Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Shortly after breakfast, the gentlemen of Millwood Cottage departed for Meryton, each intent upon an errand discussed the previous evening in the drawing room. Her grandfather had at first proposed that the matter be considered privately among the men, but Elizabeth had firmly objected.
She had reminded him—politely but without yielding—that while his own knowledge of the neighbourhood came from occasional visits, she had lived among these gentlemen for years.
Even Mr Darcy, she argued, whose acquaintance with recent events was more current than her grandfather’s, could not claim the same familiarity.
Lord Granfield had agreed with reluctance, and only after Darcy observed that, despite nearly two months in the county, he could not yet claim to know the men well enough to judge how best to approach them.
Elizabeth watched the gentlemen depart with mingled gratitude and unease, aware that much was being undertaken on behalf of both herself and Georgiana in the name of protection.
Still, she could not entirely dismiss the sense that there was something more at work—something not yet articulated, even to her.
Mr Darcy was to call upon Sir William Lucas and the local solicitor, Mr Philips—who, as it happened, was married to her aunt’s sister—where he intended to offer a few discreet observations on the habits of certain militia officers: their tendency to incur debts they could not discharge, and their inclination to trifle with young women who might not yet know better.
Elizabeth suspected that Darcy’s cautions would be measured and judicious rather than familiar, and wondered whether gentlemen accustomed to easier manners would heed them.
Her grandfather intended to visit Mr Bennet with whom he would speak more plainly of one officer in particular—this Mr Wickham, whose presence had occasioned so much concern.
Elizabeth could not suppress a faint, wry smile at the thought.
Lord Granfield’s long acquaintance with soldiers—though chiefly with the Regulars—had furnished him with strong opinions on their habits, and she doubted his warning would lack authority.
Meanwhile, Colonel Fitzwilliam had set out for the militia encampment to call upon Colonel Forster.
Georgiana’s name, Elizabeth knew, would not be mentioned.
Instead, Fitzwilliam would confine himself to raising concerns about an officer inclined to incur substantial debts, both with tradesmen and at the card table, and to making discreet enquiries into the manner by which George Wickham had obtained his commission.
Elizabeth could not pretend to be entirely comfortable with all that was being done, yet she recognised the necessity of it.
If nothing else, it was some comfort to know that Wickham would not be permitted to continue unchecked—and that, for once, such vigilance was being exercised without requiring her silence or unquestioning submission in return.
As the gentlemen departed, Mrs Annesley rose quietly and suggested that they withdraw to the morning room to await their visitors. Her tone was calm, as ever, and Elizabeth was faintly grateful for the steadiness of her presence.
With the gentlemen gone, Elizabeth lingered briefly at the window, her gaze following the road towards Meryton until the last trace of movement disappeared.
She told herself she was merely ensuring that they had departed safely, yet her attention had remained fixed upon one rider longer than the rest, noting—quite against her intentions—the set of his shoulders and the steadiness of his seat.
Turning away, she was half amused with herself, half discomposed.
That such observations should come so readily, and be so difficult to dismiss, was not a habit she meant to encourage.
She crossed the room to Georgiana with deliberate composure, resolving—without much conviction—that she would occupy her thoughts more profitably until the house was once again full.
They had agreed to wait for Jane and Mary in the morning room where the light was better and the windows overlooked the drive.
Unlike other mornings, Elizabeth was not in a talkative mood, and after several minutes had passed in relative silence, she and Georgiana both took up books.
Mrs Annesley occupied herself with her sewing nearby, leaving the two younger women to their reading.
Elizabeth soon found that her attention wandered more than usual, the words on the page blurring together as her thoughts refused to remain neatly in place. At last, she set the book aside altogether, making no further pretence of reading.
Her abstraction did not go unnoticed.
Georgiana turned a page, then paused. “You are very quiet this morning,” she said at last, her tone gentle rather than anxious. “Have I tired you with my company? Or are you thinking of home?”
Elizabeth looked up at once. “No—I could never be tired of your company,” she replied, and meant it.
She offered a small smile, then added more lightly, “Indeed, I have enjoyed our conversations very much. They have been quite different from what I am accustomed to at Longbourn.” She drew a slow breath.
“Yes, I suppose I have been thinking of my cousins—and of other matters that have concerned me of late.”
Georgiana nodded, evidently satisfied with the explanation.
“You worry about them,” she said simply.
“My brother told me a little of your family and that you have not lived with your grandfather very long. Of course,” she added softly, “the loss of your uncle on your mother’s side must weigh upon you as well. ”
“Yes,” Elizabeth agreed, “there are many matters that weigh upon my mind at present.” She did not say that her thoughts extended beyond what Georgiana named—to her grandfather’s determination that she ought soon to make a prudent match or to his renewed suggestion earlier that morning that she consider the colonel as a potential suitor.
When he had last raised the subject, Elizabeth had not yet met Colonel Fitzwilliam.
She had found him less objectionable at dinner the previous evening than she had expected after their introduction that morning.
Indeed, he had been agreeable, even knowledgeable, and entirely proper; yet she could not persuade herself he was, in any essential way, the man for her.
He was not unsuitable in the worldly sense—only wrong for her.
She was at once eager for the arrival of Jane and Mary and wary of the conversation, the warning about Mr Wickham, that must follow. She had not seen her cousins since coming to Millwood and missed them sincerely, yet she was not blind to their faults.
Jane, she knew, was quick to think of others and slower to think of herself and would need to be persuaded that the lieutenant was not, in fact, attempting to reform his character.
Mary’s reaction was more difficult to anticipate.
Doubtless, Mary would take the warnings seriously, but any cautions she offered to her mother and sister were unlikely to be heeded, given her tendency towards moralising.
It would be better, Elizabeth thought, to warn her youngest cousins directly, for they stood in greatest need of caution; yet even there, she feared they lacked the discernment to take such warnings to heart.
At length, the sound of wheels upon the gravel announced the approach of visitors. Elizabeth rose at once and offered Georgiana a small, encouraging smile.
Elizabeth’s eyes were intent, her tone remaining light. “Well—here they are. We shall see how well warnings fare when met with good sense, and whatever influence cousinly concern may possess.”
A few moments later saw the ladies shown in and introductions performed. Mrs Annesley sat quietly listening and observing as she had done all morning.
“My dear cousin, how very glad I am to see you again,” Jane said warmly. “We have missed you so much at Longbourn. Papa, as you know, does not often speak of his feelings, but I believe he misses your conversation greatly, for he has seemed even more withdrawn since your departure.”
“Yes, although I think he would also have liked to have had you present when his cousin arrived just hours after you left with your grandfather,” Mary added.
“Papa has scarcely spoken since Mr Collins came to stay and retreats to his study even more than usual. Mama, meanwhile, is determined that I should consider him as an eligible husband. While I believe I could be content to marry a clergyman, I am not persuaded that I could endure living in such close proximity to him.”
Elizabeth raised her brows, for she had not expected Mary to speak so plainly.
“This is the cousin who will inherit Longbourn when Mr Bennet passes?” she asked, to be certain.
When Mary nodded, Elizabeth continued, “Ah. Then I am not surprised that Aunt Bennet is encouraging the connexion. But I do not believe Uncle Bennet would compel you to marry him against your wishes. Is he truly so very objectionable?”
Mary nodded, much to Elizabeth’s surprise.
“I have attempted conversation with him,” she said seriously, “but he is so entirely convinced of his own consequence—and of that of his patroness—that he scarcely listens to anyone else. His wife, I suspect, would always come second to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, for he appears to owe her his utmost loyalty.”
At the mention of the name, Georgiana made a small, involuntary sound. “Does Lady Catherine reside at Rosings?” she asked quietly. “Is this Mr Collins the rector of Hunsford?”
“I believe so,” Mary replied.
“I should not wish to live too near her,” Georgiana said softly, almost under her breath. “She is my aunt, and very—very convinced of her own opinions. My brother visits her each year, but he always encourages me to stay with my other aunt instead, for Lady Catherine is… difficult.”