by Meg Kerr
Noticing that Amaury was feeling distress, that he was endeavouring to conceal, Mrs. Gardiner waited a little before asking, “What loss? of his father? But surely you had suffered the same loss?”
“I do not believe that is what he meant. My brother was deeply offended by my existence and I think our father came to regret that he had acknowledged me.” Amaury hurried away from this statement before Mrs. Gardiner could express the compassion he clearly detected on her countenance, and continued. “In any event, lacking the means of keeping a roof over my head, I tried to support myself by gambling, and ran up debts of honour that I could not pay. Then I was accused of cheating a man out of a hundred pounds” – chancing on Mrs. Gardiner’s eye he amended, as if candidly contrite“I cheated a man out of a hundred pounds. My brother circulated the report widely, and soon there was nothing to do but leave the country, and make my way as best I could.”
“If you had made the choice to starve and beg rather than steal, there might have been those who would have saved you,” said Mr. Gardiner, who had been a most careful listener to the narrative, “but there is no pity for the fallen man. There was no one else who could or would do anything for you, I take it?”
“I was raised by distant cousins of my father’s, whose name I bear; and they would have repossessed it had they had the ability. My mother’s family are unknown to me. She was a servant in my father’s household, and died just days after my birth.”
“Your mother must have been a very beautiful woman,” said Mrs. Gardiner with a fond smile.
“Why do you say so?”
“Because I am certain that you look like her.”
Amaury coloured, and she quickly said, “Forgive me if I am being forward, Johnny.”
On an impulse of overpowering emotion he reached out and took her hand, and kissed it with tender respect.
After Amaury had left them, the Gardiners remained in the drawing room. Mrs. Gardiner took up her work and Mr. Gardiner glanced over a newspaper. She looked up from her sewing as often as down at it, her eyes fixed on some thing invisible or that had not yet come into being. Mr. Gardiner found his concentration on the news was not much greater than his wife’s on her work, and when suddenly she spoke he immediately lowered the paper.
“My love, can we not devise some means to extricate Johnny from this plight he has stumbled into?”
“Certainly. We could arrange for him to marry Georgiana.”
“I am being serious. Under his present difficulties do you not think him entitled to our concern and benefaction?”
“You do not consider a roast beef dinner now and then adequate in that line?”
“I do not, nor do you. He stands in need of help, and who apart from us will hear of his misfortunes but to say he deserved them? There has been so little of real friendship in the world for him! And yet how admirable he might have been had he remained in good hands. His intelligence, manners and taste would have placed him high with people of discrimination.”
“Do you truly believe so?”
“I do. Might we not yet turn him from his path and reclaim him?”
“Well, Mary, I have teased you a little, but don’t suppose that I am blind to his merits. Indeed I am of somewhat the same mind as you, although I do not know if he would receive our aid. He refused a large sum of money, you remember, and he might misconstrue our motives if we made another such proposal.”
“Money is not the most important thing he needs. How else may we serve him?”
“I have been turning an idea over in my head lately. But let us not speak further of it now, while I evaluate it.”
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At their next meeting with Amaury Mr. Gardiner made a decision to engage him in unreserved conversation, and he commenced by enquiring about his plans.
“I suppose I shall go on living by my wits,” he replied. The reader will find this answer faintly hypocritical after being made aware that Amaury had just received a letter from Georgiana in which she joyously agreed to his programme of eloping from Lambton within the next fortnight.
In his ignorance, Mr. Gardiner felt that he must attempt to give their young friend the benefit of his own knowledge and seasoned judgment, to make him see the folly and ugliness of a life of gaming and swindling, for this was what he presumed Amaury had meant, and to begin to teach him those lessons without which no man can live as a gentleman.
“I have been reflecting on your situation, Johnny. The misfortune of your birth proceeded from no misconduct of your own, and in that sense brings no disgrace on you. But it should have made you exceedingly careful as to your actions and companions. Although there has never been any doubt that you are the son of a gentleman, there will be many people who would take pleasure in degrading you, particularly if you do not do all within your command to preserve your claim to that station.” He broke off to observe the effect of his words to this point, and then continued. “But even though there is much in the station of a gentleman, you have experience enough now to appreciate that there is still more in the name of an honest man. What do we think of a brigand, who stops the traveller on the road and appropriates his valuables? Do we not think him a pitiable outcast? I think the gentleman who plays to make an income, who sits down with the intention of putting his fingers in others’ pockets, even if he does not cheat, is no better than the robber on the highway. He is much worse in fact. He has been educated, he has been instructed what is right and good, and yet he shows himself to have less courage and less honesty than the footpad. There is nothing so defiling to a man as coming by his money through deceit. If a man needs money, let him earn it honourably.”
Amaury submitted to listen quietly to Mr. Gardiner, for he owed him at least this courtesy in return for all the dinners he had received, although the words about courage and honesty penetrated his ear most uncomfortably and almost caused him to squirm in his chair.
“Your past has left nothing but regret, and your future is empty of purpose. Yet I tell you that you have many prospects before you. Do not settle that you can live but one way, for there are a dozen ways, respectable ones, that would do as well, or better. Where the time and the intellect are not engaged, mischief will follow, and it is expedient that every young man have some active profession, some wholesome employment, even when money is not an object. Now as it happens I wish to do something for my own interest; since peace has come I need a Continental agent for my house, and I would like to make a trial of you. I think very well of your qualifications in all respects. Your natural intelligence is good, and your education has improved it; you speak French, German and Flemish. I believe you equal to every important duty you would have to undertake on my behalf.”
This proposition left Amaury so completely at a loss for words that he might have been raised by a she-wolf. He was rendered speechless not at the thought of entering trade (for snobbery towards any means of earning a living was presently beyond his budget, and many of his enterprises had been what one might call trade on the wrong side of the blanket) but at the abrupt realization that he had once again been caught in a snare. Until this minute he had not been uncertain what to do. But in this minute his comprehension was wakened and he saw that he could not maintain his relationships on their present terms with both Georgiana and the Gardiners.
This may at first glance seem to be a false dilemma, for on any strict accounting thirty thousand pounds collected immediately must have more value than the wages of a merchant’s agent, even should he labour into his senility. Regrettably, however, that was not where the dilemma lay. It was often been noted that one cannot touch pitch without blackening the hands, but it is equally true, although much less frequently parrotted, that one cannot touch soap without cleansing them. In associating with the Gardiners Amaury had touched a great quantity of soap. If he were to accept Mr. Gardiner’s offer of employment, it would be a betrayal of G
eorgiana who was waiting for him, with a longing as profound as his own, at Pemberley. And if he were to elope with Georgiana it would be a betrayal of the Gardiners who had given him their regard and trust.
Amaury was not in all things a reckless man; in business affairs he took care to conduct himself with sense rather than sensibility. To have fallen in love with Georgiana, therefore, might charitably be viewed as a misfortune; but to have allowed a feigned liking for the Gardiners to turn, as he now discovered, into sincere attachment, one far surpassing anything he had felt previously with the exception of his love for Georgiana, could only be looked upon as the most shocking negligence. And to his humiliation there was still worse to concede. The increasing familiarity between them which had attended their evenings together had gave him the opportunity of witnessing their many excellencies, one of which was moral decency, that seemed to have infected him. Now he suddenly found himself lacking the inclination rather than the opportunity to do wrong.
He felt that what he needed in this critical moment was an advisor who would instruct him how to actbut who was there to turn to? It was then that the final ignominy dawned on him, that he was already sitting in the presence of the friends he sought and had already received the advice he required. At this admission, his mind suddenly quieted, no longer roiled by the turbulence of his own machinations.
By now Amaury had been still and silent for so long that the Gardiners did not know what to make of him. Mr. Gardiner at last said, “Perhaps you would like more time to examine my idea, Johnny. I do not need your answer this evening.”
Amaury replied, slowly and with some agitation of bearing but clearly wishing to show self-command, “I have done many bad things, I have tried out dissipation as you call it, but I do not think I am any the better for my accomplishments.” To become a merchant was hardly a plan that would have enchanted his fancy in former days; but now without any of his customary fluency, in fact with a great deal of awkwardness, he gave Mr. Gardiner to understand that he accepted the position gratefully.
When he parted from the Gardiners that evening, nothing could have better expressed his respect and affection for them, than his behaviour, and a kind embrace accompanied their words of farewell to one another. In a very short time everything was so far settled as to enable Amaury to commence his new occupation and undertake his new responsibilities as a member of Mr. Gardiner’s merchant house.
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CHAPTER
29
Meryton Area, June 1816
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Just as Bodicea, Queen of the Britons, on hearing of some fresh Roman outrage inflicted on her people put on her breastplate, took up her spear, and mounted her chariot to wage war against her tormentors, Lady Catherine de Bourgh donned her travelling garments, stepped into her coach, and had herself swiftly conveyed towards Meryton.
She first descended in wrath on Bewley, where an inordinate amount of knocking on the front door finally drew an ancient gardener from around a corner of the building to acquaint the coachman that he knew nothing of his mistress’s whereabouts, but if she was not at home, then she was very likely elsewhere. Further questioning elicited the speculation that elsewhere might be Netherfield Hall.
The new Boadicea, like many a general before her, thus learned that although she arrived at the scene of battle in full strength and purpose to obliterate her enemy, she was now to be put to the trouble of first ferreting it out. Lady Catherine reinvigorated herself with a biscuit and a little wine and then directed the coachman to take the way to Netherfield Hall.
At Netherfield, two miles from Bewley over bad roads, she discovered that Miss Harrington was not there either. Fanny Delaford, called out of the house to undergo interrogation at the carriage window, with one look at the stranger’s countenance determined to be hanged before she gave up Pen’s location, and bravely withstood her barrage to such good effect that Lady Catherine was convinced she was dealing with a half-wit and dismissed her. At this point her footman, who had been closely observing the Netherfield servant, spoke a word to the coachman, who then took the liberty of implying quietly to her ladyship that a coin fired into the right quarter, as it were, might produce the required guidance. Lady Catherine was scandalized at the suggestion that she might be forced to bribe a servant to obtain information that ought to be freely divulged in the ordinary course of bullying, but a short colloquy with the coachman persuaded her that as the afternoon was proceeding and the battle still to be joined, it would be worth a farthing to speed the sortie. The farthing to Lady Catherine’s horror turned out to be a shilling, for country traitors in these degenerate days are no less rapacious than those in town. Even worse, the information that it bought was that Miss Harrington was to be found at Longbourn House.
Longbourn! Setting of that egregious defeat, now nearly four years past, at the hands of her niece Elizabeth! This was an ill omen, to be sure; but Lady Catherine’s courage was beyond doubt and instead of dwelling on that mortifying interview, she gave the order to set out.
Longbourn was three miles from Netherfield, over roads slightly less execrable than those leading from Bewley to Netherfield.
Mrs. Bennet had met Lady Catherine only once, and on that occasion had not formally been introduced to her; but encouraged by an accreting kinship – for two of her daughters had married two of Lady Catherine’s nephewsshe made Lady Catherine a staple of her conversation with her acquaintances. It might be imagined that seeing Lady Catherine before her in the flesh without warning would stimulate awe and reverence to such a degree that she would not venture to speak to her, but the very opposite occurred. When the visitor was announced and Mrs. Bennet understood that she was being honoured with a call from her ladyship, it was as natural for her to claim the relationship to her ladyship’s face as it had been for her to boast of it to her sister Philips, Lady Lucas, Mrs. Long and Mrs. Goulding.
Lady Catherine entered the drawing room with her usual ungracious air and found herself greeted with profuse civility. “Lady Catherine, I am so pleasedso happy to see you again!” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed. “How good it is in you to call on me. I was certain I should see you here once more, and we shall be delighted to see you any time your engagements allow a visit. It is the greatest of comforts to know that you desire the connexion as much as I do. Lizzy and Kitty are so fond of you, you know. You will stay to dine with us, I hope? If I knew what dish you particularly like, I would have ordered it, but as it is I have a nice fat haunch of venison, and the fish is fresh today.”
Lady Catherine was taken aback by this welcome, for her strategy had been simply to sequester and surround the loathsome Miss Harrington, and commence firing. It had not occurred to her that she would have to fight an action in order to reach her foe. Suddenly her strength diminished. She was not a young woman, and she had been riding in a carriage for many hours with little in the way of sustenance. More critically, she was touched by a superstitious dread of Mrs. Bennet, the woman who had produced Mrs. Darcy and Lady Tyrconnell. Attached as she had in fact grown to her nieces, she had nevertheless been forced to confess to herself that their mother was her Nemesis.
Pen, for her part, had heard a great deal about Lady Catherine, but she knew no more of her than did Mrs. Bennet, and Mrs. Bennet’s particulars had been acquired almost exclusively from Mr. Collins, with a small supplement from Sir William Lucas and Maria Lucas; Elizabeth had ever been reticent, not considering it wise to share her real opinion of Lady Catherine with her mother. She therefore thought her a civil and affable woman and saw her as an elderly one who had upon a time been handsome and who was presently weary, hungry and discouraged. Pen immediately felt sorry for her.
Pity for Lady Cathe
rine de Bourgh? The heavens fall, the universal order turns to chaos!
Mrs. Bennet knew well her duties as a hostess and sent for food and drink, and forced them upon her guest, against her most explicit prohibitions and protests. But after taking them she regained a little energy and was able once more to turn her full attention to the campaign.
To say that Lady Catherine was in doubt about how to proceed next would be to malign her, for she was at all times a woman of very definite views. However the day’s events had affected her plans to the extent that she was not quite willing to launch an assault on the youthful female seated with Mrs. Bennet without ascertaining to a certainty that she was in fact Miss Penelope Harrington. With a slyness normally foreign to her nature she therefore commenced, “I should be glad to take a turn on your lawn; I am in want of a little exercise now.”
“Yes, you must wish to walk after such a long drive, but the gravel paths are drier than the lawn.”
“Perhaps that young lady would give me her arm. What is her name?”
“This is Miss Harrington,” replied Mrs. Bennet, gratified to have her protégée noticed yet again by a great personage, and she immediately and without further invitation introduced Pen to Lady Catherine, who returned Pen’s courtesy with the slightest and stiffest of bows. Pen concluded that she suffered from rheumatics, and her pity intensified.
Pen put on her cloak and bonnet and the two ladies, after being seen off at the door by Mrs. Bennet, proceeded in silence into the garden, Lady Catherine plotting her opening salvo, and Pen respecting her likely need for a period of quiet recovery. Lady Catherine seated herself on the first convenient bench they reached that was out of sight of the drawing room windows and ordered Pen to join her.
“Miss Harrington, you do not know who I am,” she began in an uncompromising tone.