Devotion

by Meg Kerr

  When Pen was certain that he was gone, she descended from the attic in which she had sought refuge, and bolted all the doors and windows of the house.

  Her vigilance did not prevent a letter penetrating her defences on the next day, brought by Marlowe’s servant who informed her that he must take back an answer immediately, at the peril of being dismissed. With shaking hand she took the missive to the kitchen, opened it with a carving knife and read,

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  To the Divinity who resides on this Earth in the guise of Miss Penelope Harrington:

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  I am at your knees. Forgive me: you have so mastered me that I could not prevent myself from profiting from your proximity, and I succumbed to an emotion that I have never felt before. Until I saw you, I knew nothing of the joys and agonies of love. Yet, I dare to believe that you will forgive me, for I now live only to convince you of the respect and sincerity of my attachment. Do not deceive yourself: you will never succeed in destroying it. Can I not hope that you will someday feel the same feelings as I? I love you with the most ardent and yet the tenderest love. Consent to share it and it shall be submissive; you shall govern it as you wish. You will have no regret other than that lost period before our ecstasy was complete.

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  Your devoted captive

  Tho. Marlowe

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  It seemed a bitter aggravation to receive such a letter after such a day as the previous one had been. She read it several times, with a heart beating hard, out of dismay rather than love. There is a case to be made that young ladies should be encouraged to read French novels, in order that they may recognize when gentlemen have been studying them to the ruination of the opposite sex.

  She did not wish to reply, and knew not what to say. But her kind-heartedness was stirred on behalf of the servant, as Marlowe had intended, and the servant, who knew his role well for he had played it before, had done all he could to produce its increase by his woebegone looks. Nor did she wish to have the man sitting on her doorstep all day and night. She therefore found a piece of paper and wrote, “I am sorry for causing you feelings, I did not mean to, and I pray you not to write to me again.” The servant took her note, bowed and went his way.

  Pen needed counsel, and she therefore turned to her chiefest advisor, Mrs. Bennet, walking over to Longbourn with the letter in her pocket. Finding Mrs. Bennet conveniently alone, she told her of Lord Marlowe’s visit and showed her what he had written.

  There could be no two opinions about Mrs. Bennet’s reaction, for she could scarcely contain herself. “Good gracious,” she expostulated. “My dear girl! My dear, dear Pen! Every thing has passed off just as I knew would. A Lord! Lady Marlowe! How well it sounds! And how rich you will be, if what every one says about him is true. Think of the jewels you will have. This is delightful, exactly what I most wished for when I insisted you dance with him. Think what you owe me!” The only disturbance of her delight arose out of arrangements for wedding clothes, when she remembered her protégée’s poverty. However her exuberance was not long dampened. “I will manage everything. I will settle with Mr. Bennet about the money, I will ask him how much he can give you, and it can be paid back afterwards. Oh, this is wonderful. I am in such a flutter.” She then began to rehearse particulars of silk and muslin, to which Pen listened with her mind in revolt. It was not until Mrs. Bennet proposed ordering the carriage and driving into Meryton to tell Mrs. Philips, paying a visit to Lady Lucas for the same purpose on the return journey, that Pen felt obliged to speak. “But ma’am, he did not ask me to marry him when he came to Bewley, and he does not say it in his letter. He said and writes much of love, but nothing of engagement.”

  “Nonsense, child, what else can he mean by such language? It could not be plainer.” Other designs then came into her head and she offered to have the Delafords and Lord Marlowe to dine at Longbourn with Pen, the Gouldings and the Lucases. Pen to Mrs. Bennet’s great annoyance could not be brought to authorize the ordering of wedding clothes, the carriage or a dinner, and when she had gone Mrs. Bennet exorcised her vexation by adding the news to a letter she had been writing to her daughter Kitty, the Countess of Tyrconnell, that Pen was shortly going to be married to Viscount Marlowe.

  Pen’s note could hardly be seen by Marlowe as anything but an invitation to respond, which he did, and Pen having found her first prayer to cease writing to her ignored naturally believed that a second letter with the same content would have much greater efficacy. Marlowe’s servant also managed to look ever more cowed by his master’s threats. As a result a cozy correspondence was soon established between Pen and Lord Marlowe that could scarcely have been more frequent if they had been betrothed in the presence of the Archbishop of York. This correspondence will not be reproduced here, as the first two samples give a fine idea of their style and substance. Lord Marlowe in addition rode over to Bewley every day at an hour when he hoped to be most conspicuous to the neighbourhood, although he did not expect to be, and was not, let into the house.

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  When Michaelmas term ended at the University Frank Delaford was restored to Netherfield. He was disgusted on arriving home to find that Lord Marlowe had once again taken up residence there, and was quick to notice the daily peregrinations of Marlowe and his servant. On the third day he followed the servant and was angry but unsurprised to be led to Bewley. On the step he dismissed the man at the point of his riding whip, and had not even to knock before the door was flung open to reveal Pen with a letter in her hand. He saw weariness and oppression in her face.

  “O Frank, I am so glad to see you!”

  “And you have just been writing to me to say so,” he replied, indicating the document. “I would rather have your smile than your letter.”

  With difficulty Pen gave him the requested smile. “This is for Lord Marlowe. But his servant has gone; he has left without it.”

  “What are you writing to Marlowe for?”

  “I have asked him continually to stop writing to me that he loves me.”

  “I do not believe it is having the intended effect. Look here, Miss Harrington, you have not formed an attachment with Marlowe, have you?”

  “Mrs. Bennet says I must marry him,” replied Pen sadly.

  “O, damn Mrs. Bennet’s eyes!”

  “But I do not want to get married!”

  “I heartily applaud your apathy concerning marriage, in particular marriage to any one other than me.”

  “You do not want to marry me,” said Pen.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because if you did you would ask me to marry you.”

  “That is taking a very black and white view of the matter, I must say,” said Frank, sounding aggrieved. Pen hardly knew what to answer, and the two of them stood there silent while Frank tapped his whip against his boot. Then he raised his eyes with an expression that seemed filled with meaning. He drew nearer to her and seemed about to take her hand; and then suddenly retreated. “Well,” he said in a gentle accent, “you would be wise to stay away from Marlowe.”

  “I cannot stop him from coming up the lane to the house.”

  “I can, perhaps.”

  There was, however, no necessity for Frank to take any further action with regard to Lord Marlowe, for as soon as he learned from his servant that Pen had a protector he knew he must bring the pursuit to a close as quickly as he could, and he therefore sent the following to her that evening:

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  You alone reign in my heart, that heart to which you disdain to give yourself. I consecrate my life to worshipping you. You claim not to believe my vows and promises, and never cease to find fault with me. Do not persist in your cruel refusal. Examine your own feelingsif they long for tender friendship, delicious pleasures, glorious memories, where will they find these things if not in love? And if not in my love? The whole
world watches our rendez-vous and messages, and already making you my paramour is ready to repudiate you for your wantonness. What therefore do you lose if you give yourself to me? Nothing. What do you gain? Paradise. I am placed by you between despair and supreme happiness, for the word you pronounce now will forever decide my fate. No! you are not pitiless; you will not refuse me. I shall come to you on Friday, and we shall be away to Scotland.

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  Pen realized that in attempting to guard against one evil, she had laid herself open to a different one. Everything she had done, it seemed, had been wrong.

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  CHAPTER

  28

  London, June 1816

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  Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner might be thought to have very liberal notions, for they persevered in seeking to become truly acquainted with John Amaury. They wished to make out his character, for in light of his past they felt a degree of anxiety concerning his future conduct. Believing they had an obligation to protect Georgiana Darcy in whatever way they could without bringing their exertions to the attention of their niece and nephew, they had no confidence that they could discern the real propensities of Amaury’s mind without learning more of him and giving themselves time to deliberate. They knew something of his former pursuits and what he had been, that he had transgressed his moral duty – probably frequently, and over a period that had not been shorthad been heedless and unprincipled at best and dangerous and wicked at worst. But what was he now? Did he think differently, would he act differently?

  In all the Gardiners’ meetings with him Amaury put forward every effort to employ his charm, and he thoroughly understood his business. He was polite and agreeable, and his manners were smooth and plausible; his disposition seemed to them to improve to match his person, and he advanced in their good opinion as they advanced in the intimacy between them. Feeling a real interest in his welfare, the Gardiners began between themselves to speak of him with warmth. It was not long before their invitations were aimed as much at enjoying his company as at plumbing his depths. They liked him, although they would not have so freely invited into their home a man of more common intellect and appearance. They treated him with an unaffected, easy kindness, as older acquaintances may do with a younger, and they were gradually led to bestow their favour on one who ought not to have been the object even of distant civility.

  After they had spent five or six evenings with him Mr. Gardiner was moved to ask his wife, “Has there been a total misapprehension of this young man in the world? Or have we fallen into mistake ourselves? Are we to be guided by what other people say of him, or by what we ourselves witness?”

  Mrs. Gardiner, who prided herself on her natural acuity said, “I believe we have gained some knowledge of him. For a number of years, just when he was at an age when young men are at their most rash and thoughtless, he had no friends to advise him, no family to restrain him, and no legitimate means of supporting himself. We should not condemn him out of hand, for nothing could be more predictable than that he should have fallen.”

  “But have we been too quick in receiving him, and are we too pleased with the propriety of his demeanour and conversation alone? Can we be perfectly assured that his earlier practices cannot be attributed to natural viciousness? Do not be offended, Mary, if I seem to fail to do justice to his worth. There may be much at stake here.”

  Mrs. Gardiner after a space of thoughtfulness replied, “To ask whether our perception is at fault, or that of everyone else, is surely to create too stark an opposition. We know without doubt that his habits have been bad, and if we were to judge him solely on his history, we would no doubt share the conviction of the world. But can a man not truly change, given sufficient motive? Can he not look upon his previous actions with repugnance and resolve to govern himself better? And if he does so, should we not pardon bygone deficiencies?”

  “I do not attempt to deny that I like him, but I do not feel I can answer for the purification of his nature.”

  “He seems to have had a good upbringing, I believe he was taught right principles in his youth.”

  “Will you permit me to ask where he could have refreshed these right principles, which he clearly has been indifferent to or contemptuous of for years?”

  “Recent events must have shaken his mind, and they may perhaps have opened a door to a reformation. Do you not think it possible, also, that our own influence has acted on him?”

  “We have done nothing more than give him dinner from time to time.”

  “A dinner is not meat alone but also society. Perhaps we have shown him a value for domestic convention. It seems to me that his manners are more gentle than they used to be.”

  “To what end, though?”

  “Not, I believe, in order to obtain anything from us, other than our approval and esteem. I think he simply wishes to please us.”

  “Well; I hope it is so.”

  Amaury, on his side, had met the Gardiners’ overtures first with surprise tempered with suspicion, and then with a certain degree of genuine gratitudefor their attentions included the privilege of trading an evening of chill solitude under the eaves of Mrs. Younge’s house for the more temperate climate of their dining and drawing rooms. He had no income, no home and no friends, and was hardly in a position to refuse to eat dinner with anyone who offered it. But his reasons for accepting the Gardiners’ invitations were eminently pragmatic. Although the outward indulgence of his love for Georgiana was forbidden, there was opportunity to collect information about her in their house. He paid court to them, labouring to construct a positive image of what he was now, being unable to construct one of what he had been: he avoided all allusions to his prior pursuits. He had no need to cultivate a thin and pale appearance, in his present cheerless circumstances it was a natural consequence; but he was aware of its effect on the Gardiners’ sympathy for him. In a word, he used all his not inconsiderable skills of seduction to take in the Gardiners.

  Yet while he operated on their sensibilities, they almost invisibly operated on his. He needed to be taught nothing more about the harshness of the world and would have known how to discount such lessons, but the unfamiliar message of benevolence somehow crept through his defences. The Gardiners welcomed him and in every respect made him comfortable, in short behaved so as to make their home a refuge to him, and he could not help feeling it.

  One cold damp evening in a strangely unguarded moment he found himself opening his heart to them. It began with a slight reference to the disagreeableness of his living conditions, something that on careful occasion he allowed to escape his lips.

  “The luxury of a clean fork is not celebrated as often as it deserves,” he said, holding up a piece of silverware.

  “I am sorry to think that you should find it so,” said Mrs. Gardiner, “but I suppose you have lived in many different ways, not all of them very congenial.”

  Remarkably Amaury did not try to deflect the conversation, although even he did not know why. “There are few things I have not tried,” he conceded.

  “Did you never think of turning from that path?” asked Mr. Gardiner.

  “You assume that I took it and remained on it voluntarily.”

  “A natural assumption when one sees a young man living a dissipated existence, I am afraid.”

  “You make it sound almost appealing.”

  “And the one you have led has not been?”

  “It would take a more lighthearted temperament than mine to relish being under constant threat of debtor’s prison, or the sword-thrust of a drunken gambler.”

  “Johnny, you are young, you are clever, you are educated and you have all the personal advantages that a man cou
ld wish for,” said Mrs. Gardiner. “Has it really been impossible to attempt anything more than a career of gaming and larceny?”

  “Of course I have asked myself that, many times, but I have never arrived at the answer you are hoping for; at least, that is, until I met Miss Darcy.”

  The Gardiners instantly united to drive the discussion out of this dangerous thicket.

  “Johnny, you know that you must not think of her,” said the wife.

  “Mary did not mean living off an heiress, but finding honest work for which you are qualified,” said the husband simultaneously.

  Amaury was silent. He was not unaware of having trespassed on a forbidden topic, but he had ventured there for the comfort Georgiana brought him. Suddenly it was impossible not to speak, although it was an extravagance that he would not have allowed himself had he not been certain of their responsive solicitude. “My father intended me for the Bar. But when he died it soon became apparent that he had made no provision for me at all. My allowance was stopped immediately. I was forced to come down from the University. I had no means of subsidizing myself while I read law, and no connexions to enable my rise in the profession were I to become a barrister.”

  “But you must have had friends who would have stepped forward to relieve you?”

  “A natural son is not likely to make many friends among his father’s associates. My brother rejected all requests for assistance. We scarcely ever met each other while we were boys, but I knew that he was shamed and angered by the fact of a bastard elder brother, worse still, one who was not even a year older than he and was acknowledged by our father.”

  “But if he had acknowledged you, why did he not provide for you on his death?”

  “I do not know. The greater part of his property was entailed and therefore must go to his legitimate son, but everything that was not entailed he gave also to my brother. He wrote in his will, “To my beloved son Thomas, in recognition of the loss he has suffered.”