The Conference
By that time, Elizabeth was convinced she knew who her companion was, but she obviously could not accost her while Mr Darcy was a mere yard away, nor was she willing to give up the best show to visit Meryton in years.
She was trying to decide what to do when she noticed another officer ride into town at a smart trot and jump from the saddle to land directly before Mr Darcy. It was either an impressive display of skill and daring, a sign of extreme urgency, or more likely, just showing off.
The man looked around carefully to ensure no one was eavesdropping, though he neglected to check her windows, and spoke in a low voice.
“Georgiana has absconded. She told a few clever lies to my mother and Mrs Annesley early this morning, misleading them about where she would be and with whom, then vanished. Do you think she might have gone to meet Wickham again?”
Elizabeth forgave his lack of common sense, for he was clearly agitated and had probably ridden hard from London without stopping—especially as she was the unintended recipient of his words.
Mr Darcy said grimly, “I suspect, but cannot prove, that she had a rendezvous with Wickham, but not as you might think.”
Elizabeth looked at her companion, but she was studiously peering out of the window while making certain she was not visible and had no attention to spare.
“What do you mean?”
Darcy pointed to the small group proceeding to the smithy.
“I suspect she somehow arranged this. That is Wickham, on his way to be tarred and feathered, and once they are removed, I suspect his colonel will have him flogged, and if there is anything left, they will send him to a penal battalion or the Navy.”
Elizabeth wondered how he had learned about the latter two plans in the few minutes that had passed since he arrived, and if in fact those were already prepared, or they were what he intended to ensure.
She thought ruefully that Mr Wickham deserved all that and more, so she was not too concerned for his comfort and safety.
The colonel uttered a series of curses that put Elizabeth to the blush, but fortunately, he did so quietly enough that she and her companion were the only ones to hear them.
“I will kill her with my bare hands,” the colonel grumbled. “She has no idea how dangerous that is and leaving her companion like that… unacceptable! Mrs Annesley is beside herself, and my mother vacillates between panic and wrath—though chiefly the latter.”
“Agreed… planning to elope with that scoundrel was bad enough, and now this!”
Elizabeth gasped quietly at having her supposition so easily confirmed, and looked at her companion, who, she now understood, was a direct victim of Mr Wickham and was exacting personal retribution.
She was alarmed to see the poor girl at the end of her tether, nearly ready to collapse. To Elizabeth, she was a heroine—someone to be feted, not punished.
She reached across, took the obviously Miss Darcy’s hand, and drew her over to stand behind her. Then, she turned, kissed her on the cheek, put her mouth close to her ear, and whispered, “I do not know about you, but I have had just about enough insolence from these lunkheads.”
She whispered back, “They are my guardians.”
“Poor ones, if you ask me. They allowed you into the clutches of that brute and now chastise you for doing what they would not.”
The young lady looked as if it were the first time the idea had ever occurred to her.
Elizabeth suspected she felt all the guilt of her actions and had taken all the blame on her own shoulders for doing something so abominably foolish.
If the child had agreed to elope, she deserved her share of censure, but no more.
If she were a typical girl of her age, she would either take all the blame as Jane would, or none like Lydia.
It was her guardians' duty to teach her the right lessons and protect her until she learnt them.
Hers appeared singularly incapable—although she had to remember that her own father would have been unlikely to do better, and her own younger sisters were likely to cause trouble in the future.
She said, “Step back a bit,” then leaned down to the window to see the two gentlemen still present.
She had missed nothing but several reiterations of their ridiculousness, so she spoke quietly.
“You two sound very much like typical pig-headed men. You leave the women to do your dirty work, then complain because they did not do it precisely the way you imagined.”
They both whirled around in something like panic, which Elizabeth quite enjoyed.
She liked it even more when the colonel’s sword caught between their legs, and they tripped and fell.
She was not entirely certain how she felt about Mr Darcy striking his head on the window frame but provisionally approved.
“That was a private conversation,” the colonel growled once they sprang to their feet looking both angry and sheepish, with Mr Darcy rubbing the newly formed knot on his head.
“Big man!” she sneered, then turned to Mr Darcy.
“How long have you known the man is a scoundrel? How many times have you cleaned up the mess your father apparently made? How did you allow your young and well-dowered sister into his clutches, and most importantly,” she said, then lifted the window fully, and leaned out until her face was a foot from his before hissing menacingly, “what was your plan for protecting the good people of Meryton? You told me he makes friends but does not keep them—not much of a warning!”
“I was—and still am—trying to protect my sister,” he snapped.
“At the expense of mine?” she demanded.
He stopped speaking abruptly, though whether he had recovered his senses, or was reacting to his cousin's kick in the shin was hard to say.
The colonel held his shoulder in an iron grip. “Darcy, will you do me the honour of introducing me to this lady?”
Mr Darcy was not in a mood for politeness, but he made the introductions with only minor grumbling.
The colonel said, “Miss Bennet, well met. You are exactly as I expected.”
Taken aback, Elizabeth recoiled hard enough to strike the back of her own head on the window frame—and as it was her head instead of Mr Darcy’s, she was decidedly opposed. She saw the colonel suppressing laughter and had to admit she probably deserved it.
“How exactly do you have any expectation of me, Colonel? How have you ever even heard of me?”
“He wrote about you.”
“I see, so my terrible reputation precedes me,” she said in agitation.
She stared at the colonel for a moment, then at Mr Darcy, and finally said, “Well, gentlemen, good day,” then slammed the window and closed the curtains abruptly.
She turned to her companion, and snapped, “You have some explaining to do if you expect me to shelter you from those brutes.”
“They merely bluster,” she said. “As you no doubt surmised, I am Miss Georgiana Darcy. I am pleased to meet you, Miss Bennet.”
“Miss Elizabeth,” she replied, thinking of other things. “Miss Bennet is my elder sister.”
“The one you walked three miles to tend?”
“Good lord, you sound like Miss Bingley! Three miles is nothing!”
Much to her surprise, Miss Darcy laughed. “That is almost verbatim what Fitzwilliam wrote.”
“The Colonel wrote about me?” she asked in confusion.
“No, Fitzwilliam Darcy, my brother. He wrote to me from Netherfield about you… three or four times.”
“Hardly surprising,” Elizabeth grumbled. “We have never liked each other, so I suppose he needed a good example of the savagery of the neighbourhood.”
“To the contrary, I suspect he is half in love with you. He has never, in the entire course of my life, written of another unmarried woman with approbation.”
Elizabeth stared hard, wondering if Miss Darcy had gone mad, but finally said, “I can assure you that you are incorrect.”
“What if I am not?” Georgiana asked quietly.
“I suppose it depends. If he leaves town expeditiously, as I expect—it will make little difference, as he will forget me within five minutes of his departure. If he proposes… well… I suppose I will endure the disagreeable task of declining my second eligible proposal in as many weeks, and my mother will lock me away forever.”
“You would decline?” she squeaked.
“I would! He has never done a single thing to gain my esteem. He has never even apologised for the nasty things he said about me, and I assure you that first slight was not the last. Servants talk, you know!”
“We are a family of idiots—absolute, complete, and utter fools,” Georgiana sighed dejectedly.
“You are young, my dear. You have time to overcome it,” she said gently. Elizabeth really was not in the mood for a crying young lady at that point.
“My brother has not, and when I think about Mr Wickham, I begin to doubt my father.”
Before Elizabeth could react to the extraordinary assertion, the door opened, and Mrs Philips’ housekeeper looked in.
“Ah, Miss Lizzy, there you are. Enjoying the spectacle, I see. There are two gentlemen at the door asking to speak with you. I told them it would not be proper with the master not at home, but they are—”
Elizabeth could see the poor woman struggling with what to say without giving offence and added one more complaint against Mr Darcy.
“Very well, Mrs Watson. Can you show them to the parlour and tell them I will be with them directly.”
Mrs Watson looked doubtful, and Elizabeth said, “Tell them it may be some while, and if they prefer not to wait, they can return to Netherfield,” Elizabeth replied emphatically, then muttered under her breath, “or Derbyshire or Timbuktu for all I care.”
With a shrug, the housekeeper left, and Elizabeth asked, “Do you want me to hide you? It seems pointless, but I will do it if you ask it of me.”
“I have a better idea,” Georgiana said, and marched resolutely towards the door.
She walked out briskly, then turned back sheepishly. “I have no notion where the parlour is.”
“What do you intend?” Elizabeth asked curiously. She was mostly convinced it would not end well, but as far as she was concerned, it would at least end, and she would be content.
“Is it unpatriotic to quote George Washington?”
“Probably best to keep it amongst the ladies. Men are such touchy creatures, especially since our fine English army lost!”
Georgiana laughed. “He asserts that the best defence is a good offence.”
“If you say so,” Elizabeth said, and led her new friend up the stairs to the parlour.