Darcy took a long drink from his just-replenished wine and then admitted of more—of his letter to Miss Elizabeth Bennet (though not all its contents) and the effects it must have had in softening that lady’s regard for him; of his anxious joy at their accidental meeting in Derbyshire; and of his renewed hope of a change of her heart before the crisis of Lydia Bennet’s elopement had once more separated them, it seemed forever and without hope.
“No, Darcy, this will not do! If you love her, truly love her, can you now hold against her the sister’s shame? The circumstance, as I have it, was sufficiently resolved, was not it? You cannot despise Miss Bennet, yet—”
“By God, no! Indeed, I—” Darcy stopped suddenly and could not go on. He had nearly betrayed information he had determined never to make public, not even to Bingley.
“Ah. P’raps I understand.”
“Do you, Bingley?”
“It is Mr. Wickham.”
Darcy’s head snapped up at the name as his eyes fixed sharply upon Bingley.
“I know well your dislike—your abhorrence—of the man, Darcy, but—”
“Charsh, you know nothing of it.”
His friend quieted at that, and Darcy put his head into his hands, with his eyes closed and his face drawn tight in anguish. Finally:
“I love her, Bingley. I love her. And nothing…not her odious mother nor her silly sisters nor her lack of fortune, no, not even… Wickham…would keep me from renewing my suit—but the lady herself does not wish it.”
“Do you know this? How is it you know this?”
“Do you forget, Charles, our calls upon the Bennets these weeks past?”
“Of course not—you attended me to make determination of my Jane’s affections, as well as my own—”
Darcy wagged his finger again at his friend. “No, Bingley, no. Or rather, it is true after a fashion. But I had other motive as well. I wished to judge if there was any hope to be had with Miss Elizabeth.”
With a longing look at his empty glass, Darcy slumped in his seat. Bingley waited expectantly, but no further communication was forthcoming.
“Darcy?”
“Yes, Bingley?”
“What did you conclude?”
“When?”
“When we called upon Longbourn!” Bingley threw up his hands in exasperation, nearly toppling his chair with the gesture. Both men winced at the scraping sound of its restitution.
“It is no use, Bingley. She cannot care for me.” He held his head up then and looked at his friend, his eyes miserable in the light of the lamp.
“Was she not civil to you? How do you draw such a conclusion? I confess I was too enamored of my Jane to take particular note, but I recall no unpleasantness.”
“No, no unpleasantness; her manners are too well schooled for such.” His face fell.
“But I found no encouragement, Bingley, no renewal of the amiability we enjoyed in Derbyshire, in her words or in her looks. Indeed, we hardly spoke but for the ‘civilities’ of our comings and goings. I could take no encouragement from our few discourses. I am certain she accorded me her attentions only on the basis of my being your friend. You must have noted the differences in the welcomes afforded us generally.”
“But Darcy! Could you let the matter drop on such small judgment? Can you be so certain of her opinion?”
“There is yet more to my miserable tale of unrequited regard, Bingley.”
“More?”
Darcy sighed with resignation. “Only yesternight, my aunt—Lady Catherine de Bourgh—accosted me at home in town, in a high dudgeon.”
“Lady…? But—she was here! Or rather, at Longbourn.”
“Indeed, it was her call upon Miss Bennet yesterday that she wished to report to me.”
“But we—none of us—could make sense of it, Darcy. She simply appeared in all her state, held converse with Miss Elizabeth in private, and departed again—and Miss Elizabeth would not divulge their discourse.”
“Shall I reveal it to you, Bingley?” He proceeded to detail Lady Catherine’s attack on Miss Bennet, as his aunt had recounted it.
“Oh, my. How perfectly horrid that must have been for Miss Elizabeth—and she never said a word.”
“No, I imagine she would not. But do not you see now, Bingley, the hopelessness of my situation? Miss Bennet can only despise me after this treatment at the hands of my relation. The tenuous goodwill we established this summer could not survive such an onslaught.” He stared at his hands on the table, confusion on his face, and whispered nearly to himself: “And yet she refused her, Bingley…”
“Refused her?”
“Mmm. Refused to make a promise to my aunt never to enter into an engagement with me. But does this mean that there is yet some hope, no matter how small? Or was she simply being obstinate in the face of an odious challenge? You must admit Miss Bennet to be capable of such obstinacy.”
Bingley grimly nodded his head.
Darcy laughed hoarsely, and his voice nearly broke as he added: “I cannot continue without some resolve. I had to come immediately. I must know, for good or ill. Had I set aside my pride, my reserve—had I spoken sooner, in Derbyshire some weeks ago perhaps…but I fear it is too late. I am half hope, half agony. My feelings have not changed; I admire and love her and would have her for my wife. I had hoped with Lydia settled and your understanding with Jane concluded, that proximity to Miss Bennet might allow me to make further amends to her. But this…this outrage of my aunt’s! I believe it to be more than can be overcome.”
Darcy had come to the end of his tale. In the ensuing silence, Bingley concentrated for some time before adding,“But just this morning, she asked after you.”
“Did she?”
“Yes, or…well…I believe it was she, was not it?”
“Bingley! Think, man! This is critical to me. Was it Miss Elizabeth? What was her manner?”
“Yes, yes, all right. I am certain it was she.” He closed his eyes tightly to help him remember. “Yes, yes, it was, and she was all civility. She asked me if you still intended to return to Netherfield soon…”
The sun shone brightly as Bingley and Darcy approached the lane to the Bennet house—a little too brightly, perhaps, for their preference that morning. They squinted as they walked to relieve the sun’s assault on strained eyes. Bingley’s carriage had, by his direction, set down the gentlemen at the top of the turn to Longbourn, both men admitting that a bit of air and exercise would well serve to prepare them for the coming meeting. Their rescue from Bingley’s cellar had come eleven hours after their incarceration—and, if it may be revealed, seven bottles of wine had been consumed in the interval without the benefit of food to offset its effects.
When Mr. Bennet and his family had arrived for their dinner engagement and Bingley did not appear to greet them, Mrs. Nicholls undertook to discover his whereabouts. No one could recall having seen him for some time, and his man, Hodge, who had been given the evening for his leisure after Bingley had dressed, was visiting away from Netherfield and could not be applied to for intelligence. At last, a servant was found who suggested Mr. Bingley might have gone off with the man with whom he had been seen approaching the billiard room; but when questioned further by Mrs. Nicholls, the servant—who had been taken on only within the past fortnight—could not identify Bingley’s companion, beyond that he was certainly dressed in the mode of a gentleman. He could offer no further description, as his own concentration had been directed toward disappearing from the hallway at the master’s approach, so that he himself would not be seen.
As no guests beyond the Bennet family had been expected for the evening, this new information carried with it as great a mystery as that of the master’s whereabouts. Mrs. Nicholls took charge then, establishing the Bennets in the parlor with a footman to serve them drinks while the remaining staff began a search for Mr. Bingley and the unknown visitor. After an hour, the flustered housekeeper had the onerous task of returning to the parlor to report their la
ck of result, grieving at the understandable distress this caused the eldest Bennet daughter.
After much discussion, Mrs. Nicholls convinced her master’s guests to adjourn to the dining room for dinner, providing assurances that she herself could not wholly trust that Mr. Bingley would arrive midcourse with some reasonable explanation for his tardy appearance. Such event did not transpire. Indeed, two courses came and went, and Mr. Bingley’s absence was still felt.
Mr. Bennet seemed to quite enjoy his repast, acting for all the world as though nothing were amiss. His wife made amends for his indifference, spending the entire evening caterwauling about the effects of Mr. Bingley’s neglect on her nerves and appetite, while said appetite became fully sated from the selection of meats, savouries, and vegetables appearing at each course. Miss Bennet, it need not be said, ate nothing, but sat staring in silence at her dishes in obvious distress. Miss Elizabeth Bennet ate but little and concerned her discourse with attempts to console her sister. Their sister Mary Bennet held forth on Mr. Bingley’s breach of manners, while the youngest sister in attendance, Miss Catherine Bennet, offered that perhaps Mr. Bingley had changed his mind concerning his betrothal, and then, following a swift kick under the table from Miss Elizabeth Bennet, spoke no more but glowered at the table in front of her as she ate.
The family did not remain for dessert or coffee when, ninety minutes later, Mr. Bingley had still not appeared; rather, they called for their carriage and departed in various states of curiosity or anxiety, the entire departure narrated by Mrs. Bennet’s high-pitched squawk.
Although Mrs. Nicholls was relieved at their departure, still the mystery of her master’s whereabouts was yet to be resolved. A servant had been dispatched to Meryton at once on the discovery of Mr. Bingley’s absence—a footman who could be trusted to approach inquiries with discretion, so as not to excite gossip—and he had returned, having discovered nothing. No one he had engaged in converse admitted to seeing his master that day. The house at Netherfield had been searched from ground floor to top, as well as the stables and gardens: what if Mr. Bingley had met with an accident and was incapable of calling out for assistance? As the evening wore into night, such thoughts came more frequently and with greater intensity.
In the wee hours of the morning, Mr. Bingley’s man returned from his leave to a house in an uproar. One mystery he could solve. The gentleman with Mr. Bingley could be confirmed, in fact, as Mr. Darcy, who had returned before schedule from London. But this information did not offer intelligence as to where, indeed, these gentlemen might now be found. If anything, it compounded the confusion, being that he was not a visitor Mr. Bingley was likely to have left the estate with for any reason, nor had Mr. Bingley indicated any intention of going out until morning. It also occurred to Mrs. Nicholls that the heretofore imagined accident scene might be less likely, for which she was grateful, but for the fact that she now had two missing gentlemen to account for.
Subsequent to this intelligence, however, Mr. Darcy’s customary suite of rooms—which had been prepared the day before in anticipation of his return in two days—was visited. His man, Grayson, was found in the dressing room, where he had rested in perfect ignorance, absorbed in reading a novel, since he had seen to his master some hours previous. A glance from the housekeeper was all it took for a maid to admit to neglecting to search these rooms initially, assuming that they were unoccupied. This spurred yet another full house search, leaving no room or closet untried. Immediately, Grayson joined in the search with the others.
Finally, when the house had been searched a third time, it occurred to a timid upstairs maid to ask if anyone had surveyed the cellars. The staff in attendance for this profound utterance looked at one another, shrugging and shaking their heads. At once, Mrs. Nicholls herself led two footmen and the valets to the cellars.
On first glance, nothing appeared amiss. They entered the main cellar in silence and heard no cries for help. Then, waving their lamps here and there as they approached, a footman noted a long iron bar lying across the entry to the wine room, and wedged into a corner in such a way as to have the effect of blocking the closet door. The lock itself had the kitchen key protruding from it. The footman tugged to remove the bar and—being unsuccessful on the first attempt, as it was stuck fast—he passed his lamp to Grayson and used two hands to finally yank the bar free.
Thus were Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy finally emancipated from their incarceration. Mrs. Nicholls opened the wine closet door and peered cautiously inside to find two gentlemen seated at the table in the center. They looked a fright—hair tumbled about, their ascots long discarded, and their coats lying on the floor next to them—and the gentlemen themselves languished across the table, resting on their elbows. At the entry of the valets, Bingley and Darcy both raised their heads and smiled in a slow, languorous manner, which suggested they were only marginally alert. Grayson and Hodge stepped in straightaway then to assist in escorting the gentlemen to their chambers. During their slow progress up the stairs, the housekeeper managed, between the two men, to hear an account of how they had come to be found there.
Despite their having been found after three in the morning, and their consumption of a significant amount of Bingley’s pinot noir inventory, neither Bingley nor Darcy found himself able to sleep long once he was restored to his rooms. Both rose early after only a few hours; and, following extended attentions from their valets—including a celebrated concoction of Grayson’s, which served to restore each to himself somewhat—the gentlemen determined to travel to Longbourn at the earliest moment in person. They had been grateful to find that Mrs. Nicholls had at once dispatched a messenger in the middle of the night to the Bennet family with word of the circumstances of Mr. Bingley’s disappearance and subsequent restoration in good health. She admitted, however, that so flustered had she been at the entire episode that she had quite forgotten to mention Mr. Darcy in the missive.
And so the gentlemen found themselves now on the path to the Bennet residence, prepared to offer apologies and assurances of continued goodwill. Bingley could not wait to be reunited with his Jane, while Darcy held his hands together to keep them still as he pondered his likely reception by another Bennet daughter.
“Bingley,” said Darcy as they approached the arched entry to the manor yard—having determined that he would speak with Miss Elizabeth Bennet this day, no matter the risk to his pride, and now wanting to take his mind from the less sanguine possible consequences of such discourse—“have you any recollection of how we passed the night?” His friend looked at him, and he clarified, “Surely, we must have done something—held some converse—during our detention; yet I confess myself unable to recall a single detail.” He looked to Bingley with a quizzical brow.
“Do you know, Darcy,” replied his friend after some concentration, “I have no idea!”
Georgiana’s Voice
BY J. H. THOMPSON
J. H. Thompson grew up in St. Paul, Minnesota, as the second youngest of seven children. She began writing short stories at the age of twelve as a means to escape a torturous, spoiled little brother. In 1995, she married her high school sweetheart, and they lived briefly in Wisconsin before moving closer to their families. She has since made up with her little brother and now lives with her husband and two sons in Plymouth, Minnesota.
Many authors have tried to give voice to Georgiana Darcy, a character who is referenced far more than she appears in Pride and Prejudice but obviously had quite a bit of influence behind the scenes, particularly in the latter half of the book. Thompson’s story, “Georgiana’s Voice” is, in my opinion, one of the best attempts.
Mr. Julius Pritchard is not the most well-known music master in the city of London, but every Tuesday, in a large and stylish townhouse in Portnam Square in London, he is hailed as the best. A servant of the Darcy family for twelve years, he knows the styles and preferences of his pupil well, and when he brings new pieces to be learned, it is always with the confidence that she will ac
cept the challenge and, eventually, play the piece as it was meant to be played.
The girl is tall—quite too tall for her age—thin, and with sadly arranged brown hair. The room holds her one friend in the form of a well-used pianoforte, which she hammers at relentlessly. Poorly, too, for she is not paying attention to the music sheets. That girl is me—I am Georgiana Catherine Abigail Darcy.
I am waiting for Mr. Pritchard to arrive to deliver my lesson. This has always been the best part of my week, and I am especially eager to see him, as I have not had a proper lesson in more than three months. He believes that I no longer truly need his instruction, that my talent is natural and that as long as it is always nurtured in me, it will always exist. For my part, I at least believe that my love of music, if not my talent, is natural.
Mr. Pritchard has been my master since I first sat down at the keys. My only sibling, my brother Fitzwilliam, had chosen him for me after having had many complaints from my nurse that I would not stay out of the music room or away from the pianoforte. I was only four years old then; my mother had already passed away. With clarity I can recall the first time ever I played a piece right—some nursery song or other—and Fitzwilliam was there. My dear brother clapped and praised me and told me how well I had played. I really adore him; when I was a child I wanted to marry him.
When Mr. Pritchard comes in from the dreary London day I greet him fondly; he gives me one of those smiles that make me wish he were my grandfather. “Miss Darcy,” he says, fluttering papers about, “I am quite gratified that you are returned from Ramsgate. I trust your stay there was all you hoped?”
I smile sadly and take his hand. “It was not, in fact; but let us not talk of it. What have you brought me?”
“If you are in a somber mood, Miss Darcy, perhaps the selection I have brought today is more appropriate than I knew.” He smiles and flutters some music sheets in front of me. “Now, come and play. You will enjoy the piece, I hope. But first, warm your fingers and play me something merry.”
The Road to Pemberley Page 23