Chapter 26

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

D arcy stormed over to Netherfield and discovered another likely reason for the Bennets’ hostility: the house was closed up, just as he had strongly advised Bingley to do. Not that they would know his part in that, but they must have been planning to trade on his connexion to Bingley in order to secure a husband for Miss Bennet. It made for a dashed inconvenience, however; he refused to give the inn here his custom.

He made the return trip to London in much less than the usual time, tearing along roadsides and through villages alike, his mind absorbed in the bitterest kind of fury, almost heedless of his mount and the mud.

How dare the inhabitants of Longbourn treat him as if he were some sort of mendicant, come to beg for Elizabeth Bennet’s attention? How dare they pronounce their critical opinions of Georgiana as if they were too good for her? How dare the repulsive Mr Collins, his aunt’s parson , think himself good enough to deliver a set-down to Fitzwilliam Darcy! They ought to have been grovelling at the sight of him! To think that they would reject a gentleman of his stature and wealth— returning his thoughtful letters—the very idea was insulting and revealed their idiocy!

Recalling the upper servant who had presumed to question him—albeit without words—on his knowledge of the Bennets’ relations in trade filled his heart with outrage. Why should he know them? It was not as though he could be expected to acknowledge a lowly tradesman who hung his shingle in Cheapside. And if they are such ‘great favourites’ of Elizabeth’s, perhaps Fitzwilliam is correct in supposing that I ought never to see her again!

Finally, however, at that particular train of thought, his heart rebelled.

This had nothing to do with Elizabeth. She was all that was good and honourable; he knew it and would not, could not believe otherwise—especially without even speaking to her. She had not received his letters—probably did not know he had written. Her awful family, out of a condemnatory pride, was keeping her from him.

A niggling feeling of guilt kept trying to worm its way into his mind. How the Bennet contingent had spoken to him was no worse than his opinion of them ; Elizabeth had, at least once in their private conversations, begun to speak of her uncle, and he had purposely prevented her from doing so. Nevertheless, he could hardly be expected to rejoice in their differences in station.

Besides, neither guilt nor outrage would help him to find his bride. He would find her, but he cursed the time it would take to search all of Cheapside for a man whose name he did not know.

Georgiana heard of her brother’s return to their Mayfair home with a sense of astonishment mixed with dread. He had meant to stay in Hertfordshire for a few days, at least, possibly up to a week—making arrangements for his approaching wedding. Due to what had happened last time, he had said he did not feel he could push Miss Elizabeth to marry quickly, by licence; that he would speak to her vicar and arrange for the banns to be called, with hopefully a wedding by the end of January, if she would agree.

But now he was home. Soon, far too soon.

Guilt was an ache in her belly and acid in her throat. Since returning to Pemberley, she had done her best to fashion the memory of George Wickham into the person whom she had once loved. She had failed utterly, her image of him refusing to remain the courtly, handsome suitor of Ramsgate.

I was so angry, so disappointed when my brother broke off our first planned elopement. George, via Davis, had quickly re-established contact. He had not accused her brother of lying, no; they both knew Fitzwilliam Darcy to be honourable and upright. Rather, George assured her that there were two sides to every story—that Fitzwilliam’s jealousy of their father’s preference for George made him interpret the will in the harshest possible light, that she ought to feel pity for her brother, and be the one to help repair their childhood friendship .

If she were truthful, she could admit her childish view of George had begun to shatter on the first night she spent in his bed. It had been painful, and thankfully over with very quickly. George had rolled off her and then assured her she would ‘improve with practice’. She had cried herself to sleep, which only made him angry.

Oh, she had tried, tried so hard to please him—even seeking advice from the hateful Davis, who had assumed airs of both pitying condescension and spiteful resentment, once they were on the road. George would alternately lavish adoring devotion and belittling distrust, keeping Georgiana balanced upon the edge of uncertainty, always.

It was really not until she was returned to Pemberley—beautiful, peaceful Pemberley—that she had begun to see those interludes in a different light. The cheap taverns where she stayed with George had been stenchy and uncomfortable. The other patrons were intimidating, frightening, and although George told her that she was a spoilt coward, she knew his friends were not upstanding citizens. They joked about their exploits, few of them legal, and George admired them for it—insisting, humiliatingly, that she learn to pick a pocket or two at crowded inns to ‘earn her keep’; no one would ever believe she was the thief, with her ‘haughty’ manner. He refused to allow her to spend her money—he had taken it all—and would grow furious if she asked for any, berating her, telling her that she loved wealth more than him, accusing her of wanting to leave him, of craving a return to her arrogant brother and coveting the life of an overindulged infant.

By the time Fitzwilliam had burst upon them at that Newark inn, she had become so accustomed to protecting George, to sacrificing for him, to proving herself worthy of him, that she had tried to remain—despite his vicious, open rejection. To remember how she had begged George to stay, to keep her, now overwhelmed her with shame and humiliation.

Her brother did not come down to dinner, instead sending a message that he was busy with correspondence and would take a tray in his study. After picking at her food for as long as she could stand, Georgiana abandoned her partially eaten meal. She must know, had to understand, the extent of her guilt. By the time she knocked lightly upon her brother’s study door, she was sick with it.

“Enter,” he called curtly.

He looked up, surprised, when she did.

“You did not join me for dinner,” she began, hardly knowing how to ask what she needed to learn. He might tell her it was none of her business.

“I have a tray,” he said, managing to sound both harsh and weary. “And letters to write.”

She glanced at his untouched tray, the blank letter-paper on the desk before him, and plunked herself down on the nearest chair. This was Fitzwilliam, and he would neither rage at nor belittle her. Something told her that if she waited until he was better rested, he might, stubbornly, admit nothing. He probably would refuse to say much, regardless.

“What happened in Hertfordshire?”

Then, to her astonishment, he told her.