22. A Letter from Georgiana
twenty-two
A Letter from Georgiana
October had brought cooler mornings and shortening days to Hertfordshire, though Darcy had scarcely noticed either.
Darcy dressed the next morning with the grim purpose of a man going to receive sentence.
The hour was early enough that Netherfield had not yet collected itself into its usual noises.
No Miss Bingley’s step in the passage, no Hurst’s complaint over breakfast, no Bingley’s cheerful voice greeting the world as if the world had spent the night arranging itself for his pleasure.
The scrape of a brush over superfine, the crackle of the fire, and Darcy’s own thoughts, which had pursued one another since dawn without producing anything resembling peace.
He was going to speak with George Wickham.
No evasion or postponement. No reliance upon the old conviction that had carried him through every disagreement as if conviction were itself proof.
Elizabeth had refused him.
The memory did not strike as sharply as it had the previous evening; it had grown deeper than that. A wound which pain had begun to inhabit rather than merely visit.
I think you are a better man than this.
He stood before the glass while Fletcher adjusted his coat, and for once he took no satisfaction in the correctness of his appearance.
What use was a properly tied cravat to a man who had nearly lost the woman he loved because he would not keep a promise?
What use were consequence, discipline, reputation, all the instruments by which he had ordered his life, if they made him less capable of justice instead of more?
“Will you ride this morning, sir?” Fletcher asked.
“Yes. To Longbourn first.”
The man’s hands paused a fraction. “Very good, sir.”
Darcy caught the hesitation. Every servant at Netherfield knew something of the tension by now, however discreetly they pretended otherwise. Longbourn, Wickham, Ramsgate, Miss Bennet. Names traveled through a household without anyone admitting to having carried them.
“Mr. Wickham is likely to be there,” Darcy said, more to accustom himself to saying it than because Fletcher required explanation.
“Yes, sir.”
Darcy walked away from the glass. “If any express arrives from town while I am absent, have it sent on.”
Before Fletcher could answer, there came a knock at the chamber door. A footman entered with the morning post upon a salver.
“Letters, sir.”
Darcy reached for them with little attention, then stopped when he saw Georgiana’s hand.
It had been a week since he had last heard from her.
He dismissed the servant, took the letter, and broke the seal while still standing. The first line drew all warmth from the room.
My dearest brother,
By the time this reaches you, I shall be a married woman.
Darcy sank into the nearest chair.
The paper shook once in his hands.
Fletcher said something. Darcy did not hear it.
He read on, each line worse than the last, not because it contained apology enough to comfort, but because Georgiana’s confidence sounded so horribly young.
She begged him not to be angry and not to pursue her.
Georgie assured him that all would be explained when she returned with her husband, that she acted from affection and necessity, that she could not endure another season, another round of scrutiny, another year of being treated as a child who understood nothing of her own heart.
She had left instructions with her maid that the letter not be sent until a week after her departure, when pursuit would no longer avail.
A week.
Darcy turned the page.
His eyes seized upon the date.
Not a week.
Yesterday.
The room seemed to lurch, though he knew he sat perfectly still.
A second folded note had been enclosed. Not Georgiana’s hand. Mrs. Annesley’s.
Sir,
I write in great distress. Miss Darcy’s maid, overcome by guilt, brought me the enclosed letter this morning, though she had been instructed to send it after a week had passed.
Miss Darcy complained last night of a severe megrim and requested that she not be disturbed today.
Her maid reports that she believed her mistress asleep and permitted the deception to continue for several hours before remorse overcame her.
Miss Darcy had assured her that her brother intended to imprison her in the country until she surrendered all thought of marriage.
The maid had believed herself the ally of a persecuted young woman, not the accomplice of a deceiver.
The enormity of what she had done overcame her loyalty.
Miss Darcy is gone. I have sent to Colonel Fitzwilliam and await instruction, but I thought it necessary that you should know without delay.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Annesley
Gone.
Darcy stood so quickly the chair struck the wall behind him.
“Fletcher.”
“Sir?”
“My boots. My coat. Send for my horse. No, two horses saddled. Now.”
Fletcher moved at once.
Darcy crossed the room, then back again, letter still clutched in his hand. Yesterday. She had left yesterday. London. The roads. Gretna was too far for any immediate marriage, unless a license had been procured elsewhere, unless—
His mind recoiled from every possibility.
Who?
He knew who his fear supplied.
But this time fear could not be permitted to decide.
Wickham was at Longbourn. Wickham called upon Miss Lydia Bennet twice a week, and today was one of those days. Darcy had intended to go there to speak with him.
Now he would go there to discover whether he had been the greatest fool in England.
If Wickham was there, then Georgiana was not with him.
If Wickham was there—
Darcy gripped the mantel until the edge bit into his palm.
“Mr. Bingley?” Fletcher asked from the doorway.
“Tell him I have urgent family business. He is not to follow unless I send.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And have a rider prepared to leave for Colonel Fitzwilliam.”
“Immediately.”
Darcy folded Georgiana’s letter with clumsy haste and thrust it into his coat.
His hat was in his hand before Fletcher approached with his gloves.
He took them without memory of doing so, descended the stairs at a pace that brought a footman half-running from the hall, and was mounted within minutes.
The road to Longbourn had never felt so long.
He rode hard enough that the horse’s breath steamed in the cool morning air. Hedges blurred. A cart pulled aside hastily. Somewhere a woman cried out in alarm as he passed. Darcy did not slow until Longbourn’s chimneys came into view.
A groom ran to take his horse when he reached the house. Darcy dismounted before the animal had fully halted and strode to the door.
Hill opened it with surprise that became concern.
“Mr. Darcy—”
“Is Mr. Wickham here?”
Hill’s eyes widened. “Yes, sir. In the drawing room.”
He did not wait to be announced.
The drawing room contained nearly everyone.
Mrs. Bennet sat near the fire, Mr. Bennet by the window with a newspaper he was not reading, Jane beside a table of work, Kitty and Mary on opposite sides of the room, Lydia seated with flushed happiness near Mr. Wickham. Elizabeth stood beside the pianoforte with a sheet of music in her hand.
Every individual’s attention was focused on him.
He must have looked wild.
Wickham rose first.
“Good heavens, man, what is the matter?”
Darcy shut the door behind him. His breathing was uneven, his riding coat damp from exertion, his hands not quite steady. He looked from Wickham to Elizabeth, then to Mr. Bennet.
“I must speak with Mr. Wickham.”
Lydia rose. “Why?”
“Lydia,” Mr. Bennet said.
Darcy forced himself to speak less abruptly. “Miss Elizabeth, I must ask you to hear this as well.”
Elizabeth moved toward him. The anger of yesterday vanished from her face, replaced by alarm. “What has happened?”
He drew Georgiana’s letter from his coat.
“My sister has eloped.”
The room broke into sound.
Mrs. Bennet gasped. Kitty cried, “Eloped?” Mary whispered something about rash actions and ruin. Lydia clapped a hand over her mouth.
Wickham’s face transformed so completely that Darcy, even in panic, noticed it. Shock. Then horror. Not guilt.
“Miss Darcy?” Wickham said.
Darcy nodded once.
“With whom?”
“I do not know.”
“Then why—” Wickham stopped. Understanding came over him slowly. “You thought it was me.”
Darcy could barely endure the words.
“Yes.”
Wickham stared at him. “In Ramsgate. Last summer. You thought I was the man.”
“Yes.”
Elizabeth’s hand gripped the back of a chair.
Mr. Bennet had risen. “Mr. Darcy, explain yourself.”
Darcy passed Georgiana’s letter to Elizabeth, not because propriety allowed it, but because he trusted her hand more than his own at that moment.
“Last summer my sister was nearly persuaded into a clandestine marriage while I was away. Her companion assisted. Georgiana began the name of the man. I supplied Wickham’s. She nodded. I believed—”
“You never asked her to say it?” Elizabeth’s voice was barely above a whisper.
“No.”
Wickham swore under his breath, then looked toward the ladies. “Forgive me.”
Lydia did not seem to have heard.
Wickham stepped toward Darcy. “When was this letter written?”
“Yesterday, or the day before. Mrs. Annesley’s note says the maid delivered it this morning instead of waiting the week she had been ordered.”
“Then there is time.” Wickham’s manner altered with astonishing speed. The courtly caller disappeared; in his place stood a man intent upon action. “Where would she go? North? Scotland? Has she money? A carriage? Who knew her movements?”
“I do not know.”
“Then we cannot stand here.” Wickham addressed Mr. Bennet. “Sir, forgive me. I must go with him.”
Lydia caught his sleeve. “George—”
He covered her hand briefly, then released it with visible effort. “Miss Lydia, I will come back when I can. I swear it.”
Darcy looked toward Elizabeth.
She had read enough of Georgiana’s letter to understand the urgency. Her face was pale, but she folded the paper and handed it back without a tremor.
“Go,” she said.
“I am sorry,” he whispered, stepping close enough that she alone might hear. “For all of it. For not believing you.”
Her eyes shone.