Chapter Nine #2
As the meal resumed, the chaos threatened to return.
Mrs. Bennet’s voice grew shrill about the dessert wine, and the footman nearly upset the platter containing the fish.
Yet Lydia continued to observe Georgiana, checking her own behaviour against their guest’s.
Mr. Bennet remained uncharacteristically quiet, the amusement gone from his countenance, replaced by the sober calculation of a man who at last perceived how much in his own garden had been left to grow wild.
“Well,” Elizabeth said to Jane as they rose from the table, “if Georgiana can civilise Lydia through mere proximity, perhaps we should petition Mr. Darcy to leave her with us permanently. Think of the improvement we might achieve by Easter.”
“Lizzy,” Jane whispered, but she was smiling. “
Crops
Elizabeth found her father alone in the library, a book open before him, though his eye had plainly wandered from the page.
“You were rather quiet at dinner, Papa,” she said, closing the door behind her. “I began to fear you were unwell.”
“On the contrary, my dear, I was unusually well employed,” Mr. Bennet replied. “I was comparing crops.”
“Crops?”
“Two fields, sown in nearly the same year,” he said. “One carefully tended, the other left to Providence. The difference was striking.”
Elizabeth hesitated. “You mean Georgiana and Lydia.”
“I do.” A muscle jumped in his cheek. “It seems I have relied too long upon Providence in my own household, and rather too little upon cultivation.”
“Lydia is not lost, Papa,” Elizabeth said quietly. “She simply wants a little guidance.”
He studied her. “You are charitable, Lizzy. I am not sure I deserve it. Yet I own, the sight of Miss Darcy has given me an uncomfortable notion of what might have been done—what might yet be done, if I bestir myself even at this late hour.”
“Then Georgiana has done us all a service,” Elizabeth said.
“She has, poor child. As has another impertinent young lady, who insisted on bringing her into my house,” he added, with a look that was half amusement, half something more sober. “Very well, Lizzy. We shall see what may be effected, if a negligent father were to turn gardener at last.”
A wave of emotion ran through him. He understood. At last. Not as a subject for mockery, but as a failure he himself had authored.
The Confession
The garden at Longbourn was not Pemberley's. There were no sweeping vistas, no overly cultivated prospects. Yet the early spring air was tolerable, if cold, and the gravel paths were dry enough for walking.
Darcy offered his arm to Georgiana as they stepped out through the French doors. She took it, drawing her cloak more closely about her shoulders.
They walked in silence for several minutes. Darcy had learnt, these past weeks, that his sister required time to gather her thoughts before she could speak of difficult things. He would not press her.
It was Georgiana who finally broke the quiet.
“You have only pieces of what happened,” she said, her voice small. “You must have been imagining terrible things from what little you know.”
A pang of remorse ran through him. That was indeed what he had been doing—constructing nightmares from fragments.
“I have been selfish,” Georgiana continued. “I have thought only of my own shame, and not of how it must have been for you. Coming home to find me gone, with no explanation, no word.” She drew a shaky breath. “I ought to have told you before now. I will tell you all of it, if you wish to hear it.”
There was that in her phrasing, in the way she had framed his perspective, that did not sound entirely like Georgiana. Someone had helped her see this, guided her to understand what he had been suffering.
“Only if you feel able,” he said aloud.
Georgiana nodded. They turned down the path toward the little wilderness at the edge of the garden.
“It began in autumn,” she said. “Do you remember? You had gone to stay with Mr. Howard in Leicestershire for the shooting.”
Darcy did remember. He had been gone nearly six weeks. “Yes.”
“Mrs. Younge said I might receive callers whilst you were away. She said it would be good for me to practise my manners, as I would be out the following season.” Georgiana's hands gripped her cloak. “Mr. Wickham called the second day after you left.”
Darcy's hands clenched, but he said nothing.
“He was... he was very charming, Fitzwilliam. He spoke of Papa, of how much he missed him. He asked after my studies, my music. He seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say.” She swallowed.
“No one had seemed interested in what I had to say in quite a long time. You were always so busy, and Mrs. Younge only spoke to me to correct me. Yet Mr. Wickham listened.”
“He is practised at appearing to listen,” Darcy said quietly.
“I know that now. But then—then I thought he was kind. He called again the next day, and the day after that. Mrs. Younge always received him, always left us alone together in the drawing room. She said there was no impropriety in it, that he was practically family.”
“He is not family.”
“I know. But she said it so often that I began to believe it.” Georgiana's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “He brought me books. Poetry. He said I reminded him of the heroines—pure and innocent and deserving of devotion.”
Darcy’s bile rose in his throat. The pattern was all too familiar. Wickham had isolated her, flattered her, created a false intimacy.
“After a fortnight, Mrs. Younge suggested I might walk out with him. In the park, with her as chaperone.” Georgiana stopped walking. “I knew that was not proper. I knew I ought not walk out with a gentleman without your permission. So I refused.”
“You refused?” Darcy turned to face her.
“I did. I told Mrs. Younge that you would not approve, that I could not accept such an invitation without consulting you first.” Georgiana's chin lifted slightly.
“She became terribly sharp with me. She said I was being prudish and foolish, that you treated me like a child when I was nearly a woman grown. She said if I did not learn to enjoy myself, I would become a dried-up spinster with no prospects.”
“She said that to you?”
“Yes. She was... she was not kind about it.” Georgiana resumed walking, her steps quickening slightly as though she could outpace the memory.
“I held firm. I would not walk out with him. But he continued to call, and I continued to receive him in the drawing room because Mrs. Younge insisted it was unexceptionable.”
They reached the end of the path and turned back toward the house.
“I was confused, Fitzwilliam. I thought—” Her voice broke. “I thought I might be falling in love with him. He was so attentive, so warm. Yet I knew it could not be right. I knew I ought to speak with you, or with Richard, before I allowed myself to feel anything for any gentleman.”
“You were wise to recognise that.”
Tears gathered in Georgiana's eyes. “Mr. Wickham told me stories about you. About how you had treated him unfairly, how you had denied him a living Papa promised him. He said there had been a terrible falling-out between you, that you had become proud and cold, that you would never approve of him, no matter how much he deserved your approval.”
Darcy closed his eyes briefly. Of course. Wickham would have needed to poison her against him, to make her doubt his judgement.
“I did not know what to believe,” Georgiana continued. “I knew you were not cruel. Yet you were so distant, Fitzwilliam. You were always away, always occupied with business. And here was Mr. Wickham, saying he cared for me, saying he wanted only to make me happy.”
“I am sorry I was not there,” Darcy said, his voice rough. “I am sorry I did not see what was happening.”
“How could you see? I hid it from you. I knew—some part of me knew—that you would not approve. So when you wrote asking how I did, I said nothing. I said all was well.” She wiped at her eyes.
“But then I learnt that Colonel Fitzwilliam was returning from his regiment on leave. He was to be in London for several weeks before going to Matlock.”
“Richard wrote to you?”
“He did. He said he would call on me on—” She named a date in late autumn. “I was relieved. I thought I could speak to him, tell him about Mr. Wickham, ask his advice.
“I meant to tell him every thing,” Georgiana said. “But Mrs. Younge saw the letter. The note from the Colonel, saying when he would call. I had left it on my writing desk, and she came into my room whilst I was at my music lesson. When I returned, she was holding it.”
A cold dread settled his stomach.
“That was when every thing changed. She became pale. She asked me when the Colonel was expected to call, and I told her the date. She said nothing more about it then, but I could see she was agitated. She left the room, and I heard her speaking to some one downstairs. I think it was Mr. Wickham. They spoke for a long time, too quietly for me to hear.” Georgiana's voice began to shake.
“An hour later, she came back to my room. She said we were leaving London for a short visit to a friend in the country. She ordered my maid to pack a valise.” Georgiana stopped walking again, hugging herself.
“I said I could not leave without your permission, that the Colonel was expected. She said you had given your permission, that she had received a letter from you that very morning approving the trip.” Georgiana's voice dropped to a whisper.
“I asked to see the letter. She said she had already sent it on to the friend, to confirm our arrival. I knew she was lying. Yet I did not know what to do. She was my companion. I had been taught to obey her.”
“She used your obedience against you.”