Chapter Nine #5
But Georgiana was fifteen, gentle-hearted, schooled to think of kindness and Christian charity as the first of duties.
She had been taught that violence was shocking, that ladies did not struggle or strike, that even the justest anger must be governed.
How would such a mind sustain the knowledge that her single act of resistance—the very act which had saved her from ruin—might also have destroyed a life?
Would she understand that, if Wickham died, it was by his own choice? That he had refused the only means of cure? That his vanity or his folly, and not her courage, had brought him to such an end?
Or would she torment herself with the idea that she had killed a man, and lie awake at night, going over those moments in that miserable room, asking herself whether she ought to have done otherwise. Would she turn what had been an act of preservation into a source of shame?
He knew his sister too well to doubt how her feelings would work. She would find a way to take the whole blame upon herself and to make Wickham’s suffering her fault She would re-cast her own bravery as something almost criminal.
That he could not allow.
Yet another thought presented itself, more troubling still.
London was large, but not so large that stories never travelled.
If Wickham died, there would be talk. Gossip had a trick of straying into places where it had no business.
It ran through servants’ halls and along parish roads as easily as in drawing rooms. Some friend or dependant, hearing of it by chance, might speak of the matter within Georgiana’s hearing.
The tale might reach her in a dozen ways.
If she were to learn it so—if she herself connected the ruined hand in Holborn with her own act in H—shire, without a word of preparation from him—the shock might be terrible.
She might feel not only horror, but a sense of betrayal: that he had kept such knowledge from her because he thought her to blame.
That prospect was not to be borne.
What then? To tell her now, when the event was not yet certain.
To lay upon her mind that Wickham lay in danger, and that her defence might have helped to bring him there.
Or to make her wait, week after week, in dread of the issue?
To hold his peace, and trust that either the man recovered, or died in such a manner that Georgiana never heard of it?
Or to rely on Richard’s discretion and Mrs. Younge’s interest to keep the business quiet?
Neither course could satisfy him. All were attended by hazards it was impossible to calculate.
He rose from the table and paced to the window. The morning was grey and cold. In the distance, beyond the park, he could distinguish the lane that led towards Longbourn.
Georgiana was there now—perhaps walking in the garden with Elizabeth Bennet, perhaps sitting with Mrs. Annesley over her books. She was mending: slowly, imperfectly, but mending. Her smiles, at first so rare, were returning. Her fingers had begun, again, to find their way over the strings.
He must think before he decided anything. Perhaps he would speak with Miss Elizabeth. She had shown a quick and delicate sense of Georgiana’s temper, and might discern a path that had not yet occurred to him.
For the present, he would be silent. He would watch his sister, take measure of her strength, and reserve his decision until circumstances compelled it.
He had failed to protect her from Wickham’s designs.
He would not fail her in what followed.
Mrs. Annesley
Mrs. Annesley arrived at Longbourn on a grey Tuesday morning in a carriage bearing the Darcy crest. She was accompanied by two trunks, a modest travelling case, and—somewhat more conspicuously—two liveried footmen who descended from the box with the efficiency of soldiers taking up a post.
Mrs. Bennet, who had been watching from the drawing room window since breakfast, let out a small shriek.
“Two footmen! He has sent his own footmen to Longbourn! Hill! Hill! Where shall we put them? And Mrs. Annesley arriving—Jane! Jane, where are you? We must ensure the yellow chamber is prepared!”
Elizabeth, who had been attempting to read, set aside her book with resignation. “Mamma, I believe the footmen are here for security, not accommodation. Mr. Darcy mentioned he would send them to—”
“To stand about looking imposing, no doubt,” Mrs. Bennet interrupted, though she seemed rather pleased by the prospect. “Well! It is grand. Very grand indeed. Mrs. Long will be beside herself when she hears we have two new footmen at Longbourn!”
Mr. Bennet emerged from his library with the expression of a man who had hoped to avoid the inevitable but found himself drawn to the spectacle, nonetheless. He positioned himself near the window, observing the proceedings with detached interest.
“Two footmen,” he murmured. “I wonder if they come equipped with muskets, or if Darcy considers livery sufficient deterrent to villainy.”
“Papa,” Elizabeth said, though she could not entirely suppress a smile.
The knock came, and Hill admitted Mrs. Annesley with all due ceremony. The lady was just as she had been during her interview—slight, composed, dressed in dark bombazine, her manner deferential without being servile.
“Mrs. Bennet,” she said, curtsying. “I am most grateful for your hospitality in allowing me to attend Miss Darcy during her recovery.”
Mrs. Bennet hesitated, then rallied. “Yes, well! You are most welcome, Mrs. Annesley. Though I must say, we have been managing Miss Darcy's care quite well ourselves. She is a delightful girl. No trouble at all!”
“I am certain she has benefited greatly from your kindness, ma'am. Mr. Darcy speaks highly of your family's generosity.”
This had the desired effect. Mrs. Bennet softened visibly. “Does he indeed? Well! That is proper of him. Very proper. Now, as to your rooms—I had thought to put you in the green chamber, but then Jane suggested the yellow room might be more cheerful, though it is somewhat smaller—”
The sound of a second carriage on the drive interrupted her.
Elizabeth moved to the window and saw Mr. Darcy descending, followed by—good heavens—what appeared to be a waggon laden with trunks, boxes, and various mysterious parcels.
For a man who prided himself on restraint, he could be astonishingly excessive.
“He has brought supplies,” Mr. Bennet said. “One might think he is provisioning a siege rather than engaging a companion.”
Darcy strode into the house with barely a pause for Hill to announce him. As he entered, Elizabeth had a brief, unwilling awareness of the air of command he carried with him, as if he brought order in his wake. It was extremely inconvenient in a man already too well supplied with consequence.
He bowed to Mrs. Bennet, nodded to Mr. Bennet, and addressed Mrs. Annesley immediately.
“Mrs. Annesley. I trust your journey was tolerable?”
“Perfectly tolerable, sir.”
“Excellent. I have taken the liberty of sending ahead certain items that may be required—books, medicinal supplies, additional linens. They are being unloaded now. I shall have them inventoried and—”
“Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said, allowing herself a lightness that was half amusement, half challenge. “What an impressive collection. Did you leave anything at all in London, or have you transplanted the entirety of your household to our humble county?”
Darcy turned to her. There was a brief flash in his eyes that she could not quite read—annoyance, perhaps, but something warmer mingled with it.
“I wished merely to ensure that Georgiana had access to anything she might require,” he said.
“How thoughtful.” Elizabeth's tone softened, though the mischief remained. “Though I confess I am now terribly anxious about what you did not send. No feather beds? No Turkish carpets? Surely you noticed our shocking deficiency in marble statuary.”
Mr. Bennet coughed into his hand.
“I did not mean to imply—” Darcy began.
“Of course you did not,” Elizabeth said quickly.
She was suddenly conscious of how easily she could drive him into stiffness if she pressed too hard.
“You are far too well-bred to suggest that Longbourn is unfit for habitation. You simply brought your own linens and medicinals as a precaution. Quite sensible. One can never be too careful about country standards.”
Mrs. Bennet, catching the drift, drew herself up. “We keep a well appointed house, Mr. Darcy! I have lavender-scented linens from my own distilling, and Mr. Jones in Meryton is a most excellent apothecary!”
Darcy had the grace to flush slightly. Elizabeth was amused by the colour rising in his cheek. It was a humanising touch in a man so often composed.
“I intended no criticism of your household, Mrs. Bennet,” he said. “I wished only to supplement what might be needed for my sister's comfort without imposing upon you.”
“A laudable display of vigilance,” Mr. Bennet observed. “One might almost suppose he intends to establish a second Darcy House at Longbourn, merely to be certain nothing is wanting.”
“I have been… thorough,” Darcy said.
“Thorough,” Elizabeth repeated, smiling. “What a modest word. I believe 'comprehensive' might be more accurate. Or perhaps 'exhaustive.' I lost count after the third trunk. Tell me, did the waggon contain anything surprising? A small library? A conservatory?”
A muscle worked in Darcy's jaw, but there was the faintest suggestion of an answering smile at the corner of his mouth.
“You are quite right, Miss Elizabeth. I have presumed too much. I apologise, Mrs. Bennet. If you would be so good as to direct your servants as to the disposition of these items, I should be grateful. Anything not needed will be delivered to Netherfield.”