Page 29 of The Winter of Our Discontent (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)
Writing that letter had been cathartic for me.
The arrangements I made for secrecy in my correspondence with my sister struck a most liberating chord.
With the exception of Wilson, I had no idea whom to trust. Nor did I want my relations aware of the difficulties I faced.
As it stood, they knew enough to be made unhappy by this marriage.
To know all would be hard, particularly for my dear aunt Gardiner, who—as a woman—would be deeply affected.
After unburdening my heart to Jane, arranging for Georgiana’s entertainment had given me a fresh reason to bravely face the days now that the tenants were settled in for a long winter.
With the farmers at home working on repairs, cutting firewood, and seeing to the sheltering of the livestock, I felt less inclined to insert myself into their homes.
Their wives were busy enough these days with their families underfoot, not to mention the back-breaking work of setting stores.
Thus, my new sister became my latest cause. I had been given an opening, now that her brother was away .
Our first Sunday dinner began with great anxiety.
Georgiana was forgivably anxious, I was perhaps trying too hard to make everyone comfortable, and Mrs Annesley was on alert, ready to jump in and assist her charge with any awkward moments.
Our guests, except for Mr Yardley, were overawed to be invited to the holy ground of Pemberley.
They were as shy as mice, too grateful, too admiring of every dish, and unbearably stiff.
Our new doctor, however, seemed to notice nothing of this.
He ate gratefully and talked little, looking quite worn out.
In a moment’s lull, I asked him if he was perhaps working too hard.
He admitted he was, gave me a sheepish grin, and said he found overwork a kind of self-indulgence, and that I, of all people, should not scold him.
He then gave me one of his all-seeing, doctorish looks, and we smiled conspiratorially, content to leave one another well enough alone.
Thankfully, the dinner ended without any outright social calamity, and we adjourned to the music room.
I played simple country songs from Hertfordshire, and Mrs Annesley and the curate’s sister, Miss Hodge, joined me by singing along.
In consequence of such humble entertainment, we all unbent a little.
Of everyone, Georgiana relaxed most completely, for she saw clearly that no one present would push her forward.
Miss Compton sat in a state of dazed pleasure, shyly attributing her complacence to having an elegant meal and musical entertainment, and knowing it would all end with a carriage ride straight to her door.
I did what I could to draw her out, and upon hearing she had a cat for company, I asked the footman to bundle up our fish scraps for ‘Miss Kitty’ as she was called.
This small attention was received by Miss Compton as a boon for the ages .
Our guests humbled me with their freely expressed gratitude, and we parted with good feeling all around. Georgiana was so thoroughly relieved the dinner had been a success that the idea of sharing her musical lessons with neighbourhood girls did not now strike her as completely terrifying.
We made our calls on Monday morning, fresh from the triumph of our first entertainment.
In the carriage ride to the Maunders estate, I said to Georgiana, “You know, I am just as uneasy as you on this occasion.”
“You do not mean it, Elizabeth,” she said reproachfully.
“But I do. I am a young lady from Hertfordshire, not nearly as grand as Mrs Darcy of Pemberley ought to be. I do not enjoy being scrutinised for the smallest error in my manners, my conversation, or even my person.” I smiled at her.
“Nor do I relish the idea that tonight, my every fault, misplaced hair, stray freckle, or something I said unwittingly—in short, anything related to me—will be bandied about by everyone we visit today.”
She reached for me with desperate earnestness. “You have said it, Elizabeth—you have said it! This is what I have so dreaded since I know not when. You understand me!”
“I think I do, a little. You are Miss Darcy of Pemberley, set up on a pedestal and protected by a powerful brother. You have become an object, rather than a person, who is examined with a most critical eye. A simple hiccough over tea and cakes would be considered to be a fall from grace, I wager.”
“But how do you do it?”
“What can you mean?”
“How do you sweep into a room so naturally, engage everyone in conversation, and say any number of charming things, if you so dread these meetings? ”
“I pretend, my dear.”
“Pretend?” She considered this briefly. “My brother has always said disguise of any sort is an abhorrence.”
“I am sure he is right. But growing up with a houseful of sisters, I had to learn to pretend not to be hurt by hurtful things said, not to be annoyed by gross provocation, or to be undone by cruel prodding into my feelings.
To show my vulnerability to the mob of my sisters and our childhood friends, excepting Jane of course, was unthinkable.
“Mr Darcy, on principle, is correct. But as a matter of practicality, I see no value in wearing my heart on my sleeve. Imagine, if you will, me entering the Maunders’ drawing room in a tremble of nerves, blushing, tongue-tied, and at a loss for words.
What triumph would they then feel? No, I am too stubborn, too proud.
I will not be made into the piteous object of anyone’s scorn. ”
“As I am,” she mumbled with her head hung low.
My wretched, wretched tongue! I struggled to come about.
At last I said, “No. That is not what I mean. You are but sixteen years old. You are expected to be demure. If you were to act the wholly confident woman, you would then be judged for self-consequent pertness. I may very well be scorned for the same offence, you know, but my courage rises at the mere possibility, and I find myself daring anyone to find fault. I pretend confidence. You might simply pretend that you are liked everywhere you go. What choice would you leave them but to like you?”
Mrs Annesley had listened to all this, and at last she spoke up. “Mrs Darcy might be right. Let us practise pretending as we go. Perhaps if you raise your chin a little?”
So, giggling and laughing aloud, we travelled down the road.
Georgiana, with a little encouragement, was capable of assuming the most crushingly arrogant stare, a pettish pout, and the loftiest look of condescension that startled me for how like her brother she looked.
More to the point, she could round her eyes to the sweetest expression, and artlessly sit forward, as if enraptured by what she was being told.
“You have a natural talent for performance,” I said, taking her hand and giving it a bracing squeeze as we came to a stop. “Lead the way, my dear.”