* * * *
As she had already said she would, Georgiana went in search of her brother. In his chambers first, thinking he might have repaired there to refresh himself after the long journey. He had not, so she stopped to let her friend know she would seek him below stairs. But there was no answer to her knock. Not to the first. Not to the second either. Lizzy might have already left her quarters or was changing in her dressing room, so Georgiana did not linger. If there was a trying task to be completed, it was surely worth addressing as soon as may be – that was what her brother always said, and she inwardly concurred. If nothing else, prompt action would dispense with the time of useless fretting so, with a valiant step, she made her way below.
When applied to, the butler informed her that Mr Darcy had gone straight to his study, and Georgiana followed.
Unlike the tap on her friend’s door, the tentative one on her brother’s got an instant response. The door was flung open as though he had been standing right behind it about to exit, and she was met with an uncommonly harsh “What is it?”. And then he caught sight of her and apologised.
“Ah. ‘Tis you. Forgive me, dearest. I should have come to you – sent word I was home. I know we need to talk. We shall. But not now.” He spread his hand over his brow and furiously rubbed his temples. When he glanced at her again, he looked almost wild. “You will excuse me, will you not? I was just going out.”
It was not a question, but a firm request. Her head gave a jerky little bob and Georgiana stepped back into the corridor to let him pass. He did and stormed away with no indication as to where he was going, and a few moments later she heard the front door slamming shut. She sighed. Lizzy was in the right. He was angry. Livid. In living memory she had never seen him thus.
She bit her lip and went to fetch a cape from the small closet where some of hers were kept at hand, for impromptu forays into the garden. She donned it without waiting for Peter’s assistance, although he was close by, having just rushed into the hallway, presumably drawn thither by the forceful slamming of the door.
She made to leave the house as well, but not by the front door, to chase after her brother. It was plain to see he would not thank her for it. Instead, she settled upon walking out into the garden in search of Elizabeth. She might be there. Just like Fitzwilliam, she often chose to walk off her frustrations and would seek to be outdoors when restless or upset.
“Is Miss Bennet out?” she asked Peter in passing, thinking she might as well inquire.
But all she got was, “I cannot say, Miss Darcy. I have not seen her since she returned from Lambton with the master.”
“She did?”
“Aye, Ma’am.”
That was a surprise. Lizzy had not mentioned anything of the sort.
“How did that come about, do you know?”
Peter’s gloved hand gave a little flourish.
“No, Ma’am. I can only guess he chanced to encounter her on the way.”
Georgiana nodded. The young footman would not have the answers. But Lizzy would have some. So, having fastened the cape and tied the ribbons of her bonnet, Georgiana gathered her muff and made her way into the garden, to walk off her own unappeased concern and hopefully find her friend as well.
* * * *
With a deep sigh, Elizabeth brought herself listlessly to her feet. She could not sit there forever, leaning against the door of her bedchamber and staring blankly into space. She would have to change. Go down. Face him. Face his anger and disdain.
She cringed. Heavens above, she could not do it! She could not. It was unbearable to think of that awful carriage journey, let alone contemplate more of the same. His resentment. His icy contempt. How on earth was she to sit down at dinner later on that day, with tension thick enough to be cut with a knife? How could she bear to meet his eyes, knowing that he knew her secret and, so ungenerously, despised her for it?
Ungenerous. Heartless.
Her eyes stung again, and she narrowed them in mounting anger. Not worth her tears. A lesser man, far lesser than she had thought him. Not even Lady Stretton, for all her palpable contempt, had been so purposely cruel.
It was a childish fit of passion, but she indulged it nonetheless. It took no time at all to find the handkerchief she had foolishly treasured and stored alongside her most precious mementoes. No time at all to retrieve it from the lacquered box, crumple it into her fist and cast it upon the glowing embers. No time at all to see it catching fire and sending the sharp smell of burning linen drifting up to her, as she watched the flames leaping around and eventually consuming the initials she could no longer bear to see, any more than the gentleman – nay, the heartless man – himself.
The square of fine linen burned, turning into a darkened shape, then into shreds, then into ash and smoke.
She could not bear to see him – and she did not have to!
Elizabeth’s head came up at the sudden notion, and she clung to it with fresh and fierce energy. She did not have to see him. Her eyes shot up to the clock on the mantelpiece. The day was young, or at least young enough. With any luck and a great deal of haste, she might make it to Bakewell by nightfall. Coaches ran from Bakewell day and night, up and down the country. There would be one heading south. If not tonight, then in the earliest hours of the morning.
She treasured the welcome notion; nurtured it. A few days more, and she could be with Jane. A half-hour more, and she could be safely away from here. And if the price for that blessed relief was travelling unattended, then so be it. She would be safe enough on the stagecoach. As safe as any traveller. Not that she cared one jot one way or the other just now, when she was so utterly wretched and wild with the need to be gone.
It could be done. Even without checking the contents of the box where she kept all her resources, she knew there would be funds aplenty. She barely had cause to spend on anything. Just the odd trinket. Or embroidery thread, to foolishly stitch her heart into an elaborate bookmark. Or books – one exceedingly overpriced in particular which, by the looks of it, she had done well to leave in Mr Howe’s shop.
The nervous energy spurred her into action. It was the work of a moment to find the dark canvas bag at the bottom of her closet, and not a vast deal longer to fill it with items of necessity as well as those she would not leave behind. A couple of serviceable dresses – shawls – petticoats – gloves – purse, filled – all her letters – the few trinkets that she used for jewellery and especially the garnet cross, her father’s last gift. Her sketchbook. That could not possibly be left behind, although it would have served her well to burn it too. Sketches of Pemberley. Sketches of him, above a dozen, done from memory in the privacy of her bedchamber. She scoffed ill-temperedly as she pushed the sketchbook into the barely accommodating bag. Another waste of time, and it would make her feel a great deal better to see each and every one of her sketches go up in flames, just as the handkerchief had. But there was no time for such indulgence. She could burn them at her leisure at Netherfield or at the inn in Bakewell. Besides, it would not do for the smell to draw the notice of some dutiful maid who might come running in fear that the house had caught fire, and find her packing for a surreptitious escape.
She sighed as, for the first time since it had occurred to her, the thought of her escape gave her pause. Surreptitious. Like a thief in the night. Well, not the night. In the light of day. But still like a thief. She sighed again. Georgiana deserved better. A word of thanks at least, and a proper adieu.
But if she saw her friend, the young girl would seek to dissuade her. She would wish to know the reason for her haste – indeed, for her departure. And that could not be disclosed. Not by her. Not now. She pursed her lips. A note would have to do.
She sat at the little writing desk and reached for pen and paper, then let the pen drop in the inkwell as she pondered what to say. She wrapped her arms around herself. Words swirled, all either inappropriate or insufficient, and still they swirled until another glance at the clock warned she could n
ot afford to tarry.
She picked up the pen and swiftly wrote a few short lines, then blew over the paper to hasten the drying of the ink. The note was finally folded and sealed with a plain drop of wax, and Georgiana’s name written on the back. She did not dare walk to place it in her friend’s bedchamber or her sitting room, but left it on her own bed, right in the middle, as visible as possible.
She squared her shoulders and went to re-examine the contents of her closet and the chests of drawers. All this must remain behind. She could not fit everything into her bag and there was nothing to be done about it. He might have the kindness to have his servants gather the rest of her belongings and forward them to Netherfield.
The notion brought another sigh. Her presence in Mr Bingley’s home might cause him some discomfort and strain his connection with his friend. It would not do to force this upon him. She could live in town with her uncle and aunt instead.
Aye. She could. And then she would not run the risk of encountering Mr Darcy when he visited in Hertfordshire. If he visited. Conversely, if he were to sever the connection with his friend because Mr Bingley was married to her sister, she would be pained for her new brother, but it could not be helped. Just as it could not be helped if, in spiteful vexation, Mr Darcy would be of a mind to dispose of the rest of her belongings, rather than send them on. Just as he chose. None of them were irreplaceable.
Except…
She bit her lip. Except the two Christmas presents.
She hesitated for no longer than a moment. With a firm step, she went to fetch the beautiful lavender dress, folded it haphazardly and forced it into her bag. There was hardly any room left and it grew awfully crumpled. It mattered not. She would never wear it again. But she could not leave it behind. Georgiana’s feelings would be deeply hurt if she found it carelessly discarded.
The book in her bedside drawer was a wholly different matter. Her countenance hardened as she glanced upon the volume she had stroked and cradled as though it were a living, breathing thing. This would not go with her. What purpose would it serve? She had no wish to be reminded of wretched dreams and all her folly. Nor was there any need to spare his feelings. He had none worth sparing.
She slammed the drawer closed and cast a glance around her at the bedchamber that had been her home and refuge for such a length of time. Her lips thinned in acute vexation at the maudlin futility of her reflections.
She bent to retrieve her discarded bonnet off the floor and donned it, then likewise the dark woollen cloak. She tied the knot with sparse, precise motions, covered her bonnet with the hood, tugged her gloves on and picked up her bag. The folds of her long cape concealed it well. It would not be spotted if she came upon anyone on her way out of the house.
Of course, it would be safer to use the servants’ stairs. Yet perhaps not. It would be conspicuous, she had no business to be there. So Elizabeth dismissed the notion and opened the door of her bedchamber to peer down the family corridor instead.
To her relief, she found it was deserted, as was the sweeping staircase and the vast hall beneath. For once her luck held and she encountered no one on her way to the tradesmen’s entrance. Fitting exit for the tradesman’s niece – the lowly lady’s companion who had been warned not to pin her hopes on marriage, she thought, her lips twisting into a bitter grimace.
She got a better hold onto the bag’s handle and hastened along the path screened on both sides by tall yew hedges, so that the servants milling up and down to the outbuildings would not spoil the elegant prospect around the great house.
Thankfully, it was not a busy time of day. Not dawn, when maids would rush with buckets of coal to start the fires. Nor the later time, when carts might come from Lambton or elsewhere to deliver sugar, spices or whatever other goods that could not come from the estate. So Elizabeth only met three scullery maids rushing along with pails of vegetables and a large joint of beef from the meat safe, to peel, chop and prepare, in readiness for the dinner hour. They stopped and bobbed their curtsies and she nodded, then continued on her way.
Not to Lambton. It was too far to walk, and she could not bear to set foot in the wretched place again. Kympton was much nearer. She could be there in just over a half-hour. Sooner, if she hurried. Although the heavy bag was bound to slow her down, now that she was not about to walk to church with nothing more cumbersome than her prayer book and reticule.
Once she reached the village she might find someone disposed to drive her to the coaching inn beyond, where the Kympton lane met the turnpike. If not, it was not much longer than an hour’s walk. There would be a post-chaise at the inn, to take her to Bakewell. And, fingers crossed, a southbound stagecoach thence, sometime tonight.
CHAPTER 18
The breakneck speed and the winds of the hills washed over him, sweeping his hair back, but relieving nothing of the turmoil. It still gripped hold, as violent as on the moment when he had discovered that the woman he had been prepared – nay, eager – to spend his life with would consent to a secret assignation at a country inn.
That the man she had gone to meet was Wickham could only stoke the fire. And he had barely begun to feel if not remorseful – it was not for him to feel remorse – then at least in some small measure responsible for her not knowing the full extent of Wickham’s depravity; he had barely begun to see, through his wretched hurt and disappointment, that he ought to give her fair warning that the scoundrel would not marry her, than she had dealt the ultimate blow. Had blithely admitted she was sunk so low as to know it already – and not care! To shamelessly admit she was not expecting marriage anyway.
Darcy gripped the reins and dug his heels deeper into the poor beast’s flanks. So he did not know her at all. Had blindly woven a picture of perfection that mirrored his own wishes and beliefs, and not the harsh reality.
He snorted – an ugly, bitter sound. Perhaps he should find it in him to be grateful that she had revealed herself worthy of Wickham’s depraved company, and not of the Darcy name. It did not bear thinking that he might have offered for her, not knowing what she truly was. Married her, to find himself not only censured and despised by his peers and relations, but also shackled to a woman of no moral standing. Aye. He should be thankful for the warning. Yet gratitude was the furthest notion from his mind.
He spurred his mount again, to no avail. The horse could go no faster. And even if he could, he still would not carry him fast enough to outstrip the vicious anger, nor break its hold upon his very soul.
* * * *
Chilled by the icy wind and unsuccessful in finding her friend, Georgiana made her way towards the house. In time, it seemed. Peter was at the garden entrance quite obviously come in search of her, as he confirmed a moment later, when she was within.
“There is someone to see you, Miss Darcy.”
“Oh? Who?”
“Miss Fenton. She is waiting in the morning room.”
Involuntarily, Georgiana recoiled as though from the hiss of a venomous snake. She dared show her face at Pemberley – still?
“I cannot receive her,” she faltered, as Peter took the muff and bonnet from her hands and helped remove her cape.
“Very well, Miss Darcy. I shall go and inform her.”
“Wait,” Georgiana reconsidered, when Peter was a few steps away. She had to know. She was a child no longer, running to hide behind Lizzy’s skirts or her brother’s back. She had to face her foes. At least the feebler ones. And where better than in the safety of the morning room at Pemberley? “I will see her after all,” she said, smoothing her skirts and smoothing her countenance as well, into a calm she did not feel.
“Should I bring refreshment?” the footman offered.
“No need. Miss Fenton will not be staying long,” Georgiana declared, squaring her shoulders.
She walked into the morning room with her head held high, to see Miss Fenton rising from her seat and rushing to clasp her hands.
“Oh, Georgiana!” she burst out with unprecedented famil
iarity.
Until that very moment, she had been ‘Dearest Miss Darcy’. Displeased by the nerve as well as the touch, Georgiana withdrew her hands and pointedly replied:
“Miss Fenton. To what do I owe the… hm! I shall not say pleasure,” she enunciated, with more aplomb than she had ever felt she could possess. But righteous indignation gave her all the strength she had heretofore been lacking, and made it very easy indeed for her to fix the other with what many would have recognised as the Darcy glare.
To her surprise, the impudent Miss Fenton hung her head, seemingly affected.
“I did deserve that… But Georgiana–… Miss Darcy, you must believe me when I say I did not know!”
“Did not know what, precisely?”
“That Mr Wickham was not to be trusted. I thought…”
The other girl’s visible remorse gave Georgiana pause, but did not persuade her. Remorse could be feigned. As could a show of decency. Or gratitude. Or honour.
“What did you think?” she asked, just as icily.
“That I was helping. Him. You.”
“Me? How?”
“In forming an attachment.”
“And why, pray tell, would it have been to my advantage to form an attachment to the likes of Mr Wickham? The son of my late father’s steward, who resented our family’s assistance because he was not given more?”
“I did not know,” Miss Fenton repeated. “I thought him genuine, and genuinely attached to you. This is what he told me when he came bearing a letter from my brother, who entreated me to assist his friend in any way I could. Mr Wickham said he had been attached to you – loved you – for as long as he could remember, but had no hope because your brother hated him and would never allow you to throw yourself away on a steward’s son. I thought… I thought it should be your choice, and not your brother’s. I would not countenance my own brother dictating whom I should or should not marry. You have your dowry. Your life companion should be your own choice. And by my way of thinking, you could do far worse than a man who claimed to have loved you hopelessly for years, if you were to come to love him too.”
Miss Darcy's Companion: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 20