Page 6 of Epiphany (A Little Bit More Darcy and Elizabeth #2)

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D arcy was interrupted by a knock at the door. He set his papers aside when Mrs Annesley answered his summons to enter. His sister’s companion had not come to his study since he first interviewed her for the post. Her presence and her expression made him disagreeably wary.

“Pray forgive the intrusion, Mr Darcy, but Miss Darcy has received a letter that has caused her a good deal of distress. I would not usually trouble you with it, except I understand the matter relates in some way to Mr Wickham, though I have not been able to discover the details, for she is too upset to speak of it.”

Darcy held himself very still—no easy feat, considering the flips his stomach was performing. “Thank you, madam. Where is she?”

Mrs Annesley directed him to Georgiana’s private saloon, whither he went with quick steps and burgeoning rage. He ought not to be surprised that Wickham had the audacity to write to his sister despite innumerable warnings to leave her alone. Nevertheless, Darcy was incensed. He would have to involve his cousin Fitzwilliam in this. Clearly, Wickham required a more tangible deterrent.

He heard his sister before he arrived. She was sobbing again. Do all young ladies cry this much? he wondered, sure that his sister had spent at least two thirds of every other day weeping since the age of about eleven. She paused briefly when he opened the door, only to redouble her efforts when she saw him, slumping over the letter in her hand and howling wretchedly. Darcy suppressed the urge to tell her to collect herself and was inordinately grateful when Mrs Annesley did it for him.

“Come now, Miss Darcy, this will not do. Your brother wishes to speak to you. Sit up and compose yourself this instant.”

Georgiana nodded and sniffed ineffectively into the handkerchief Mrs Annesley gave her. She glanced at Darcy, a doleful look that made her appear a decade younger than her fifteen years. He did not want for compassion, and angry though he was, he did not like to see her thus anguished. Yet, he had little experience of consoling young women and had no idea what manner of comfort she desired. He wondered what Elizabeth would do—no doubt make her laugh and tease her out of her misery—then he cursed himself for allowing the thought ingress.

“What has he said?” Darcy asked, more curtly than he intended but angry at his own weakness.

Georgiana swallowed a sob and looked at him in confusion. “What has who said?”

“Wickham. What has he said in that letter that has upset you this much?”

She shook her head. “This is not from Mr Wickham.”

Relief forced the breath out of Darcy. It was fortunate, for it meant he had none left with which to swear an oath when Georgiana added, “It is from Anne. She says Mr Wickham is in Meryton, and she has dined with him! She is going to a ball with him this evening and has agreed to dance the first set with him.” Her breathing had grown ragged and her voice higher in pitch. “What if he tells her what happened in Ramsgate? What if he tells her and she tells my aunt? She would be furious! Oh my life! I cannot—” More gasping breaths. “I cannot bear the thought of Lady Catherine knowing of my disgrace.”

“Calm yourself, Miss Darcy. Calm yourself this instant!” cried Mrs Annesley, taking Georgiana’s hand and rubbing it firmly as one does for sufferers of shock.

Darcy was grateful for it. He had not the capacity to administer to his sister while he battled his own agitation and dismay. He was confounded as to how this eventuality had never occurred to him.

No, that was untrue. He knew precisely why this very obvious, very feasible encounter had not struck him as likely. It was because he had been too busy convincing himself he did not care what was happening in Hertfordshire. Too busy forbidding himself from thinking about what Anne might be saying about him to Elizabeth. Too busy feigning indifference to the fact that, judging by her remarks at Bingley’s ball, Elizabeth was sympathetic to Wickham’s tales of woe. Far too busy refusing to contemplate the possibility that the cur might succeed in seducing Elizabeth to recognise the danger of him encountering Anne.

Yet, troubling though all that was, it was not Darcy’s greatest source of consternation. Nor was his sister’s prediction that her indiscretion would be discovered. He doubted that would happen, for there was no profit to Wickham in revealing it. What was likely—inevitable, really—was Wickham setting his sights on Anne’s fortune, which was substantially larger than Georgiana’s.

Yet, even that was not Darcy’s chief concern. Nay, the reason he could scarcely contain his vexation was that after all his endeavours to give no consideration whatsoever to anything that was occurring in Meryton, he was now obliged by honour and duty to return there. He must rescue his cousin as he had done his sister, and to do it he must put himself back in the path of the one woman he most wished, most needed to avoid.

“Damn!”

He only realised he had said it aloud when Mrs Annesley took a sharp intake of breath and Georgiana began crying again. “Forgive me,” he murmured. Pulling a chair from the side of the room, he sat before his sister and rested his elbows on his knees. “You must not distress yourself. Wickham will not say a word about Ramsgate, of that I am convinced.”

Georgiana slowly unfurled herself and took a shuddering breath. “How can you be sure?”

“Because it will do him no favours to admit to someone with Anne’s potential that he attempted to seduce her young cousin.”

“But what if he tells someone else and Anne hears of it?”

“He has not said anything so far. He is not likely to change tack now.”

Georgiana’s eyes widened. “What do you mean? How long has he been there?”

Blast it! He had not meant to reveal that! After a sigh, he admitted, “He arrived with the militia whilst I was there last month.”

“You did not mention it!”

“I did not wish to distress you. Besides, there was little to tell. I encountered him but once. We did not speak then or afterwards. He knew better than to provoke me.”

“But what was he doing there? What brought him to the same town as you?”

“Nothing more sinister than happenstance. The point is, whatever he may have said about me, it is very clear he said nothing about you , for I should certainly have heard of it if he had.” Darcy waited for Georgiana to nod, then added, “Pray, do not be anxious. I shall collect Anne myself before Wickham can cause any more harm.”

“It is four days before Christmas. I cannot ask it of you.” It was obvious from her expression how much she wished him to do just that.

“It is as much for Anne as for you,” he assured her. God knew what his aunt was about, allowing her frail and sickly daughter to gad about the country in the midst of winter in such a fashion. “Besides, Meryton is less than thirty miles distance. If I were travelling alone, I could be there and back in a day.” He knew this, because he had contemplated making the journey more times in the last few weeks than he cared to admit. “With your cousin, I may take longer, but still, if I leave first thing on Monday, I shall be back on Christmas Eve.”

Georgiana smiled an apologetic but grateful smile. “Thank you, Brother. You are very good.”

He reached to give her hand a quick pat, offered her a reassuring smile, then left the room to begin barking orders at his man to pack his trunks in an effort to release some of his own violent perturbation.

* * *

Charlotte attached herself to Elizabeth’s arm as soon as she entered the Meryton assembly rooms. “Where have you been? Why are you so late?”

“Good evening, Charlotte,” Elizabeth replied, laughing. “And, to the best of my knowledge, we are not late.”

“Forgive me. ’Tis only that Miss de Bourgh made such a fuss about coming, we were the first to arrive, and she has been asking after you ever since.”

Elizabeth directed them to their usual seats near the large front window, favoured for being the only source of fresh air in what was always an unbearably hot place. She opened one of the casements and set the stay on its catch.

“Why on earth has she been asking after me?” She turned back in time to see Charlotte shrug.

“I presume she wished to know who was coming. I think she has bundled all of your family into one entity in her mind, and you represent every Bennet there is.”

“There are enough of us,” Elizabeth admitted. “Well, we are here now. But where is she?”

“In the cloakroom. Mrs Jenkinson has taken her there three times already to ensure she does not overexert herself.”

“How can she be overexerted? The dancing has not yet begun.”

“I am sure I do not know. Mr Collins speaks often of her indifferent health, but I am not aware of any specific illness. There is truth to it though, for she occasionally betrays uncommon frailty, and she is very easily fatigued.”

“Mrs Bayley used to suffer similarly. Do you recall? She would be in perfect health one day and bed-ridden the next, unable to lift a cup to her lips.”

“I do recall, now that you mention it. Whatever happened to her?”

“Her husband moved her to the coast in the hope that the sea air would help. I pity Miss de Bourgh if she is afflicted in the same way. It seemed a debilitating condition.” The acknowledgement made Elizabeth rather more sympathetic to Miss de Bourgh’s want of accomplishments, which she had hitherto, rather uncharitably, attributed to indolence. “But you do not look as though you agree.”

“If she is that unwell, she ought not to have come. If something happens to her, Lady Catherine is sure to blame Mr Collins for having allowed it.”

Elizabeth laughed at that. “Miss de Bourgh does not strike me as the sort of woman who requires permission to do anything she wishes. Wilfulness seems to be a strong family trait.”

“That will not stop Lady Catherine from laying the blame at Mr Collins’s door.”

Elizabeth thought Mrs Jenkinson must surely take her share of the blame, the sole purpose of her employment being to safeguard Miss de Bourgh. Nevertheless, she could perceive that Charlotte was genuinely anxious and thought it better to ease her mind than argue the point.

“Then we had better ensure no harm comes to her.”

Thus, Elizabeth found herself sitting with Miss de Bourgh, Mrs Jenkinson, Charlotte, and thankfully, Jane as they waited for the room to fill and the dancing to begin. There were glances aplenty directed at them as whispers of Miss de Bourgh’s wealth and rank rippled around the gathered company. Elizabeth fancied there may have been more than one appraisal of her person as well, for Miss de Bourgh was very elegantly turned out in an exquisitely embroidered gown and with her hair dressed in a most becoming style. If not for the pallor of her cheeks and the heavy shawl across her knees, she might have looked every bit the young beauty. As it was, she appeared older even than the seven-and-twenty years that Mr Collins reported to be her true age.

“What do you make of our assembly rooms, Miss de Bourgh?” Jane enquired. It was her third attempt at beginning a conversation. Elizabeth had given up after her first.

“They are hot and crowded,” Miss de Bourgh replied.

Elizabeth felt Jane give her a surreptitious nudge with her elbow, forcing a giggle into her throat which she disguised by saying, “Full of people enjoying themselves.” She received no response.

“Are you engaged for the first dance, Eliza?” Charlotte enquired.

“Yes, I am dancing with Mr Douglas.”

“I suppose you must have a lot of admirers in the neighbourhood, Miss Elizabeth,” said Miss de Bourgh.

“I am flattered that you should think so, madam, but Mr Douglas is merely a friend. I do not have any admirers of whom I am aware.”

Mr Wickham, with whom she had enjoyed so many gratifying walks and conversations, flitted across her mind, but even before humility prevented her mentioning his name, some other, unaccountable reluctance decided her against it.

“Why not?” Miss de Bourgh replied, sounding almost angry. “Are they put off by your unclassical looks?”

Elizabeth regarded her incredulously, but she seemed perfectly sincere, without any meanness in her expression, as though stating a fact. “Perhaps they are,” she replied coolly.

“It must be difficult, having a sister who is handsomer than you,” Miss de Bourgh continued. “Though not as difficult as it must have been for Miss Lucas, suffering the pair of you as such close neighbours.” Nobody responded, but she was not deterred. “You must wish to find a husband in the vicinity, though, Miss Elizabeth. You cannot wish to be settled too far from your family.”

“I cannot say that I have ever been particularly troubled by the prospect,” Elizabeth replied, beginning to be diverted by the flagrancy of her offensiveness.

“Someone as uninterested in venturing out into high society as you purport to be, must be satisfied with a husband from the area in which she grew up.”

“Perhaps. Though, if I were going to love any of the gentlemen with whom I grew up, I should think I might know by now.”

Miss de Bourgh looked at her aghast. “I was speaking of marriage, not love.”

Jane and Charlotte’s gazes weighed heavily upon Elizabeth, the one’s entirely unromantic engagement and the other’s thoroughly romantic heartbreak persuading her against any grand declarations in favour of marrying for affection.

“Of course. We must not confuse the two.”

“Good evening, ladies,” said Mr Wickham, appearing out of the crowd and bowing low. “You all look in excellent health this evening.”

They each thanked him perfunctorily, for no compliment shared between four women could ever truly please any of them.

“I hope you will not be angry when I tell you that I overheard some of your conversation just now, and I feel obliged to speak up in favour of romance. Though I risk appearing foolish, I confess I have been used to thinking of real affection as essential to a successful union. I do not mean to say that contentment must elude those who marry for convenience, but there is no harm in aspiring to true felicity—the sort of deep and lasting admiration that is not always possible when one marries where one is expected.”

He addressed this to Elizabeth, and anybody who knew she had refused her cousin would think it perfectly natural that he did so. Except, to the best of her knowledge, Mr Wickham did not know, and his sly glance at Miss de Bourgh at the end of his speech made her suspect it had not been meant for her.

“You hope to marry for love, do you, sir?” Elizabeth enquired.

His mouth lifted in a smile so casual it might have been an incidental consequence of the shrug he gave. “But of course, should my situation allow. Though, as you know, I am limited by circumstance.”

“Indeed,” said Charlotte. “A modest situation often requires a less romantic resolution.”

“Ah, but it is not only those of modest means who are thus constrained. Is it, Miss de Bourgh? We all have our crosses to bear, our duties to uphold.” He waited a moment while that lady frowned at him in puzzlement, then said, “But enough of such serious matters. I hear the musicians warming up. Come, madam. You have promised me the first two dances, and I am all anticipation. I beg you would not keep me waiting any longer.”

Miss de Bourgh, her cheeks flushed either by flattery or trepidation, pulled the shawl from her lap and passed it to her companion. She, in turn, began pleading with her charge to take care, not to dance too quickly, to stop should she feel faint, to?—

She was silenced when Mr Wickham took Miss de Bourgh’s hand and pulled her to her feet. “She will be perfectly well, madam. I shall take good care of her.” He promptly whisked her away to join the set.

“I hope you are not too put out that Mr Wickham has overlooked you for the first dance, Lizzy,” Jane said.

“I am happy to report I am not,” she replied, pleased that it was true. She had expected to be at least a little vexed, watching him pay his attentions to another—particularly given that the other in question was Miss de Bourgh, who had been nothing but quarrelsome towards her since she arrived in Meryton. But there was something in Mr Wickham’s air this evening which, though she could not explain it, made her grateful to avoid the obligation of dancing with him.

As she observed them cross the room, Elizabeth noticed other people watching also. Lydia, for one, viewed them with an expression she more commonly reserved for one of her sisters who had bought a bonnet or slippers she wished were hers, and Miss King, who looked positively crestfallen when Mr Wickham walked past her, chatting convivially with Miss de Bourgh.

Denny arrived to claim Jane for the first dance, and once she was gone, Charlotte said quietly, “I, too, am glad you are not upset about Mr Wickham. I have heard that he has taken an interest in Miss King. I believe she has recently inherited ten-thousand pounds.”

“Yes, I heard the same figure mentioned. I imagine there are few people who would not be interested at the mention of such a sum. A person must have something on which to live, and I certainly have nothing of the kind to offer a husband.”

After a pause and a shrewd look, Charlotte replied, “I am glad you are coming to see things in the same way I do.”

Elizabeth winced at the half-admonishing remark. Perhaps she had been less clear-sighted in Mr Wickham’s case than in her friend’s. Nevertheless, Miss King’s new wealth did not seem to be enthralling him overmuch at present.

“Her fortune seems to have lost its allure.”

“I am not surprised. Miss King’s ten-thousand pounds is nothing to Miss de Bourgh’s fifty-thousand. Not to mention that she is the heiress to Rosings Park.”

Elizabeth knew not how to respond. She did not wish to think of him as mercenary, but if even her most sensible, least romantic friend was alarmed by the vagaries of Mr Wickham’s attentions, she must concede there were grounds for misgivings.

The uncertainty made Elizabeth grateful for Mr Douglas’s friendly face and easy manners when he arrived to greet her. She accepted his hand with pleasure and threw herself into the dance with zeal. It was a lively set, and she enjoyed herself prodigiously—until it was interrupted by a commotion farther down the line. The dancers all stumbled to a halt atop each other, the musicians screeched to the end of their refrains, and Mrs Jenkinson came rushing forth, wailing in dismay.

“Miss de Bourgh! Oh heavens, Miss de Bourgh!”

Elizabeth could see nothing through the throngs of onlookers until the crowd parted, and Mr Wickham strode through, bearing Miss de Bourgh in his arms. Mr Collins came scurrying after them, loudly lamenting the disastrous turn of events. Sir William and Lady Lucas hastened along behind them with expressions of grave concern. Charlotte seized Elizabeth’s arm and dragged her along in their wake.

“What has happened?” Elizabeth enquired urgently.

“Miss de Bourgh fainted.”

“Oh good Lord!”

Mr Wickham carried Miss de Bourgh out of the main ballroom and laid her on a chaise longue in an antechamber, which Sir William cleared with a few choice phrases and some startlingly energetic arm waving. Mrs Jenkinson shoved a bottle of smelling salts under Miss de Bourgh’s nose and cried out in relief when she coughed and spluttered to life.

“Get that vile stuff away from me,” cried the patient, flapping at the bottle.

“I begged you not to do it!” Mrs Jenkinson wailed. “Would that you had listened! What will your mother say?”

“My mother will not say a word because my mother will never hear of this. Is that understood?”

Mrs Jenkinson nodded. Miss de Bourgh looked sternly at Mr Collins and Charlotte until they gave similar assurances.

“But are you quite well?” Mr Collins asked. “You did not hurt yourself when you fell? Your mother will wish to know the cause if you have been injured.”

“I did not fall, for Mr Wickham caught me,” she replied, smiling in that gentleman’s direction. “And until that point, I was having an exceedingly pleasant time. I am only sorry we could not finish the set.”

Mr Wickham gave an affected shake of his head. “You must not concern yourself, madam. There are some people too high in the instep to enjoy a bit of excitement at a ball, but I thought you swooned as delightfully as you danced.”

“Oh, I quite agree. Rarely have I seen such exquisite dancing,” said Mr Collins.

Elizabeth wondered if they had all been watching the same person, for while she would grant that Miss de Bourgh’s skill was commendable for one who rarely had the opportunity to practice, delightful and exquisite it was not.

“You must not allow me to keep you from the dance, sir,” Miss de Bourgh said to Mr Wickham. Her smile seemed fixed in place, and there was a slight tremor to her voice. Charlotte heard it too, it seemed, for she swiftly ushered her father and Mr Wickham from the room. Mr Collins could not be persuaded to leave, and Miss de Bourgh either did not care or had not the energy to object.

“What a miserable display!” she exclaimed, collapsing back onto the sofa with her eyes closed.

“I assure you Mr Wickham will not think any less of you for it,” said Lady Lucas. “He is a most amiable gentleman.”

“I do not care what the son of my late uncle’s steward thinks. What I care about is being able to host balls for my husband, which I can hardly do if I have not the strength in my legs to walk from here to the door. What sort of wife cannot even dance one dance?”

“I do not think Mr Darcy will mind,” Elizabeth said. “He abhors dancing.”

It was evident that Miss de Bourgh had not known Elizabeth was still in the room, for she twisted around and stared at her in dismay.

“Why would you say he does not like dancing? He danced with you .”

Elizabeth walked to stand where Miss de Bourgh could see her more easily, and from there she could perceive, beneath the discourtesy and hauteur, a vulnerability that moved her to reveal what she had previously preferred to keep private.

“Yes, he did, but that was at his friend’s ball, where it would have looked very odd indeed had he not danced with somebody outside of his circle. But the first time it was suggested that he stand up with me, he refused and declared that I was not handsome enough to tempt him.”

She tried her best not to be offended by how obviously this cheered Miss de Bourgh, who pulled herself farther upright in her seat and accepted a glass of wine from Charlotte.

“I always thought he did enjoy dancing. I know he dances often enough with his sister, for she is forever mentioning in her letters that he has helped her practise again.” She shook her head slightly. “No matter. Mr Collins, I am ready to return to Lucas Lodge now. You may summon the carriage.”

He blinked at her a few times, his entire demeanour that of exasperation. “You have danced but one dance, madam.”

“Not even that, Mr Collins, yet I am ready to return. Now, make haste and summon the carriage.”

Elizabeth smiled sympathetically at her friend and excused herself, for there was nothing more she could do. She returned to the main room where she answered the barrage of questions about Miss de Bourgh’s well-being with as much consideration for the lady’s dignity as she could summon.

Mr Wickham could not be avoided all evening, and Elizabeth was eventually obliged to join him for a set. His interest in Miss de Bourgh was diametrically opposed to the rest of Meryton’s—he did not ask after her once. She paid it and him little attention, however. Her thoughts were largely taken up imagining how pleasant it would have been to have an older brother with whom to practise dancing as she grew up. And how surprising it was, in a strangely endearing sort of way, to discover that the austere and fastidious Mr Darcy would do such a thing for his sister.