10 September 1811
A rather tall gentleman disembarked from a fine carriage with a square of pristine, white linen pressed vigorously against his nose. He had caught glimpses of these poor, dirty places whenever he stayed in Town, yet he had never thought to mingle amongst such wretchedness himself. It was appalling – the unmentionable refuse strewn about the street, the hordes of neglected children and the unwashed women spoke of horrors too ghastly to contemplate in his present condition. Darcy pursed his lips and followed the young boy into one of the mean boarding houses. And a mere boy shall lead us all. He shook his head at the stray verse and reluctantly lowered his handkerchief.
His cousin asked, “Do you think this staircase will hold us both?”
Catching the blatant stares of every occupant in the room, Darcy spared a dark look for Colonel Fitzwilliam and headed for the stairs. He said nothing; he could not, until Georgiana opened the door to them. “May we enter, Georgiana?”
He sat on an uncertain chair and soaked in the sight of her – wan, a little unkempt, and recovered. He was too relieved and exhausted, even knowing there were things he must say if he was to truly recover her, to scold or lecture. However, his cousin suffered from no such affliction. “How could you do this, young lady? I could have never imagined you — your brother and I have searched over a fortnight for you! To throw yourself into the power of such an immoral, depraved man -”
Georgiana burst into tears which, although welcome, brought Darcy’s sharp gaze upon his cousin. “Robert, she knew nothing of Wickham’s character.”
Robert returned the sharp look with his own glare. “Perhaps that was a mistake on our part, Darcy, but she did know better. No young lady needs to know of a man’s character to realize the reckless impropriety of an elopement.”
Georgiana’s tears turned into sobs. Darcy drug his hand over his face with a sigh, then stood, saying, “Georgiana, gather your things.”
“W-what about George?”
“Do not refer to that man by his Christian name!” When his sister shrank from him, Darcy gripped the back of his chair until the wood began to groan in protest. He reminded himself of Wickham’s practised duplicity, of her youthful inexperience, of his own father’s ignorance until he could speak to her in a gentle, rational manner. “You should not worry about him; you would not, if you knew what sort of man he is. There will be no peace nor any happiness for you with him. Will you not trust my judgement in this?”
“I-I do, I do trust you.”
The silence stretched between them again until Colonel Fitzwilliam grimly asked, “Where is Wickham? I cannot believe he would send that boy to us without showing himself.”
“M-Mr W-Wickham i-is out. I-I told the servant you w-would pay.”
“The gaming tables then,” Colonel Fitzwilliam concluded. “He would spend your thirty thousand pounds in a year and then look for more.”
Darcy nodded and looked at Georgiana until the sight became unbearably painful. Her pale blue eyes were a perfect mirror of his own, down to the regret and sadness contained therein. Eager for activity, he went to settle with the boy before escorting his sister to their carriage.
****
October, 1811
Why did I come here? Darcy thought as he beheld Miss Bingley’s calculating gaze upon him.
Bingley provided him with a timely reminder. “I might have never deciphered those ledgers without you, Darcy. What do you think of Netherfield?”
“The estate could be made profitable with diligent attention. However, the society is rather low.”
“They are insupportable,” Miss Bingley helpfully supplied. “All self-importance, with no fashion or breeding.”
“They have been very kind to us,” Bingley said, “and I think several of the young ladies are very pretty.”
Miss Bingley smiled with her usual condescension. “Mr Darcy does not seem to agree with you.”
Darcy thought of Miss Elizabeth Bennet, with her dark, intelligent eyes, and shifted in his seat. He had not admired her at first, but on subsequent meetings…
“ – How is dear Miss Darcy?” came Miss Bingley’s unwelcome interruption. “Is she quite recovered from her illness?”
“She is much better, I thank you.” It was a polite untruth that he reasoned could not be avoided. He had done everything he could think to provide her comfort: he had declared her too ill for visitors, hired a new companion, bought a new harp and spent every free moment with her when he had stayed in Town.
He touched the pocket where he had placed her latest letter. He knew some of her feelings were natural and repentance was much preferred over defiance. Yet her words left him to wonder if she would ever be well.
oh, all right, since i simply can’t help myself:
“You should not worry about him; you would not, if you knew what the sort of man he is.”
i think you only want one of those words.
“She much better, I thank you.”
*hands you a verb*
and, err, i hope you take this officiousness in the friendly spirit it’s intended. i only want you to exhibit to your best advantage!
Thanks, tree! I truly don’t mind and really appreciate it. I know typos are distracting, too, so the fewer the better.
Kristin does a great job trying to keep me grammatical and all, but then I go back and do later edits. Sometimes I would be better off if I left it alone.
(The saddest part of this story is that I did proofreading when I worked in the corporate world. Who’d have guessed it???)