by Meg Kerr
Mrs. Younge at that moment truly believed herself the most put-upon and long-suffering of women. Although she had been fond of Wickham herself, she really did not see why he retained a hold on Georgiana’s affections after five years and to the great detriment of her own programme. It was a most perverse attitude, and Mrs. Younge made up her mind to quash it.
“It is a time which I hate to think of! And most unsuitable for a young lady to hear about. Mr. Amaury, I must ask you not to indulge Miss Darcy.”
Amaury had already reached a stage of infatuation, that equally prevented him denying to Georgiana anything she asked and commanded his full safeguard of her, the result being an inability to say anything at all.
“Please,” said Georgiana to him in a gentle appeal from Mrs. Younge’s order that compelled him to give her whatever she wished. A short reflection (in the diminishing part of his intellect that was not veiled in the fog of Georgiana) also told him that he would likely be rewarded for playing up the heroism of his rival, for he could afford to be generous to a dead man.
Therefore he paused, collecting his thoughts, and then with a glance half reassuring and half menacing at Mrs. Younge began to speak of what the Duke of Wellington had called “a damn near-run thing.”
“If you had been here in June of last year, Miss Darcy, you would scarcely have recognized the city, for it was full of soldiers – there was not a house or hotel in which they were not quartered. But the mood was not military, for they all had their wives and sweethearts with them, and there was also a crowd of ladies and gentlemen who had come over from London to enjoy themselves. You would have thought that war was the last notion in any one’s head. In fact on the night the French army was nearing Brussels there was a ball given by the Duchess of Richmond; it ended suddenly when the trumpets gave the call to arms. It had just been learned that Buonaparte’s army was within twenty miles of the city.
“Gaiety turned instantly to fear, for Brussels as you have seen is quite open. There are no walls or barricades, and Buonaparte’s purpose was well known: to destroy the army assembled here. Every non-combatant who could find a conveyance out of the city hurried to leave.
“The Duke of Wellington had been waiting for the Prussian army of fifty thousand to join him before he marched against the French, for the French numbered more than one hundred thousand, all of them seasoned troops, and our infantry was scarcely more than ten thousand strong, with few battle-tested soldiers among them. But the Prussians had not come, and he now had to confront the enemy alone.”
At last, the eyes which before had so studiously avoided him were turned and fixed on Amaury. “Lieutenant Wickham had never been in a battle,” she said almost inaudibly.
“He was one of very many. And yet when they marched out of the city they showed no sign of fear.” His recompense was a flashing look of gratitude such as briefly made him lose his train of thought. He did not tell her, that many of the young soldiers were not only fearless but were full of delight to be going, merry in contemplation of the honours they would win.
“It is said that the Duke of Wellington left the city in good spirits, quipping that the Prussian general, Blucher, had most likely settled the business with Napoleon himself by this time, and that he should perhaps be back for dinner. We did not know then that the Prussian army had already been intercepted by the French at Ligny and defeated.”
Georgiana, in her soul marching with Wickham, gave a gasp of dread.
“The army left behind no guard. When they had gone the streets were almost completely empty, and silent; but in the afternoon we suddenly heard furious cannonading from the south. The din aroused great apprehension for we had not imagined the enemy so close. Almost as soon as the noise began there were constant reports that our army had been crushed and that the French were on the point of entering the city, reports that were commonly believed, as many of them were brought by soldiers of our Belgian and Dutch allies who had fled the battlefield. Then the wounded began to return. The body of the Duke of Brunswick, who had had the reputation of a fierce warrior, was brought back that night.
“On Saturday we learned that the Duke of Wellington had fallen back several miles from where he had first clashed with the French at Quatre Bras. Many in the city took this for a rout and there was nearly universal terror. But our army was not fleeing; it had retreated to the plain of Waterloo, the terrain of which the Duke of Wellington knew well and which was more favourable for a cavalry charge. For by this time our cavalry and artillery had joined our infantry, although our horse numbered only seven thousand while the French numbered forty thousand.”
Looking on Georgiana’s eager frightened face as he spoke almost made Amaury wish he had been in the battle, had suffered and triumphed as Wickham had done. The glory of valour awoke in him, and in the telling of their story he came for the first time to respect the English soldiers who had gone through such hardships and given such proofs of their courage. His own role appeared to him very slight in contrast (for his greatest boast was of obtaining from a panic-stricken English countess one hundred napoleons for a pair of horses to take her to Antwerp) and all at once he felt a sense of shame that he had not distinguished himself in a more gallant mode. Luckily the shame was not lasting, and a flush had scarcely had time to rise to his cheek before he reflected that although both he and Wickham could be said to be at dinner, he dined but Wickham was dined upon.
His colour quickly receded and he continued. “On Saturday afternoon the guns were stilled when a violent thunderstorm broke, with heavy rain that continued through the night. We knew that the battlefield would be turned to mud and the roads back to Brussels made impassable; that our soldiers would be without fire; and would be cold and wet and hungry. On Sunday afternoon the cannonading began again and lasted the rest of the day. Then, at dusk, the noise of the guns stopped. In the city we were certain our army must have been destroyed, and there was mounting terror. But then came incredible news – the Allied army was victorious, and the French were fleeing! It is impossible for words to describe what we felt. By the greatest luck, the Prussian army although defeated had not been destroyed by the French, and it managed by an immense effort to reach Waterloo field on Sunday. Even then the combined Allied forces amounted to little more than half those of the French. But every one of our men fought like a hero, and every man who fell, fell a hero.”
Georgiana’s lovely eyes filled with tears as she thought of Wickham and his heroism. But from there it was only a short progression to thinking of Amaury’s patriotism, and how uncommonly attractive love of one’s country could make a man’s features. She gave him a look of approbation.
Amaury did not see the look (which was fortunate for his self-possession), because for the first time that evening he was not thinking of Georgiana. He was thinking of the things he had not said and could not say to her, that one fourth of all the soldiers who came to Waterloo, on both sides, had been killed, and that the dead had lain for days on the field, piled in high heaps, their bodies looted and stripped, until they were burned, or buried in huge mounding mass graves whose clay cover scarcely hid the dead hands and faces. He had seen as much of Waterloo field as anyone who had not actually taken part in the battle, for many of the gentlemen, and even some of the ladies, who had not fled Brussels, or who had reappeared as soon as it seemed safe, were impatient to view the results of the fighting. Amaury had quickly grasped the opportunity and had escorted his first party of tourists, for a sizeable fee, to Quatre Bras on the Tuesday after the battle.
Georgiana too was deep in introspection, but after an interval, elevated beyond her usual reticence by her potent love for Wickham (or she supposed that to be the mechanism) shyly making reference to Amaury’s bravery in remaining in Brussels when so many others had fled. “Surely the knowledge that some did not abandon our soldiers must have given them comfort when their hour was darkest.” Having seen the aftermath of slaughter, how
ever, Amaury was doubtful that the soldiers had received any inspirational benefit from his or anyone else’s residence in the city. In any event, he had stayed because he spoke excellent French and trusted that French soldiers were as likely to have money from which they could be parted as English. He had had no fear of the victorious invading French putting the inhabitants of Brussels to the sword, or rather, he had had confidence of being able to avoid such a fate himself.
Mrs. Younge had heard quite enough about Waterloo, although Wickham figured less in Amaury’s tale that she had worried. “Terrible; terrible; I shall not sleep a wink tonight I am sure. And we must be up early, for I have ordered the carriage for ten o’clock.”
“You are not leaving Brussels tomorrow?” said Amaury in genuine surprise. Between Waterloo and Georgiana he had temporarily forgotten his agenda with Mrs. Younge.
“Certainly not,” replied Mrs. Younge sharply. Had she really entrusted so important a matter as duping an heiress to a some one with such impaired sense? “I thought Miss Darcy might like to be driven about the town.”
Georgiana was troubled. She felt that sight-seeing did not entirely accord with the serious enterprise for which she had come to the Continent, to mourn her dead fiancé. There was an unquestionable clash of tone.
“There is much in Brussels worth looking at,” said Amaury with his eyes on Georgiana.
“I have hired a guide.”
“That is probably best.”
“Of course it is an expense; and it is never pleasant to drive about with a stranger.”
Mrs. Younge’s nerves were growing frayed. She had expected Amaury’s ready offer to escort them himself. Once again it fell to her to forward their project. “Why, I have just had an excellent thought. You could act as our guide, Mr. Amaury, for you know the city so well, and have been such good company this evening.”
He did not appear overjoyed by the idea. He had seen Georgiana make a movement of disquietude at Mrs. Younge’s suggestion. But Mrs. Younge continued her supplication. “You must oblige us, indeed you must.” She would not give him so many pains for the world, she assured him, if she were not certain of the superiority of her proposal, and she strengthened her petition by way of a vigorous kick on the ankle, which worked a sufficient change on his feelings that he accepted the invitation.
Georgiana’s mind could not acquiesce. “Oh Mr. Amaury,” she said in a burst, “I do not wish to drive about Brussels. But I should very much like to see – where the fighting was.”
“If that is your wish, Miss Darcy,” said Amaury quietly, “I will take you there.”
“Oh! I cannot bear the idea!” exclaimed Mrs. Younge. A ridiculous whim, especially given the time of year and the unusually inclement weather, to drive about muddy fields that had been torn up by cannon balls and horses’ hooves. There might still be bodies lying about. But she soon found that she possessed no authority greater than that of her companions and two minutes decided the forming of a party for the following day.
The dinner ended with every temper ruffled for one reason or another, and the diners parted.
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Although she had not been perfectly pleased with Amaury’s conduct and there had been much to irritate and disturb her in the proceedings of the evening, Mrs. Young was on balance content. She had seen enough to create hopefulness. However at the same time that Mrs. Younge’s reflections were increasing her satisfaction, the opposite was occurring with Georgiana. She had no sooner reached her chamber than she began to feel qualms about permitting Amaury to escort them to the battle sites. Although utterly unaware that she had been delivered into the hands of her enemies, yet she suddenly doubted whether she had been too quick in receiving so familiarly an unknown young man. Her conscience told her that in accepting his presence at dinner, and then agreeing to an excursion with him, even with every excuse that events seemed to give, she had been remiss. Under other conditions his personal charms might have been delightful to her (and at this point she paused involuntarily to review them), but here and now her association with him was surely quite untenable.
That was the first head of her contrition, and the second was that she had even for an hour allowed a living man to dislodge her grief over Wickham, who still possessed her heart to a high degree. She felt her betrayal, and with a remorse that was perhaps just a little manufactured she cried aloud, “Oh! never, never!”
Misconduct regretted is not the less misconduct, and she now asked herself what was the proper penance. The answer was obvious, although queerly unappealing to her; but she determined not to see Mr. Amaury again while she was in Brussels. She instantly went to Mrs. Younge’s apartment to inform her. There she found that lady preparing herself for slumber, and she poured out to her all of her scruples, taking care not to absolve herself of any culpability.
“My dear Georgiana,” retorted Mrs. Younge, scarcely hearing her to the end, “how incomprehensible are your concerns. Though we have not known him long, I think very well of Mr. Amaury. He is a respectable young man, and his acquaintance is perfectly eligible.”
“I wish to be generous in my estimation, but really do we know very much about him? Perhaps he has a design of ingratiating himself with us, of obtaining our good opinion.”
“Oh phoo, to what end? I am certain that his motives are governed by the most proper intentions. You need not be upset about him. His manners recommend him; his very appearance vouches for his sincerity.”
“I have reason to be grateful to him,” said Georgiana slowly, “and no reason to think ill of him, it is just that –”
“Really, Georgiana, his overtures of friendship deserve a better return from you. Any person who takes good rather than evil on credit, would know how to value him. But you are resolved to think him blameable. What in the world is it that you suspect him of?”
Georgiana admitted to herself that Mrs. Younge’s words were persuasive, but still she had the sensation that there was something more than there appeared. “I can hardly tell. I do not know how to explain what makes me uneasy.”
“This is not like yourself, to be so determined in your aversion to a perfectly amiable gentleman.”
“It is not an aversion to him. But I feel that I am acting contrary to my sense of right and wrong by encouraging his – attentions to us.”
Mrs. Younge now drew herself up to her full height, expanded her proportions in all available directions and spoke with severity. “I trust you do not imagine, Georgiana, that I do not know right from wrong. I am aware, far more aware than you can be, of the risks of mixing with unequal companions. If there had been the least impropriety in asking him to dine with us, or to drive out with us tomorrow, I should instantly have been sensible of it. And now, if you do not believe my solemn assurance that your suspicions are completely idle, you will most grossly injure me.”
The reader, with all the advantage of private enlightenment, may have found Mrs. Younge’s arguments specious. But how was Georgiana to act in defiance of this declaration? Her doubts were vague and Mrs. Younge’s certainties apparently irrefutable. And how easy it is to surrender to what we in fact like! She told herself she had no choice but to capitulate. She retreated to her own room to think it all over again, reflecting that though it was impossible to feel she was acting right, yet perhaps she was acting less wrong than she had first supposed. In this point she soon felt a little relieved of her trepidation and promised herself that she would learn to do justice to Mr. Amaury’s character.
After this interview Mrs. Younge was obliged to ring for some brandy for restorative purposes. How close Georgiana had come to the truth! Who would have thought the little goose so penetrating? She and Amaury would need to tread most carefully to avoid giving away the game. The brandy arrived and shortly turned her to happier thoughts; she congratulated herself on her adept handling of the crisis, for if she had not exactly sent
Georgiana away with smiles and simpers, she had at least mortified the girl to an extent that would quell her present reservations. With a sigh of self-commendation she put herself to bed, and soon slept dreamlessly, her head wreathed in a little haze of brandy fumes.
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CHAPTER
10
London, February 1816
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The night was dark and stormy, the wind howled, and the rain beat against the windows. Just as the clock struck ten Elizabeth caught a sound like a far-off carriage. She put down her work and strained to listen. The sound drew nearer, and soon she could hear wheels approaching at an unfaltering pace. Unable to restrain foreboding, she opened a window shutter, and looking down discerned by its glaring lamps a carriage, drawn by four black and steaming horses, that was pulling up to the door. A commotion in the hall then informed her that some one had entered the house. She was touched by dreadful presentiments as she distinguished steps first on the stairs and then in the passage; rarely had she found it so difficult to be calm. There was a brief moment of terrifying quiet. Then the door was thrown open – Elizabeth was scarcely able to prevent herself from crying out! – to reveal a shadowy figure.
There stood Lady Catherine de Bourgh wrapped in travelling garments.
Elizabeth immediately attempted to repress her fears and compose herself, and stepped forward greet her aunt with the wish of appearing glad to see her. Evidently labouring under some strong emotion which she had not the least determination of repressing, Lady Catherine noticed Elizabeth with a repulsive look and gave no acknowledgement of her greeting as she entered the room, but immediately began in the following manner: “I am entirely incensed by the detestable intelligence I have received.” Casting an irate eye about the room she demanded, “Where is my nephew? I expected to find him here.”