by Meg Kerr
“How pleasant it always is to hear a disinterested commendation from a gentleman!”
As Darcy had grown quite used to his wife’s sly comments he did not respond directly but continued, “He requests my permission to marry her.”
Georgiana was indeed fit for marriage, being twenty years old and altogether attractive. Tall and well-formed, with a particularly graceful figure, she had few equals for beauty and elegance. In addition she had a fine mind that had received every advantage of education and culture, an excellent temper, and a warm heart that promoted fondness in all those around her. As a young girl, her fear of doing the wrong thing and a tendency to embarrassment had given her the reputation of being reserved and proud, but under her sister Elizabeth’s care and influence she had acquired assurance, and while her manners still were not outgoing they were civil, unassuming and gentle, with just that sweet touch of shyness that disarmed and charmed strangers and caused her friends to love her even more.
“I do not wonder at his being pleased with her, but I think she is very far from intending to captivate him,” said Elizabeth.
“Yet if we are anxious to see her well married and settled in the same circle in which she is presently placed it is an alliance which has every recommendation. I look upon the proposal as most desirable.”
“That sort of desirability is unlikely to promote a match with Georgiana. He is on the other side of forty, and his face can only be called plain. He is no George Wickham – indeed he is no Fitzwilliam Darcy.” Elizabeth’s spirits now quickly became playful and she added, “Although to tell the truth, I fell in love with you rather in spite of your handsome face than because of it.”
“That I can readily believe. From what you have told me, you fell in love with me in spite not only of my appearance but also my character, my understanding, my temperament and my family connexions.”
In assured possession of his warmest affection, for their attachment had only strengthened with the elapse of time, Elizabeth replied, “It is just as well, for I shall love you still when you are fat and ruddy and cross with gout.”
Darcy, a little uncertain what to make of this remark, returned to his subject. “It is true that he is not as handsome as Wickham but his appearance is not repellent. His age I consider an advantage, making his qualities and principles fixed; and his maturity will guard her naturally compliant disposition. Georgiana is not sensible, she will not look for fulfilment in her husband’s outward form. I think there is every possibility of their being comfortable together.”
Elizabeth regarded him with surprise. “I am afraid that your partiality to Mr. Brooke may be blinding you to Georgiana’s own preferences.”
“If you refer again to George Wickham, he persuaded her into believing she was in love with him, but on her part I am convinced it was nothing more than an infatuation created on erroneous premises – shaped by her strong recollection of his kindness to her as a child. Her affections and actions arising in that case were generated by innocence. She was but fifteen years old.”
Elizabeth assumed a pensive air. “I remember a time when I thought that my feelings would forever attach me to him. He had the best part of beauty – and such an expression of goodness in his countenance! – that was shown to even greater advantage by his wonderfully agreeable manners. And when he wore his regimentals! Then he was entirely irresistible!”
“It seems to me an unfathomable mystery,” said Darcy with some bitterness, “that my father, sister and wife should be bound together by admiration of a young man –”
“Do not by any means omit Lydia from your catalogue.”
“– of no morals and degenerate propensities. It passes beyond my comprehension.”
“That is no doubt because you are not a young lady.”
As Darcy was unable to contradict this assertion, he resumed his original theme. “Georgiana will benefit greatly from a constant, rational affinity to sustain and guide her. I believe that with a little time they will be united by real regard.”
“But are not their tastes and temperaments very different?”
“While a general resemblance of temperament and taste between a man and a woman might be held an effectual means to advance their mutual esteem, an opposition of character need not be an impediment to their satisfaction with each other.”
“That is true, for our opposition of character could hardly have been greater.”
“You exaggerate the effect, for a great part of that opposition was the result of your prejudice against me, as you have yourself admitted. We have disagreed very little since we married, Elizabeth.”
“Oh, that is only because of my inordinate deference to you! Now that I am your wife I think and act and speak, for your gratification alone.”
“We have most certainly come upon an opposition here, for what you call your deference I would be most tempted to call your lack of respect.”
“I believe you intended to say, the liveliness of my mind.”
“I fear to think how you have taught Georgiana to treat a husband.”
“My lessons fall upon stony ground, for Georgiana’s temper is so much more amiable than my own. But Darcy, do you seriously believe she will reciprocate his attraction? It is most natural that you should wish it; but are you not simply indulging your wishes?”
“You doubt me, Elizabeth?” said Darcy, rather affronted.
“How could you possibly suppose me against you?” she responded with a warm smile and a caress of his hand. “I merely wish to enquire how you have determined her attitude.”
“The fraternal bond leads me to believe it. We are children of the same family, with the same upbringing, tastes and inclinations. I know Georgiana as I know myself.”
“The affection between the two of you raises you both in the opinion of all who know you. Yet I still cannot suppose her able to perceive him with any thing like interest. I cannot imagine her giving rapid consent to the arrangement.”
“Were I careless even in general on such matters, how could you imagine me so where Georgiana’s well-being was at stake? I could not reconcile it to myself to force her into a marriage against which her heart rebelled. It is true that some families would insist on her agreeing to so good an offer on the first overture. But I do not intend to convey to her any instruction, or even my unqualified support when I speak to her, only to lead her gently into consideration of his proposal.”
“How exactly like you to have a reasonable answer to give, and how like me to be so accommodating as to accept it!” Nevertheless Elizabeth was amused that her husband had carefully failed to enumerate that advantage of the match which would have appeared most important in the eyes of the world. William Brooke was the great-nephew of an ancient and ailing marquess, with only the marquess’s drunkard son coming between him and the title and estate. The son had experienced the preservative rather than debilitating effects of port and brandy, but if Georgiana married William Brooke she would without doubt have the claim to enter a room ahead of the other women in the family within five years. In his fear of seeming to Elizabeth a second Lady Catherine, Darcy occasionally acted as though he had wholeheartedly espoused republican values.
He then suggested that they invite Mr. Brooke to their dinners and parties in London during the coming season, on the pretext of political affairs, to give Georgiana an opportunity to grow used to his presence before the question of matrimony was raised.
“I am sure you are right, and I do regard the connexion as desirable, even if I cannot say the same of Mr. Brooke’s appearance. But if she can be persuaded to make a beginning, perhaps she will go on as you would wish. Now should we not start back? Georgiana will wonder what has become of us.”
As they rose and began to make their way down towards the house, Darcy and Elizabeth in their gentle accord were wholly deluded on two points: the first, that Georgiana was then giving
the least heed to them; and the second, that they knew her way of thinking or indeed her character at all.
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The Post Office is an unimpeachable establishment, its reliability and punctuality most laudable. So seldom is a letter miscarried, that there is nothing to marvel at when one, even one that had much better gone astray, is delivered with dispatch.
When the servant handed Georgiana her letter, she instantly recognized on the envelope the hand of her former governess. In her surprise she formed no expectation at all of its subject matter, but opened it with a prejudice against anything the writer might say. To her further wonder she distinguished another letter folded within it, with her name written across it in an unknown hand. This enclosure was dirty and rubbed, and a rusty stain on one corner. She set it aside while she read Mrs. Younge’s note.
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London, January ~
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Dear Miss Darcy,
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Despite the variance presently subsisting between your brother and myself, which prevents me (as I no doubt more properly ought to do) from making this communication to him, I take the liberty of forwarding to you the enclosed bearing your name, which I believe was intended to be delivered to you in June of the past year. What it contains may distress you, especially as you have almost certainly not been able to perform those obsequies that are ordained to give comfort to the living. I beg to assure that I shall make myself quite ready to aid you in carrying out any action that may suggest itself to you in consequence of what you read. I do not write with any intention of secrecy, and you are of course quite free to show this letter to Mr. Darcy. If you wish to favour me with a reply my direction is 123 Edward-street, London.
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Yours faithfully,
Selina Younge
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With increasing bewilderment Georgiana unfolded the second letter and with difficulty made out the following:
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dearest Georgiana,
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your surprise at receiving this will be great but you know so well my feelings that you will comprehend my motive I pray you, come to me I am filled with regrets when I think that I might have named you my wife but you disappointed my hopes and allowed your brother to separate us and destroy our happiness yet I could forgive you anything come quickly do not refuse one who has loved you with devotion
Geo wickham
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The letters were ill-formed and the lines straggled oddly but she instantly on deciphering the first words knew their composer, and she read with an amazement and, almost immediately, a grief, which rendered her nearly incapable of making out the sense of the document. When she reached the end of it, her complexion startlingly white, she sank back in her chair.
Wickham had loved her always! And dying, he had called out for her to come to his side! Had she only known in time!
Let me hasten to assure the reader of nervous temperament, that he or she has not by accident strayed into a novel by Mrs. Radcliffe or Mr. Monk, that George Wickham is most undeniably dead, that he is not attempting to speak to Georgiana from beyond the grave, and that no sliding panel behind an ancient tapestry, no wax effigy of a corpse or cobwebbed chest of bones will feature in these pages. But I will toy no longer with any reader and will without delay set about explaining the provenance of this remarkable letter, a tale that merits its own chapter.
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CHAPTER
2
Brussels, June 1815
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Lieutenant George Wickham marched out of the Place Royale with his regiment and left Brussels on the road that led to Waterloo. He came back three days later, on a cart, a French musket ball in his spine.
He was carried to his lodgings and in the absence of his wife Lydia the servant found Mrs. O’Dowd, who with her husband Major O’Dowd shared the house, and informed her of his master’s dire condition. “I’ve cares enough of my own,” said that lady, “but if your master is so bad as you say, and his wife can’t attend to him, I’ll come.”
When she entered the room where Wickham lay and approached the bed she found him so altered from his former self, that she gave a start. She immediately sent for a surgeon who, arriving after a very protracted delay (for his services were required by many that day), told her that he had never seen such injuries recovered from, and a few days at most must end it.
Mrs. O’Dowd had also instructed the servant to find Lydia and bring her to her husband, but the confusion of the city prevented him from discovering her; or, indeed, from looking for her. On observing the activity in the streets he astutely abandoned his mission and took himself to a pot shop. He was quite as likely to meet Mrs. Wickham there as anywhere else in the city, for she was engaged in searching for Captain Osborne (who also was a lodger in the house) or for anyone who could tell her whether he had survived the battle of Waterloo. As she made her way through the city she was followed by dread, and at length she returned home, exhausted and pallid, knowing no more of Osborne than she had on setting out.
She was met by Mrs. O’Dowd. “Mrs. Wickham, you are come at last!” she said with a look of great concern. “I am afraid you will be shocked to see him. He is in the bedroom. But you must bear up, my dear, he mustn’t see you distressed.”
“I have been searching for him!” exclaimed Lydia, growing even paler. “Where is he?” Without waiting for an answer she rushed up and burst into the room. Seeing that he was unattended and almost sick with horror she cried out, “Is there no one here to help him? He must not die!” Then approaching closer to the bed and gazing on the man lying there, “Wickham!” she said in astonishment. Turning to Mrs. O’Dowd, who followed behind her, she demanded, “Where is he? Where is Osborne?”
Mrs. O’Dowd was much taken aback. “I have not the least idea.”
“But you said he was brought here.”
“I was speaking of your husband.”
“Then you have no news of Captain Osborne?”
“None.”
“Ah, then he may be safe. I pray it is so!”
Mrs. O’Dowd had on several occasions noted Lydia’s attraction to Osborne, and his imprudent encouragement of her, as well as the public notice that was taken of their unguarded behaviour. She was a soldier’s wife, and rarely passed judgment on the young men, and the young wives, who disdained restraint, who entertained no apprehension of disgrace, in defiance of approaching battle and death. But to see Lydia so lost not only to respectability but even to compassion and duty, stirred her anger.
“Mrs. Wickham, you are not the only woman who is in the hands of God this day. Where Captain Osborne is I cannot say, but your husband is here, and very much hurt. Now it must be your role to comfort him.”
But Lydia was hardly listening, in her relief that Wickham was not Osborne. She thought nothing of his danger and treated Mrs. O’Dowd’s fears as idle. “Oh! I am not afraid of him dying. You do not know what a fuss he makes when he has a little trifling cold! I am sure he will be better tomorrow.”
As Lydia was most determined not to remain with her husband, or indeed in the house as she recommenced with fresh vigour her search for Captain Osborne, and as there was probably no one dwelling there who might not have been more useful to the wounded man, Mrs. O’Dowd deemed it best to take charge of his care herself.
Towards evening Wickham recovered his senses and after looking earnestly at her he said in a faint voice, “Who is it?”
“It is I, Mrs. O’Dowd,” she replied, and commenced bathing his forehead with vinegar and water. “I am here, my dear; no harm shall come to
you.”
That night Mrs. O’Dowd watched incessantly at the bedside but in the morning did not have the consolation of seeing any amendment in her patient. In restless torment he had constantly moved his posture and when the dawn came was looking most wretchedly.
Captain Westove came to him, and could scarcely believe the melancholy figure before him. But although he had arrived determined to give the injured man every attention, Wickham did not receive him with any gratitude.
“Why have you come, Westove?
“I thought to offer you support in your present trial. I will send for a clergyman if you desire it.”
“I need no clergyman.”
“I am told there is internal injury, no one can know to what extent.”
“And you are wishing this wound will be fatal? I will cross your wishes.”
“I am endeavouring to do my duty by you.”
“You seek no reward for coming here?”
“I expect none.”
“Not even a glimpse of my wife?”
Westove denied harbouring such thoughts, but Wickham laughed until a paroxysm seized him. Then groaning he cursed his visitor who, seeing he was doing more harm than good, took his departure.
From her occasional and brief visits to Wickham’s chamber Lydia was becoming used to the sight of him in his helpless state, and listened only to the best parts of any reports of his infirmity from Mrs. O’Dowd. “Oh!” she said almost carelessly to Captain Westove when he came to her following his conversation with her husband, “do not fret about him, for he will soon be well. I am certain he looks better today than yesterday.”
The surgeon came again that evening and examined his patient, and, giving further alarm to Mrs. O’Dowd, pronounced Wickham’s wound to have a putrid quality and that a day or two would likely finish him. He ordered him to be bled, and for the rest of the night the sick man was quiet and scarcely spoke or moved at all.
Under the greatest pressure, Lydia remained with him the following day while Mrs. O’Dowd took some much needed rest. But she could only feign worry for him, for in her head every idea was superseded by incomprehension and anxiety. Captain Osborne had neither returned nor written to her, but a soldier had come to his rooms and collected his belongings, refusing to tell Lydia where he was taking them.