by Meg Kerr
“She says as I am so poor I must catch a rich husband but none will have me in my own clothes.”
“And a great philosopher as well!” exclaimed Frank. “Do you sit at her feet in the Agora? Do you subscribe to her philosophy?”
“I suppose I must. It is true that I am very poor.”
“No no, that will never do. You must not accept a hypothesis without testing it. I beg you will not reject elenchus out of hand in this manner.”
Pen regarded him doubtfully, not having in the least understood him.
“Let us begin. The thesis is that you must marry a rich man. But is it not true that it is healthier to walk than to ride in a carriage all the time? You like walking, do you not, Miss Harrington?”
“Yes, I like it very much.”
“We must have a walk very soon then. Would Monday afternoon be convenient to you? Fanny and I will come and get you, if the weather is not too bad. But if you marry a rich man he will have a carriage and you must ride in it instead of walking.”
“Perhaps that is so.”
“And if you never walk you will be unhealthy. And if you are unhealthy you will become crippled and die at an early age. Therefore it would be suicidal for you to marry a rich man.”
As this was Pen’s first experience both of elenchus and of aporia, the perplexity in which elenchus is apt to finish, her head was spinning and she could not immediately form a reply.
“The only way to save yourself is to marry a poor man,” continued Frank, who was unabashed by Pen’s rather glassy look.
“But why would a poor man want to marry a poor woman?” asked Pen after a complicated figure had cleared her head somewhat.
“Well, that is a very hard question, I admit. Perhaps – because he loved her?”
“Oh!” said Pen. In spite of Mrs. Bennet’s doctrines this did not seem like an unreasonable answer.
The ball ended more auspiciously for Pen than it had begun, for Lord Marlowe did not again ask her to dance and Frank did, and although it could not be maintained that she was overwhelmed with applications she was throughout the evening well furnished with partners. Her hand was solicited by Edmund Delaford and several other gentlemen who had taken note that she had been distinguished by a lord.
When they entered the Bennets’ coach for the return trip to Longbourn, where Pen was to stay the night, Mrs. Bennet after making herself comfortable pronounced, “I am quite exhausted! I have no disposition for talking, for I have been talking all evening, so let us have silence.” Pen would have thankfully followed this directive, for she was weary from dancing, and from eluding Lord Marlowe, but Mrs. Bennet’s injunction against discourse was apparently but an introduction to her subject. Almost without a pause of inhalation she continued, “What an amiable man Lord Marlowe is! So charming! How very civil it was of him to ask to be introduced to me, and then of course he could not avoid the introduction to you, and then it would have been strange if he had not danced with you. If it were not for me you would not have got a very great opportunity. And you would have made such a blundering business of it! You are a very foolish girl, and you do not know your own interest. I had no notion but he would go off and dance with Fanny Delaford or Maria Lucas when you refused him. But then everything passed off very well. I hope you did not offend him when you were dancing with him, for I was certain he would ask you again. But afterwards you danced a great deal, and I did not see him with another partner. Well, so much the better. I make no doubt that he admires you, and if he could not get you he did not want some one else. How pleased I am! Who knows what may happen? My dear child! A Lord! And everyone says he is rich! I don’t know how you can hope ever repay me for every thing I am doing for you.” She went on in this vein for the entirety of the journey, until Pen felt that she had cause for the highest degree of gratitude that Longbourn was situated no more than a mile from Meryton.
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CHAPTER
18
London, May 1816
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Lord Metcalf felt the deepest devotion to his wife, or so Lady Metcalf herself had always asserted, and therefore upon her unexpected death it was not to be wondered that, shattered by grief and seeking any means to assuage it, he crept away from England to the town of Spa to recover his health. The waters there, however distasteful it be to a man prostrated by sorrow to take them, are so exceedingly efficacious that he came back to London after three months looking more youthful by twenty years, with a new wife on his arm. His heart must have been heavy to resume his life within the setting of his late marriage, where he must be always conscious of his tragic privation, but with virile resolution and courage he immediately set about introducing the second Lady Metcalf to his circle.
She was naturally the centre of much conversation in the fashionable world. It put on a specious air of welcome, although what it felt most strongly was surprise. This second match was shocking, indeed! How dissimilar she was in appearance and character to the first Lady Metcalf! What could have been the attraction for Lord Metcalf? The first Lady Metcalf had been completely lady-like in appearance, which was to say no one would have remembered her features in a crowded room, or even in one that was not particularly crowded, while her new ladyship vulgarly drew the gaze. The first Lady Metcalf had been ever ready to speak, not to mention criticize and deliver advice, while the second one had nothing to say. Those ladies and gentlemen who had prejudices on the side of descent enquired in lowered voices about her origins, and questioned the bringing of persons of obscure birth into positions of distinction, for among these detractors good breeding was rated more highly than good nature. They had a prejudice towards reckoning the marriage a disgrace, and were constantly on the alert to lay bare the essence of that disgrace.
Unflattering views of Lady Metcalf did not prevent those who advanced them from attending dinners and parties at which she was present or even which she and her husband gave; and they apparently conferred a licence to treat her with a very chilly courtesy to her face and abuse her behind her back.
Among the skeptics was Mrs. Hurst. She was one of the guests at a soirée being given in the viscountess`s honour, and was speaking confidentially to a group of her close friends in the drawing room while the ladies waited for the gentlemen to rise from the table. “It is of no significance, but I am suddenly reminded of an anecdote I recently heard. Have you met Mr. William Elliot?” There was general agreement that they had not, and that there was no urgency to make his acquaintance in the near future as they knew nothing of him. “Mr. Elliot is the heir of Sir Walter Elliot of Kellynch-hall in Somerset; they are cousins to Lady Dalrymple.” This statement of property and connection aroused a modicum of receptiveness. “He has a dear … friend, a Mrs. Clay, daughter of Sir Walter’s agent.” The addition of such opposing connexions left her audience in a perplexity, for while ready to hear more of Lady Dalrymple’s relations they were disinclined to extend such consideration to those of Sir Walter Elliot’s agent. Mrs. Hurst continued however. “She lived with Sir Walter and his daughters all last season in Bath. It was thought that she would not have objected very strongly to becoming the second Lady Elliot (for Sir Walter is widowed), but as there was I believe some uncertainty about his health and longevity she took the opportunity of Mr. Elliot’s visit to his family to run off with him.”2 There was a little intermission during which the ladies indulged in various contortions of their features, until one of them asked about the value of Sir Walter’s estate. “He is much in debt and had to lease out Kellynch-hall, but by the time he dies it is expected that the estate will be acceptably restored.” At this assurance a general conclusion was drawn that should Mrs. Clay become Mrs. Elliot she mig
ht be visited; although without undue haste, and only if Lady Dalrymple should visit her first. A title, clear estate and good income may go a long way to soothing that natural queasiness occasioned by irregularities of marriage.
“Madam,” said Mrs. John Willoughby to Mrs. Hurst in a loud whisper, “if we are speaking of wives, are you as great an admirer of Lady Metcalf as some here?”
“Her marriage has given her a consequence that is completely undeserved,” responded Mrs. Hurst. “I know nothing of her family, and for my part, I can see nothing extraordinary in her appearance, nor anything in her manners that would recommend her as a companion to Lord Metcalf.”
Others instantly organized themselves into a chorus. “I do not think her at all handsome.” “She has a sharp look.” “He would be very well without her.” “He misses our dear Lady Metcalf greatly; I suppose he must in his affliction have somebody about him.” “I hope they may be happy together,” spoken in a voice more suggestive of despair.
“I count it folly to step out of one’s rank, or to acknowledge those who have,” said Mrs. Willoughby, who had before this evening already enjoyed more than one dinner at Lord and Lady Metcalf’s table.
Lady Mallinger was seated within the group and might have been expected to belong to her sister’s camp, but, strange to say, this was not so. Although she made no effort to seek a nearer acquaintance with Lady Metcalf she frequently found herself watching her. She observed what critics of the Metcalf marriage could also not help perceiving, although they were careful not to concede, that despite her being exactly what would not suit him, he made her the constant object of his attention; and she in return openly gazed at her husband with affection.
Sir John Thorn was an increasingly close associate of Lord Metcalf’s and therefore it was inevitable when he came down from Manchester to spend a few weeks of the season in town that his path and Lady Mallinger’s should at some time cross. They had not met or corresponded since her marriage. It had been impossible for her not to wonder during that period when and where she would see him again, and she felt an elevated degree of anticipation at the thought of their reunion. There was no question, plainly, of anything more than enjoyment of each other’s company in society. There could be no danger in a married woman conversing with, and even liking, an agreeable man of her circle.
The husband she had chosen over John Thorn, as he then had been, was not one to whom she could cleave, and when he was absent, as he mostly was (providing her with ample leisure for musing on her past actions) and even more when he was present she was unable to prevent herself comparing him to Thorn. Thorn was much the beneficiary of the comparison. Now the moment arrived when they were to have the chance to speak together (for they had dined at opposite ends of the table), an occurrence that was likely to raise some agitation in the breast of both. When he at last entered with the other gentlemen the room was full of voices but she heard his; the room was full of people but she saw him.
They met, each with an unsmiling air. He was unchanged, his manly look undiminished. He bowed, she curtsied, and general civilities immediately called his notice from her. He left her with apparent calmness, which she carefully matched; but she was vexed and disappointed. She might have gained as much fulfilment sitting alone at home.
This was the beginning of parties and dinners that placed Lady Mallinger and Sir John together repeatedly, for he was invited everywhere (even to the Hursts’, for Mrs. Hurst did not care openly to contradict fashionable judgment) and listened to, when he chose to speak, with attentiveness and respect.
She wished for a reconciliation. She had expected that they would soon have been speaking to each other with the unreserve that had marked their former intercourse. Her thoughts began to be engrossed by him. But her desire for renewed familiarity was not gratified. They had no speech between them other than that required by ordinary good manners. They were not placed beside each other at dinners, and when he took a seat in a drawing room it generally happened to be as far from her as possible. They were never alone even for an instant, and she rather suspected he avoided it. This was all exceedingly disagreeable. She had convinced herself that he must have retentive feelings for her, even as she did for him.
When in public her self-command kept her eyes fixed on any object but him, but her interest never strayed from him, and she often believed she felt his eyes upon her. His politeness to her was unwavering. Why then would he not talk to her? She was puzzled by his coldness. She inferred that he still felt their prior relationship too keenly for casual communication.
When passing time failed to inure her to separation from him, rather than teach herself to be insensible of it she determined to make an attempt to re-establish between them the harmony that had existed before. Perhaps it was inevitable that he would harbour some little resentment towards her. She had pride enough to believe that a more definite signal on her part would influence him, and resolution enough to approach him in spite of his undeniable aloofness. She determined to exert all her powers of pleasing, taking pains to show that she wished to do away with the residue of any antagonism that he might feel. Having made her decision she implemented it at the first fair opening, when they found themselves in vicinity waiting for their carriages at the end of a rout.
“Sir John!” she said with an arch smile, “how pleasant it has been to spend the evening with you. I could only wish that our conversation had been a little more intimate.” – for it had consisted in its totality of “How do you do?” on either side – “How I have longed to talk with you again. I have been afforded no confidant this season who could make amends for the loss of your company, or supply opinions of such refreshingly superior intelligence. I think with regret of our discussions of last year, for I never tired of them, or met with anyone who offered greater stimulation with his reflections on the affairs of the world.”
He said nothing; but his looks expressed amazement. He seemed unsure what to do, and from this she expected a relenting of his remoteness towards her. But after a hesitation with studied civility he only wished her a good night and walked away.
The result of this attempt was a se’enight of depression, and when they next met it required a strongminded effort on Lady Mallinger’s part to appear indifferent. Were they now strangers, who had once understood each other so well?
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CHAPTER
19
London, May 1816
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A broken heart must either kill or be cured, and after some weeks had gone by and Georgiana found she still lived, she began to feel the revival of sensation. Her gloomy dejection gave way to intense feelings of pain and humiliation. This could scarcely be called an improvement and she would have fled them had she could, but she was no more successful in that endeavour than any young lady who has no simple access to opium, gin or madness.
Brooding in silence, it became impossible for her not to remember Amaury’s last speech to her, for it was burned on her brain. “I have schemed to deprive you of your virtue and your fortune.” The dark door once unlocked allowed other memories to creep out, and the recollection of their laughter, their delight in each other’s companionship, their embraces and kisses also devoured her soul. Now very young ladies seem to have been almost purposely formed for detecting insincerity and duplicity and Georgiana had her full share of this wonderful faculty. (Contrary to all rational expectation it is experience that removes it, dulling the instincts of matrons, and allowing them to live comfortably with their husbands.) With many sighs and tears she took time to pass his words and actions, his manner and the expressions of his countenance, under review. There were two matters of particular puzzlement to her, the first, why he
had confessed to her the ruse to make her his victim at the very moment when he held success in his hand, and the second, why, although every word of his confession declared that he had been only sporting with her affections, during their time together in Brussels she had never doubted his regard. After much hesitation and turning over of the evidence she was led to the conclusion that his partiality had not only seemed but had been real. From this she received consolation, a balm to her brutalized feelings, and with an emboldened spirit she began the attempt to judge without prejudice his conduct towards her.
His initial behaviour she must condemn, for he had admitted his guilt. There could be no doubt of what his designs had been on her, up to their final meeting. But at that point, had she not witnessed in him extreme regret and contrition? Had he not relinquished a scheme that would have brought to him her fortune of thirty thousand pounds? To what could she attribute such a sacrifice on his part other than a sincere attachment?
Georgiana had early in life been through an episode that had made a very potent impression on her. At the age of fifteen she had been in love with George Wickham and had consented to elope with him. But her love had come into violent collision with her moral education, the idea of deceiving her brother by marrying secretly had been repellent to her. What result she had expected from her disclosure to him it was difficult for her now to identify, at the better informed age of twenty. Had she been sufficiently naïve to think that Darcy would have blessed an immediate but orthodox marriage, or that he would merely have demanded that they wait a year or two before entering into the union? The actual consequence had been to separate her from her beloved Wickham for ever. From this she had learned that when one’s desires diverge from one’s principles, a choice must be made between the two. She did not believe that she had chosen wisely in the case of Wickham. Her thoughts turned then to her cousin, Colonel James Fitzwilliam, now the Earl of Tyrconnell, and her dear sister Kitty, now his Countess, who had had a secret love affair until she had exposed it. Her cheeks began to warm, not with the smugness of her own moral rectitude, but with shame. She had told Elizabeth, and Elizabeth and Darcy both had chastised the lovers and forbidden the relationship. And yet despite all opposition they had continued to write and come together, and had engaged themselves almost in the lap of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who had intended Colonel Fitzwilliam to marry their cousin Anne. All had worked out for the best – for Cousin James and Kitty.