ‘Why did you not speak to me of this?’
Georgiana looked away. ‘I could not. I could find no reason for the way I felt and I was sure you would think me foolish.’ She smiled faintly. ‘Indeed, I thought myself foolish. Fitzwilliam says I should have trusted you better. He says foolish or not, you would have found a replacement had I made my wishes known.’
‘Indeed I would. We may occasionally be obliged to tolerate people we do not like, my dear, but we do not have to employ them.’
‘That is what Fitzwilliam said.’ And then, answering my look of enquiry, she added, ‘He came to see me when I was at Rosings Park. He talked a great deal, told me about things you would not tell.’
‘The devil he did! I will have something to say to our cousin when next I see him.’
‘You must not blame him for telling me. He said even when you were children, Wickham…. Oh, I cannot speak his name without abhorrence! He said you were blamed and punished for things Wickham did. And that he laughed over it!’ Georgiana was in tears and I hastened to comfort her.
‘Silly little juggins,’ I said fondly. ‘It is past: it does not matter now. Fitzwilliam should not have distressed you.’
Perhaps my cousin was wiser than I thought, for Georgiana said, ‘It cured me of any affection I felt for him: I hated him when I knew that! And, sir, I know how much it must have pained you when I … and I cannot tell you how sorry I am.’
‘That is enough,’ I said. ‘We need not regard it. Come now, dry your eyes. Let me see that pretty smile of yours.’
She obliged me, but the smile soon faded and the serious look returned to her countenance. ‘Fitzwilliam thinks Wickham is unstable,’ she said. ‘And, having been thwarted in his design, his resentment may lead him to impose on you in some other way. Sir, I beg you will have a care for yourself.’
‘I do not fear Wickham,’ I said. ‘I never have. The worst he can do is elope with a sister of mine.’
This conversation and others which took place during her recovery marked a deepening of my affection for Georgiana. Always I had cared for her, but the difference in our ages had kept us apart. Now, we came to a new understanding and friendship. And in caring for my sister and learning of her, I became aware that the pain of parting from Elizabeth Bennet was at last beginning to subside.
The New Year had scarce begun before I discovered we were not wholly free of Bennets, after all. I had then returned to my own establishment. One day Miss Bingley called, demanding an immediate and private interview with me. I was annoyed, for I had been engaged in writing letters of business and I do not care to be interrupted at such times.
However, she brought intelligence of an alarming nature: Miss Jane Bennet had followed us to London.
‘She is staying with her aunt and uncle in Cheapside,’ said Miss Bingley, with distaste. ‘And means to remain there for several months. I am convinced she entertains hopes of renewing her acquaintance with Charles, the scheming little hussy.’
‘She has written to you, I take it?’
‘Oh yes. Very pretty sentiments, affecting to hope we shall be able to meet now and then. Such impertinence! As though our kindness towards her when she was ill at Netherfield gives her the right to impose herself on us whenever she wishes.’
It appeared the Cheapside relations had spent Christmas at Longbourn and had invited her to return with them to London.
I was of the opinion that Mrs Bennet had contrived the invitation, with the design of thrusting Jane at Bingley.
What Jane herself had in mind, I know not. I thought it would be astonishing had she come to town with no design of drawing Bingley back to her side. Though there was little to be gleaned from her letter, I felt she had understood our reasons for leaving Netherfield, and knew someone was her enemy.
‘Well, at least she gave us warning,’ I said. ‘Which is foolish of her. It might be possible for her to meet your brother without ill consequence, but I doubt it. He has not, so far, expressed any admiration for any other lady, which, you must own, is unlike him.’
‘So you think his regard for her is not yet sufficiently extinguished? So do I. We must endeavour to keep her away from Charles. I am persuaded it would be best if he does not know she is in town. We had better not mention it.’
I agreed, although reluctantly. I do not care for disguise of any sort but here we could not escape the necessity of it.
Miss Bingley said, ‘She will call on us in Grosvenor Street, but we do not know when. Until that call has been paid, it would be unwise for Charles to visit us for he may chance upon her. Should he express any intention of calling, perhaps you could undertake to dissuade him.’
I nodded. Bingley would never have a great determination to go there and I could easily get him to put off any such intention.
‘I suppose,’ said Miss Bingley, ‘Louisa and I will be obliged to return her call, but I shall not be encouraging. Has she hopes of meeting Charles through me, she will quickly learn her mistake. There is but little chance of her meeting him through any other mutual acquaintance: we move in very different circles from the Cheapside relations, I am sure.’
‘Then there is nothing to cause concern.’
‘There is the possibility of an accidental meeting.’
I shrugged. ‘Should that happen, we will have to take the consequences. We cannot guard against chance.’
Miss Bingley looked dissatisfied with this answer, but I had no better one to offer. Bingley might meet his Jane in any public place, be it park, street, shop or theatre.
The consequence of such a meeting was most likely to be an unpleasant half-hour for me, for should Bingley discover Miss Bennet’s presence in town I would not then deny my own knowledge of it. Bingley had the most amiable disposition, but even he would be angry to learn of this concealment.
I could not, however, feel any compunction: my motives were as they had always been, to save my friend from the certain evils of an imprudent connection. I could not condemn myself for having done this much.
Jane Bennet called on the sisters ten days later. Miss Bingley told me she came at a moment when they were going out, and did not stay long. Meaning to be as discouraging as possible, they put off their return visit for two weeks. I confess, I did not blame them. Bingley himself might choose to protest, but the fact remains it does one no good, in our society, to admit acquaintance in that quarter of town.
Miss Bingley and her sister could be very chilly to anyone they wished to discourage: it did not surprise me when Miss Jane Bennet made no further overtures towards them. She remained in London, but six weeks went by without any word from her, and I began to feel easier. One might have supposed her motive for coming to town was simply to visit her relations.
The time was fast approaching when I was to leave London to visit my own relations. Always, I spent a fortnight over the Easter period with my aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. As usual, Fitzwilliam would accompany me, but this year, hoping to strengthen the bond growing between us, I tried to persuade Georgiana to come, too. She was reluctant: always she was reluctant to visit Rosings, but this time I took some pains to get at the reason. In the end she confessed to feeling some distaste for our aunt and our cousin.
My sister’s explanation was both reluctant and incoherent and it took some patience on my part to gain even a glimmer of understanding. At first, I thought it was about music.
Georgiana has a deep love and understanding of music and is extremely accomplished on both harp and pianoforte. She did not, she said, begrudge the hours of practice necessary to achieve the level of excellence she had attained. She was not conceited about her own performance: as yet, she had much to learn before she could be wholly satisfied with it.<
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Lady Catherine had never learnt: and my cousin, Anne, had been prevented from doing so by frequent ill health. Nevertheless, our aunt did not scruple to assert that no one had better taste or judgement in music than she and her daughter. Had they learnt, they would have been truly proficient, and with these self-awarded recommendations, Lady Catherine felt qualified to criticize Georgiana, abjure her to constant practice, suggest alterations to her performance and, absurdly, extol the superior musical gifts of our cousin.
Georgiana, recalling her early struggles to master her instruments, bitterly resented this. There had been times, she said, startling me, when she had practised till her fingers bled. She could not reproach our cousin for not learning, but she disliked the way Anne had, without exerting herself, smugly accepted the false value of her own superiority.
‘I am sure Lady Catherine does not mean to be insulting,’ I assured Georgiana. ‘Indeed, often have I heard her speak of your talents with pride. You must not take it so personally.’
But I had mistaken her meaning, for Georgiana had spoken of music and my aunt’s attitude simply as an illustration of her general character. And now she mentioned it, I had to concede there was a kind of pompous ignorance in my aunt, though never before had I known anyone be so severe on it as was my sister.
‘Well, I will admit neither our aunt nor our cousin are the best of company,’ I said. ‘I will not press you to go, if you would rather not.’
She smiled her relief, and said, ‘Fitzwilliam will be with you, will he not?’
‘He will.’
‘So you will not lack congenial company. I shall miss you, though. When do you go?’
‘Next Monday week.’
‘Then I shall see you again before you go.’
She did, only four days later and now she was saying she wished she had agreed to come, after all. ‘But now I cannot. I have arranged to spend Easter with Chloe Bancroft and her parents. I cannot cry off. Such a pity.’
‘How so?’
‘Have you not heard from our aunt?’
‘No, indeed. She would not write news she can impart when we arrive. Is there some new attraction at Rosings Park?’
‘Lady Catherine writes Mrs Collins has visitors: her sister – er – Maria Lucas, is that right? A friend too, who I think must be that Hertfordshire lady I have heard you speak of. I confess I would like to meet her.’
I stared at Georgiana. ‘Which Hertfordshire lady?’
‘Miss Bennet.’
‘Elizabeth Bennet?’ I knew it must be. Mrs Collins was her particular friend.
So, I would see her again. The thought did not trouble me, for I had mastered my feelings. Although I still thought of her, it was with pleasure rather than pain and this discovery had taught me my heart was quite disengaged.
Now I was no longer tormented by my attraction for her I was pleased by the prospect of seeing her again. Her company would be agreeable, especially at Rosings, and I would have the additional satisfaction of proving to myself, quite conclusively, that I had regained all the self-command I prized so much.
I was sorry Georgiana would not meet Elizabeth, for I was certain the two ladies would like each other very much. But on later reflection I saw it was perhaps, better so: should my sister become friendly with Elizabeth, Bingley would hear of it and be reminded of Jane.
Although I could not be certain, I suspected Bingley had not gained mastery over his feelings for Jane as well as I had over Elizabeth. He was cheerful enough most of the time, but there were silences and I did occasionally spot signs of strain in his eyes. Most significant was that Bingley, even now, was not paying attention to any other lady.
Bingley’s sisters were entertaining hopes of their brother taking an interest in Georgiana, but I quickly saw there was little likelihood of that occurring. They were polite and friendly each to the other but there was no spark to bring them together as a couple. For my own part, I was not sorry. Georgiana was but sixteen years old, and had too little worldly knowledge and too little self-assurance to be contemplating matrimony. As one of her guardians it was in my power to give or withhold consent. I should not like to have been confronted by Bingley demanding my sister’s hand in marriage.
Before I left for Rosings, I had told Bingley he was quite welcome to make use of my house in Eaton Place during my absence: he chose not to, preferring to join his sisters in Grosvenor Street. He went there on Palm Sunday, and on the following day I set out for Rosings with Fitzwilliam.
‘So what have you been doing, sir, since last I saw you?’ I asked my cousin as soon as we were settled down for the journey.
‘Oh, the usual things. Lechery, debauchery and drunken ruts,’ said Fitzwilliam with more humour than truth. ‘And you?’
‘Nothing so exciting,’ I replied. ‘Just falling in love and out again and rescuing a friend from the gorgon Medusa.’
Fitzwilliam was delighted. ‘Tell me all.’
‘About the gorgon? An absolute fright of a woman, I assure you. My friend was about to make her his mother-in-law. His lady-love herself hath charms a-plenty, but one cannot regard the family with anything but abhorrence. It was a close-run thing, though. Almost, I missed what he was about.’
‘Almost, but not quite. I hope your friend is suitably grateful.’
‘Not yet, but he will be.’
‘I am sure he will. Now, I know you hoped I missed what you said about falling in love, but I did not. Come, sir, confess!’
‘A hopeless passion,’ I admitted, wishing I had kept a still tongue. ‘But fortunately of short duration.’
‘I find it astonishing,’ said Fitzwilliam, ‘that there exists a woman with charms enough to stir you for even a moment. I would know more of this lady. Her name, sir, if you please.’
‘I shall not reveal it.’
‘Ah! A married lady, I suppose?’
‘You may suppose what you choose.’
‘Well, you may be assured of my secrecy. I would not like to get you into trouble with Lady Catherine and our cousin.’
I grimaced. ‘One day I shall be in trouble with Lady Catherine, you may be sure, unless our cousin finds herself a husband, and I despair of that happening.’
My own dear mother had been sister to Lady Catherine. I had been but four years old when my cousin Anne was born, and I have no doubt my mother agreed, at the time, it would be a fine thing were I to marry my cousin when we reached a suitable age. I do not accept it was a definite arrangement, so much as a pleasing notion. But ever since, my aunt had considered me engaged to her daughter. What was worse, despite warning hints from others in the family, Anne herself believed it.
I was sorry for my cousin, for Lady Catherine was doing her no service by such foolish persistence. My own father, when he had realized what she was about, had tactfully tried to reason with her and found there was nothing to be done about it. She was determined, and I said as much to Fitzwilliam.
‘Then so must you be, should it come to a showdown,’ said Fitzwilliam indifferently. He went on, ‘Georgiana believed in the engagement, too, you know. I told her it was nonsense, but she might appreciate hearing it from you.’
‘I did not know that. I will speak with her.’
We talked of Georgiana for a while and then I went on to tell Fitzwilliam the latest news of Wickham.
‘In the army?’ Fitzwilliam found that excessively diverting, as I had known he would. ‘Why should England tremble?’
‘I would not have believed it had I not seen it for myself. His regiment is in winter quarters in Hertfordshire at present, under the command of a man named Forster. Do you know him?’
‘I have met him once or twice. He was engaged to a silly little piece about half his age. I suppose he is married to her, now.’
‘You do not have a good opinion of him?’
‘He is not strong on discipline, that is all I know of him. And with someone like Wickham amongst his officers, I think he needs to be.’ Fitzwilliam bro
oded over the matter for a while, then added, ‘They will be encamped at Brighton during the summer. Perhaps if I see Forster, I will drop him a hint. If it is not already too late.’
I had been wanting to prepare Fitzwilliam for Miss Elizabeth Bennet, but having been so unguarded as to tell him I had been in love, I had felt it wise to discuss other subjects before mentioning her, for I did not wish him to make any connection. As a prelude to mentioning Elizabeth, I asked my cousin if he had met Mr Collins.
Fitzwilliam looked surprised. ‘I have. I confess, I am disappointed to learn you know of him. I was keeping him as a surprise for you.’
‘Someone else did that, too.’ I went on to describe how I had met him at the Netherfield ball. ‘It seems I am to renew my acquaintance with several of the ladies I met in Hertfordshire, for Mrs Collins is one of them and she has her sister and a friend staying with her, at present.’
Fitzwilliam naturally quizzed me on the subject. I described all three, beginning with Mrs Collins and then going on to her sister. ‘Maria Lucas is pretty in a china-doll sort of way,’ I said, ‘she is but fourteen or fifteen years old.’
‘Pray, tell me,’ said Fitzwilliam. ‘I know you are saving the best until last.’
‘Miss Elizabeth Bennet,’ I said, ‘is around twenty years old. She is dark-haired, quite pretty, lively and clever. I am persuaded you will like her, but do not like her too much, Fitzwilliam. She has but little fortune.’
Fitzwilliam sighed, but I knew he had taken the hint. My cousin could not afford to marry without paying some attention to money. As a younger son, he had but a modest fortune himself and had been brought up to habits of expense which made him dependent. His wife, if he took one, would need a fortune to match his own at the very least.
‘Does she play? Does she sing?’ asked Fitzwilliam.
‘She does,’ I affirmed. ‘Very prettily.’
‘Then at least she will be a welcome relief at Rosings,’ he said.
I said no more about Elizabeth and our conversation turned to matters within Fitzwilliam’s own family, for his brother, the viscount, and his wife were expecting an interesting event and hoped their firstborn would be a son. ‘They’re talking of naming him Fitzwilliam,’ said my cousin in disgust. ‘Imagine it, Darcy! Fitzwilliam Fitzwilliam!’