by Meg Kerr
“He has said nothing of this to me!”
“He mentioned it to me just today, before I felt unwell; it was what we were discussing when you came in – it gave me such jolt! Well, well, my dear, he does not wish to marry her, so there’s no need to scowl at me so. And I’ve no doubt that your brother already has someone in mind for you as well. Do you think he will simply give up his arrangements for your asking?”
“Yes! for he loves me and wants me to be happy.”
“I am certain he wishes your happiness,” said Mrs. Young in an indulgent tone, “and so must any one who knows you. But there can be more than one opinion as to what is most likely to produce it, and you may find yourself at odds with him. And as for Mr. Amaury’s relatives, who knows what means they may try to ensure the marriage of their choice?”
Georgiana looked excessively troubled.
“Why risk that happiness?” continued Mrs. Younge. “You exchange inevitability of it, if you wed immediately here in Brussels, for insecurity and misery if you wait for two families to agree. You need no one’s permission. You are twenty and free to marry, and your fortune is your own when you are twenty-one. Think about it, my dear, I will say nothing further now.”
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And so the evening to come was under the influence of Amaury’s decision to relieve Georgiana of her virtue, and of Georgiana’s newly-instilled fear that Amaury would be torn away from her, in addition to the normal impact on each of mad love.
At the theatre Georgiana and Amaury were both unusually quiet, although they frequently sought each other with their eyes, and their hands met when Mrs. Younge was distracted by events on the stage. Their reserve continued until they were once again in the sitting room at the hotel and Mrs. Younge had briefly gone out of the room.
Amaury, now that he had determined on a course of action, immediately began the execution of its first phase. He took hold of Georgiana’s hand with both of his and raised it to his lips; and then drawing her gently to him he kissed her mouth three or four times with great gentleness. Georgiana was not at all alarmed by these advances. She made no resistance to him and let him do as he desired. Her only anxiety was that Mrs. Younge might re-enter suddenly and find her in Amaury’s arms. But when she came back she found the lovers sedately occupying opposite sides of the room as if there had been no amorous interlude, thanks to Amaury’s keen hearing and quick reflexes. Georgiana took care not to come too near the fire or the candles, for fear that Mrs. Younge would see in her eyes the glow of love that was in her breast.
Soon she announced that it was time for her and Georgiana to retire, and they both bade Amaury good night. But as Amaury bowed over Georgiana’s hand with artful management he contrived to whisper to her that she must come back for there was something he had to say to her. She waited impatient inside the door of her chamber until she heard Mrs. Younge safely in hers, and then slipped out to Amaury, not considering what was before her or knowing how imminent her ruin.
Amaury came to her as soon as she was in the room. “Georgiana, I am in love with you,” he said. She was very willing to hear him, and suddenly he was making violent love to her, proclaiming his passion and declaring that he would die if she refused him. Georgiana could not respond; but Amaury did not want her to talk. Departing so far from every honourable feeling, even from the common decorum of a gentleman, he took hold of her, clasped her around the waist and began to kiss her eagerly, until he was stopping her very breath and she could hardly remain upright. Indeed she would have fallen had she not been locked in his arms, pressed to his ribs. Still on fire with his first assault, her astonishment and perplexity decreased as he took these barbarously insolent freedoms with her, and her struggles against him were brief, if indeed they existed at all. Even then she had not sense enough to try to avoid her fate. Instead of acting as virtue and honour required, instead of striving to avoid destruction, she began to return him kiss for kiss, the friendly darkness emboldening her. He then took the liberty of thrusting his hand in her bosom, an affront at which Georgiana demonstrated her resentment by re-doubling the fervour of her kisses. She seemed to have not the least hesitation to assist in her own undoing. No longer in doubt about the capabilities of her – heart, or that she was completely under his ascendancy, he knew that the business could be accomplished within five minutes.
A wolf has no aspiration to heroism, or to the satisfaction of carrying out a difficult task. He would not rather attack a lion than a lamb, and if the lamb meekly offers her throat for the sacrifice he does not spare her in the conviction that he ought to work harder for his dinner.
That Amaury intended to do what is called the worst is entirely certain and that Georgiana would have granted what is called the last favour is little less so. What a strange revolution of mind therefore that Amaury should have drawn back! But he was overcome by a feeling of tenderness unlike anything he had known before. What a miracle it was to be loved by such a pure and modest girl, to excite her virginal ardours! Five minutes were not enough to initiate her into the pleasures of love. She must be allowed to savour at length her weakness in his embrace, and at last admit the ecstasy of defeat. They must marry, and he must find another method to persuade her than that of robbing her of her precious innocence. With some difficulty therefore he put Georgiana from him, holding her at arm’s length while both endeavoured to regain breath; and with yet greater difficulty he persuaded her to withdraw from him and go to her room, promising that they would meet early on the morrow.
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CHAPTER
14
Brussels, February 1816
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Even if he still retained doubts about Georgiana’s immediate acceptance of his offer Amaury’s infatuation had grown too wild for forbearance, and the next morning he entered the ladies’ sitting room before they had finished their breakfast. Mrs. Younge’s third cup of tea was agony to him, and although it is possible that she was employing it as a form of torture rather than refreshment, she could not indefinitely ignore the signs of his excitement or his signals requesting her expeditious departure. When she finally rose, murmuring the conventional phrases, she did not wait to make certain that Georgiana, who had risen also, was following her.
With Mrs. Younge scarcely out the door, Amaury drew close to Georgiana and said, “Do you not go just yet, stay with me.”
She, hoping for a repeat of last evening’s performance, must have been disappointed when he merely clasped her hand and led her back to her seat. He was in the middle of his proposal, before she guessed why he had detained her. She did not, however, long remain insensible of his drift, and her heart was so full and her senses so engulfed, that she could listen but imperfectly even when he described his regard, solicited (without any display of doubt) its return, and made known his wish that they be joined forever, and without any unnecessary delay. “They could marry at once – what should prevent them?” He would obtain the licence, they could seize their bliss immediately – straightway – tomorrow. He pressed hard for her answer.
The impact on Georgiana of the previous night’s episode had not lessened as she slept and she did not try to vanquish the thrill his declarations excited. The change of her colouring and her expression were enough to assure him of her acquiescence before she spoke a word. The idea of becoming Amaury’s dearest companion was a most irresistible lure, and in an instant it was a done thing; she consented to become his wife on the following day. Never had his handsome face expressed more elation, never had his eye been more exulting. He spoke with words delicious to her beyond telling of his devotion, and offered such moving descriptions of what his love for her was, and was to be, that her
heart bounded with ravishment. “But let me talk no more of my own joy,” he ended, “for from this day forward I will think only of yours.”
Georgiana’s transports she soon found too great to share with even their author, and with brilliant cheeks and floating step she glided to her own chamber to wrap herself in them. Her mind was bewitched, her emotions ablaze.
When she was gone, unable to still himself Amaury swaggered about the room. He felt as if he could do anything, and had to prevent himself from cutting capers. His exhilaration of mood might be exceptional, but his thoughts, being creatures of habit unused to restraint, were running still along a well-trodden path: to have persuaded one formed to shine in the highest circles of society, to marry him – what a victory! His confidence, how justified! The accomplishment of his purpose, how adroit! Within hours the ceremony would take place, and he would within a year command a fortune of thirty thousand pounds (for despite Mrs. Younge’s warning, he was convinced of remaining Georgiana’s husband). He would have as much of everything as he wanted; every profligate luxury. The prosperous way was now his.
Here he stopped abruptly, amazed and even repelled by his own reflections. For what did any of this matter, when he would have Georgiana as his wife? In her he placed his whole fulfilment. He would find Paradise with her in a small cottage, nay a stone hut or a cave! Water would be fragrant as wine, taken at her side, and coarse bread as nourishing as beef. In this he was quite deluded, unless the idyll were of shortest duration in fairest weather, but his epiphany may be regarded more as a metaphysical affair than a design for domestic living.
He had now reached the pinnacle of his celebration. And there his foothold began to slip. As a climber moving upward feels first the smallest pebbles and then the larger stones sliding away beneath him, until he becomes aware that nothing can prevent his imminent fall, Amaury progressively experienced the realization that every advancing step he took with Georgiana held increasing danger. For some time having had no better precepts to guide him than self-preservation and hedonism, he was a worldly and disingenuous man, hardened and brazen. He had until this moment been truly unconcerned about his and Georgiana’s future together, thinking only as far as the culmination of the scheme with Mrs. Younge. He had judged himself uncommonly clever. But now he glanced at some lurking thing, of which prudence had heretofore discouraged scrutiny – the awareness that, within success, so replete with every advantage, so promising for his own pleasure, lay the ominous threat of failure. The secrets that light as a feather he had guarded from Georgiana now started to weigh on him, and the conclusion of a hoax that had guaranteed Utopia, now revealed it veering towards a very different destination. Misgivings that he had earlier thrust aside crowded around him; a commotion of contrary feelings started to toss him about.
Growing increasingly restless, he engaged his energies in pacing back and forth. He dreaded to be honest with himself; but a reckoning suddenly could no longer be put off, and he was unable to prevent his thoughts from coalescing. As they did he ceased to notice the heat that rose from the fire, or the chill that pierced the window. He had not connived with Mrs. Younge for wealth alone; his primary inducement from the first had been to obtain Georgiana’s esteem. He cherished a very powerful affection for her. And she loved him, of that he was certain – at present. But what of lasting love would belong to them, if she were to discover that they had been brought together by the fraud of two rogues who had played on her trusting nature? Was it her character to love without principles? His reflexive answer, that by his dexterity he could keep from her every particular relative to his wooing of her, he immediately recognized as fallacious. In one way or another they would make themselves known. Even if he had intimidated Mrs. Younge into permanent discretion he could not hope for ever, or even for long, to conceal from Georgiana after they landed in England as man and wife the unsavoury beginnings of their relationship.
He grew sensible that nothing less than complete understanding between them, most perfect mutual trust and confidence, as Georgiana had said, could make the basis of a happy marriage. And at the same time he became conscious that there was no one more than Georgiana whose knowledge of his wrongdoing would so wound and mortify him. To have his dishonesty laid bare to her struck terror into him, and even the self-admiration in which he had just been immersed could not sufficiently convince him that her partiality would be able to survive the blow of such a disclosure. Like a dream it would fade on her awakening to the world.
How swift punishment had been in descending on him in his triumph! When Georgiana knew the truth nothing could acquit him. His dealings with her had been such as she could never forgive or forget. He could easily conjecture her feelings, how they would turn from warmth to detestation of a relationship with him. Her virtue, her sense of honour would revolt from the alliance. How long would it be before his very name was a torment to her to pronounce? She must abominate and despise him as a liar, seducer and deceiver, her love for him must become something like hatred. Their few blessed days together would become to her a ceaseless source of regret. Even though his regard was sincere, and his future conduct towards her would (he had sworn to himself) be exemplary, he could not be cleared of culpability in his pursual of her, and he became convinced that he could never by any means restore himself to her former good opinion.
And yet he was persuaded that their union, the impediment of its origin aside, must have been one of greatest felicity. In this season of love he had learned to believe that she was exactly the woman who would best suit him. And he believed no less that his qualities and temperament would supply all her requirements. But at this moment he knew that although he loved he did not deserve Georgiana by any other calculation.
He was now enduring the twin misfortunes of remorse and repentance which are the natural consequence, in one who is not utterly lost to decency, of the injudicious use of talents. His mood was excessively different from what it had been a mere half-hour ago. All sense of achievement faded and he began to abhor his accomplishment. “How could I have been more wretchedly blind!” he cried aloud.
What was he to do? To forgo Georgiana now, having just won her, seemed an exertion of goodness too great to be undertaken. He measured what he expected to gain in going through with a marriage against what he must lose if he did so. Ought he to attempt to make her see the truth? If he endeavoured to undeceive her as to their past but reassure her as to the years ahead, would she believe him? But he felt that he had not the courage, the effrontery, to explain the circumstances that had led up to their engagement. Should he wed her and then carry out the plan as conceived by Mrs. Younge, offering his assent to an annulment in exchange for money? This notion was too repulsive to him to merit examination. Detestable as such an act must be, what if he were simply to vanish? This idea he rejected out of hand under the influence of a sharp and sympathetic pain for Georgiana’s distress should he pursue that horrific course.
With no one to confide in about what he had done and what he now felt – had Molly not tried to warn him? but he had refused to understand her, and she was now gone – his thoughts were jarring and discordant. He had never felt anything like this before. The tumult of his mind was almost unbearable. The necessity of taking some action remained urgent but it was as if all his ideas and strength had failed him. He condemned and upbraided himself but he felt competent to move neither forward nor backward. The situation seemed beyond remedy.
He had reached no conclusion about what to do or say when Georgiana swept blithely back into the room. She was at once struck by the difference between his present attitude and what it had been formerly, the excessive perturbation of his whole person. The change was unmistakable, could not be doubted. What had caused it? Gaiety forsook her.
She went to him in great anxiety. “What is it, what is amiss?”
He was silent, suffering at this instant more than the utmost stretch of Georgiana’s imagination could c
omprehend.
“You are in some difficulty! Tell me – do not persist in this reticence.”
He forced himself to speak. In a voice of great agitation he said, “I have something to communicate, to confess, to you.” He could say no more. He had to stop to recover himself, even from such innocuous words.
“What is it? Do not be afraid, you may tell me.” Every second was increasing her own apprehension.
“It is something which must – deprive me of your affection.”
The sort of despairing calmness with which this was said chilled Georgiana, but she replied earnestly, “How can you believe that any thing would ever deprive you of my affection?”
He knelt before her and took her hands in his, kissed first one and then the other. “Georgiana, I love you to the depths of my being, but you cannot, you must not, marry me.”
A hideous pause took place. She knew not how to take his decree. Yet she had such a sick feeling as made her tremble and left her nearly unable to stand. “No!” she protested. “I will not listen.” She pulled her hands away from his and sank down into the nearest chair.
Seeing her look so ill and forlorn he was obliged to rise and move away from her, to walk to the opposite wall, expecting every second that she might faint, but not daring to remain near her for her assistance. His countenance showed that he strongly partook of the emotion which was overwhelming Georgiana; an observer might have thought him as likely to need the aid that he could not offer her. Without turning he said in the most distinct voice he could summon, “I have conspired to deprive you of your virtue and your fortune.”
Suspicion of Amaury’s integrity could not be more unnatural to Georgiana. So stricken was she that she was unable to answer immediately except by turning ghostly white. “It cannot be,” she said at last, the tears beginning to stream from her eyes. “You are not telling the truth. Do not mistreat me so! I cannot bear it!”