Chapter 16 #2
Elizabeth nearly laughed at this description of the lady, and wondered what she must be like to have earned the devotion of this Mr Collins and to excite such fear in her new friend.
“Mary, if need be, you are always welcome at Millwood. As I said, I think Uncle Bennet will be far more agreeable to your refusal, but Aunt Bennet will likely speak of it constantly. Any of my cousins are welcome at Millwood, whether before my uncle’s death or after, but I know that your uncles would also not allow their sister to be consigned to the hedgerows upon my uncle’s death. ”
Mary nodded, and Georgiana visibly relaxed. “I am glad I am not yet out,” she said quietly, “for that means I shall never be obliged to meet this man.”
Elizabeth gave her hand a brief, sympathetic pat, then turned to Jane.
“I ought to have written to Charlotte—and to several others—before now,” she said.
“I confess that I have been so occupied that I did not. Do they know that I am staying with my grandfather? I am somewhat surprised that no one has written or sent invitations to us here.”
“Charlotte called at Longbourn a few days ago,” Jane replied, “but she did not know where you had gone. I had not yet received your note, and I did not know whether you wished it known that you were still in the neighbourhood—if, indeed, you were. When you left, you were not yourself certain how long you might remain. Since you did not write, I was uncertain what I ought to say to others.”
Elizabeth frowned slightly. “Is that why you did not write or visit, Jane? I know I was remiss in not writing to you sooner, but I supposed you knew I would not quit the area entirely without taking my leave. I am not so rude as that, and we have always been close.”
Jane did not answer at once, and Elizabeth was struck by the pause—by the unusual reserve in her cousin’s manner. For a brief, unwelcome moment, a tightening settled in her chest as she questioned Jane’s reasoning in this instance.
The explanation came to her almost as quickly as she thought it.
Of course Jane had waited for word directly, choosing caution over intrusion and silence over the risk of overstepping a boundary Elizabeth herself had left indistinct.
It was one of the qualities Elizabeth admired in her cousin and yet one that, at moments like this, tried her patience.
She softened immediately, unwilling to allow even the faintest reproach to linger.
“Well,” she said after a moment, with a lightness her thoughts did not quite support, “I suppose we must each bear a share of the fault. I ought to have written sooner, and you were too considerate to presume upon my wishes. When you and Mary depart, I shall write to Charlotte myself and to a few others who are owed some explanation. Pray do not hesitate to speak of my being here to any who might enquire, and I will inform you should my plans alter. As you may imagine,” she added, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly, “I am, for the present, very much subject to my grandfather’s pleasure—though not, I hope, entirely without a will of my own. ”
Jane smiled, visibly relieved, and Elizabeth returned it—then drew a steadying breath. There was no advantage in delaying what must be said, and she had already learnt how easily warnings lost their force when softened by too much hesitation.
“In any event,” she continued, her tone shifting almost imperceptibly, “there is a reason I am glad you are here this morning beyond the pleasure of seeing you. My grandfather has received information from a guest—information discovered on that gentleman’s way here—which gives us cause for concern.
There is an officer in the militia who is not to be trusted, and I wished to warn you to be cautious of him, and to ask that you convey the same warning to your sisters, and to any others who might benefit from it. ”
Jane’s expression grew attentive at once, while Mary straightened slightly in her chair, alert to the promise of something serious.
“I am well aware,” Elizabeth went on, “that the militia has lately taken up residence in the neighbourhood and that your youngest sisters are quite enraptured with them.”
“Yes,” Jane said. “Kitty and Lydia have spoken of little else since Colonel Forster came.”
Elizabeth inclined her head. “Then you must also be warned that one of its officers—in particular, a man named George Wickham—is not a gentleman to be trusted. Indeed, he scarcely warrants the title at all. Whatever charm he may possess and however readily he may present himself as deserving of sympathy, his conduct has proved otherwise. I would have you cautious of him yourselves, and I beg you to impress the same upon Kitty and Lydia, yet I fear how such advice may be received.”
Jane’s brow furrowed. “Elizabeth, are you quite certain? Mr Wickham has been to Longbourn once or twice, and he appeared a very gentlemanly man. I admit I have scarcely exchanged a word with him—he directs nearly all his attention to Kitty and Lydia, and we have never been properly introduced. Still, he appears to be quite the favourite of many of the ladies in our little community.”
“I am certain,” Elizabeth said quietly, with a firmness that admitted no contradiction.
“Certain enough that my grandfather, Mr Darcy, and Colonel Fitzwilliam have all taken steps this very morning to ensure he will be watched—and, if possible, removed from the area altogether. He is not to be trusted.”
Mary drew a small breath. “Then it is as I feared,” she said solemnly. “Dr Fordyce warns us that the first indulgence of impropriety is rarely the last, and I have often found it so, particularly when applied to the so-called gentlemen of the militia.”
Elizabeth resisted the urge to smile. There would be time enough to manage Mary’s conclusions—and her tendency to quote sermons—later. For a moment, she considered inviting Mary to remain at Millwood for a time, so that she might come to know Georgiana better; but she set the thought aside.
For now, she turned back to Jane, her expression gentler but no less resolved.
“I would not alarm you unnecessarily, but I could not forgive myself if I said nothing. You are too kind to suspect ill where none has been proven—and that, I fear, is precisely what makes you vulnerable to those who would take advantage. I do not mean to frighten you, but I could not forgive myself if I said nothing. You are generous by nature, Jane—and it is precisely generosity that men like Wickham learn to trade upon. Promise me you will be cautious and that you will press the same upon Kitty and Lydia.”
Jane reached for her hand at once. “Thank you for telling us,” she said softly. “I shall be careful—and I will do what I can with the others. Mama may not be convinced without proof, and she and Lydia seem to like Mr Wickham very much.”
Georgiana, who had remained silent until now, spoke at last. “Trust me when I say that Mr Wickham is not a good man.”
The words were spoken quietly, without elaboration or emphasis, yet they carried a force Elizabeth had not anticipated.
She saw Jane’s expression still, the habitual softness giving way to sober consideration, and even Mary—so ready with precept and quotation—fell uncharacteristically silent, obviously surprised that Miss Darcy should speak so plainly and with such evident conviction.
Having said all that prudence required and trusting that the gentlemen would meet with some success in Meryton, Elizabeth turned the conversation to more agreeable topics.
The ladies conversed for some time, Mrs Annesley occasionally interjecting a quiet observation until they were surprised by the return of one of the gentlemen.