Chapter 10 #5
Darcy, standing near the narrow window, saw at a glance all that kindness could not alter.
The rug was thin in the middle, where many years’ footsteps had worn it bare.
The chest of drawers had one obstinate drawer that refused to close without a shake.
The paint about the door-handle was crazed and rubbed away.
He calculated each fault with the uncomfortable consciousness that Georgiana, reared to every convenience at Pemberley, had borne them with more patience than he.
She sat in the low chair by the fire, a work-bag in her lap, the needle idle between her fingers. Her colour was better, and the dark shadows under her eyes had faded in the quiet of the Bennet household. Yet at his first words he saw her brace herself, as if expecting to be sent on again.
“Georgiana,” he began, “I have been considering what must be done when we leave Longbourn. It is not fit that you should remain long in a country house where there is so little in your own way. In town, you would have—”
“In my own way?” she repeated. The needle pricked her finger. A small bead of blood showed before she seemed to feel it. “What way is that, Fitzwilliam?”
“You cannot be at a loss for my meaning.” He crossed to the hearth, impatient with himself for having begun so clumsily.
“Proper society. Ladies whose manners may be a guide to you. In London you would see women of fashion, hear them converse, observe how they conduct themselves. You are at an age when your character is still forming. The young ladies you choose as your models will shape the woman you become. Longbourn is very kind, but it cannot furnish you with every thing.”
She put the needle down with great deliberation and folded her hands in her lap. When she spoke again, her voice was steady, but there was a brightness in her eyes that warned him.
“You would have me look to ladies in town for an example,” she said. “Have you found such perfection there, that you must send me away from those who saved me, to learn of strangers how a woman ought to behave?”
“You mistake me,” he said quickly. “I am not ungrateful to this family. No one knows better than I what we owe them. But you must see, my dear, that their situation is rather different from your own. My aunt in town, for instance, could introduce you to women of the very first consequence. You would observe—”
“Observe what?” she asked, and now the colour rose in her cheeks.
“How they speak to their inferiors? How they choose their gowns? How they look away when a young lady is unhappy, because it is not convenient to be concerned? Perhaps you would have me emulate Miss Bingley—who simpers and flatters to your face, and speaks ill of every lady in Hertfordshire behind their backs?”
“Georgiana—”
“Or perhaps Lady Catherine would serve,” she went on. “She who orders everyone about her as though they were servants, and never once considers another’s comfort or feelings?”
“Georgiana,” he said, more sharply than he intended, “you are unjust. I would not have you speak so.”
“When I appeared in their barn, half-frozen and nearly ruined, they did not turn me away to preserve their own respectability,” she replied.
“Miss Bennet tended me herself—she worked in their still-room and prepared tinctures for me. She read books from their father’s library to learn how best to treat my condition.
Can you imagine Lady Catherine soiling her hands in such a manner?
Or Miss Bingley risking her fine gowns to nurse a desperate stranger?
“Miss Mary sat with me for hours as I wept and spoke of—of things too shameful to name.
She did not judge me. She did not lecture.
She truly listened, and then helped me understand that I was not as lost as I believed myself.
We read together, spoke of music together.
She treated me as a sister, not a curiosity or an object of pity.
“Miss Elizabeth risked every thing.” Georgiana’s eyes blazed.
“She devised the plan that brought me safely into the house unseen.
She emptied my chamber-pot herself, Fitzwilliam, rather than allow a servant to discover my presence and endanger us all.
Can you conceive of Miss Bingley performing such an office?
She who will not walk across a field lest her petticoat become muddy?
“Even Miss Lydia and Miss Catherine, young as they are, showed me nothing but kindness. Kitty walked through the snow to the orchard near Netherfield to gather elderberries for me to drink in hot wine. They walked into Meryton and listened to the gossip, and brought back what was being said, what dangers might threaten our discovery. They made me laugh when I believed I should never laugh again.”
He stared. She had never spoken so many sentences at once on any subject that touched herself.
“I do not deny their kindness,” he said at last. “But kindness is not all. You must learn to appear as becomes your station. It is natural that I should wish you to look up to—”
“To whom?” she interrupted softly. “To some young woman who has never known a fright or a fear, who has never had to depend upon strangers? To ladies who would have thought me ruined beyond redemption, and shut their doors against me? You speak as if I were a child to be trained, instead of—” She stopped, then went on with an effort.
“Instead of a person, Fitzwilliam, who has been exceedingly much tried, and has been forgiven and helped by those you call ‘very different’ from us.
“You speak of models for my character. Very well. I would far rather be a Miss Bennet, with a kind and compassionate heart, ready to sacrifice comfort and safety for another’s need, than a Miss Bingley who cares for no one but herself, and never need bestir herself to help another soul.”
There was a silence. He heard the clock on the landing strike the quarter.
The words, so gentle and so firm, checked the reply that had risen to his lips.
He looked round the room again—the worn rug, the obstinate drawer, the fire that had been coaxed into life three times that day for Georgiana’s sake—and knew, with a clarity that had nothing to do with pride, how much his sister had learnt in a few weeks that no London season could have taught her.
“There is something more I must tell you,” he said at last. “You have a right to hear it from me, and plainly. Wickham has been found.”
Her hands tightened together in her lap. “Found?” she repeated, very low.
“He is in London,” Darcy went on, his tone measured.
“He has taken wretched lodgings there, but he is confined by illness—a violent fever that has left him bedridden and watched by a surgeon. Whatever designs he may once have harboured, he is in no state to pursue them now. You are in no danger from him here—or anywhere, while matters remain as they are.”
Georgiana drew a slow breath, as if testing the weight of this. “In London? Then he is near... but too ill to come after us?”
“Far too ill,” Darcy assured her firmly. “Even if recovery should come, precautions have been taken. He cannot approach you without my knowledge, and I will not allow it.”Miss Elizabeth and I agree: you are in no danger from him here—or anywhere, while I have any say in it.”
Georgiana drew a slow breath, as if testing the weight of this. “Miss Elizabeth knows? And she is not alarmed for me?”
“Not at present,” he assured her. “She saw the sense of it immediately—precautions are in place. He cannot approach without my knowledge, and even recovery would change nothing.”
She was silent a moment, then raised her eyes to his. “What did she say of it?”
Darcy paused, recalling Elizabeth’s steady gaze. “That truth need not be cruel, but neither should it be hidden. She thought you strong enough to hear it plainly, once we were certain there was no cause for fear.”
Georgiana’s gaze dropped to her folded hands, a faint colour rising. “Then I am glad she knows. I should not like her to think I needed shielding like a child. And I am not afraid—not now.”
He inclined his head, warmth softening his voice. “You have borne trials enough, my dear, and grown beyond them. Miss Elizabeth sees that clearly.”
Her lips curved faintly. “She would say trust is the surest remedy for fear.”
Curious Caller
It was the second day after the Meryton assembly when Mrs. Long called, ostensibly to inquire after Mrs. Bennet’s nerves and to congratulate her on “such a delightful beginning” with Mr. Bingley.
Her eyes, however, strayed more than once to the door of the drawing room where the stairs led to the guest rooms.
“And how does your young friend from Derbyshire do, my dear Mrs. Bennet?” Mrs. Long asked at last, arranging her shawl with studied carelessness. “Such a delicate creature. One hears she fell ill upon the road. So very alarming. I hope there is no lasting mischief.”
Mrs. Bennet, who had been on the point of launching into a recital of Jane’s two dances, faltered. “Miss Darcy is much better, I thank you. Quite recovered, I assure you. Only a little weak.”
“So I see, so I see,” Mrs. Long said, peering. “And no one with her but that companion. I had to wonder what brought her so far from home. Young ladies do not commonly travel without their mamma. I suppose Mr. Darcy must have had business of importance, to leave her in the care of strangers.”
Elizabeth was opening her mouth to answer when the door from the library swung back.
“Business of importance will drive a man to many follies, Mrs. Long,” Mr. Bennet said, crossing the room with an air of indolent amusement.
“In this case, it had the happy effect of sending Miss Darcy to us, instead of leaving her to languish at an inn. I am persuaded she would prefer to travel with her mamma. The dear lady, however, was lost to her in infancy. We count it a great piece of good fortune to have her here instead.”