by Meg Kerr
Lord Marlowe seated himself and rubbed his twinging ankle. “You are using me extremely ill. If you keep such a distance, how is it possible you and I can ever be acquainted?”
“I don’t want to be acquainted!”
“And why not, my angel? Well; we’ll put that aside that for now. In the meantime, bring me a glass of punch.”
Without having any personal experience of lunatics, Pen was now tentatively concluding that Lord Marlowe was one, and that his accident had occurred when he was being brought to a secluded house in the country where he could be restrained in a tower for safety. Yet Netherfield scarcely seemed to fill this description, and he was a lord, and a guest in her house. Therefore she prepared and brought him a beverage, a most humble one, for her pantry contained no lemons and very little sugar. She set it down near him and darted away.
With a smile he took the glass and drained it. “Better than nothing I suppose,” he said. “Although by very little.” Then he added with an insinuating glance, “And now I am beginning to feel an appetite –.”
Pen resolved to contain herself, for she began to feel that this folly (formerly attributed to lunacy) might be laid down to drunkenness. She said nothing in reply but could not suppress a cross expression.
“Why such a sour puss? It is ruining your looks. I have been sitting here thinking of nothing but how pretty you are, and now you’d curdle a gooseberry.”
It would be impossible to say what Pen felt, on hearing this – which of a number of distasteful sensations was uppermost. In swelling resentment, she turned to leave the room.
“What an unfathomable creature I have found here! Come, my angel, give me a little cause for hope!”
At this point Pen’s struggle for self-command and politeness perished, and she said, “Sir, I wish you to depart from this house.”
“Depart! You cannot be serious, when I am doing all I can to show my enchantment with you. I shall stir not an inch, you have my oath on it.”
While they were thus occupied in conversation, there was loud knocking at the front door. “What a damned provoking interruption,” ejaculated Lord Marlowe.
“The Netherfield carriage must be here,” said Pen feeling the greatest of relief.
“It comes ahead of its time then.”
She went to the front door and let in Marlowe’s coachman, and his lordship, with no schemes for staying longer, was soon installed in the vehicle. She remembered to give him something like a curtsey as he passed out of the house. But her mind remained disconcerted and as the house maid’s looks testified she could not manage to appear calm and cheerful when she re-entered to the kitchen.
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Lord Marlowe’s friend Edmund Delaford had ridden across the fields to Bewley to take charge of the salvage operation of the carriage but his lordship was received at Netherfield with great respect and concern by Mrs. Delaford, who assured him that the apothecary had been sent for, to attend to his bruised foot. He was seated by the fire in the drawing room, and offered wine (which he took) and other refreshment (which he declined). Having seen to his needs as well as she could, she took a seat near him and addressed herself most specially to him declaring how pleased she and her son Edmund were to entertain him in their house.
Lord Marlowe replied that if he had pleased them by coming, then tomorrow he would please himself by returning to town. He spoke out of the pure egotism of giving offence in his bad humour, having no intention of jolting his ankle about in a post-chaise on the morrow. Mrs. Delaford although taken aback protested that he must not think of going so soon, for the family had looked forward to his visit with great anticipation. His rejoinder to this civil statement was that he chose to satisfy his feelings, however offensive she might find them, over theirs.
Mrs. Delaford became yet more considerate in her attempt to discover what she could do to soothe her ungracious guest, but all he said was, “I promise you, madam, that you are wasting your time with me,” and thereafter repulsed every attempt at dialogue, answering her remarks, when he did so at all, with extreme coldness. She could not avoid seeing how abundantly he wished her to remove herself but mindful of good manners, and of her unmarried daughter, she took out her work without exhibiting any symptom of umbrage and they remained together in steady silence for half an hour, a situation that gave happiness to neither, until the arrival of the apothecary.
But once Edmund Delaford came home and the apothecary had left, Tom Marlowe’s chilliness of manner dissolved entirely and he proved to be in peculiarly good spirits.
“Give me joy, Delaford!” he said as soon as they were alone.
“Have you married, Marlowe, since I last saw you? Where’s your wife? For that matter, who’s your wife?”
“Not married, but something far better. Did you see that tempting little thing at Bewley, that pretty little maidservant Dora?”
“No, but what of her?”
“She’s mine, you rogue. Such a bosom, such eyes, such lips. She would not let me sample her wares this afternoon, but damn me if I don’t feast on her tonight, or tomorrow night at the latest. She wants to drive up her price. I’ll pay it! But she shall pay too. It will cost her a groaning. A pox on this ankle of mine! I’d have had her already if I’d had two good feet and a head start. She’s a veritable Atalanta.”
“I would prefer it if you did not conduct your intrigues in my neighbours’ houses, Marlowe, when you are a guest in mine. And what if the girl is virtuous?”
“Here’s for your cold caution!” he responded with a vulgar gesture. “We all know the virtue of a servant girl. Where are paper and ink? I’ll send her a billet-doux weighted with a little gold – that’ll slow her down.”
With some labour Delaford persuaded his friend to delay his enterprise for a day or two, emphasizing (for he had intimate knowledge of him) rather the limited prospect of its success given his present debility than its immorality.
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CHAPTER
16
London, March 1816
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Darcy had, most completely against his will, become a valued correspondent of Mr. Collins, and just as Spring was, or ought to have been, announcing its appearance he received the following letter.
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Dear Sir,
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I present my most respectful compliments to you and your lady, my fair cousin Elizabeth, and apologizing for this intrusion beg leave to offer to both of you the congratulations of Mrs. Collins and myself on the matrimonial event that draws near. Lady Catherine de Bourgh dropped a hint to me yesterday evening of the intention that your sister Miss Darcy will be led to the altar ere long by a patrician gentleman who will yet be more celebrated when he rises to the rank of Marquess on the deaths of his uncle and cousin, which I am told are likely to occur imminently. Allow me to forewarn however that Lady Catherine although admitting all of its advantage to your sister does not look on this match with the friendliest of eyes for, as she declares, rank should at all times be observed, and the daughter of Mr. Darcy of Pemberley ought not to take precedence over the daughter of Sir Lewis and Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
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I take here the extraordinary step of interrupting Mr. Collins’ communication to Darcy, to inform the reader that Lady Catherine had already sworn to herself the most solemn and terrible oaths that she would never place herself in a situation where the Countess of Tyrconnell – the former Miss Catherine Bennet – should take precedence over her (Kitty’s fears of visits and meetings with Lady Catherine thus having been rendered groundless).
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Although the union th
erefore is not endorsed by the highest authority, nevertheless with the greatest deference to Lady Catherine’s views allow me to take this occasion to testify my respect towards your family, and to do myself the honour of writing a few words on the theme of marriage.
There can be nothing so fitting and proper for a lady of tender years as marriage to a husband whom she must regard with a reverence consistent with the natural modesty of the female nature. The conspicuous difference in age between Miss Darcy and Mr. Brooke, and the complete divergence of interests between them, I am myself perfectly persuaded, do not in any way render them unfitted as spouses, but are rather favourable circumstances, likely to act as excellent safeguards of her manners and conduct and thus be conducive to matrimonial tranquillity. It manifests Mr. Brooke’s qualities in the most commendable light that he has so long reserved his heart for your sister, and now, having chosen his partner with rare discernment, he must engage in an office of high responsibility to be her guide and advisor, and a constant support to her.
I most cordially wish your sister the same felicity in marriage that I have found with the companion of my life. It is not too much for me to say that my dear Charlotte is the perfect model of a woman. Her amiability is beyond comparison, and I have the highest opinion in the world of her excellent judgment and economy. But far more important there is the most remarkable resemblance of character and ideas between us; we have but one mind and one way of thinking. I often mention that we seem to have been designed for each other. And naturally I do not reckon as among the least of the advantages of our union – which I ask your pardon for not having adverted to sooner – the constant attentions of your most respected relation, Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
We have less frequently than usual had the means of varying our simple home scene by visits to Rosings as the preparations underway for the wedding of Miss de Bourgh to Viscount Marlowe, even though the engagement has not yet been made public, have much occupied Lady Catherine’s interest and time. Although wary of appearing presumptuous, I have assured her with the most conciliatory respect that I am prepared to read the banns at any time she may request, a ceremony which I flatter myself, being instituted and maintained by the Church of England, is much superior to the obtaining of a special licence.
Anticipating that the event will take place before the elapse of many weeks, I have been composing an epithalamium in celebration of it. Allow me here to take the liberty of presenting some lines from my Epithalamium on the Nuptials of Miss Anne de Bourgh, daughter of Lady Catherine and the late Sir Lewis de Bourgh of Rosings Park, Kent, and Viscount Marlowe. The composition of this poem is a labour of delight to me, and I have the highest hopes that it will be a source of gratification to Lady Catherine, and of course to Miss de Bourgh, and naturally to Lord Marlowe as well. Without further introduction I inscribe them here.
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Come forth, high-born maiden, and offer thy hand
To one of the most illustrious personages in the land
Blessed is he with all that blushing maid can crave
Lofty rank, property and patronage
On thee most elevated rank he confers
But thou adornest his rank, not the reverse
Condescending daughter of Rosings, born to be a Viscountess!
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Thou art in beauty to the fairest of thy sex far superior
For thy features mark thy birth eminent, not inferior
When at the bridegroom’s approach thy cheek does grow red
True female delicacy to thy other perfections thou dost add!
Of its brightest ornament the Court has heretofore been
deprived
Only to gain it when thou becomest a Viscount’s bride!
Charming daughter of Rosings, who makest the
hymeneal sacrifice!
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I have written ten verses in a similar vein (and, dear sir, if you should honour me with a request to see them all, I will with the least possible delay copy them in a fair hand and send them to you), but in light of the importance of this confederation I believe I cannot do with less than twenty.
I am, dear sir, etc., etc.
WM Collins
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Although Georgiana’s impending wedding appeared to be known far and wide within the family connexion, there was one person from whom it was hidden, that person being Georgiana herself. In the miserable condition in which she had returned to her family, it seemed kinder to keep from her awareness of her own approaching good fortune. In the same spirit of benevolence she was allowed no liberty and no society.
But neither did Georgiana wish to make morning visits or attend evening parties. After her first outburst in Brussels she had been protected from greater pain by numbness, and the passage of time saw her remain dull and spiritless, her thoughts sunk in despondence. She did not try to avoid her family, but so little did she contribute to any domestic interaction that they, although very solicitous of her in general, occasionally forgot her presence.
She had told Darcy the truth of her journey to Brussels, up to a point, saying that she had gone there to visit Wickham’s grave; her brother and sister having gratefully accepted this explanation had no desire for it to circulate further. With respect to Amaury she had escaped all detection, for Darcy had not remained in Brussels long enough to learn independently any details of her sojourn there.
Her bloom as well as her spirits was lost, but her suitor could not be put off forever. Darcy at length determined to invite him to a small dinner at which only the family and intimate friends were present in order to allow Georgiana to become better acquainted with him.
Mr. William Brooke was a middle-aged man with a bluff address and strong Tory principles. He was seated beside Georgiana, and as he had no idea of how to talk to a young lady, he contented himself alternately with giving her information on various subjects and conversing with Darcy and the other gentlemen present of political matters. He had full confidence that Georgiana would simply from listening to him find solid grounds to think highly of him. At table and later in the drawing room he approved her quiet demeanour and female reserve and thought them promising traits in a young wife.
When they were retiring to their bedrooms for the night Elizabeth enquired of Georgiana what she had thought of Mr. Brooke? Georgiana frowned a little in an attempt to form a valuation of one who had not invaded her consciousness to any measurable degree. “He talks a great deal,” she said at last. “He seems to like my brother.”
“He has a very good opinion of you. In fact he admires you very much.”
When Georgiana demonstrated her belief that it was not worth the exertion to reply to this comment, Elizabeth added, with courage rather than conviction, “I believe you will like him too, when you know more of him.” But Mr. Brooke could not interest Georgiana, and when she slept that night she did not by any means dream of him.
Several dinners and evenings passed with Mr. Brooke present as a favoured guest occasionally attentive to Georgiana, a few calls were made by her family for her to extol a man who had every body’s respect, and even in her dejected state that rendered her careless of her surroundings she began to suspect not only that he was paying his addresses to her but that he was doing so with the consent of her brother.
There is this to be said of the attentions of a plain-faced man of forty, that there is no better tonic to cause a young lady to recall favourably the attentions of a handsome man of five and twenty. From the very moment that the idea of his offering her attentions disturbed the desolation of her mind, she was certain that she never could accept him. Her verdict was completely against him. It was not only that she could never hope to feel affection again; he was old enough to be her father – nay, her grandfather. His manner had no liveliness, and his feelings could have no intensity. Their marriage would be nothing more than a commercial transac
tion.
Despite his inexcusable conduct and her present insensibility, Amaury continued to mount a strong guard on Georgiana’s heart.
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CHAPTER
17
Meryton, April 1816
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Lord Marlowe finding that the Meryton apothecary had not the requisite skill to heal his foot had left Netherfield very soon after his first arrival. His love of sport drew him back as soon as he could run; Edmund Delaford received on St. George’s Day a note to expect him shortly, the note being followed by his carriage and self on the Saturday. Without making even a pretense of civility to his hosts he immediately borrowed a horse and rode to Bewley in quest of Dora. Once there, however, his bangings on the door with his whip and his shouts produced no result; no one appeared; and after a quarter of an hour of this exercise he rode back to Netherfield in exactly the humour one might expect.
On his friend’s return Delaford could see that some vexation had occurred to disturb his temper. He forbore from investigating the circumstances, but succeeded in irritating Marlowe even further by advising him that the entire Delaford family would be that evening attending the Meryton Assembly ball, which occurred monthly.
“You must stay home, then,” Marlowe told him instantly. “You do not expect me to play cards or billiards by myself?”
“I must go; it’s all arranged,” said Delaford, who perceived no greater benefit to himself in entertaining Tom Marlowe at Netherfield than in dancing in Meryton, for he had found his neighbours very congenial. “Come with us, it will be better than sitting here alone with nothing to occupy you.”
“Certainly I shall not. It would be intolerable.”