Chapter Six #2
November… Depending on when they could bring Bingley to Hertfordshire, two or three months of pretense.
Richard could manage that. Especially to keep Darcy out of danger, and to prevent George Wickham from getting his hands on Pemberley.
More than that, if Wickham did hang…well, since no rumor had surfaced about Georgiana’s union with the man, she would be free.
A widow at sixteen and in possession of a terrible secret, but families had kept worse secrets. Georgiana could rebuild her life.
Richard nodded, accepting the task put to him. “Yes, sir. Criminals apprehended and the law-abiding kept safe.” And hopefully, finally, an end to Wickham’s increasingly unbearable torment.
Darcy studied the letter he held, frowning.
Bingley’s entire tone, what was decipherable with his horrendous penmanship, was odd.
Blathering, if Darcy were being honest. Had his friend been deep in his cups when he’d penned the missive?
If he didn’t know better, Darcy would accuse Bingley of trying to cover up a lie.
But a lie about what? Bingley’s letter went on inanely about trivialities.
The only matter of substance was that he had leased a property in Hertfordshire.
Darcy was a bit hurt not to have been asked his opinion on the estate, Netherfield Park being the inauspicious name, but he understood why Bingley hadn’t consulted him.
For the past year, Darcy had been holed up in Pemberley.
Hiding, in truth. Keeping both him and Georgiana safe from the prying eyes of the ton.
With a sigh, Darcy dropped Bingley’s letter to his desk. He worried for Georgiana yet knew no way to help her. She drifted through life as a sunken shadow of the girl she’d been. She completed her lessons but never called on anyone, even though no one seemed to have any hint of her shame.
That, at least, was a relief. And a shock, were Darcy being honest. Wickham had so far kept his word, if only for the power the threat of telling held over them.
Of course, the matter was helped by how few of the staff knew the truth of what had taken place.
Fortunately, though adjoined via a sitting room, Wickham and Georgiana had kept separate bedchambers while awaiting Darcy’s arrival.
He’d since learned from Mrs. Reynolds that the maids had seen no evidence of…
Darcy grimaced, not caring to consider what sort of evidence they might have seen.
What mattered was that the staff believed his sister a virgin still and, aside from a select few, had no idea that Georgiana had actually wedded Wickham.
A foolish, foolish thing to do. How could she have strayed so fully? Perpetuated such a lie? Sometimes, Darcy had to fight against anger with her. Yes, Wickham could be charming, but no one had forced her to run off. Georgiana had done this to herself.
But his anger would change nothing, and would help his sister not at all. Being married to Wickham was more than punishment enough and far crueler than anything Darcy would ever devise.
Georgiana would be at her pianoforte now.
She played endlessly and miserably, every song dull and full of sorrow.
She did not seem to take any joy in the activity, but continued regardless.
After over twelve months, Darcy could hardly stand to hear the notes.
Mrs. Reynolds had conveyed that the staff avoided the music room as well.
Her new companion, Mrs. Annesley, seemed undeterred, however. She kept Georgiana company, and maintained unwavering calm. Darcy was very grateful to have her with them.
When he hired her on, he’d told Mrs. Annesley only that Georgiana had suffered a broken heart the previous summer. A half-truth it galled him to utter, but necessary. The more people who knew his sister’s shame, the greater the opportunity for the world at large to learn the truth.
Not that he could see what benefit hiding her transgression brought them.
He held onto some vague hope that, with all the money he was funneling into Wickham, the man might drink himself to death.
Or attempt one of those headlong phaeton races that seemed to entice reckless young men, and overturn on some ill-maintained stretch of roadway.
What little word Darcy received from London told him that over the past year, Wickham had been banned from every legitimate club, where he’d been accepted at all.
The seedier the company he chose to keep, the greater opportunity for some ill to befall him.
Darcy rubbed his forehead. He was reduced to this? Sitting at his desk, daydreaming about Wickham’s demise?
Shaking his head, he plucked back up Bingley’s letter and tried to sort his words.
Obviously, something was troubling him. Something about which Bingley did not want to speak directly, but what?
Had he taken this Netherfield Park place unseen and now regretted his actions?
Did he want to invite Darcy there, but feared to be refused?
Or, perhaps, feared Darcy would make the journey, and see what a poor choice Bingley had made?
After all, Darcy had never heard of a place called Meryton, in Hertfordshire.
It must be a small, inconsequential sort of place.
Even were the estate fine, society there would be lacking.
Darcy doubted the whole area boasted even two families worth knowing.
He reached for a clean sheet of paper. The matter wouldn’t be made clear by speculation.
He would compose a reply, enquiring for details of the estate.
That should satisfy the bonds of friendship and garner at least a touch more information.
In truth, despite the length of his letter, all Bingley had truly said was that he, both of his sisters, and Mr. Hurst, would be residing at Netherfield Park until the first of December.
Also odd, as why would Bingley take a country estate and then spend the Yuletide in Town?
With another shake of his head, Darcy reached for his inkstand so he might attempt a reply. Sadly, the lack of substance in Bingley’s letter and Darcy’s year of self-imposed exile conspired to provide little fodder for correspondence.