Chapter 18

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A larm built to panic, but Darcy fought it down. “Why,” he asked with forced calmness, “would you believe my sister to be with me?”

Then he had to wait for the woman to work through a series of sneezes before replying.

“I am so sorry, sir. I-I have had a trifling cold. Miss Darcy had a letter this afternoon—from you, she said—saying you would be home today.”

Darcy’s blood froze in his veins. He had written no letter.

“She knew I was ill, and begged to take her maid and go—only to Darcy House, that she might greet you upon your arrival. I expected her return any time now, or else word from you or her or both.”

Mrs Annesley was well aware of Georgiana’s history—Darcy had felt it important that she be perfectly in possession of all the facts. He could see in her face what she was thinking .

“I swear, sir, I have watched her carefully. I have seen no sign of the man you described—nor has Miss Darcy spoken to a man of his description. Really, she has not been speaking to anyone at all. She has not been in spirits, sir. Yet, I thought it would pass.”

“Has she been doing a great deal of shopping?” He asked the question, already knowing the answer.

“Not really, sir. No. Last week, once, a small excursion. But…but I have been ill, and she has not expressed any desire to do so. Mostly, she writes to you and reads your letters.”

Darcy knew he had written once in the last week—arranging for her to receive more pin money.

“Have I been a very frequent correspondent?”

Her eyes met his and her reply was very quiet. “Yes, sir. Now that I consider it, an unusually frequent one.”

He controlled his panic, but it was not easy.

“Let us search her room, and see if we can find any of these letters,” he said, and followed her up the stairs.

The earl’s coachman, who had taken Georgiana and her maid to Darcy House, had nothing helpful to report. He had delivered the women to the front gate, and made his way home again with nary a suspicion that there was anything untoward afoot.

A note from Darcy’s butler assured him that Miss Darcy had never entered the house.

It was Mrs Annesley who found the packet of letters, wedged behind a bureau. Darcy opened the first, and had his worst fears confirmed.

It was George Wickham’s handwriting, declaring his love, his devotion, and his continued, avid desire to be Georgiana’s husband.

Colonel Fitzwilliam found Hertfordshire to be just as dull as he had expected. He was a gregarious man, fond of food, friends, and entertainment. When Mr Bennet had called upon him, apparently at the behest of his wife and daughters, inviting him to the party at the home of a Mr and Mrs Philips, he decided to go. It would give him an opportunity to see more of Miss Elizabeth Bennet, to try and understand Darcy’s inexplicable decision to marry her.

The crowd was a jovial one. Everyone was friendly. Nevertheless, he could not help but see the vast difference between his mother’s parties and this one.

These people were loud, sometimes raucous. And the Bennets! To be fair, his criticisms did not apply to either Miss Bennet or Miss Elizabeth—but the rest were awful. The giggling youngest sisters—he never could remember their names—helped themselves over-frequently to the punch bowl, with not a word of discipline from their parents. Their cousin, Lady Catherine’s vicar, preached in their stead, to no helpful effect upon the sisters in particular, or upon the crowd in general. The mother and Mrs Philips, her sister, laughed more loudly than the daughters; Fitzwilliam overheard them exchange ribald observations more appropriate to a tavern than to a respectable party. Instead of being aghast, their neighbours found them hilarious. And what did Mr Bennet do? Ignored his wife, his daughters, and their ill behaviour in favour of debating with his neighbours upon some agricultural concern.

There was nothing enriching in their conversation, nor elegant in their manners. Fitzwilliam’s father would have been astonished and appalled. His mother would be disgusted.

Miss Elizabeth was merrily chatting to a crowd of young people—many of whom were probably her own age, and most of whom were of the male sex. For the first time, another idea occurred to him—the possibility that she had seduced Darcy .

She looked the very picture of innocence, but one never knew. Darcy had denied any such conduct…but of course, he would, to protect both himself and her. Socially, she was expert, drawing people into her circle, entrancing them with wit and charm. Trapped together at Netherfield, earning Darcy’s pity by playing upon his sympathies, exerting a seductress’s pull upon a lonely man? His cousin was no seducer, but could he be seduced?

Every single man surrounding her could be, that was certain.

Be watchful of your younger cousin Darcy , Fitzwilliam’s parents had told him a thousand times. He is young, na?ve, and unlikely to spot those who would take advantage of him.

The colonel’s protectiveness had begun, he supposed, with the death of his own younger brother—the Fitzwilliam son meant for the church—during his seventeenth summer, an accidental death for which he blamed himself .

Darcy, although three years his junior, somehow had recognised that beneath Fitzwilliam’s stoic exterior, he suffered. He had insisted his father bring Fitzwilliam to Pemberley for the rest of the summer’s school break, and…they fished. Never much of a talker, Darcy’s quiet company in the peaceful surroundings were a balm to his wounded soul. Thereafter, he went to Pemberley for every term break.

What had he found? Beneath the stiff, subdued Darcy exterior was no guileless fool, that was certain. Fitzwilliam Darcy had not needed a keeper. He was, however, in need of a friend—one who cared for him, rather than looked to him for support.

I would do anything for my friend , Fitzwilliam thought, with a hated helplessness. How could he possibly extract Darcy from this fix? Even if he could make him see reason soon, the news would be out too soon to make a difference, and Darcy would be trapped forever.

At that moment, Mr Bennet quieted the crowd by tapping his crystal flute. “We are missing some of our most illustrious neighbours tonight, as Mr Bingley and Mr Darcy were required to go to town. I know not with what business Mr Bingley must engage. However, I know exactly Mr Darcy’s reasons—he went to procure a licence. He has requested my daughter’s hand in marriage. Our own Elizabeth will soon be Mrs Darcy.”

Astounding that no one stared in astonishment! How could they all believe a wedding to be so likely? For that matter, why did no one ever appear to wonder if Bennet had named the wrong sister?

Darcy had been under tremendous pressure since Georgiana’s near escape from Wickham’s clutches. I have been too busy with regimental business, leaving him to deal with her by himself. Lately, I have seldom visited Georgiana, who mostly sulks and leaves me feeling incapable of managing her situation. This travesty of a wedding is my fault.

He could not bear it. While the crowd cheered and raised glasses and a few ill-mannered whistles were heard, he turned on his heel and departed so quickly, it was not even polite.

He did not care.

He was thankful for the onslaught of rain that gave him a good excuse to avoid everyone thereafter. However, it also kept him indoors, and the lack of company in the unoccupied house increased his gloom.

I hate this place , he thought. I hate standing by, residing in empty luxury while Darcy makes the biggest mistake of his life! His dearest friend was entrapped by a countrified seducer, and he could do nothing to prevent the wedding.

The end of the week was long and tedious; on Monday and Tuesday, he whipped the phaeton round country roads ill-designed for the thing, almost spilling it several times, half uncaring that he might break his own neck.

The day before Darcy’s wedding, it rained yet again, a deluge, and he passed the time indoors preparing arguments, intending to do his best—futile though it might be—to talk Darcy into paying off the family and leaving Hertfordshire forever. He expected Darcy at any time. He waited. And waited. And waited. His cousin did not arrive.

At first it was only a suspicion, but as the day wore on, he began to hope it: Darcy has changed his mind . While his coach might have trouble with the mud, there was nothing to prevent him from riding—floods would not keep him away from something he was determined to do. Away from whatever seductive influence the young lady held over him, had the man finally begun to think clearly? Hallelujah, if it is so!

By the time the express arrived early Thursday morning, Colonel Fitzwilliam was expecting it. Inside, he was certain, would be a letter explaining Darcy’s change of heart, and probably a hefty bank draft payable to the Bennets, along with a letter urging them to forget and forgive his error of judgment.

“I will do this for you, Darcy,” Fitzwilliam snapped at his absent cousin, as he unsealed the envelope and unfolded the letter-paper. “I will sacrifice my pride, and extract you from this untenable match. It is unlike you to make someone else deal with troubles you have made, but in this case, it is probably best that I act as your representative. I shall bring Matlock’s name to bear if they make a fuss. I owe you this and more.”

But as he read the words penned in Darcy’s handwriting, his mouth gaped, astonishment and fury and heartache each vying for position within his tangled emotions. There were, indeed, two letters; neither contained the words the colonel had expected.

Fitzwilliam—

George Wickham eloped with Georgiana. The foul deed took place on Thursday last, the day I returned to town, and I was made aware of their plot within a very few hours of her disappearance. This provided a great benefit, as they certainly could never have guessed that I would be able to give chase so quickly, and although Wickham attempted to expedite their passage, he was somewhat slowed by taking a circuitous course to avoid the most popular stops along the Great North Road. It took me some time to discover their route; however, I was mounted, and they were in a rackety rented vehicle—early in my search I obtained a propitious clue in its looks, being a rather unusual shade of green. I gained an even greater advantage near Stamford, where I discovered Georgiana’s maid, abandoned at Wickham’s insistence. She was a fountain of information regarding their expected route to Scotland, and I was thus able to quickly overtake the escaping pair just before they made Newark.

When I explained to Wickham the Gordian knot I have made of Georgiana’s settlement since his last attempt at elopement, he agreed that she is not the bride he had imagined. He decided to depart for the Continent, forthwith. I do not believe we shall see him in England again.

I write you from Pemberley, where I have brought Georgiana for recovery.

Cousin, I require you to deliver to Elizabeth the letter enclosed, as early as you possibly can. I pray you receive these missives before Thursday. I would have sent it via express to Longbourn, but a bridegroom failing to appear upon his wedding day requires some sort of gentler handling, I think. As well, it would be best if you are able to hand it directly to Elizabeth. We can trust her discretion. Please, with the letter, deliver my most abject apologies, along with the strongest reassurance that I shall come for her as soon as is possible.

I have not slept but an hour or two in four days, so excuse any confusion in this sorry tale.

Join me at Pemberley as soon as you are able.

FD