Chapter 22
T his presumed end of Wickham’s story had been a sobering one. Even if he had escaped with his skin, which was doubtful, he could not last long as a bootless fugitive.
The lingering pall that hung over me did not allow me to thoroughly enjoy Fitzwilliam’s explanation of his injury to my sister later that day, which I would have otherwise relished since he told her a fairly humiliating tale.
He had perhaps imbibed too much, he admitted shamefacedly, and dead drunk, he had merely slipped off his horse and landed on a sharp stone.
She did not let him off so easily, remarking again and again that she did not understand since he had so often claimed he had learnt to sleep in the saddle while campaigning. And why must he drink so much?
I wondered where my newly born sense of humour had gone and could only reassure myself with the excuse I was overtired, and to hope it would return upon my restoration to the sanity of the country.
The loss of it distressed me on two counts.
First, Miss Elizabeth had seemed to approve of a side to me I seldom cultivated, and secondarily, appreciating the ridiculous had taught me to stop taking every hour of my life so damned seriously.
This was, in fact, a practical way to approach the occasional absurdity of human existence—I was simply more at ease.
Not only did I plan to laugh easily again, I was determined for the sake of her existence in the world to shake my tendency to be so dour.
This was a struggle, for in general I was feeling quite put upon by this point. My sister, meanwhile, was also at the end of her rope and found joy in only two things—returning home at night, and the arrival of any letter from her friend.
We endured rather than enjoyed the remaining days of her abbreviated Season.
Fitzwilliam did not go out with us, and though he had sportingly volunteered to do so, my sister would have none of it, saying that someone would bump his shoulder and set back his recovery, or worse, everyone would endlessly remark upon his injury.
This likelihood distressed her, for she herself could not imagine anything worse than being so interesting as to be questioned repeatedly about anything.
With some relief, he had acquiesced to her wishes.
“Does my mother know I am here?” Fitzwilliam asked me shortly after his return to London.
We were sitting alone at the dining room table with our port after dinner, traditionally a time conducive to male conversation.
“I do not know how she would,” I replied. “I doubt she has spies watching my door for your comings and goings.”
“I suppose I should visit her,” he said, moving to fill my glass. I stopped him at under half-full, for we had imbibed enough, though he then filled his own with telling generosity.
“Before you do, perhaps you should know she is annoyed with me. I did not repay her properly for presenting my sister by allowing her to pick Georgiana’s husband from the crowd. She has shrugged me off, I believe. Add to that the business of Anne, and I am out of favour with both your parents.”
“Speaking of Anne,” he said, “I knew Lady Catherine would be difficult, but I did not expect her to cut you.”
“She did not. It was I who cut her. She began to rant about how the harvest at Rosings would not be affected by the rain, and when I contradicted her, she became unreasonable.”
“And?”
“She insulted her guest—guests—and I did not like it.” I downed the last of my glass in one go and placed it resolutely on the table.
A decisive draining of one’s glass being a clear signal that all confidences on a particular subject were at an end, Fitzwilliam looked askance at me, nodded his head, and held his peace. He then followed suit by also draining his glass and said, “I see. Well, that is that, I suppose. What next?”
“Next, I shall try to convince you to extend your leave and recuperate at Pemberley with Georgiana while I strike off into the wild to rusticate.”
He laughed for the first time since his return to London, for he did not believe me. It took some convincing for him finally to comprehend I was deadly serious.
“Where are you going?”
“I intend to traverse the northern counties along the Roman fortifications.”
“What? On foot? Are you to tie your meagre possessions in a blanket hung from your fishing stick?”
“Why not?”
He looked at me critically and said, “Something has happened to you, Darcy. What is it?”
“You know very well what,” I said. “I have endured a heavy Season, and I am full to my craw of people in general. As I said, I am in need of a bit of rusticity after all this Champagne and flattery.”
He smirked at me as if to say, and I have fallen off my horse dead drunk. Still, he had the sense to say no more and went up to his room.
In the morning, I went to visit Georgiana while she sipped her chocolate.
This had become an increasingly common ritual since her birthday, and it was also practical.
We reviewed our plans for the day, and in doing so, encouraged one another to persevere.
That morning, after confirming our attendance at a musical recital in the afternoon and a dinner party in the evening, she said, “I have had a letter from Elizabeth.”
“Did you? Why did you not tell me?”
“I suppose I thought you might have asked me to read it aloud, and I felt shy of doing so in front of our cousin.”
Selfishly, I was not unhappy about her reticence. I did not want to share news of Elizabeth Bennet with anyone.
“What does she say for herself, then?” I settled more comfortably in my chair, and Georgiana, sure enough of my pleasure in her reading voice, reached for the letter on the little table beside her bed.
My dear friend,
I ache for you!
My sister glanced up at me a little embarrassed and explained. “I had written to her after Lady Montiel’s ball when we were both so tired, you see.”
I smiled softly as encouragement for her to continue reading.
What an endless parade your Season seems to have been.
Might it help you to hear that here at Longbourn, I, too, am enduring an endless parade?
Only in my case, it is one of hours so lacking in excitement as to make us sit in our parlour as six deflated figures with our gowns hung limply at our feet, plying fans while Lydia endlessly complains that there is nothing to do.
She is, you see, suffering from a severe blow to her enjoyment of life, for she had been invited to go to Brighton with Colonel Forster’s wife upon the relocation of the militia to their next encampment.
Their plans changed, however, when Colonel Forster failed to take formal possession of the barracks there before the option was forfeit and given to a brigade of new recruits who are to train on the coast. The militia is now slated to go to Lyme, and the officer’s quarters are too cramped for even Mrs Forster to think of inviting Lydia to go along.
The loss of the officers has oppressed my mother and my younger sisters to such a tiresome degree that it has fallen to my father to point out that not one of them had a penny or prospects.
Mama at last heard him on this point and settled all her hopes upon Colonel Fitzwilliam—until he also decamped.
God bless him, I am happy for his escape, for he was hounded by everyone in Meryton to take tea, play cards, and eat dinner—none of which he could comfortably do with only one arm.
It is a relief to hear he is back in London where he might not be hunted so dreadfully.
If he can rest, which I pray he can, I hope for an accelerated recovery of his shoulder.
That said, the colonel’s arrival on any given day had been the height of entertainment for us, and even Jane has once or twice mentioned the loss of him.
This news is dull, I know, but do not despair for me, my friend.
I have received a letter from Mrs Gardiner, and I am to accompany my aunt and uncle on a holiday to the Lakes in August. Can you imagine my joy to be released from the confinement of my home and the company of such dispirited girls?
What sights await me! I am wild to go, and my sisters are raw with jealousy.
They have—except for Jane—even snubbed me a little.
I have responded by talking of what clothes I should take and humming as I go up and down the stairs the whole day long.
I suppose I should not flaunt my happiness, but I cannot pretend to be sad to leave.
And now for you, dear friend, my hope is that the remaining parties all pass in one little blur, and in no time you find yourself riding through the grounds of your estate on a cloudless day, an occasion which you have so eloquently described as to forever fix a glorious image of you in my mind.
With every hope for a most pleasurable end to your summer,
Elizabeth