by Meg Kerr
Accordingly, following their dinner and after attending Georgiana to her apartment and ensuring that she would be comfortable for the night, Mrs. Younge made her way downstairs once more, and walked slowly through the public rooms until she passed the door of the card room, which stood open. There she saw the young man seated at a table with half a dozen other gentlemen, and she without further ado established herself on a sopha within sight and hearing, and settled down to study the activity within.
The gentlemen played for some time, refreshing themselves frequently with brandy and water, and it soon became apparent to Mrs. Younge that they were making large stakes. At length one of them began to declare vehemently with each hand that it should be the last, whether he should win or lose, yet losing each time he broke his resolve and made a new wager. Finally he was left sitting in silence, drained of colour, wiping his forehead.
“Was that your last, Huntingdon?” asked another of the players sardonically.
“Yes, the last – no, I’ll have one more,” he said hoarsely. Raising his voice he said, “I double my wager! Who will play against me?” The handsome young gentleman instantly presented himself, and the cards were dealt. Huntingdon lost, and his opponent smiling swept up the stakes. The former glared fiercely at him and cried, “How is it that all the luck is yours this evening?”
“Come, Huntingdon, do you accuse Amaury of cheating?” said another of the players.
“Why has he won as much as I have lost?”
“You had better try again,” said Amaury pleasantly.
“I have nothing left!”
“Amaury will lend you a stake, I’ve no doubt. By God, he is the only one who has anything to lend now!” laughed a gentleman as he offered Huntingdon a glass.
“Do not stop here,” said another. “They say luck turns at the end.”
“I cannot! That villain has taken my last penny.” And he rose from his chair and lurched out of the room, a ghastly look shrouding him.
“And the real devil of it is,” observed the laughing gentleman, still amused, “that the last penny was not in fact his, for he has been borrowing to play and I have heard that he is all to pieces. I shall not be astonished if one of these days he puts a bullet through his pate.”
The rest of the players soon followed their unlucky comrade, until Amaury was left alone at the table, collecting the notes and coins lying before him. When he had pocketed them he too emerged, only then noticing Mrs. Younge’s observation of him. He halted abruptly.
Mrs. Younge smiled on him with a beneficent air. “Good evening, Mr. – Amaury, I believe?”
The young man was evidently surprised and disconcerted. He glanced rapidly about before replying in no very warm tone, “Ma’am, I think you have the advantage of me.”
“Not, I trust, for long, sir,” said Mrs. Younge graciously.
“How do you know my name?”
“I have been sitting here in this same spot listening for upwards of two hours. Tell me, how did you go about cheating that gentleman?”
At this Amaury smiled a little and recollected himself. Stepping forward with an untroubled air he said, “I have no need to cheat a man who believes his skill and luck improve with every glass he takes. When such a man plays cards he is asking to be relieved of his property. I merely obliged him before someone else did.”
“Fascinating,” said Mrs. Younge. “Perhaps you will be able to oblige me as well.”
“Do you wish to lay a wager?”
“No; I do not game. Or rather, my gambling is in other fields. Do you have a wife, sir?”
Young men as a general rule do not welcome familiar explorations of their affairs by strangers, and this unexpected question from a lady whom he had never seen before that day gave him almost as much astonishment as he had ever felt. Indeed, so startled was he that, with abnormal candour, he stated completely truthfully that he did not.
“There is no one who can be a greater advocate for matrimony than I,” said Mrs. Younge sententiously. “Mr. Amaury, let me not stand on ceremony. I have it in my power to help you to a wife, who is as amiable as she is lovely, and who moreover has a rich family.”
Mrs. Younge was not disappointed in the interest she had desired to raise. No man in Amaury’s position could have withstood the allure of such a proposal. At that period he was living in degraded circumstances, and it was as much as he could do to maintain the facade of a gentleman. In fact it is not unwarranted to say that his satisfaction at winning a large sum of money that evening arose principally from the prospect of a good dinner. He had one aim, to make his fortune; and it was his preference to make it by a quicker process than wholesome labour. He had experimented with gambling and similar pursuits, but a plan of the kind put forward by Mrs. Younge would far better answer his ideas of gaining wealth and independence without unnecessary toil. Her words therefore were in no danger of being thrown away. He glanced instinctively towards the staircase, as if expecting Georgiana to come into view.
Mrs. Younge nodded. “Yes, it is she that I speak of. If I am not misled you already approve of her appearance.”
For some, knowledge of character, or gratitude and esteem, are the foundations of affection. Yet for others regard arises on the first intersection with its object, before as much as two words have been exchanged. Such had been the case with Amaury. But though he might now pretend it illuminated by love, he bore a mind darkened. Retaining his self-possession he asked coolly, “How is it that you have this young lady in your gift?”
Mrs. Younge gestured for him to sit down beside her. After a hesitation he did so, and she introduced herself and gave a short account of her business in Brussels. She was, she said, travelling with a young lady from a family of considerable means who wished to visit the final resting place of an officer killed at Waterloo, to whom at one time she had been engaged. Her relations were presently unaware of her location and were no doubt looking for her. Probably they would discover her within a week, if she did not of her own will return home before that time.
“I could not but see your enchantment with her. And you – you have about you everything to recommend yourself to a young lady, except – if I may hypothesize? – a reliable income. It would in my opinion be an excellent match on your side. In this place she is friendless, helpless; she will rely on me for advice.”
Amaury subjected Mrs. Younge to a leisurely examination, under which she was forced to stiffen her spine a little to avoid flinching. “My temper,” he said at length, “is a naturally precautious one, and I am not willing to risk my matrimonial happiness through imprudence. May I know the reason for your eagerness to promote such a marriage?”
“Money,” said Mrs. Younge with splendid succinctness. “And if you assist me in this matter, I would of course compensate you by paying you a fee.”
“A portion of her fortune?”
“Her fortune? Phoo! It is little enough, and entangled in trusts. No indeed. A percentage of the amount her family will pay to be rid of you. They will seek an annulment of course. Your co-operation – which naturally would be mediated through me – would be expensive; I would be surprised if it, coupled with your complete silence, and your permanent absence from England, might not cost ten thousand pounds.”
Amaury felt no distaste for claiming a share of ten thousand pounds, but the image of Georgiana shone in his mind. “On the other hand, they might be persuaded to receive me as her husband.”
Mrs. Younge laughed in unaffected amusement. “The family is well-to-do, well-connected and of an ancient line, and would be utterly dismayed at the thought of Miss Darcy forming an alliance with you. No, you may depend upon it that the marriage would be of exceedingly brief duration.”
Whether Amaury agreed with this premise would have been difficult to discern from the expression of his countenance, but as he said nothing in reply Mrs. Younge took his silence
for assent. Having, she believed, achieved an initial understanding she took up the finer points of the scheme. To the man or woman of good morals the details of treachery must be offensive, whereas to the traitor they are merely practical. “You of course must do a good deal, for the task is yours to make yourself irresistible to Miss Darcy, but here is the assistance I would provide. I would arrange for you to meet, to be thrown together; and I would do all I can to encourage any inclination toward you she might feel and to take care that she see nothing suspicious. But I must warn you: before you can get her heart for our own purposes you will have to detach it from the hold of a man named George Wickham.”
“Is he presently in Brussels?” asked Amaury, immediately and without conscious reflection beginning to weigh the odds of his success against this opponent.
“In a sense. He has been lying here in a cemetery since the battle of Waterloo.”
“The contest does not seem very equal then,” said the young man, relaxing his attention.
“On the contrary, it will be a real contest, for he is armed with an advantage you may find it difficult to overcome.”
“I do not see it.”
“No longer being of this world, he has achieved a perfection in Miss Darcy’s head that no living man can attain.”
Amaury smiled in mingled entertainment and self-assurance to refute this statement. Indeed it would be difficult to envision a man who to the naked eye showed fewer flaws, who in form and moving was more like an angel; and as he intended zealously to conceal any defects in his character or history from the young lady, perhaps his theory was more justifiable than Mrs. Younge’s. Perhaps Mrs. Younge began to think so too, for she said, after a renewed inspection of his person, “Between us, I think we may win her.”
“And the marriage, once celebrated, is it to be consummated?”
Mrs. Younge bestowed on him a frown of disfavour. “Do you suppose, Mr. Amaury, that the young lady’s value to her family is likely to be increased through a carnal connexion with one such as you?” The hand she was playing was not certain of success, and to gain her victory she must tread a narrow line between her accomplice and the Darcy family. She had concealed from Amaury the extent of Georgiana’s fortune, and that it was entirely her own when she reached the age of twenty-one. If he insisted on a genuine marriage, she would be the loser unless out of a generosity at the moment unsuspected he compensated her role in his acquisition of the fortune. Yet if she did not obtain his collaboration in leading Georgiana into a nominal marriage, she had nothing to bring to the Darcys for sale.
“It is doubtful, I admit,” he replied looking amused again. He had every reason not to quarrel with his new-found partner until they had achieved something worth quarreling over, but already he was thinking how he could swindle her. He had never subscribed to the philosophy that there ought to be honour among thieves, at least as long as he could count on having the upper hand. He therefore listened to her without interruption while she outlined her projected arrangements for the following day, and after a further half hour’s conference they parted for the night on genial terms.
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CHAPTER
8
Brussels, February 1816
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It did not often obtrude itself into her affairs, but Mrs. Younge although devoid of principles had a sentimental side, and she did not intend that Amaury should deceive Georgiana completely. She wished, rather, to promote a love match between the two young people. She had no misgiving with regard to Amaury, for she did not suppose there was anything lacking in his feelings which a little time in Georgiana’s company would not add. Having seen that he thought Georgiana a beautiful girl and knew her to have a rich family, she trusted that a small number of meetings would congeal his love; and as to Georgiana she did not doubt that the attentions of such a handsome and charming young man would have at least as much efficacy in this case as they had had in Wickham’s, and would create as much liking on Georgiana’s side as there could be need for. He was really, she thought, a very pleasing young man, extraordinarily good looking, with manners that were self-evident recommendations. Any young lady as susceptible as Georgiana finding herself courted by him would be likely to succumb to the proper emotions. She did not expect that she would be required to offer anything beyond the organizing of fortuitous collisions and a few early hints assuring Georgiana of his fascination with her. They would advance properly simply from being manoeuvred into proximity.
Being anxious for the success of the enterprise and aware that the time for carrying it out was short, she had advanced pretty far in her preparations when she breakfasted with Georgiana in the sitting room that was appurtenant to their chambers. “I have arranged our visit to the burial-ground today,” said Mrs. Younge as she devoured her meal with the healthy appetite of one who has been hard at work since dawn. “There are three of them but I have, I believe, identified the one where Wickham lies.” Georgiana, scarcely touching her own food, thanked her in a muted voice.
Amaury had overnight given much serious scrutiny to his conversation with Mrs. Younge, and by morning had fully made up his mind to execute the plan she had proposed – with his own modifications. He had himself driven to the cemetery where George Wickham lay, in company with a female dressed in mourning, a veil over her head. They had not long been there, walking up and down, when another carriage appeared, proceeding at a slow pace. It passed first their carriage, and next the gentleman and lady themselves, but then due to some mismanagement on the part of the driver it wandered off the narrow track and quickly became trapped in the mud.
Taking this misfortune as his cue, Amaury escorted his companion back to their own vehicle and then approached the other, arriving just as Mrs. Younge and Georgiana were being handed out of it. Upon recognizing the two ladies he came forward with the most perfect alacrity and pretended astonishment, alluded to their brief encounter at the hotel, which he hoped gave him the smallest shadow of right to introduce himself, and most earnestly requested that he be allowed to offer them his services. Georgiana by her modesty would have declined even what their present circumstances clearly rendered necessary, but she was not allowed time to speak, for Mrs. Younge received his offer as cordially as possible and expressed their gratitude for whatever assistance he could provide.
While they spoke Georgiana turned a little aside, and observed Amaury from the corner of her eye. He was quite as handsome as he had appeared at the hotel, and his manners were so easy, so agreeable, so precisely what they ought to be in the present tribulation, that she found herself unable to subdue interest in him completely. A glance of his eye spoke the conviction that she had not had been entirely out of his thoughts since their earlier meeting, yet there was no want of respect in his address, indeed nothing could be more proper than his whole posture towards Mrs. Younge and her.
Mrs. Younge explained their difficulties, and Amaury with becoming diffidence proposed that they return to the hotel in his carriage, in which he had driven out with an elderly lady, a distant cousin resident in Brussels whose son had perished at Waterloo. He added with a slight tentativeness, that if they wished it he would endeavour to find the burial-place for them now, as he had a little familiarity with the cemetery. Mrs. Younge did not waste a second in supplying him with the name and regiment of the deceased man, and armed with this information Amaury walked off. He hunted about assiduously for a few minutes, a much longer time than required as he had previously ascertained the position of the plot, and then came back to the two ladies with the complacent air of a man who has accomplished his mission, and pointed out to them the direction in which the marker lay.
Georgiana immediately started forwar
d, but Mrs. Younge looked at the expanse of wet soil between them and the plot and expressed indignation at the idea of traversing it. “How can you be so silly as to even think of us walking across all this mud! We will not be fit to be seen. Our gowns will be six inches deep in it, and our stockings will be very damp and dirty. We will catch cold. We cannot walk here. Men never know when the ground is dirty,” she added severely, addressing herself to Amaury.
Georgiana, however, did not mean to be inconvenienced by the mud, and as Mrs. Younge had intended, this created a fine opportunity for Amaury. He offered his arm to Georgiana and she, her concentration on Wickham, accepted it without any awkwardness. Having never heard evil of him, it was not her nature to suppose there was any evil to be told. On Amaury’s side, Georgiana’s reception of his offer was so proper and modest, that he found nothing to censure in her. She blushed a little as she took his arm, and did not speak as they walked, acknowledging his commonplace remarks only with a nod, betraying no wish to talk to him.
When they reached the marker and made out the lettering on it, and the realization came upon Georgiana that Wickham’s beloved form was lying within the narrow piece of ground under her feet, her sensations produced such suffering, as rendered her nearly distraught. With faculties suddenly wandering and disoriented, she was almost ready to throw herself sobbing upon the muddy earth that covered him. Her pallor and impetuous manner alarmed Amaury, and he, by some means divining her purpose, gently held her back, saying with compassion, “I pray you, do not forget yourself so far.” Drawing her arm within his he said, “I do not like to see you so near that grave,” and led her back to the path.
The disarray of her reason was painfully great, and acted on her frame. From physical weakness she leaned against Amaury, who found himself compelled to restrain his natural impulse to take her up in his arms. She was lost to everything for several minutes, during which time Amaury by his silent acceptance showed as much concern for her as unconsciousness of himself, and only supported and watched her with acute sympathy, but a sense of her anguish at last led him to ask, “Is there some thing I may do to give you comfort?” He could not see her misery, without the desire of shielding her and giving her relief from it. It was a pure and foreign impulse. But she was not even able to thank him for the kindness of his words, and seeing the depth of her distress he did not press her for an answer. “Let me call your companion,” he said.