Chapter 34
Though an air of contentment reigned within the walls of Mrs Margaret Clinton’s Academy, the same could not be said of Lord Matlock’s house.
For several days, Georgiana had been staying with her aunt.
Though this in itself was nothing unusual, for the young lady often sought female company in that agreeable household, the circumstances were new, for the first time in her life, Georgiana found herself displeased with her brother.
At the end of September, Darcy had informed her that she was not to return to the Academy, where she had passed the happiest year of her life, immediately following the calamity at Ramsgate, when she had stood on the brink of disgrace.
The Academy had offered her a refuge from that mortifying recollection—a place where, among companions of her own age or somewhat older, she had begun to learn life’s mixed lessons and to leave childhood behind.
Throughout the summer, she had hoped to return, especially after that grand ball—the first to which she had ever been invited.
When Fitzwilliam told her that she was not to go back, for he was soon to be married and wished her to accompany them on their wedding tour and afterwards to remain all winter at Pemberley, she scarcely understood him.
So certain had she been of her return that her brother’s words seemed incredible.
Heavy tears fell down her cheeks. She dared not plead her cause in words, for she would not have known how.
In that house, she was still a child, without rights or voice—not Georgiana Darcy, sister of Fitzwilliam Darcy, but merely a dutiful girl expected to obey.
She sought refuge with her aunt, yet for several days remained silent even there, so deeply rooted within her was the notion that she was still a child.
But one evening, shortly after dinner, as they sat together in Lady Matlock’s drawing-room, her tears burst forth without restraint—this time accompanied by despairing sobs.
Present were Lady Matlock’s daughter-in-law, Lady Redmond, and Lady Elizabeth, who had arrived a few days earlier for the wedding preparations.
In an instant, Lady Redmond was at her side and gathered her in her arms with anxious tenderness.
“What is it, Georgie? What has happened?” she asked, wiping the girl’s tears.
Through her sobs, Georgiana managed to tell them what had occurred—how her brother had forbidden her return to the Academy.
“Yes, he told me the same,” Lady Elizabeth said, at which Georgiana’s tears broke forth anew. “He wishes you to accompany us upon our honeymoon, and afterwards to Pemberley.”
Georgiana nodded, still unable to speak; it was precisely what Fitzwilliam had said.
“Miss Darcy,” Lady Elizabeth began after a moment’s hesitation, “I hope these tears are not on my account—that my marriage with your brother causes you any distress.”
Georgiana shook her head forcefully, yet not at all reassured. Lady Elizabeth continued, “You may be assured that I am no less desirous than your brother that you should be with us.”
“And when will you be…with Mr Darcy?” inquired the viscountess eagerly, for Lady Redmond adored a family wedding.
“The day is not yet fixed.”
The reply echoed strangely through the room, especially to a woman of the world like Lady Matlock, who lifted her head from the journal she had been turning and looked keenly at the young lady who spoke of her own marriage.
Something in Lady Elizabeth’s tone displeased her—not insincerity, but rather a kind of indifference ill-suited to a subject that, in the life of most ladies, would have inspired nothing but delight.
“You have not fixed the day?” she repeated, though she would have been the first to hear of it—had there been anything to hear.
But she desired particulars; she wished to discern what lay behind that reserve.
It was not that Lady Elizabeth would have removed Georgiana from their company—no, the matter was of another nature, something connected with the wedding itself.
The absence of the bridegroom was remarkable, for since Lady Elizabeth’s return to London, he had scarcely been seen among them.
Indeed, she recalled that even in August Darcy had appeared little, and chiefly at dinners where the fiancés could not be alone.
It was Richard, rather than her betrothed, who had most often entertained her—a circumstance decidedly out of order.
“No, Darcy has fixed nothing,” observed the colonel, who had just entered the room. It was his custom to visit his mother at that hour after dinner, when he was in town.
Lady Matlock laid aside her journal, which now held no interest for her.
She might not have known Lady Elizabeth well, but she knew Richard as only a mother could understand her youngest son—the one whom she considered ill-used by the cruel laws of inheritance.
Poor boy, he was obliged to work, and from his youth her chief concern had been to secure his future.
“Sit down, Richard,” she commanded, for she had the sensation that, standing near the door, he might at any moment depart—and she had no intention of allowing him to escape before she understood what required understanding.
For there was much to comprehend. Richard adored Darcy, yet his tone was full of resentment and suppressed anger.
Her eyes turned instinctively towards Lady Elizabeth, who had coloured deeply at the sight of the colonel and sought to hide her embarrassment behind the journal that had fallen to the floor and which she now replaced carefully upon a table.
“Sit down, Lady Elizabeth,” ordered Lady Matlock. “Do not fidget so. What is happening here?”
“Nothing,” both Lady Elizabeth and Richard replied almost at the same instant—a coincidence that served only to heighten the suspicion of the shrewd dowager.
Even Georgiana ceased weeping, and upon Lady Redmond’s countenance appeared a look of complete satisfaction.
This was precisely what she enjoyed: a touch of intrigue and a great deal of amusement.
“Richard!” Lady Matlock spoke in the tone she had used when he was a boy, concealing some mischief—for the tone had not changed, nor his response; he confessed, as he had always done, since his mother usually contrived to set right whatever trouble he had caused.
“When we were in Kent, Darcy made a proposal of marriage to…Elizabeth—”
“Yes, yes, we know that,” interrupted Lady Matlock impatiently.
“Oh, not Lady Elizabeth—Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” came the clarifying reply, for he had spoken the name too familiarly, and it was one, it seemed, that he had used often.
An exclamation of astonishment rose in the room. Georgiana started up in alarm, a child wishing to withdraw when adult subjects arose, but her aunt fixed her with a commanding look.
“Sit down, Georgiana. You are of an age when other girls are married. This is your family—you are a sister, not a child. And in general, pray remain seated; you all tire me with your restlessness.”
Silence fell, but it did not endure.
“Now,” said Lady Matlock, “I wish to hear the entire story—from the beginning to this very day.”
Richard began at once, as though he had been waiting to unburden his soul for a long time.
“Darcy has been in love with Miss Elizabeth since the winter, from the time he was in Hertfordshire.”
“And why do we know nothing of this?” demanded Lady Redmond, perfectly in accord with her mother-in-law.
“Because that is Darcy’s way—secretive where his own life is concerned.”
“What is Miss Elizabeth like?” asked Lady Matlock.
“Admirable,” answered Richard and Georgiana together, and they smiled at one another.
“Admirable? Then how came he to be betrothed to Lady Elizabeth?” demanded Lady Matlock.
“Yes, that is what I too should like to know, Colonel Fitzwilliam,” said Lady Elizabeth, whose face, still flushed, now betrayed anger.
“I am sorry, Elizabeth,” murmured the colonel, quite undone.
“Elizabeth?” cried Lady Matlock. Outwardly, she appeared incensed, yet inwardly her mind was perfectly calm—for calmness was always the state from which her plans emerged triumphant.
Lady Elizabeth had been one such plan, designed for Richard, her favoured and ill-used son.
That was why she had welcomed the young lady into her house, hoping that affection might grow between them.
She was precisely the woman he required—wealthy, first of all, yet also modest, lively, and affectionate—qualities rare in London.
“Richard!” she thundered again, and he approached her at once, sat beside her on the sofa, and took her hand.
“Miss Elizabeth refused his proposal of marriage,” came Richard’s answer to their unspoken questions.
“When?” asked Lady Elizabeth eagerly.
“In March,” he replied with obvious pain—and the words struck the poor young lady like a blow.
“How could such a thing be possible?” Lady Matlock uttered the thought upon every lip. She had never believed that any woman could refuse her nephew, nor that he could, within so short a time, offer marriage to two ladies.
“It is possible,” Richard said gravely, “when a man conducts himself abominably. Instead of declaring his love, Darcy told Miss Elizabeth how much he despised her family.”
“Heavens!” cried Lady Matlock, though she was less astonished than she wished to appear. She had long observed in Darcy a particular inclination towards arrogance which, as his aunt, she could in no way correct.
“Bravo to her!” exclaimed Lady Elizabeth, who remembered Miss Bennet perfectly from the dinners at Rosings, where she had admired her for the self-possession and principle with which she had spoken her mind without the least restraint.
Yet even as she spoke, understanding dawned upon her countenance.
“And so Mr Darcy, in his anger, asked the first woman he met to marry him—namely, myself.”
Her expression changed from indignation to grief—wounded, and justly so, by such an absurd circumstance.
“Wait,” murmured the colonel. “Do not judge him too harshly. He was indeed resolved to marry, and you did truly appear before him at that very moment. He asked you because you were a suitable woman—someone with whom he might lead a decent and honourable life.”
“It is kind of you to defend him, as you did all your childhood,” Lady Matlock observed somewhat ironically, “yet he was in error. He might have made his proposal a month or two later, when he had truly come to know Lady Elizabeth—not so.”
“He erred, I admit,” Richard answered, “but you must understand that, however and whenever he offered himself, he was prepared to fulfil that duty with dignity and to make Lady Elizabeth happy. He acted in haste, yet he undoubtedly desired a woman like her—like you.”
“A poor consolation,” murmured Lady Elizabeth.
“And why tell us all this?” asked his mother at last, voicing the natural question. Richard had long concealed the matter, and his loyalty to Darcy was beyond doubt.
“Because matters have changed.”
“How?” cried Lady Elizabeth, forgetting all decorum.
“When Miss Elizabeth refused him, she did not love Darcy.”
“And now she loves him?” asked Georgiana unexpectedly, her cheeks crimson; yet for the first time in her life, she felt herself a sister, not a child. Her question was upon every tongue, most of all upon Lady Elizabeth’s.
“Yes…she loves him,” murmured Richard, but there was no relief in the confession.
His heart grew heavier with the burden of his own guilt, and finally Lady Matlock was now wholly persuaded that between her son and Lady Elizabeth existed the same attachment—that they were in love.
Inwardly, she triumphed, though outwardly her glance was stern.
“And again—why have you chosen to speak now?”
“Tomorrow, Miss Elizabeth is to be married to Mr Clinton.”
“What?” cried Lady Redmond in her turn, so astonished that she forgot entirely that a lady neither raises her voice in company nor displays any strong emotion. But no one minded that now.
“So she refused Darcy,” Lady Matlock reflected in plain voice, “yet is to marry Mr Clinton. I am inclined to think this young woman is not quite as you have described her. Still, Miss Elizabeth little interests me, though London will have matter enough for gossip these many weeks. What concerns me is why you tell us this at present.”
“Because Lady Elizabeth cannot marry Darcy,” Richard answered at last with a sigh of relief.
“And why, pray?”
“Because she and I…love one another.”
A profound silence fell upon the room—but it was far from solemn.
“You love each other,” Lady Matlock repeated, drawing her own conclusion, though much remained to be explained. “Since when?”
“I have loved her since Kent. I was resolved to return and know her better—”
“But Darcy forestalled you.”
“Yes. Afterwards, when I sought to console myself, Lady Elizabeth came to London, and instead of spending her time with Darcy—”
“She remained with you,” concluded Lady Matlock, drawing the obvious inference.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam bears no blame,” Lady Elizabeth said quickly, eager to defend him from suspicion. “It was I who fell in love with him last summer—”
“And why, in Heaven’s name, did you both keep silent so long?”
Lady Matlock needed no answer, for she understood it all: Richard’s loyalty and Lady Elizabeth’s propriety had united to destroy them both—and, with them, Darcy also.
“Again, I ask, why now? Miss Elizabeth is to be married. What concern has that with us all?”
“Simply that I felt I must act,” Richard replied with unaffected earnestness.
Lady Elizabeth answered him with the brightest and most radiant smile imaginable, ready to face whatever consequences might come for his sake and for their love.
Lady Matlock restrained herself with difficulty from laughing outright, so diverting did she find the situation.
She already imagined how she would recount it to her husband—and how they would rejoice for Richard.
For it was evident enough that these two foolish creatures would marry, even if she were obliged to lead them by the hand—first to Darcy, to end that useless engagement, and afterwards to the church.
“And now?” she asked, merely to give Richard the illusion that the plan was his own. “Will you let her marry when she loves you—and Darcy loves Miss Elizabeth?”
“No,” replied Richard quietly. He approached Lady Elizabeth, took her hand, pressed it to his lips before them all, and departed, leaving the ladies alone.
“Where is he going?” asked Lady Elizabeth, for the first time alarmed.
“To Darcy,” answered Lady Matlock, and still smiling, she withdrew to Lord Matlock’s apartments, brimming with cheerfulness.