Devotion

by Meg Kerr

  As there seemed to be no feasible plan for locating and retrieving Georgiana, Darcy and Lord Tyrconnell now turned to lamenting their carelessness as guardians of Georgiana, for it was evident that they had failed to acquaint themselves with her character, which was only now being made known to them by this dreadful occurrence. How clear their deficiency, how serious their mismanagement! Elizabeth, although feeling that the crucial fault had lain with Georgiana’s father and his peculiar notion that two bachelor gentlemen would in any way make suitable guardians of a young lady, could scarcely help holding herself accessory, for surely she had had both the knowledge and the opportunity (had she made a greater effort) to understand Georgiana’s qualities and interior thoughts, even though she had possessed no jurisdiction over her. Self-reproach however did nothing to bring Georgiana home or to relieve the misery she was occasioning her family, and they soon enough abandoned it to sit in disconsolate quiet.

  Lord Tyrconnell’s own most recent experience of Ramsgate had been of sailing thence when it had been the port of embarkation for the Army during Napoleon’s last one hundred days. After several minutes he picked up the thread of the mystery again. “She can scarcely have taken ship,” he said standing and walking about the room.

  “There is no question of that,” said Darcy.

  “She took no luggage with her,” reminded Elizabeth. “She would be unlikely to visit acquaintances on the Continent without a trunk.”

  “There is no one she knows on the Continent,” said Darcy.

  There was a cogitative intermission.

  “That is not true,” said Kitty suddenly in a clear voice.

  “What is not true?”

  “She does know someone on the Continent. She knows someone in Brussels. She knows George Wickham.”

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  CHAPTER

  13

  Brussels, February 1816

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  After the tour of the battlefields, Amaury had come to Georgiana and Mrs. Younge every day and been included in all of their activities. Very soon repeated meetings conquered the last of Georgiana’s reserve. He was always vigilant to be appealing and entertaining, and no man could have been more so. His features, and his manners which adorned his person with every requisite charm, she could compare only to those of one other, who was now gone. Within two or three days all the dangerous familiarity of a long acquaintance had been established and Georgiana lost her shyness and revealed her open and affectionate disposition.

  With Mrs. Younge a complacent presence in the background, Amaury and Georgiana talked together – the happy chat of complete ease – and read together; walked together; played cards and draughts together. Georgiana’s mind was placid and her enjoyment of their time together untainted. His society became her greatest pleasure, as hers had already become his.

  In their conversations he did not again allude to Rosings or Kent, or the de Mérode family. He shrank from deliberate mendacity when speaking to Georgiana, a peculiar fastidiousness given that everything about him not visible to the eye was a sham. But then, there was puzzle enough about John Amaury that its resolution must have required Mr. Hume to write another volume in his treatise on human nature.

  His continued attentions, deftly tailored by love abetted by artifice, to the gentleness and delicacy of her nature, produced in Georgiana feelings that were impossible for her to oppose. And so it was that the “pleasing plague” rushed over her. Never had she felt greater rapture in the matchless sensation. Amaury, with all the sharp perception of a lover (or a predator, for sometimes there may be little to distinguish between the two) saw it immediately, and rejoiced. You may be excused for thinking that his gratification lay in the near-assured fruition of his strategy for affluence; but you would be deceived. The exultation was in his heart and it generated an increase of love on his side. They ascended into that condition where each sees perfection in, and thinks only of the other. To Georgiana’s eye, Amaury was all that a lover ought to be, everything that her imagination represented as having the force to attach her. In him were united beauty, intelligence, gallantry and fond, considerate behaviour. He seemed exactly fashioned to engage her heart. And this of course was quite true. The only quibble is that Georgiana believed that God had fashioned him, whereas in reality it had been two lesser entities: Mrs. Younge and Amaury himself. But with love taking the place of experience, she had no doubts about him. She would never have believed that he was steeped in villainy.

  To Amaury, Georgiana was flawless. The loveliness of her face and form was a continuous delight to him, but he loved also her elegance and her cultivation, her delicate sense of honour, her ingenuous candour and her empathetic understanding.

  Their fascination with each other was, naturally, congenial to Mrs. Younge but her contentment shortly turned to irritation, for while the lovers would willingly have extended this initial period of felicity forever, she saw it only as the prelude to their marriage, which could not come too speedily. When nearly a week had passed with no arrogant announcement from Amaury or coy confession from Georgiana, she began to feel impatience and sought an opportunity to confer privately with the gentleman. Beckoning to him to remain in the sitting room after Georgiana had retired to her chamber to ready herself for a walk she closed the door. “I must speak to you. Sit down while you hear what I have to say.”

  When Amaury, giving her a disparaging look, demonstrated not the smallest appetite for obeying her order she was a little provoked, and added with acerbity, “I will not detain you long.”

  He assumed a negligent pose, leaning against the mantel of the fireplace. “You have my full concentration, ma’am.”

  “If my question is impertinent, I beg your pardon, but pray, when may I wish you joy? Have you asked her to be your wife yet?”

  “No, I have not.”

  “Why not? What are you waiting for?” She now spoke with extraordinary animation. “We have been in Brussels close to a fortnight. We must not try her too long; she may hear some vilifying report of you, and her family may trace her at any moment. And who is to pay our hotel bill while you play pat-a-cake with her?”

  “I am waiting until I am positive she will not refuse me.”

  “Refuse you! Are you out of your senses?” Mrs. Younge’s surprise was unbounded. “It is not possible that she could refuse you. You have nothing to do but make your addresses. With abilities such as yours, and a disposition such as hers, you have it completely under your control to secure her all your own tomorrow.”

  “I have the very highest respect for your opinion, but I differ from you in this. I will not act precipitately.”

  Mrs. Younge made no attempt to conceal her exasperation. “I have never in my life seen a young woman so desperately in love as Miss Darcy. I hope from the bottom of my heart that you will not keep her, or me, waiting much longer.”

  “Only a week ago she declared she would dedicate her life to the memory of George Wickham. Our acquaintance is new, our attachment recent. She is not able so soon to transfer her fidelity from him, and to become used to the idea of being in love with another man.”

  “Phoo!” said Mrs. Younge, highly incensed. Not only was she less willing than Amaury to trust to long allowances of time: this was, after all, the second affair through which she had shepherded Georgiana and felt she had a claim to grasp the workings of her mind. “What you say is absurd. I thought you had too much good sense to make foolish romantic difficulties. Ask her, and her acceptance must be as sure as your offer.”

  Mrs. Young was very likely right in her estimation, and Amaury very likely knew it. Yet he felt an unwillingness to hurrying the progress of his courtship. He had
an instinctive awareness that he and Georgiana existed in a perfect point of time, which instead of being enhanced might wither with any alteration. To such a feeling, predictably, he would never confess, and his reply was brusque.

  “I must use my own judgment in this venture. There is only one chance of success and I will not risk it on less than my own certainty. And,” he added, delivering her a razor-sharp stare, “I will accept no interference from you. You have led the girl to me; your role is finished. You must now be silent.”

  No woman likes to be told that she must be silent, and Mrs. Younge liked it even less from this young man whom she still viewed (perhaps injudiciously) as her instrument. “But if I were to speak there is much I could tell, do you not think? You would be wise to recollect my entire knowledge of you.”

  Amaury regarded her coldly. “You prove my contention. The only outcome you can achieve is a Pyrrhic victory. If I lose Georgiana, we both lose her.” He drew himself erect and took a sudden step towards her, causing her to stumble backwards. “If our plan succeeds I will honour our agreement; you will receive your reward. But I warn you to check your tongue in the future as well as the present.”

  A second injunction to be silent! – this was not to be borne by a woman of such mettle as Mrs. Younge, and she pitched into the fray. “I shall use my tongue as I see fit, sir, without any reference to your permission! I have never met with such insolence. Who do you think you are, to talk to me in this way?”

  The young man’s handsome countenance grew hard. “I will speak only once,” he said very quietly. “If you cannot restrain yourself, I will do it for you.” He held her gaze for a long minute, an excessively long minute it seemed to Mrs. Younge as she gradually absorbed his meaning and felt sprout the seeds of genuine fear. Her heart began to beat heavily and her head to grow light, her knees quaked and she feared she would fall.

  “Mrs. Younge, whatever is the matter?” exclaimed Georgiana entering the room. “You look so pale.”

  “She has taken a sudden turn,” said Amaury, dexterously catching Mrs. Younge as she began to sink towards the floor, and moving her to the sopha. “Do you have smelling salts?”

  “No, I never need them. But here is some wine,” she said, hastily pouring out a quarter of a glass and bringing it to the ailing lady. “Dear Mrs. Younge, shall I ring for a servant? The hotel will send for an apothecary.”

  “It is nothing, nothing,” she managed to say. “A drop of wine will restore me.” She took the contents of the glass in one swallow and held it out to Georgiana. “A little more, if you please. Fill it up, my dear, it will do me good.” Georgiana remained solicitously by Mrs. Younge while she drained the second glass, and then a third. “Amaury, we must give up our walk this afternoon, I am afraid. She is too ill for us to forsake.” Indeed the poor lady was beginning to look oddly dazed, wobbling her head about on the sopha arm in a rather peculiar manner and instigating in her attendant fear of an apopleptic seizure.

  But Mrs. Younge would not hear of it. The idea of an afternoon in close quarters with Amaury did not promote at all the re-establishment of her good health, and her repeated although somewhat slurred statements that she wished to be left alone to rest soon had their effect on Georgiana who, after all, was in love and not with Mrs. Younge. The young people, with many parting instructions that she should not exert herself, try to sleep, take a little more wine, ring for a servant at need, quitted the apartment and she was left to her own woolly reflections. What was there for her to do? Nothing, she concluded rather indistinctly, but to submit. And on this conclusion she fell asleep.

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  Mrs. Younge’s remarks had at least this effect on Amaury, that he repeated them to Molly when he joined her in their room that evening, before he returned to the hotel to escort the ladies to the theatre. He had from the beginning completely confided in her and she listened now with bowed head. When he had done she said, “But that old woman is right, Johnny. What are you waiting for? If you was only half as handsome, and her only half as much in love, you would be safe. Is there a girl in the world who would have the heart to say no, if you asked her to love you and marry you?”

  “She is not like other girls.”

  “You mean she is not like me. You are right – she is too good for you.”

  “She is too good for me,” said Amaury, falling precipitously into one of those lover’s waking swoons that produce rhapsodic visions. “She is infinitely my superior. I had not known before that such a being could exist. There is something of the angel in her.” He began to extoll her beauty and grace, but he dwelt on them no more than on her exquisite modesty and purity, her gentle and compassionate manners, her openness and honesty.

  “I think you are fairly caught, Johnny,” was her observation when he finally came to a halt.

  “Molly, I am immovably convinced that her hold over my heart will never abate. And Mrs. Younge’s wicked designs will be turned to good, for I will make certain that Miss Darcy never has reason to regret our meeting. To ensure her happiness will be the reason for my existence.” He had transitorily quite forgotten that to spend her money was a strongly competing reason and his companion did not presume to remind him of it.

  “A wife that you love will be the luckiest woman in the world,” said Molly almost to herself. Raising her voice she added, “But think how afraid her family must be, and how hard they are searching for her. When they come for her, that’s that for you.”

  “That is true.” He stood thoughtful for a time. “You would advise me to secure her as swiftly as possible? What if she at first reject my offer though? There will be no time for a second courting.”

  Molly had full experience of women, and through her guilty connections, of gentlemen’s methods of doing business with them. “You call her an angel, but she is not. She is a natural human creature. You are making the work too difficult – you are acting like there is no kind of love but the wedded kind.”

  “What are you saying? You would have me take her virtue by force?”

  “You don’t know how easy that trifle is to be had, even from a fine lady! Catch her alone – all’s over after the first plunge, and she will forget about her dead soldier before you button up your trousers. Beg her forgiveness and tell her you’ll make her an honest woman at the nearest church.”

  There was sense in Molly’s suggestion, for consummation before the marriage, as it were, would have as much, and more timely, effect in sealing the union as consummation after. And such were his habits that he thought little of mixing evil with good, and he now began to fire his inclination. The infinitely superior angel was after all a lovely nubile maiden. “Perhaps you are right,” he said slowly. And then more quickly, “I believe I will carry out your plan, Molly, tonight if I can. Tomorrow you shall hear what happened.”

  “Ah, Johnny, I won’t be here when you come back.”

  Amaury studied her. After a moment he said, “You are leaving Brussels?”

  “Yes.” Then she cried, “Johnny, come with me! What you are doing is wrong, it can lead to no good. It is not too late to stop.”

  “Oh Molly, it is much too late,” he said with a smile. “My soul is hers now.” She turned away from him, sorrow written in every line of her form. “Will you write to me when you have found a place? The hotel will give you my next address.”

  “Yes, Johnny, I will send word to you.”

  Thus, with so few words to end their association, the two parted and Molly went her own way.

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  By coincidence, while Molly and Amaury were engaged in a tête-à-tête, so too were Mrs. Younge and Georgiana. On awaking the former had quickly revised her conclusion that there was naught to do but yield to Amaury’s domination and so, counting on Georgiana’s discretion not to mention to him anything she might say, she initiated a conversation at the earliest
opportunity.

  “Georgiana, my dear, I rejoice for you.”

  Georgiana coloured becomingly. “I do not understand what you mean.”

  Mrs. Younge enlightened her. “I cannot have a doubt as to Mr. Amaury’s intentions; they are as clear as glass.”

  “He has been very kind to me,” murmured Georgiana, flustered.

  “And soon he will be kinder still, I am sure. My dearest Georgiana, he is giving you every display of regard of which he is capable, and you may well feel pride in creating such a preference – he is very well worth catching. It is quite a triumph for you to win a man who must be contested for by so many. You cannot have failed to notice the glances he gathers even from the most refined and elegant ladies. I have never seen his equal for good looks or amiability. And think how delighted your family will be when they learn of his respectable descent and his excellent income, and of his long connexion with Rosings! Such an alliance will never cause any embarrassment, and offers nothing but advantage. I say only the truth when I tell you that when he makes an offer it will be your duty to accept it.”

  Georgiana’s colour deepened. “I hope – when we are at home once more – to ask my brother’s leave to introduce Mr. Amaury to him.”

  “My dear Georgiana, how absurd you are. I knew your espousal was ordained from the first time I saw you together. A bond between the two of you is as desirable as it is natural. But what is this talk of home and introductions? Here in Brussels every thing is perfectly simple: you love each other and you wish to marry.” The hue of Georgiana’s cheeks approached scarlet, but she did not try to restrain her beatific smile. “But once return to England and what will ensue? Mr. Amaury’s family have chosen a wife for him –”