by Meg Kerr
He now looked at her and with a face as pallid as her own he continued. “So far from knowing me, you have been in a most perfect error with respect to my character and intentions, until now. If you do not believe what I tell you, you must address yourself to Mrs. Younge, who has been from the beginning my accomplice in this deception.”
She could rather have believed that every creature in the universe was leagued against her, than believe him capable of the wickedness he was acknowledging. She wanted some other motive for his present conduct. But he would not take pity on her or himself; he pressed ahead with his confession of what he had done.
“How can you be so cruel to me!” she exclaimed when he ceased speaking.
“It is not my wish to be cruel.”
Covering her eyes with her handkerchief, she cried out with an agony, that would have been stronger still, had she not with the discernment of one who loves witnessed that shame in him which spoke so strongly of a consciousness of his own misconduct. Suddenly she was wildly urgent to be gone. She rushed at the door as fast as an unremitting flow of tears would permit, uncaring who might see her.
He did not entreat her to stay, though to part with her broke his heart. “Georgiana, I love you!” he called after her, and although she heard him, his words did not slow her flight and she ran down the passageway to her apartment. An impassable chasm had opened between them.
He then gave way to his own burst of tears, which was scarcely less passionate than Georgiana’s.
The distress in which Georgiana had quitted the room did not diminish. Every part of Amaury’s revelation brought anguish and humiliation. He had previously made her the happiest of human beings, and now he had made her the most wretched. The annihilation of every thing she most desired! His attentions to her solely and hatefully mercenary! How she could have been so naïve!
She looked back as well as she could in her present sorrow; but the beginning was all chaos now; and her loss was such as left no opening for the comfort of understanding. She was at times in a wordless gasping grief, too much hurt even for tears; but her silence was repeatedly broken by sobbing. She did not know whether hours or minutes had passed, when she imagined she heard her brother’s voice speaking to a servant at the door of her chamber. Then came a knock, and the door opened without an interval for the request of admittance to be granted, and Darcy walked into the room.
She jumped up. “Forgive me, forgive me,” she wailed, throwing her arms round his neck; she could then only utter, “Take me away, I beg you. Take me away from here! I must go home,” before her voice was entirely lost in sobs.
Darcy without speaking kissed her very fondly several times. They departed from Brussels as soon as a fresh conveyance could be brought to the door of the hotel.
As to the iniquitous pair left behind, when Mrs. Younge shortly thereafter went seeking Georgiana she found her apartment empty. A little unsettled she went on to the sitting room where she had left her with Amaury, and there she found him still, bent in dumb misery over the remains of the fire. He glanced up on her coming in. He looked very unwell, and was evidently suffering under intense emotions.
Mrs. Younge was almost too much astonished to speak, and an interval succeeded before she said, “What in Heaven’s name has happened?’
“Leave me; get out,” he said in a tone so dangerous that the lady, in spite of her now frenzied curiosity, hastily retreated.
“Georgiana!” he whispered, and passed his hand across his eyes.
Mrs. Younge was left the victim of the most frightful suppositions, which in due course were removed, and replaced with some awareness of the facts. When she learned that Georgiana had been found and taken away by Darcy, it could hardly be said which of the two of them, she or Amaury, was devastated most. Her torment was a little relieved however by the discovery that Darcy had paid her hotel bill as well as Georgiana’s.
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Volume
II
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CHAPTER
15
Meryton Area, February 1816
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Miss Penelope Harrington, as has been previously noted, lived in a house that in the remote past had been named Beaulieu, a name now reduced, through time and the action of the English tongue on the French language, to Bewley. Bewley was about two miles from Meryton and in near proximity to the high road.
Harriet and Penelope Harrington were the daughters of a gentleman of antique lineage, of steadily declining income and tastes incompatible with that condition, and of a lady who had brought to her husband abundant beauty and six thousand pounds that were run through even before her untimely death. Mr. and Mrs. Harrington had meant to provide sufficiently for their children and it had been their intention to lay by the six thousand pounds for their dowries when they reached marriageable age. Letters of settlement had been drawn up for the purpose but there had been just such a laxity of language in the terms that the borrowing of small amounts of the capital from time to time was not completely prohibited, and the failing to repay the borrowed sums was not absolutely censured by the trustees. When the full six thousand pounds had been run through Mr. Harrington had intended to set aside a sum from his income annually for their support should they be orphaned; but this plan was wrecked on the usual rocks – hunters and carriage horses, servants’ wages, cases of port, silk cravats and fine muslin gowns. In short, when Mr. Harrington breathed his last his grieving co-heiresses found themselves very much in debt. The close carriage and horses had to be sold, the servants were dismissed save for a house maid and gardener, and the silver found its way to a jeweller in London who was pleased to pay Miss Harrington one quarter the amount for which he could sell it.
The Misses Harrington had been intimate acquaintances of Miss Lydia Bennett before her marriage to George Wickham, which is to say that they had met three or four times a week – in Meryton at the milliner’s shop, or at Miss Watson’s, or Clarke’s library (although not for the reading material it contained) and otherwise in their respective houses, and those of forbearing neighbours – for the purpose of talking about, and if good fortune favoured them, gazing at and perhaps even speaking with, handsome young men. As Meryton was at that time blessed by the presence of a militia regiment the girls had a good supply of young men at hand, and being silly and ignorant they made the most of their opportunities. Their fun lay in flirting with the militia officers, when flirting was to be had, but they did not scorn other forms of entertainment, such as dressing up a young officer in woman’s clothes on purpose to pass for a lady.
Lydia Bennet at sixteen had been well-grown, with a fine complexion but Pen at fourteen had had features rather unformed, and an undistinguished figure. She disliked needlework and was not especially fond of books or practising her music, but in addition to tagging along after Lydia and Harriet she liked dancing and horseback riding, and when she could not get those, running and walking about her father’s lands. She had, in other words, strong limbs, good wind, and a head about as empty as Lydia Bennet’s. One who saw Pen every day might not have been sensible of the change in her, but four years later she was quite a different creature. Her figure was graceful and she was now decidedly pretty, although her manners still had the artlessness of a young girl. Also her mind was not as vacant as it had previously been.
The striking degree of improvement in her looks that had taken place between fourteen and eighteen might have given her claims to notice, but no one other than Mrs. Bennet had yet noticed her. She had excited no admiration nor had she met the one who ignited her soul. In other words, she had reache
d the age of eighteen without obtaining possession of a lover. However she had as yet given little thought to her poverty in this regard, lacking so many other conveniences, and also no longer having Lydia Bennet to mould her ideas.
She still liked the outdoors and as she no longer had a horse, she made do with walking; she had no objection in principle to reading, but her father’s library had been sold, and she had no money for a subscription at the circulating library; she had no instrument on which to play; she had a sweet singing voice, and want of means did not prevent her from using it, but she was more apt to be found singing when she was dusting or sweeping than standing in a drawing room.
Miss Harriet Harrington was at the time of her father’s death engaged to a nephew of Mrs. Long, a clergyman. Although disappointed to find his beloved penniless he married her anyway, no doubt anticipating other compensations in marriage. When Harriet had moved with her husband to his living a few miles away, a plan had been formed by them for Pen to live with a distant relation of Mr. Harrington’s, a widowed lady, in Chichester. This plan had been endorsed by Pen’s guardian, a gentleman in the City whose interest in his ward was closely regulated by her disposable income. As neither Pen nor the widow had been consulted, and as neither wished to live with the other, the arrangement had not yet come to full maturity. At the time of which I now write, the widow was supervising Pen with the assistance of the Post Office. She sent cordial greetings, and reasons why it was not presently propitious for Pen to come to her, no oftener than once every two months, kindly franking the letters herself. As Pen could not afford to pay postage and did not like to impose further on the generosity of the receiver of her letter, she never replied. Thus the two maintained a very harmonious relationship, and Mr. and Mrs. Long and the gentleman in the City were able to congratulate themselves on having accomplished their obligations in regard to their sister and ward. So it was that, for want of any ancient and respectable female relative to live with her, Pen remained alone at Bewley.
Pen had not resigned herself to severely straightened means, for she was fond of clean linens, and of breakfast and dinner to a reasonable extent, and preferred to do without the dignity of a lady rather than without these aforementioned things. On this particular afternoon Pen was dressed in an old muslin gown covered by a huge apron, with sleeves rolled up and pattens on her feet, and was assisting the house maid with the washing, when the gardener rushed in.
“Ma’am, there has been a terrible accident! The Gouldings’ coachman was driving their carriage along the high road, for Mr. Goulding got some horses cheap, that are young and ill broke and must be trained. Another carriage came by opposite, and its coachman would not give way, for all he could see that there was no managing of the Gouldings’ horses. The carriages got across one another, and the strange gentleman’s was overturned. He must be killed – to be sure, he must, ma’am!”
Pen and the housemaid were naturally both alarmed and excited by this news, but before the three could decide on any course of action they were called from their conference by the sound of a forceful rap. Pen went with the gardener to the front door, which on being opened revealed a coachman who asked if this were Netherfield; when Pen answered that it was not, the coachman said that it must do anyway, for his master Lord Marlowe was injured and required aid. He did not seem to have doubts about their welcome for he walked into the hall without waiting for an invitation. Close behind him came a gentleman with a very pale countenance leaning for support on the shoulder of a footman. Despite the force of the gardener’s predictions, the strange gentlemen was visibly not killed. The severity of his fall had been broken by the narrowness of the road, and he had scrambled out of his carriage, bruised and shaken, and unable to stand on his foot.
No visitors would have been welcome at Bewley on a washing day, but a nobleman was really distressing. Pen looked at him with dismay, for her appearance spoke very clearly of the nether regions of the establishment. Nevertheless it immediately captivated the gentleman, who found in her rounded bare arms and rosy cheeks an acceptable distraction from the throbbing of his ankle. Cautions against the mischievousness and machinations of handsome lords had formed no part of Pen’s education, and she was so little aware of their predilection for seducing young maidens – alas, that she had not better spent her time in Clarke’s library! – that she was not in the least mistrustful when she allowed him to enter.
He thoughtlessly set his foot down, and immediately gave a shout and put his hand to the injured joint. “Your roads about here are villainous,” he said through his teeth, “they had battered me damned near to death even before the accident. My driver has been grumbling these last five miles, and I would suspect him of overturning me on purpose if I hadn’t watched that imbecile run his horses into mine. Tell your master I want his carriage to take me on to Netherfield. I presume it cannot be more than a day’s journey, even on these hellish roads.” When Pen stood gaping at him he added, “Well, girl, where’s your tongue?”
His manner to her was at first incomprehensible, but when she realized that he took her for a servant she hardly knew whether to laugh or to rebuke his impertinence. Then quick reflection made her see that his error had saved her from humiliation, and she allowed it to continue.
“There is no carriage – my lord. But Netherfield is only two miles from here.”
“Do you expect me to crawl there? Come, come – your master can have no objection to lending his carriage to a gentleman for so short a distance.”
“I’m sure if there were a carriage you would be welcome to it, sir.”
“Am I being unreasonable to ask for a carriage at a gentleman’s country house? Very well. A chaise-cart will do.”
“There is no horse and cart either, my lord.”
“And even more unreasonable to want a horse and cart in the country! I will pay for it in advance. Tell your master so, and have it sent around to the door at once.”
“Indeed, sir, there is no horse and cart here. If there were, you should have it without payment.”
“If I asked for a wheelbarrow the result would no doubt be the same. I might as well have demanded a sedan chair in the first place. How do you propose to get me to Netherfield, girl?”
“I suppose your servant must walk there and tell them to send their carriage for you, my lord.”
“I suppose he must. I am to stand on the doorstep, then, until it arrives? Your circumspection impresses, if not your hospitality.” Pen was fully sensible that her home must provoke the ridicule of a lord used to the elegancies of life, but she stood aside for him and the servant on whom he was leaning to come in further. The gentleman looked around the empty hall. “Where is your master?”
“My master? Oh! My master! He is not here.”
“Well, he has not taken all the chairs with him, has he? Find me a place to sit down. My ankle is broken, or near to it.”
Pen opened a door along the hall, revealing a small room. “I hope you will find this suitable, my lord.”
He was immediately struck by the cold, meagre and cheerless appearance of the space. “Upon my honour, I am much indebted to you for admitting me into such a comfortable apartment. If I had known how unfit I was to be received here I would have kept my distance, and sat in a hedge-row.” He unbuttoned his great-coat, and Pen, trusting that she had done all that was necessary, started to withdraw. “Oh I entreat you to use no formality with me. Abandon me here to live or die as I will.”
“I must go back to my work, my lord.”
“Am I not to have the anodyne of your company then? What is your name?”
At this question every idea deserted Pen. To reply “Miss Penelope Harrington” was of course impossible; she looked uselessly around for revelation; if there had been a jar of early flowers she might have named herself Primrose, or if there had been a picture of the Trojan War, Helen; but the bare walls offered her no hints and she stoo
d gawking at Lord Marlowe.
“Your master has no carriage, no cart, hardly a stick of furniture – and now it appears he has not even a name for his servant. This is penury indeed! What do you think I will do with your name, girl? Let’s have it!”
All she could think of in her desperation was her means of escape, and on this exceedingly weak inspiration she found herself stammering, “Door – Dora.” But as she was young and pretty, her awkwardness was charming, and did not injure her with the gentleman.
“It hardly does you justice. If I were your master I’d name you Voluptas. But perhaps Dora does well enough for the kitchen. Go then, I’ll call if I want you.”
Pen fled. Marlowe looked after her with a grin. “Ripe, and ready to be picked!” he proclaimed. He waited a short while, and then limped to the door and called loudly for her two or three times.
She arrived at the trot, her face pink. “Were you calling me?”
“For five minutes. Have you any arquebusade?” Pen went out and returned shortly with arquebusade and a bandage, and left.
He allowed a little time to pass and then called her again.
“Did you want something?” said Pen, who was growing addled between her duties of laundress and hostess.
“No, I am far too well looked after as it is. But since you are here, stay a moment – there is something.”
“What is it, my lord?”
“You will give me whatever I require?”
“Certainly, my lord, if it’s within the house.”
“Then what I want is a taste of your lips.”
Pen was flabbergasted by this request and could scarcely believe she had heard the gentleman correctly. But before she could find words to retort her hand was seized, and she was hauled about like a milkmaid until she freed herself from his grasp and retreated precipitately outside the door, where she stood breathless, staring in at him.