Page 10 of It Taught Me to Hope
G eorgiana Darcy was concerned for her brother. After leaving Longbourn, William remained withdrawn and uncommunicative, drowning in a sea of rage, regret, and self-recrimination. Georgiana knew all this about her brother, knew him as well as any person alive, yet there was little she could do for him. When confronted by such news as they heard today, William would be unapproachable until his emotions settled, for he felt deeply and often assigned far more of the blame to himself than he should. There was one person in the world who Georgiana felt could reach him in such circumstances, and as he had reunited with her only a few days before and could not call her dear—though she was dear to him —Georgiana knew the only recourse was to wait until William settled from his heightened emotions.
Understand this though she did, Georgiana still watched, helpless to assist when William exited the carriage, turned to help her from it—despite his perturbation, William was the consummate gentleman who would never leave her to descend herself—and said a word excusing himself from her presence. Upon entering the manor, he took himself to the study and entered, closing the door behind him. William did not intend it so, but she knew it was a sign that he did not wish for anyone to disturb him, not even his dearest sister.
With nothing else to do, Georgiana took herself to the parlor where she sat down at the small pianoforte and began to play, hoping the soothing sounds of her playing would bring William peace. Under other circumstances, Georgiana might have wished for someone to confide in herself, for the mention of Mr. Wickham had surprised her, even after all this time. When Georgiana had become engaged the previous year, Mrs. Annesley had requested leave to retire and had left Georgiana’s service to live out her remaining years with her daughter. By that time, Georgiana had grown close to her, having learned to rely on Mrs. Annesley’s wisdom, for she had proven herself a godsend to a young, frightened girl who had almost ruined her future. Georgiana missed her steady support, especially now when she most needed it.
Whether her playing—and Georgiana played all afternoon, both for her brother’s support and for her enjoyment and to soothe her nerves—helped William she could not say. The dinner hour came and went, and William did not appear, did not request a tray, and refused Georgiana’s entreaty to emerge from the study. Georgiana spent the evening alone, trying to concentrate on a book, and at length giving it up as a lost cause when she retired early. When the morning came and William still did not appear, Georgiana determined to gain admittance to the study to pull her brother from the despondence of his mind.
For some moments after she knocked, Georgiana was uncertain whether her brother would allow her entrance, for silence was his only answer. Just as Georgiana was debating whether she dared enter regardless, William’s voice came from the room, inviting her in.
Unlike Georgiana had expected, William was to all outward appearance calm and rational, his suit draped over his form with his valet’s usual touch, his cheeks and chin clean-shaven, and his hair combed. There was nothing of a man immersed in desperate thoughts, and Georgiana reflected that her brother always took care to maintain his good habits of hygiene and appearance. Sometimes in the previous years she had thought he might succumb to his despair, but the good habits of a lifetime came to his rescue, for he did not drink to excess, engage in destructive behavior, or even hide in his study often as he had the previous evening. Georgiana appreciated this facet of his character, for it saved her much heartache.
“William,” said she, deciding to try for a little lightness, “I hope you did not stay in this room all night.”
It was a failure, for her brother allowed nary a smile as he shook his head. “No, I retired though later than my wont. I suppose it will not surprise you to learn that I slept little.”
“Given the discomposure of your spirits, no it is not a surprise. Do you wish to discuss it?”
“In all truth, I do not. Yet I cannot but suppose I owe you an explanation.”
“Brother,” said Georgiana, her tone reproachful, “you ought to know by now that you owe me nothing. If you wish to unburden yourself, however, I will listen.”
William sighed and turned to stare out the window. “When you hear what I have to say, you may not be so understanding.”
“I am not so easy to disturb, Brother.”
“Even when it relates to Wickham?”
“Even him . Trust me, William—Mr. Wickham is a part of my past of which I do not look on with satisfaction, but he lost any ability to affect me many years ago.”
With a long and searching look, William agreed at length. “Then you had best make yourself comfortable, for this may be a long conversation.”
Georgiana did as he asked and settled in the chair before the fire that was the mate of his own. William considered what he might say for several long moments, and Georgiana, knowing of his need to formulate his thoughts, allowed him the time to prepare himself to speak.
“I came upon Wickham on the street in Meryton.” William shook his head with disgust. “As you might expect, he was standing there with a friend, bold as brass, speaking to the Bennet sisters. He had just joined the local militia regiment, and though he was not yet in uniform, he had already begun to ply his trade with the local populace.”
“Then what happened?”
William gave a disgusted laugh and shook his head. “Nothing happened. Nothing happened because I laid eyes on him and was so discomposed by his unexpected appearance that I kicked my horse into motion and moved on, while Bingley stopped to greet the sisters.”
Georgiana considered what her brother told her. “Might I assume that Mr. Wickham did not come to Meryton by chance?”
“I believe it was by chance alone. By the time a week had passed, I left the area never to return; I spent a lifetime righting George Wickham’s wrongs, and I had little desire to immerse myself in that quagmire again. There was also your recent experience with him to consider, and I had no wish to give him the notion of sharing that event to punish us.”
“Do you suppose he would have? As I recall, you sent him from Ramsgate with his tail between his legs.”
A shrug met her question. “Perhaps not. Regardless, I rode away and did not look back. At Bingley’s ball not long after, I danced with Miss Bennet, and when she made some comment about him, I responded with what I thought was enough information to put her on her guard. You see, it was clear he had already poisoned her against me.”
“Then what happened?”
“I departed from Hertfordshire. The next time I met Miss Bennet was in Kent at Hunsford; of that, I have spoken before. I proposed to her, she rejected me, and in the process leveled some severe criticisms at me concerning Bingley and Miss Bennet—her sister—and Wickham himself.” William appeared abashed and added: “As I could not allow her opinion of me to stand, I wrote her a letter that I put into her hands the following morning. I apologize, Georgiana, for I know it will bring you mortification, but I also laid the matter of Wickham’s actions in Ramsgate before her.”
Startled, Georgiana looked at her brother with shock, never having expected him to drop even a word of it to anyone, let alone a woman with whom Georgiana did not even claim an acquaintance. Then her better nature reasserted itself and she offered him a slow nod.
“Do not concern yourself, Brother, for I am not afraid of Miss Elizabeth knowing of my misstep. I can see how imperative it was for you to ensure she understood the extent of Mr. Wickham’s worthlessness. Andrew also knows for I would not keep so important an event from him.”
Though relieved and with a nod to acknowledge her honesty with her fiancé, William directed a morose stare into the fire. “Perhaps it was, though I will own I had not considered it that way. The greater concern in my mind was to defend myself against her charges.”
“Of course, it was,” averred Georgiana, preventing him from descending to further self-castigation. “Such a traumatic experience must have upset you. I can well understand your feelings.”
“I welcome your clemency, though I do not suppose that I deserve it.”
Georgiana regarded him, not understanding. “Is this all? There must be something else that has caused your disquiet.”
“Is it not enough?” demanded her brother.
Seeing her uncomprehending stare, William stood and paced the room.
“Georgiana, you do not understand. When I saw Wickham in that street, it was my duty to warn the populace about his proclivities and protect them from his depredations. I did nothing of the sort, and Miss Bennet’s sister paid for my inaction with her future.”
“Brother, you cannot take all the blame upon your shoulders. Is Mr. Wickham not to blame the bulk of what happened to Miss Bennet’s sister?”
“Wickham is to blame for everything he has ever done,” snapped William. “ I have always known what he was—as early as our childhood I could see his depravity. Yet I did nothing. Anthony would say this is a pattern of my behavior regarding Wickham, for I never acted as I ought. Had I revealed his faults when we were young, that may have allowed his father to reform him. When older, I might have prevented his activities or prosecuted him, such as when I found him with you at Rosings. On that street in Meryton, had I exposed his character, overcome my pride and conceit, I might have prevented any chance of him ruining Miss Bennet’s sister.
“Yet I did none of this.” William’s hand clenched into a fist so tight that Georgiana thought it must cause pain, though he showed no sign of discomfort. “I allowed my distaste for Wickham, my determination to be free of his intrigues, and my disdain for my fellow man to influence me to put aside what I know was right. I did not do as I ought, and Miss Bennet’s sister suffered for it.”
“Perhaps you should have spoken,” said Georgiana, not willing to allow his continued determination to take too much of the blame on his shoulders as he always did. “Remember, William, that the fault belongs to Mr. Wickham, and, I dare say, to Miss Bennet’s sister herself. How old was she when she ran off with him?”
William passed a hand over his face, all his weariness contained in that gesture. “When I was at Netherfield with Bingley, I heard something of her age, which I believe was about fifteen. Whether she was sixteen before she ran away with him, I cannot say.”
“Then she was old enough to understand propriety.” Georgiana fixed her brother with a look that allowed no argument. “I know this, William, as I was sixteen when Mr. Wickham plied me with his pretty words. While I knew better, I allowed him to charm me.”
“That was his talent,” was William’s dull reply. “He employed it more times than I care to remember.”
“Then I must lay even more of the blame on Mr. Wickham, though I cannot absolve Miss Lydia. I cannot absolve myself, after all.”
“Do you not suppose that my inaction allowed Wickham the opportunity to do as he did?”
“In that, perhaps you have some guilt,” conceded Georgiana. “Yet I understand your silence, considering you did not denounce him for my benefit.”
A loud and ragged breath was William’s response, as he once again sat in his chair, his elbow on the arm with his head resting in his hand. That William would feel such failures was not beyond Georgiana’s understanding of him, but she wished she could induce him to see the truth of himself.
“Miss Bennet must hate me.”
“I saw no sign of that,” said Georgiana, responding at once to his miserable statement.
A trace of a smile appeared on his face. “You understand her well enough after only two meetings to state that with such confidence?”
“No, William, I do not claim to know her well. Even so, I do not believe that I am incorrect. If she despised you, I suspect she would not hide it.”
“Yet I misunderstood her all those months and then proposed, expecting her to accept me.”
Georgiana offered her brother a wry smile. “If you will excuse me, I suspect that was as much from your blindness as from Miss Bennet hiding it.”
At last, William appeared a little lightened from his depression, though Georgiana could not suppose he had altogether recovered. “By this account, my acumen must be in question. Though the notion pains me, I cannot say you are incorrect.”
William appeared recovered from his bout of self-reproach and misery, and Georgiana regarded him, wondering at his state of mind. The Fitzwilliam Darcy she had always known had ever been a confident man, one not plagued by doubts. In most matters, she thought her brother maintained his confidence, for he could be decisive and bold when the occasion demanded it. In the matter of Miss Elizabeth Bennet, however, William had become as skittish as a newborn colt. On some level, Georgiana could understand it, given the passage of time and the infamous exchanges in which they had engaged, the disappointments he had endured. Perhaps it was not her business to tell her brother what he should do, but Georgiana was not willing to allow him to descend to destructive uncertainty, for that would fail to provoke Elizabeth’s esteem.
“Brother,” said Georgiana, “if you are willing, I would like to offer some advice to you.”
“If you will, I shall listen to it,” was her brother’s simple reply.
“Then I would remind you of Miss Bennet’s character. She is not a woman who lacks confidence—this is something I can state without hesitation, though I have not known her long. With this trait, I doubt you will move her with anything less. I know your confidence is not high because of your past with her, but I cannot help but suppose boldness is what you will need to win her.”
William considered this and in time responded with a slow nod. “That is a near reflection of Miss Bennet’s character, indeed. It is difficult, but I shall try to follow your excellent counsel.”
Feeling she had done well to settle her brother and point him to the correct path, Georgiana excused herself, knowing he would do better to consider what had happened and determine his path forward alone. She hoped he would consult with her and ask for her advice, but if he did not, she would offer her quiet support. Georgiana liked Elizabeth and would welcome her as a sister; of the greatest importance, she was certain Elizabeth would make her brother happy.
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T HE NEXT DAYS WORE on the patience and good temper of the two at the heart of our tale. Darcy vacillated between determination to put the good advice of his sister to good use and self-chastisement for his wretched refusal to involve himself in the lives of his neighbors. When considering the picture Miss Bennet had presented in the time since he had come to Hertfordshire, he could not say that Georgiana was incorrect in her opinion that she did not blame him. If she did not, Darcy would accept it, though he would not blame her if she considered him the author of all her family’s difficulties.
While he would have liked nothing better than to throw himself at her feet and beg her forgiveness and allow him to love her all his days, he knew such an appeal would end in disaster, for he knew of her wishes for the marriage state. Not quite ready to brave the possibility of rejection, Darcy stayed close to Breckonridge, riding the fields and woods when he became restless, sequestering himself in the study when he became pensive, but spending as much time with his sister as he could. While they did not speak of the matter again, Darcy appreciated Georgiana’s patience while she waited for him to find peace with his actions, and her few comments told Darcy what she hoped his decision would be.
That decision was still outstanding, for Darcy had no notion of how he could provoke Miss Bennet’s esteem, even if she did not blame him for her sister’s fall. What he knew, however, yet could not say to his sister, was that it was still impossible for him to leave Hertfordshire. Until Miss Bennet told him without disguise that his pursuit was doomed, his uncertainty notwithstanding, he could never leave her behind. Not now that he had again subjected himself to the magnetism of her person.
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A S FOR ELIZABETH BENNET , her concerns were the opposite of Mr. Darcy’s, yet similar in some respects. As the subject of a man’s interest, Elizabeth could neither initiate any sort of deeper connection nor was she in any way certain of how to proceed. Mr. Darcy’s continuing interest had proven so steady that she could not deny it—as if there had been any doubt from the start—and while she had no notion yet how to proceed, the responsibility was not hers, so she did her best to push away any thoughts of what was to come.
No, Elizabeth’s concerns were contrary to Mr. Darcy’s, for while the gentleman worried she had convicted him of negligence in the matter of Mr. Wickham, Elizabeth wondered if he did not deplore her lack of action upon her return from Kent, armed with the knowledge of Mr. Wickham’s many offenses.
“My, your sister has been distracted of late,” said Charlotte during a morning visit.
Mary, whose visit had coincided with Charlotte’s that morning, hefted her child in her arms and replied with a knowing nod. “That she has. It is not unlike Elizabeth to be thoughtful, but I dare say this is far beyond anything I might have expected of her.”
Charlotte and Mary had been nothing more than acquaintances before Charlotte’s marriage to Mr. Collins. If anyone other than Elizabeth had been Charlotte’s friend, it had been Jane, for the turn of their minds was not unalike except in a few notable instances. Mary, however, had kept everyone at bay, even her sisters. After Charlotte had returned from Kent a widow and the other members of the Bennet family had either left for their own houses or passed on, Elizabeth’s friendship with Charlotte had brought Mary into their shared sphere. They were not bosom companions, but they got on well with each other.
“What do you suppose has put her in this state?” asked Charlotte.
“Might it be the presence of a man?”
“A tall man, an impossibly handsome man possessing a grand estate?”
“One who appears determined to pursue her?”
“You are both silly this morning,” interjected Elizabeth. “If you were not such close relations and friends, I might throw you from the house and bar you from returning to it until, as my father used to say, you prove you can speak two words of sense together.”
Charlotte and Mary laughed together, drawing Mary’s child into their mirth. Elizabeth held out her arms and Mary relinquished her child to his aunt, and Elizabeth turned her attention to her little nephew.
“Your mother has lost all her sense, James,” said Elizabeth to the child, delighted when he cooed back. “You and I are the only sensible ones in the room, for your mother and my friend are quite mad.”
James laughed at this, and Elizabeth cooed back at him, amazed at the precious bundle she held in her arms.
“If you think he agrees with you,” said Charlotte, “I must wonder if you are the one who has lost touch with reality.”
“James will do anything for a smile,” added Mary. “You should not take his grin as a suggestion he loves his Mama any less.”
Elizabeth turned a smile on her younger sister. “Never would I suggest such a thing, Mary.”
Growing pensive again, Elizabeth turned her focus inward. When she spoke, she had not intended to say anything, the words slipping out of their own accord.
“Should I have said something of Mr. Wickham when I returned from Kent?”
Her friends regarded her, the mirth of the moment forgotten. “You speak of the business with Lydia and Mr. Wickham,” said Mary.
“I do,” said Elizabeth.
“Did you learn something in Kent? I do not believe I heard of this.”
“I will tell you, Mary,” said Elizabeth, a hint of embarrassment coming over her for leaving Mary in the dark. “For the present conversation, suffice to say that Mr. Darcy told me about Mr. Wickham’s habits in Kent, of his gaming and exploits with the ladies. Mr. Darcy revealed his character to me in a manner I could not misunderstand or disbelieve, yet I said nothing.”
“Do you suppose it would have made a difference?” asked Mary, a trace of her old bluntness returning.
Elizabeth considered the question. “I cannot say. I spoke to Jane on the subject, and we agreed that Mr. Wickham was soon to retire to Brighton, so anything he did in Meryton was already done. As he was to go, we felt there was little point in it.”
A sudden thought returned to Elizabeth, and she added: “Of course, Jane suggested his repentance and eagerness to reestablish his character; it will not surprise you to learn this was the likely reason for her opinion.”
“Not at all,” said Mary, a fond smile for their eldest sister lighting her face.
“The question is,” said Charlotte, “what do you suppose might have changed had you spoken about Mr. Wickham?”
That was the crux of the matter. “That is the question, is it not? Perhaps the colonel might have made Mr. Wickham pay his debts or sent him to debtors’ prison since he had no means to make good on his obligations. Or perhaps with that knowledge, I might have persuaded Papa to deny Lydia permission to go to Brighton.”
“Then let us consider your points in turn,” said Charlotte. “The prospect of calling in his debts was real, but you could not be certain he had any. If you had tried to expose him, Mr. Wickham would have mounted a vigorous defense, or he may have slipped away.”
“Which would have done nothing for the merchants,” said Elizabeth, “though we would have protected Lydia from him.”
“If you will pardon my saying it,” said Mary, “Lydia was determined to ruin us. If it was not Mr. Wickham, she would have done it in some other way.”
With a sigh, Elizabeth nodded, holding James closer to her breast. “I suppose you must be correct. Something about my failure to act does not sit well with me, but I cannot say it was within my power to prevent what happened.”
“Then do not consider it, Lizzy,” urged Charlotte. “Leave such matters in the past where they belong.”
It was much simpler to resolve to leave such things in the past than it was to do it, though Elizabeth had always prided herself on her ability to do just that. In those days after revealing the truth of Lydia’s fate to Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth continued to think on them, though she concluded nothing, her sister and friend’s advice notwithstanding.
Mr. Mason also made himself a nuisance, for Elizabeth felt she could not turn around without tripping over him. He visited more than once, though Elizabeth left orders with Mrs. Hill not to admit him unless Charlotte or Mary were also visiting. What the gentleman thought of it he did not say, though she suspected he was becoming frustrated with her. On one occasion, she consented to walk out with him into the lane, but she paid so little attention to his droning voice as to be uncertain of anything that passed between them. Had Elizabeth been paying more attention, she might have noted his clipped words and the thin line of his mouth as she left him at Longbourn’s door when they returned. She remained unaware of it, however, and it is said that ignorance is bliss. As Mr. Mason was not of much consequence to Elizabeth, the veracity of that truism was suspect, at least in that instance.
At length, Elizabeth came back into Mr. Darcy’s company, though she did not accomplish it in any of the usual ways. As the proprietor of an estate, she often rode out, sometimes with the steward and other times alone, making herself available to the tenants to hear their concerns, delivering treats from Longbourn’s kitchens or clothing she sewed with Mary for their support, or just to feel the wind on her face. It was on one such of the latter occasions she came across another rider and recognized it at once as Mr. Darcy—she had seen him on a horse enough times at Rosings to recognize his form the moment she saw it.
“Miss Bennet,” said the gentleman, tipping his cap, the way his eyes settled on her as if she were the most pleasant sight he had ever seen rendering her breathless. “I am gratified to come across you this morning.”
Elizabeth gave him an arch look she thought he enjoyed. “Gratified, sir? As you are riding on my lands, I cannot imagine you did not come hither for the express purpose of seeing me. Breckonridge is not so close to Longbourn as to stray across a border.”
“Can I know when you are out riding?” asked Mr. Darcy, the rhetorical question accompanied by a wink. “I hope you do not oppose me enjoying the paths of your estate.”
“No, Mr. Darcy, I have no issue with gentlemen availing themselves of the paths, so long as they do not interfere with the tenants.”
Mr. Darcy nodded, but he did not prolong their playful banter. “I will own that I had some notion of meeting you, though I could not decide if I wished to be so blessed. Now that we are together, I wonder if I could trouble you for a few moments of your time. It would be desirable for us both, I think, to speak so that we understand each other.”
“Yes, Mr. Darcy,” agreed Elizabeth. “That would be for the best.”
Elizabeth turned and pointed to the north at a low hill that lay in the distance. “The view from that hill is the finest in the district. If you wish, I shall show it to you, and we may talk.”
“That is agreeable.”
With a nod, Elizabeth heeled her horse around to canter away to the hill, Mr. Darcy following behind.