Chapter What Georgiana Wants #3
Once I’ve changed my clothes, Edmund reminds me that his Aunt Alice is coming to tea.
That I’ve forgotten attests to my strange state.
Lady Atherton’s visits, which are thankfully infrequent, are a trial.
She is particular about her comfort—whether the assortment of tea cakes and sandwiches is balanced between savory and sweet, if the room is too drafty or warm.
Worse, she notices everything about me. She tells me if I look tired, or if I’m smiling too little, which she thinks is selfish, or too much, which she deems infantile.
Though I come from a family of considerable fortune and was raised in a grand home, she faults me for entering my marriage without a title.
Edmund has more patience with his aunt, who rarely criticizes him and demands little of his time.
He usually sits with her for no more than a quarter hour, during which he inquires after her health and that of her dogs.
When she isn’t looking, he shoots sheepishly apologetic looks my way, seeking permission to leave.
After Edmund excuses himself today, Aunt Alice sneers at her tea and then turns her attention to me.
“You’ve been in the sun. It’s not becoming.”
“I had a walk this morning,” I say. “I stayed out longer than expected.”
“You mean you let yourself forget the time,” she says. “You must maintain a regular routine, as I do, and walk the same path every day at the same time. In this way, you will find you always will be home when expected.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say.
She sets down her cup and saucer.
“I saw your sister last week when I was in Bath.”
“You saw Elizabeth?” I ask.
“Not Elizabeth. Mrs. Wickham.”
My cup slips, splashing tea onto the saucer. I reach for a serviette so I can look away and hide my face. My cheeks are burning.
“Mrs. Wickham is not my sister,” I manage to say.
“Do you not call Elizabeth Darcy sister?”
“Of course. She is my brother’s wife.”
“And is Mrs. Wickham not Elizabeth Darcy’s sister, as she told me?”
“She is.”
“Then I am correct. Your sister’s sister is your sister. Therefore, Mrs. Wickham is your sister.”
This is ridiculous. Lydia Wickham is nothing to me. She is never spoken of to me. My brother has not uttered George Wickham’s name in my presence since the day he came to London to inform me that George had married. I remember not knowing how to interpret the racing of my heart.
“To someone with a great fortune?” I’d asked.
“On the contrary, she has practically nothing.”
“He married for love?” It came out more plaintively than I wished.
“Do not trouble yourself on that account,” my brother said gently.
“George Wickham is incapable of loving anyone but himself. I cannot reveal how the union came to be. But trust me when I tell you that Wickham’s aims were base and that my involvement in the matter was solely to protect the reputation of the young woman as well as that of her family. ”
He seemed embarrassed. When I asked about the bride, he said it was Lydia Bennet, the younger sister of Elizabeth Bennet, to whom he’d recently introduced me.
I understood that my brother had been involved in making this marriage happen and that he had done so on Elizabeth Bennet’s behalf.
It was my first inkling that my brother hadn’t just taken a fancy to Elizabeth but had found love at last.
“Georgiana, are you listening?” Aunt Alice says.
“You must be more attentive. I said that Mrs. Wickham addressed me in an unforgivably familiar manner. She called herself a distant relation of mine—because of you. Can you imagine? Me, Lady Atherton, a relation of Mrs. Wickham’s?
Elizabeth Darcy must tell her sister to have greater deference for her superiors. You must tell Elizabeth to do so.”
Lydia Wickham’s behavior is my responsibility? This is unbearable.
“Would you like to see the children?” I ask.
“Whatever for?”
“They’ve grown since you last saw them. Anne is becoming proficient on the piano.”
“I expect nothing less.”
“Thomas is nearly as tall as his sister.”
“Hmm.” She squints at the sun as if it’s chosen to shine through the window at this particular angle specifically to vex her.
“They’re both very imaginative,” I say.
“You speak with unfortunate pride,” Aunt Alice says. “You must disabuse yourself of the notion that imagination will serve them well.”
“They’re children.” I know I shouldn’t provoke Lady Atherton, but I am unable to defer to her today. “They like to pretend. Their latest game was playing at getting married.”
“Such nonsense.” Aunt Alice picks up a sugar biscuit.
I tell myself not to speak but disregard my own counsel.
“Thomas played the part of the bride.”
Aunt Alice freezes, biscuit halfway to her mouth.
“I trust you put a stop to that immediately.”
“He’s five years old, Aunt. I don’t see the harm in his playing make believe. He does it all the time.”
“Georgiana, you disappoint me. Have you not fully comprehended the responsibilities of a child born into this family? Your son will be the seventh Earl of Covington. He cannot, must not, play such absurd games. You must make sure it never happens again. I remind you of your obligations. You are not Georgiana Darcy anymore. You are Lady Stoughton. You must do better.”
I must, I must. I must control my children and not lose track of time.
I must stay out of the sun. I must not be too soft or too loud or smile too much or too little.
I must not think about past mistakes, or someone who once loved me, or said he did.
I must not think wistfully of being young and how exciting it was to be wooed, to have a hand brush mine unexpectedly or feel soft lips pressed under my ear.
I must not remember a finger running along my collarbone or how a tress of hair, when lifted, once made me tremble.
I must not have memories or give in to meandering, nostalgic, or inappropriate thoughts.
I must not have a body that craves something I don’t fully understand and someone who is not my husband.
I must not be at a loss as to how to numb it.
I must not be riveted when I come upon strangers in blissful intimacy in the center of a hedge maze.
For the rest of the visit, it takes all my strength to remain calm, despite my rapid pulse. I say “Yes, Aunt” and “Of course, Aunt” and “More tea, Aunt?”
When, finally, she leaves, I walk directly to the library, where I find the children practicing their letters with the governess. I tell her she is free to go.
“Have I done something wrong?” she asks.
“Of course not,” I say. “I want to play with the children.”
“You do?” Anne and Thomas say in unison. Miss Rookwood slips out of the room.
“Yes,” I say, sitting down and pulling Anne and Thomas close to me. “What shall we play?”
“Knights,” Thomas says, leaping up and pretending to brandish a sword.
I stand and jump back.
“You’ll never catch me!” I say.
For a moment, the children are too stunned to move, and I understand that they’ve noticed my dark mood of late and that it has changed. Then, laughing, they launch themselves into the game, chasing me around the room, imaginary weapons slicing the air.
“En garde!” Anne shouts, nearly catching me.
I fall onto the couch, pretending to be mortally wounded. The children are delighted.
“Again!” Thomas says. “I want you to die again.”
“It’s my turn to kill her,” Anne says.
We fence until we’re breathless and red in the face. Thomas is so excited that he’s spinning in circles.
“Let’s have a rest, my little puppies,” I say, which starts a new game.
Anne and Thomas are animals, whimpering and scampering, standing on their knees and begging for food.
They are fully immersed in their play, more devoted than the best of stage actors, deep in their worlds of make believe.
And why shouldn’t they be? Their imaginings are as insubstantial as the air, invisible, existing only in their minds, giving them nothing but joy.
They have taken themselves out of the library and into a battlefield, a kennel, a meadow.
They are playing because it delights them. It is beautiful and pure.
At supper, I am still flushed and giddy from our games.
“You look well,” Edmund says. “Am I to infer that you had a good visit with Aunt Alice?”
“I wouldn’t call it good,” I say, smiling back at my husband. “But it was inspiring.”
“I don’t believe it. Aunt Alice, the esteemed Lady Atherton, inspired you?”
I take a sip of my wine, which is succulent and warm.
“Let’s just say her poor example was stimulating.”
Edmund, looking amused, raises his glass.
“To stimulation, then,” he says. “And to my lovely wife.”
The supper is ordinary, soup and venison and roasted potatoes, but the tastes hit my tongue with unusual pungency. I finish my glass of wine and ask for another.
“Is there an occasion I’ve forgotten about?” Edmund asks, smiling at my thirst.
“Just a good end to the day,” I say.
I carry the mood with me into my bed. I am buzzing with energy.
I wait for Edmund to join me. He presses a palm to my shoulder, a gesture I have come to understand.
I turn toward him, and he kisses me. It is familiar and not unpleasant.
My mind goes to another kiss, barely a whisper, and others, more urgent, on the settee by the window in Margate.
I roll toward my husband. He runs a hand down my side.
I know where he will touch me and how. I am thinking about George’s hand on my thigh beneath my skirt as I press into Edmund and find his lips.
I am not afraid of the scenes that play out in my head.
They are memories, and fantasies, as ephemeral as make believe and as harmless. They are mine to do with what I wish.
As Edmund’s body finds a rhythm with mine, the thoughts that have frightened me are now at my service.
They are not about George Wickham, really, and perhaps they never were.
This is about me and what I want and will let myself have.
The thrills I remember goad me on, give strength to what is happening here.
I am not afraid and not burdened by questions of the past. I stretch my neck back, cresting like the notes on a scale, and I gasp. My mind is clear because it is free.