Chapter Seven #4
One morning, when the younger Bennet girls had rendered the parlour insupportable by a discussion of ribbons and officers, Mary escaped to the blue guest-room with a volume in her hand, intending, as she told herself, to be usefully employed in sitting with Miss Darcy.
She had not been seated there five minutes before Georgiana, with an air of hesitating apology, spoke.
“I beg your pardon,” she said. “I am afraid I am rather selfish. I thought—perhaps—you might allow me to sit with you, if you do not object to my working in silence. I am not always equal to so much conversation as your sisters enjoy.”
“I cannot pretend that I am either,” Mary replied. “I have often wished for a room in which one might be silent without being thought dull. We will consider this one so appropriated whenever you wish for company.”
Georgiana’s smile, though timid, was grateful.
“What are you reading?” she ventured.
“Cowper,” said Mary, holding up the volume. “He is, in my opinion, one of the most rational of poets.”
“I like him a great deal,” Georgiana said eagerly. “Especially when he writes of home and quiet occupations. My brother says he is too melancholy, but I always think his melancholy is of the sort that makes one better, not worse.”
Mary regarded her with new approbation.
“Cowper understands, better than any poet I know, that domestic happiness is the only bliss that has truly survived the fall. It is that which he celebrates, not noise and show. And when he writes of those scenes which, daily viewed, please daily, and whose novelty survives long knowledge and the scrutiny of years, I think he speaks as much of the heart as of the landscape.”
“I like those lines where he speaks of life at home, in the country—how scenes that are daily viewed may please daily, and never lose their power,” Georgiana replied. “I feel that way most often at Pemberley.”
“I have frequently observed,” Mary said, “that those who object to such reflections do so more from impatience than from principle. It is pleasant to meet with any one who can admire what is truly improving.”
Georgiana coloured with pleasure.
“I am glad you think so. I have sometimes been ashamed of liking serious things too well. It makes one very stupid in company.”
“On the contrary,” Mary replied, with more warmth than she often allowed herself, “I am persuaded that nothing but serious thinking can make any one truly valuable in company. It is only that the world does not know how to rate such value.”
Georgiana, after a little pause, said in a lower tone, “I should like, if you would not find it troublesome, to know what you think I ought to read. My brother has chosen many books for me, but I do not always know how to profit by them.”
Mary’s eyes brightened.
“If you wish it, we might look over your list together,” she said. “There are some authors, I believe, who do more good when taken in small portions. Others ought to be read quite through, and more than once.”
“I should be much obliged to you,” Georgiana answered. “I have never had a friend of my own age who cared for such things.”
“Then we shall begin to-morrow,” said Mary, with decision. “I will bring my books here, and we will see in what order they may be best arranged. When we require more, I shall go to my father’s library.”
Georgiana’s look of relief and gratitude needed no eloquence to explain it.
“Thank you,” she said simply. “I think I shall like Longbourn very much.”
Mary opened Cowper again, but her satisfaction in the verses was increased by the consciousness that, for the first time in her life, she had found a companion whose enjoyment of them might equal her own.
A New Companion
Darcy House, London
14 March 1811
My dear Georgiana,
As I promised, I have been making enquiries respecting a suitable companion for you.
Mr. Forthright, at the agency, has laid before me several promising candidates, all with respectable connexions and characters from families of the first consideration.
I am anxious for your comfort whilst you reside at Longbourn.
I have seen three ladies thus far, and found them to possess the requisite qualifications.
Mrs. Dalrymple comes highly recommended by the Countess of ——.
she is a widow of seven-and-forty, with considerable experience in the education of young ladies.
Miss Hartwell is somewhat younger, but has been companion to Lady Sefton’s niece with great success.
The third candidate, a Mrs. Annesley, was for fifteen years companion to the daughters of Lord ——, and brings an excellent character from her former employer.
I expect to make my final choice within the fortnight.
You need not be anxious on this head. I am determined that whoever is engaged shall bear no resemblance to Mrs. Younge, and I have been most exact in my enquiries.
When I have reduced the list to one or two names, you shall hear more of them, and if anything in their history gives you uneasiness, you have only to tell me so.
I remove to Netherfield to-morrow. I have invited Bingley, Hurst and two other gentlemen from the club. I shall wait upon you as soon as I am settled. I look forward to seeing you again, well and happy.
Your affectionate brother,
F. Darcy
Georgiana set down the letter, her hands trembling slightly.
“What does he say?” Elizabeth asked. They had been playing piquet when Hill brought up the post.
“He has found candidates for a companion. Three of them. He says he will make the final selection within the fortnight.” Georgiana’s voice was low. “He adds that I need not concern myself with the particulars.”
Elizabeth studied her face. “But you wish to concern yourself with them.”
“It does not signify what I wish. Fitzwilliam will choose some one suitable.”
“As he did Mrs. Younge?”
Georgiana flinched.
“Forgive me,” Elizabeth said at once. “That was unkindly spoken.”
“No—you are right.” Georgiana looked down at the letter. “He means well. He always means well. But I am terrified he will fix upon another companion who appears perfect on paper, and who will be—who will—”
She could not go on.
Elizabeth reached across and covered her hand. “Have you told him that you would wish to see these candidates before he engages one?”
“I could not possibly. He has gone to such trouble already, making all these enquiries. It would seem ungrateful to question his judgement.”
“It would not be questioning his judgement. It would be expressing a very reasonable preference, respecting a person who is to live in your household and attend you daily.”
Georgiana shook her head. “I cannot, Miss Elizabeth. Fitzwilliam has always managed every thing for me. He decides what is best. I must trust him.”
“But do you trust him, in this instance?”
The question hung in the air. Georgiana did not answer.
In Holborn
Darcy had been in the library some time when the Colonel was shown in. He took one look at Richard’s expression and poured two brandies without being asked.
“You have been to the post office?” Darcy asked at once.
“I have,” Richard said. “Wickham’s letter spoke of a remittance to ‘G. W., at the Post Office at the Inns of Court.’ There is a letter receiving house there, attached to a stationer’s, which serves that district.
I have had a man watching it for days. No one answering to him has appeared, and the packet addressed to those initials remains unclaimed. ”
“He has not gone for it,” Darcy said slowly.
“Either he has less freedom than he boasted, or he has found some other means of support,” Richard replied. “In any event, the post office yields us nothing, so I have turned to Mrs. Younge instead.”
Darcy froze. “You found her.”
“I found her.” Richard accepted the brandy and drank. “She has lodgings in Holborn. Far from fashionable, but not a warren either. The sort of street where a woman on her own might live quietly without attracting notice.”
“Did you speak with her?”
“I did. She was not pleased to see me.” Richard’s mouth curved bitterly. “She attempted to claim she had no knowledge of Wickham’s whereabouts, that she had not seen him since leaving your employ.”
“You did not believe her.”
“Of course not. The woman is a practised liar, but she is not as skilled as she believes herself to be. When I mentioned Georgiana, she went still. Guarded. She knows we are searching for him.”
Darcy set down his glass with care. “Is he there? In her lodgings?”
“I could not determine that with certainty. She would not permit me to enter, and I could not force my way in without drawing attention. Yet my instinct says yes. She was too quick to deny knowledge of him, too eager to be rid of me.”
“Then we go back. We confront him directly.”
“Not we. I go back.” Richard held up a hand, forestalling Darcy’s protest. “You are too close to this. If you face Wickham now, you will kill him. Or attempt to. That would bring on the scandal we are trying to avoid.”
Darcy wanted to argue. Every part of him demanded that he be the one to confront Wickham, to make him understand what he had done, to exact some answer for his sister.
Yet Richard was right. He could not trust himself in Wickham’s presence. Not yet.
“What do you propose?” he asked.
“I return to-morrow. I inform Mrs. Younge that we know about the sham ceremony, the assault, the escape. I make it clear that if Wickham attempts to make any claim on Georgiana—if he breathes one word of this affair to any one—we shall lay information against him for assault and fraud, his debts, and whatever else the lawyers can contrive.”
“He will dismiss it as an empty threat.”