by Meg Kerr
Elizabeth’s anxiety aroused by Lady Catherine’s preliminary remarks was painful, for it now was clear, if the unseasonable hour of her arrival had not already made it so, that she had come for no trivial reason. Increasing her efforts, however, to appear tranquil, with conspicuous civility Elizabeth expressed her concern for Lady Catherine’s health after a journey in such weather, and asked if she would draw closer to the fire and take some hot refreshment. Lady Catherine almost offensively declined doing either. “The state of my mind could find relief only in motion, and I instantly fixed on coming here, with no thought to the weather. I have never been accused of sparing myself on any occasion. But I warn you, madam, away from any attempt to gloss over this odious subject, for it concerns me closely. Anne and I are almost the nearest relations she has in the world. It is a sin of the first magnitude, and an attestation of depravity within our family, that cannot long be kept from public exposure.” Elizabeth instantly comprehended that Lady Catherine had somehow gained knowledge of the present derangement of the affairs of the Darcy family. It needed all the steadiness of her courage to appear tolerably composed.
“You and my nephew ought to know that I am not to be toyed with. Let us sit down and speak.” To no creature outside the household besides the Gardiners had Georgiana’s disappearance yet been revealed, and Darcy had been particularly desirous to keep all news of it from their aunt, as he earlier had the story of Georgiana’s meditated elopement with Wickham. No syllable of that adventure had reached Lady Catherine; how had she learned, and so quickly, of this one? And how to turn her thoughts from it? But a brief mental debate instructed her that it would be wisest to begin and end the audience as soon as possible, and she therefore indicated a chair to her guest, and seated herself across from her. With a certain desperation she picked up her work again and made a show of giving it her attention. “Speak of what, ma’am? I have not the pleasure of understanding you.”
Lady Catherine’s countenance began to darken ominously. “What! Do you claim to be ignorant of her guilt? Have I not warned that I will tolerate nothing less than complete candour from you?”
“I am quite at a loss to know what your ladyship means.”
“Aye, no doubt,” her ladyship replied in wrathful voice. “Upon my word, is this your true answer? Do you maintain that you know nothing of this crime?” Elizabeth shook her head, but her collected behaviour only seemed to increase Lady Catherine’s antagonism, and she continued. “A vile communication reached me this afternoon. Not from Darcy or even you but from persons foreign to the family! I was told that Georgiana has left all her friends – has thrown herself into the power of – in short, has eloped with … a footman! They are gone off together to Scotland.”
Elizabeth was so astonished by Lady Catherine’s words that she could not use the short space that succeeded them in an attempt to stop her, and her visitor fetched breath and went on with the full expression of her indignation. “I have never in my life been more appalled. How came my own niece to have such blunted propriety and delicacy, so to defy decency and virtue, as to enter into such a disgraceful alliance? How can she have disregarded the requirements of duty and honour in this infamous fashion? I do not overlook the fact that her brother married expressly to insult me, and no doubt she has learned from his example. Who will now connect themselves with her relations? My daughter’s engagement to Lord Marlowe is of a peculiar nature, not yet having been made public, and although I am averse to attributing to him any wish of withdrawing from it, the idea of conjoining himself to a domestic servant would without doubt be most repugnant to his sense of what is due to his noble birth. This is a humiliation beyond bearing.” Between rage and injured self-regard Lady Catherine was really in a most pitiable condition.
It was now imperative to interrupt her aunt’s articulation of her lively concern for Georgiana’s welfare, but when Elizabeth opened her lips to speak Lady Catherine raised her hand peremptorily. “I am a woman of few words, as you are aware, but I have not done. My nephew I suppose is away making some attempt to recover her, to snatch her from further vice. Renounce her and let her taste the fruits of her wantonness! Ten children in nine years, a husband always ready for liquor, and all of them living in poverty and neglect.” Lady Catherine in her anxiety for her niece had seemingly forgotten Georgiana’s fortune of thirty thousand pounds. “If he were cognizant of the family’s good he would take not the smallest step to find her. He must never receive her in his house or speak her name again. This is what I shall do, and depend upon it, I will carry my point with him. Let her be lost to the family forever!” Glowering at Elizabeth she concluded, “Now what have you to say?”
Elizabeth’s feelings were almost indescribable. She felt incredulity, relief and alarm in almost equal measures. She was shocked by the story Lady Catherine told, and wished to discredit it, but with what to replace it? The truth might turn out to be almost as bad. She scarcely felt herself equal to the scene, but forced herself to reply steadily, “I have heard nothing of this before. This is an ill-natured falsehood, a fiction that no one has a right to repeat.”
Lady Catherine seemed astounded at receiving this answer and was as nearly silenced as she had ever been in her life. “Bless me! how very strange,” she said at last in a different voice. “Do you wish me to apprehend that there is no foundation for this rumour?”
“None at all, ma’am.”
A pause ensued while Lady Catherine rearranged her thoughts. “It ought to be so, while she retains the use of her reason! Is it then certain – absolutely certain – that there has been no such flagrant indiscretion on her part?”
“Quite certain, Lady Catherine,” said Elizabeth.
Here was comfort indeed! The dawn of hope immediately soothed Lady Catherine’s mind, and she responded in a conciliating tone, “Naturally I never injured Georgiana so much as to suppose it possible. Depend upon it, there is some mistake, and a day or two will clear it all up. Yet it is odd, exceeding odd, for I had it on good authority.”
“There has been some misunderstanding, ma’am.”
“That is clear. My purpose in coming here was of course to assure you and Darcy that I had not given the least credit to this malicious gossip. I have always been particularly attached to Georgiana, and I am very glad to hear a good account of her. But where then is Darcy? Where is my niece? Let them be sent for at once.”
Elizabeth was forced to give into a falsehood of her own here; for she could of course not admit the real situation. Georgiana was, she said, paying a visit to her former governess Mrs. Younge, for whom she had retained a strong affection, and they had gone to Ramsgate; and Darcy was absent on a political matter.
“Ramsgate?” said Lady Catherine. “In February? Most peculiar. I trust she took a good warm cloak. Whom did Darcy send with her? Two men-servants at least, I presume. One cannot be too assiduous about such things; young women of her rank should always be properly attended and protected.” Elizabeth immediately grew anxious, that her ladyship would begin to enquire minutely into the particulars of Georgiana’s travel arrangements, wardrobe and accommodations, and began mentally to prepare some plausible fabrications, but fortunately her interlocutor ended her prying there and instead pronounced, “It is scandalous how this sort of tale begins and is circulated and believed, without the slightest proof of its accuracy. But as you well know I am the last person in England to give credence to a mischievous report. My influence, which is not small, shall all be used to challenge it.” Seeming delighted with her own generosity, she promised Elizabeth every assistance universally to contradict the rumour. Although Elizabeth had no fear of its spreading further through Lady Catherine’s means, for given the circumstances there was no one in whose secrecy she more confidently trusted, she suspected that the journey from Kent to London in such weather would be more likely to confirm than deny it. “And pray tell Georgiana that I give her my fondest love; but wait – when ne
xt I write to her I shall tell her so myself, and invite her to stay with us when Anne and I come up to London for the season.”
After sitting a few minutes longer, during which time Elizabeth, almost trembling with weakness from her reprieve, was fervently desiring her departure, Lady Catherine rose to take her leave. Elizabeth politely asked if she would stay the night, for the weather would certainly not permit of a return to Hunsford until the morning. Luckily Lady Catherine was not in the mood for her charity; she intended to go to her own townhouse without advance warning, and catch unaware the two servants who remained there all the year in what she imagined was their usual condition of slothfulness, grime and drink when she was not in residence.
“If my nephew were here, I would most strenuously advise him to find a husband for Georgiana, without delay,” declared Lady Catherine as she proceeded from the room. “The possession of a husband would undoubtedly prevent tales of this kind.” In this same manner she talked on while Elizabeth attended her to the door of the house. When they parted, Lady Catherine, with great condescension, presented Elizabeth with her cheek to kiss, and leaving once again her affectionate compliments for Georgiana, went away.
Elizabeth now became rather ashamed that she had, from the difficulty of the interview, been led to conceal from Lady Catherine her and Darcy’s real fears for Georgiana. It was done, however, and done out of regard for her honour. They might yet hope that her reappearance would shortly furnish a safe conclusion to and an innocent explanation for her vanishing. Yet this first example of what Georgiana’s imprudence would produce brought her additional despondency as she reflected on the distressing business. For some time after the sound of Lady Catherine’s carriage had died away, Elizabeth remained oppressed. She wished with all her heart that Darcy were at home to share the host of worries that crowded around her, but the wish was vain. After sitting in dismal seclusion for a time she took her candle and first visited the nursery where her little son and daughter were sleeping and then retired to her bedroom, where she herself had no expectation of finding sleep.
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CHAPTER
11
Brussels, February 1816
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The plain of Waterloo is superbly formed for a battlefield, being flat, expansive and almost featureless, and presenting no obstacles of consequence to a cavalry charge or an exchange of musket fire between opposing lines of soldiers. For the same reason it is less suited for a tour, especially one of a sentimental nature, there being little to look at for many miles around, particularly in winter, other than dirt.
Georgiana, with spirits ready to be nurtured on aching memories and tender recollections, had been fully intending to treasure each object that met her eye and to say to herself, “Ah, did he look upon this cottage as he passed, not knowing that he would never see it again? (Or sometimes, “thinking that he might never see it again?”, according to her mood.) She soon found that she would be reduced to treasuring clods of earth and began to find it difficult to sustain the agreeable sensation of romantic tragedy with which she had begun the outing.
As a further aggravation, the day was dry although cool and the propitious weather had brought out other parties travelling to the see the sights. Georgiana therefore was unable to wrap herself in her melancholy reflections in the solitude that is generally considered requisite for their proper enjoyment.
A barouche had been hired for the ladies, who were well wrapped up, while Amaury rode along beside them. He sat his horse with the same easy grace that informed all his other movements. Although there was no want of delicacy on his part, nothing could exceed his attentiveness to the comfort of those he was escorting.
It had been Georgiana’s intention to be perceptibly distant to him; but without such an alteration of manner from the previous evening as might provoke remonstrance from Mrs. Younge. Nevertheless, for want of anything better worth looking at her regard was finally drawn to the young man. His gaze was often turned to her, and when their eyes met Georgiana coloured and looked away.
Mrs. Younge approved of the blushes but knew that a good deal more than blushing was needed before her future security was guaranteed. “He is very handsome, is he not?” she said, nodding towards Amaury. Her question caught Georgiana just at the moment of another accidentally-traded glance and gave her a guilty start. Confused and a little rattled, she stammered that she had not given any notice to his appearance for she could think of no one but Wickham.
Mrs. Younge detected advantage in her discomposure and pressed on. “Phoo,” she said positively. “You did not see or hear from George Wickham for four years after the elopement fell through, and he has been beyond recall in his grave for another year besides.”
“But the letter he wrote to me!” protested Georgiana in dismay.
“From a dying man with muddled wits.”
Georgiana began to weep. Amaury, close enough to watch her but not to hear what was being said, looked on filled with consternation.
“There, there, my dear, don’t take on so,” said Mrs. Younge in a kinder tone. “No doubt he meant what he wrote. But that does not change my point, which is that he is gone; and furthermore, if he were still alive he would still be married to another woman. Your brother I’m sure has not given your feelings for Wickham the least sympathy since the day he sent him packing from Ramsgate, and very likely by now has chosen a husband for you. And do not imagine that he has chosen one who can in any way compare to Mr. Amaury. I daresay he has decided on a rich old man with a bald head, a yellow complexion and wattles under his chin.”
This assertion, which might have been expected to make Georgiana weep all the harder, had the contrary effect and dried her tears. Being unable to determine whether to be horrified at the thought of marrying a bald old man or to be angry at Mrs. Younge for destroying the maudlin atmosphere she had intended to cultivate, she quite forgot to cry.
“It’s my belief that young man means to please you,” added the elder lady. “It would not do you the slightest harm to let him. Excessive grief is wicked, especially in the young.” Georgiana made no reply to this presumptuous comment and gathering her dignity about her sat in offended silence for some time. She was careful not to look at Amaury again.
When they stopped at the village of Quatre Bras their barouche was soon surrounded with peasants offering for sale mementoes of the battle – shattered swords, bayonets and shot and even officers’ epaulets. (Georgiana shuddered to think how they had come by them; Amaury knew, for he had witnessed the harvest after the battle.) Screaming to the ladies and brandishing their goods they prevented the carriage from proceeding, and even though Mrs. Younge repeatedly ordered the driver to move on the horses could make no headway. But Amaury’s gallantry was on the alert and he drove off the attackers in fine style. He was full of exhilaration, certain that his fortunes were changing.
At Hougoumont they first passed through the woods, where every tree is pierced with cannon-balls, and then came to the Chateau itself, or rather its ruin, for what the cannonade did not accomplish, a fire had completed. The three travellers contemplated the mournful scene, where British glory had been purchased by so much of its sons’ blood, and then Amaury dismounted and assisted the two ladies from their carriage.
They walked about, and Amaury saw that Georgiana was guarded, was determined to draw back from that slight intimacy she had gradually been led into the previous evening. But to him she was worth a great exercise of patience. He was irreproachably polite to both of them and refrained from showing any additional attention to Georgiana that might distress her. His manners were so perfectly civil that it was impossible for her not to be civil to him in return.
Amaury told them the Chateau had been furiously attacked by a large body of the French, for from its elevation it had commanded an extensive part of the British position, and was an important target of the enemy. As they looked on the desolation Georgiana tried to imagine Wickham and the other soldiers as they courageously defended the property. Naturally her ideas bore no resemblance whatsoever to what had happened on the day of the battle; she found it next to impossible to picture Wickham anywhere other than in a drawing room, a dining room or a garden. She felt a greater distance from him here than in England or even at the burial ground, and it frightened her.
Covertly observing her, Amaury sensed a little of what she was feeling, and proposed that they look at the garden that lay beyond the house, where the rose bushes and the fruit trees had remained undamaged. Because the earth was very uneven he offered her his arm, adapting his attentiveness to her to the exigencies of the situation, and after evident indecision she took it. Mrs. Younge, convinced that a little time alone with Amaury would have some persuasive effect on Georgiana, said that she did not want to break an ancle and would wait for them in the carriage. Georgiana was just preparing to be alarmed by this betrayal and to decline to accompany Amaury by herself when she remembered that she was angry with Mrs. Younge; and at the same instant Amaury gave her a look of such simple entreaty, that she was mollified. They walked towards the garden and as they did Amaury talked of unimportant things. He lost no ground with her, and her intentions grew less chilly; a few minutes more of his faultless politeness and she became increasingly easy with him.