by Mary Street
On the way home, Georgiana needed my reassurance that she had acquitted herself well, and admitted she liked Elizabeth. She spent some time repeating things Elizabeth had told her, and I learnt the substance of their discourse.
With four sisters, Elizabeth said, it was a work of art to retain her own property, since gloves, scarves, bonnets and even boot-laces were borrowed without permission. Sisters, according to Elizabeth, were the most tormenting creatures.
‘But the most diverting story,’ added Georgiana, ‘was when she described how her younger sisters arranged a treat for her which she then found she had to pay for.’
My sister seemed to be reviewing the visit with some satisfaction even though she had been constrained and embarrassed. I hoped Elizabeth had liked Georgiana: she had certainly exerted herself to please and had struck exactly the right note with a discourse which was general but light-hearted.
There were a few uncomfortable moments at dinner that evening, for then Bingley’s sisters learnt of Elizabeth’s presence in the neighbourhood. Miss Bingley flushed and there was a glitter in her eyes which I did not like, but she contented herself with asking me if Miss Bennet’s manners were still as impertinent as they had been in Hertfordshire.
‘You must judge for yourself,’ I said smoothly, ‘for she and her aunt and uncle dine with us on Friday.’
This intelligence did nothing to improve Miss Bingley’s humour. I regarded her calmly, determined nothing would ruffle my composure: perhaps she saw this, for she thought better of whatever she had been going to say.
Shortly before noon the next day, Mr Gardiner arrived to join our fishing party. It was peaceful by the riverside and most of the time we fished in companionable silence, but I, longing to hear something of Elizabeth, at last ventured to enquire how the ladies were spending their day.
They intended a visit to Georgiana, I was told. They were probably here, at Pemberley, at this very moment.
Mr Gardiner was getting along very well with Mr Bingley and Mr Hurst. I did not think he would mind if I excused myself and went up to the house.
The ladies were in the north saloon: upon joining them I was pleased to see Georgiana had not allowed her shyness to overcome her to the point of forgetting her duties as hostess: she had remembered to offer our guests some refreshment, and she was making a very creditable effort at conversation.
I doubt if there was one person in the room who did not suspect me of partiality towards Elizabeth. Mrs Gardiner and Mrs Annesley talked with Elizabeth, encouraged Georgiana to join in, and watched us. Georgiana exerted herself to talk, and watched us. Bingley’s sisters made every effort to claim the attention of Georgiana and myself away from Elizabeth, and watched us.
Elizabeth saw them watching us and contrived to look unconcerned.
I know not whether I succeeded in looking unconcerned: I did my best, but I was anxious to forward the acquaintance between Georgiana and Elizabeth and did everything in my power to encourage it.
Caroline Bingley did not like what she saw. Choosing a moment when there was a lull in the conversation, she turned to Elizabeth with sneering civility and said, ‘Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the militia removed from Meryton? They must be a great loss to your family.’
I felt Georgiana stiffen beside me, and I knew my own colour had risen. We both understood Miss Bingley’s ill-natured attack had alluded to more than the behaviour of Elizabeth’s younger sisters. She had meant to remind me of Elizabeth’s acquaintance with Wickham, perhaps with the design of provoking me into disliking Elizabeth.
To be fair, Miss Bingley knew nothing of Georgiana’s indiscretion, although my sister was painfully aware that Elizabeth did. I hoped Elizabeth’s reply would not distress Georgiana.
Elizabeth struck just the right note of indifference. ‘We bear the deprivation tolerably well, Miss Bingley.’
Thwarted in whatever design she had intended, Miss Bingley was obliged to subside. Georgiana began to breathe easily again and I felt a weight had lifted from my heart.
This was the first real indication I had that Elizabeth had accepted my assertions about Wickham. I knew not how quickly she had taken my word. But she had done so, and without consulting Fitzwilliam, which made that moment all the sweeter.
Our visitors took their leave shortly afterwards. As I attended the ladies to their carriage, I could, in Mrs Gardiner’s presence, only refer to what had passed by saying, ‘Thank you.’
She looked at me, understood well enough, gave a brief smile and shook her head. Nothing was said, but I felt it was the beginning of peace between us.
There was no peace when I returned to the saloon. I could see from Georgiana’s expression that Miss Bingley had been giving vent to her feelings; now, she turned to me, telling me Elizabeth had grown brown and coarse since the winter. ‘Louisa and I were agreeing that we should not have known her again.’
I kept my answer non-committal and my tone discouraging, but Caroline Bingley went on at some length, criticizing every aspect of Elizabeth’s appearance in detail. I watched her silently, thinking she should be made to stand side by side with Elizabeth in front of a looking glass, then she might realize the absurdity of voicing such opinions.
Having so far failed to gain a reaction from me, Miss Bingley then went on to remind me of some criticism I had made. ‘I particularly recollect you, Mr Darcy, saying one evening, “She, a beauty? I should as soon call her mother a wit”.’
I could not remember having said any such thing, but I could not deny it, either. There was a time, before someone had taught me better manners, when I would have taken pleasure, even pride, in making exactly that kind of snide remark.
‘But afterwards,’ continued Miss Bingley relentlessly, ‘she seemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought her rather pretty at one time.’
‘Yes, but that was only when I first knew her,’ I said, since she was obviously determined to force me to speech; then I added, ‘for it is many months since I have considered her as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance.’
I left the room, left the house, not liking myself for giving her such a set-down: but if she thought I would deny Elizabeth for her sake, then she mistook the matter.
For all the attentions I had received from Miss Bingley, I was of the firmest opinion she felt no real affection for me. Her jealousy of Elizabeth and her designs on me were governed by her desire for connection and consequence, and, since I spent so much time with her brother, she must have believed she had a fair chance of success.
I had never encouraged her in such a belief, although I have to admit she had reason to take exception to my behaviour in this instance. In view of my scheme to separate her brother from Jane Bennet, my own pursuit of Elizabeth must now appear both inconsistent and hypocritical: had she been angry on those grounds, had she attacked me instead of Elizabeth, I would have respected her more.
For the first time, I wondered if Miss Bingley had really had the welfare of her brother at heart when she consented to remove from Netherfield. Even then, she suspected my feelings for Elizabeth, and might have been perfectly willing to sacrifice her brother to further her own interests.
It was an uncomfortable notion, but, I had to admit, not an unlikely one. I perceived it would not just be Bingley who would be acquiring unfortunate relations, should that union with Jane Bennet ever take place.
These reflections brought me back to the vexing question of what I should do about Bingley and Jane, and perhaps it was as well I was reminded of the situation or I might have missed the answer when it was presented to me later that afternoon.
I had returned to the fishing party by the river, pleased to discover my friends had enjoyed some good sport during my absence. Whilst we were engaged with our lines, none of us had much to say, conversation started only as we packed up our tackle, and Bingley began it by remarking what a happy circumstance it was that had brought Mr Gardiner to this part of the country.
The first par
t of Mr Gardiner’s reply told us what I already knew: his business affairs would not allow enough time to follow their original intention of travelling as far as the Lake District. Derbyshire had been decided upon because Mrs Gardiner had lived here before her marriage.
He went on to say the shortened holiday was perhaps a blessing in disguise, and I, who had my own reasons for thinking so, turned to look at him in curiosity.
Mr Gardiner’s reasons were not mine. ‘It is the first time we have been away from our children for more than a week: my wife is missing them even more than she expected and, to own the truth, so am I.’
Until that moment, we had not known he had children. Answering our enquiries, Mr Gardiner informed us he was the proud father of two girls and two boys.
‘And where are they at this present?’ I asked. ‘Who is caring for them?’
I realized what the answer must be even before I had finished speaking the question and, startled by what I knew was coming, I turned to look at Bingley.
‘They are at Longbourn, sir. My niece, Jane, is looking after them.’
‘Then they could not be in better hands,’ I said absently.
Bingley was looking as though he had just had a vision of Heaven: Jane Bennet, on the sunlit lawns at Longbourn, surrounded by a group of little boys and girls. Even to me, the notion presented a pretty picture: I could easily comprehend what my friend was feeling.
Bingley’s expression faded to be replaced by one of infinite sadness and I, shamed and distressed by the full knowledge of what I had done, could only look away.
I had prayed for guidance and now I had it, at least in the matter of Bingley’s feelings. I had yet to ascertain the lady still favoured the gentleman, but there was someone who could answer that question not five miles away, at Lambton.
Fortunately, Georgiana was willing to indulge us with music, that evening, for none of us had much to say. Bingley’s sisters, perhaps a little offended by the events of the morning, talked of fashion with each other, but paid little attention to me. Bingley himself was quieter than I had ever known him, and my mind was occupied, not just with trying to determine a scheme which would restore him to Jane, but with another, more dreadful idea.
It seemed I had not wholly lost the habit of arrogance and conceit, for I had been presumptuous enough to believe the miracle of my meeting with Elizabeth had been for my own benefit and I had acted accordingly. Never once, until now, had it occurred to me the miracle might have been designed as an ironic answer to my prayers: I might restore Bingley to his Jane, yet still lose Elizabeth.
The plunging of my spirits as this notion took hold of me was enough to show me how high, how absurdly high, I had allowed my hopes to rise. I swallowed, trying to accept, but still I hoped a miracle for myself as well as for Bingley.
My own interests, however, must now take second place. First, I would do what I could for my friend.
The next morning I set off for Lambton on horseback, preparing myself for an uncomfortable interview as I went. I fully understood the impertinence of applying to Elizabeth for information on the matter of her sister’s feelings, and I was perfectly sure I would have to bear some disapprobation. I could only hope my motive would persuade her to co-operate.
On being admitted into her presence I saw at once that any plans for Bingley and Jane would, once again, have to be postponed.
Pale, shaking, completely distracted, Elizabeth gave me no time to speak. ‘I beg your pardon, but I must leave you,’ she gasped. ‘I must find Mr Gardiner this moment on business that cannot be delayed; I have not an instant to lose.’
‘Good God! What is the matter?’ I asked in dismay.
Elizabeth was in no fit state to tell me. Recollecting myself, I recommended her to send a servant after her aunt and uncle. ‘You are not well enough; you cannot go yourself.’
She took my advice, but she was so distressed it was all she could do to make herself intelligible to the servant. When he left, she sat down, silent, pale and looking miserably ill. I offered to call her maid; I asked if she would like me to get her a drink, but she refused both these offers.
‘No, I thank you. There is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well; I am only distressed by some dreadful news I have just received from Longbourn.’
She burst into tears and I, waiting in suspense, could only presume that illness or accident had befallen some member of her family. Picturing the worst calamity I could think of, I closed my eyes, dreadfully afraid her anguish was because something had happened to Jane.
At length, she found her voice. ‘I have just had a letter from Jane,’ she said, unconsciously relieving my mind of that fear, ‘with such dreadful news. It cannot be concealed from anyone.’ Between sobs, she went on to tell me that her youngest sister, Lydia Bennet, had left all her friends to elope with – of all people – George Wickham.
Never in my life had I been so astonished: of Wickham, I could believe anything, but I had understood him to be with his regiment in Brighton, removed from Meryton and the Bennet family.
‘They are gone off together from Brighton,’ said Elizabeth, unwittingly explaining some part of it. ‘You know him too well to doubt the rest. She has no money, no connections, nothing that can tempt him to— She is lost for ever.’
In a choking voice, she began pouring out her own regrets for not having exposed Wickham as soon as she knew what he was. ‘Had I explained only some part of what I had learned to my own family, this could not have happened! But it is all too late now.’
I could understand why she had not: in the spring, when she left Kent and returned to Longbourn, she must have quickly discovered the regiment was about to leave Meryton. With Wickham soon to be gone, she would have felt there was no point in exposing him. She could not have foreseen this trouble.
My mind seemed to be dwelling on trivialities. I found myself wondering what had happened to Wickham’s heiress; I found myself wondering why Lydia Bennet had been in Brighton, neither of which was the most pressing question. I forced myself back to the main concern.
‘I am grieved indeed,’ I said. ‘Grieved – shocked. But is it certain, absolutely certain?’
‘Oh yes! They left Brighton together on Sunday night and were traced almost to London, but not beyond. They are certainly not gone to Scotland.’
‘And what has been done,’ I asked, ‘what has been attempted, to recover her?’
She told me her father had gone to London and Jane had written to beg Mr Gardiner’s assistance. ‘We shall be off, I hope, in half an hour. But nothing can be done. I know very well that nothing can be done. How is such a man to be worked on? How are they even to be discovered?’
I shook my head. I knew Wickham well enough: I knew exactly how he could be worked on. The second question was occupying my mind, for I had no more idea than Elizabeth where he might be found. In London he would be very well concealed.
Someone must know where he was: I knew some of his former acquaintance who, if they knew nothing of his present whereabouts, might direct me to others who did. It would take time; it would be a tedious labour, but in the end I would find him.
And, when I caught up with Wickham, I would make him wish he had never been born.
Thirteen
NOTHING I COULD do, in a situation such as this, would make Elizabeth happy. Knowledge of her sister falling victim to Wickham would always be with her: I could only resolve the matter, and relieve her worst distress.
I blamed myself more than ever now for not having made Wickham’s character known when I should have done so, last November, as soon as I found he had insinuated himself into Hertfordshire society. Had I taken Bingley’s advice, had I spoken to Elizabeth then, none of this would have happened.
Elizabeth’s tears had wrung my heart: I longed to enfold her in my arms, to comfort her, but I knew it would be infamous indeed to take such advantage of her distress.
To give my thoughts another direction, I had put myself to the t
ask of devising a scheme by which I might discover Wickham. I had the feeling I knew something, something that would make everything easy, if I could but bring it to mind.
It had not come to me: I was too distracted by the sound of weeping. There had been an odd moment, in the midst of all her grief, when she had looked at me; a new realization had crossed her mind, causing her fresh anguish.
It pained me, too, for I understood only too well: she was now sorry she had been led into making me acquainted with the situation.
She saw, perhaps, the man who had so arrogantly expressed disapprobation for her family now being presented with fresh evidence of their folly and impropriety. She forgot, perhaps, my own sister had almost come to grief in the same way.
Yesterday, in ignorance of her sister’s situation, she had comforted mine: now, the only comfort I could offer her was my absence.
I took my leave of her, assuring her of my secrecy and promising to convey her excuses to Georgiana for not keeping their engagement to dine at Pemberley.
She looked at me as I left, a look so heavy-laden with sorrow and grief I could hardly bear to tear myself away from her. Knowing I could be of more use to her elsewhere kept me to my purpose.
Whatever Lydia Bennet might believe, I was certain Wickham had not been induced to leave his regiment and flee Brighton for love of her. The real, more pressing, reasons for his flight would be very different: no doubt his creditors were becoming too demanding.
I could not help wondering if my cousin Fitzwilliam had increased Wickham’s difficulties to the point where flight was necessary. It would be a strange irony indeed had his hints brought about this situation: but I could not blame my cousin. Wickham was Wickham, extravagant, wild, unpredictable and unstable.
By one of those strange coincidences that sometimes occur, on my return to the house I discovered the post had brought a letter from Fitzwilliam. It began rather delicately, preparing me for some astonishing news, and went on to tell me what I had already learnt from Elizabeth.