Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife (31 page)

Hence, when Darcy’s attention finally quitted the painting and turned to the painter, Morland veritably trembled with anticipation.

Though Darcy said quite simply, “I thank you,” he shook Morland’s hand even more firmly than usual.

That slight increase of pressure was the extent of Mr. Darcy’s praise. And so parsimonious was his reputation upon extending aggrandisement, even Morland was content.

Indeed, Morland breathed a sigh of relief that the painting he knew to be remarkable met with Mr. Darcy’s approval. The obstacle of Mr. Darcy’s curt opinion overcome, talk turned to how long to allow for the painting to ripen before it could be framed. Ten days was the allowance. Darcy announced a framer was to travel from London to mount it upon the premises.

“But,” Morland interrupted, “I can take it with me. I shall have it framed in time for exhibition.”

“Exhibition,” Darcy repeated.

“Yes,” Morland explained patiently, “The Royal Academy exhibits in May. The timing shall be perfect.”

“I do not understand,” Darcy said, endeavouring to make Morland cognisant of the fact it was he who did not understand.

That comprehension, however, escaped the painter. Alarmed that Mr. Darcy somehow did not fathom the importance of the work or the exhibition, Morland attempted to explain further.

“Your wife’s portrait will hang as the best in England, reviewed by the king himself. There is no greater honour for Mrs. Darcy.”

Darcy understood full well that any lionisation primarily benefited the artist. But, he knew, too, it was a great honour for Elizabeth. Truly, he did not want to deny her such a prestigious honour; thus, he was conflicted. Proud as he was of her beauty and happy for her to be admired, he, nonetheless, wanted any admiration of his wife to be couched from a distance. He had not commissioned the portrait for anyone to gaze upon but himself at Pemberley. The idea of any man off the street gawking at her as if she was an actress upon a playbill was detestable. Her painting might be engraved and printed in a book, or worse (heaven save us from perdition!), in a newspaper. No. It would not do.

Intractable as were his wishes upon the matter, he, nevertheless, looked to his wife to see if she favoured exhibition.

“The painting is yours,” she said. “The choice is yours as well.”

No hindrance stood in his way. Thus, Darcy was adamant in objecting. Morland cajoled, pleaded, and came perilously close to threatening violence, but to no avail. Finally convinced Mr. Darcy’s mind could not be swayed, he stamped his foot in petulant embrace of his pertinacity. Trailed by his two assistants, he fled the room near tears, his fingers pinching the top of his nose as if to stanch his weeping. Those who remained in the room stood in embarrassed silence.

Georgiana, while not abandoning loyalty to her brother, found herself sympathetic to poor Morland and said so.

“Poor Mr. Morland.”

Not so certain the pitiable Morland would not undertake a rash act, Darcy had his man stand guard over the painting that night. It was, of course, but the utmost of coincidence that “poor” Mr. Morland’s assistants were found in the darkened corridor long after midnight, both insisting they were upon their way to the kitchen for a “late supper.”

So poor Mr. Morland departed the next morning, slouched in despondence, more convinced than anyone else of his ill-treatment. He vowed to everyone whom he could inveigle to listen that he was never to paint again. His two servitors chose to ride in overcrowded congeniality with the coachman atop the carriage, whose coarse company was far preferable to the cultured but querulous Morland. His purse might have been amply moneyed, but his reputation was no more enriched than whence he came.

Elizabeth felt certain sympathy for him, but just that he had contrived to use a commissioned painting to advance his own reputation. Perhaps he should have been warned in advance that Mr. Darcy cared little for public acclaim, for himself or his family. Prestige was inherent in the Darcy name.

Of the consequence of such an illustrious name, Georgiana was all too witting. Indeed, the prestige one held as member of the Darcy family should have made self-confidence inherent.

Her brother’s imperious presence was testament to that assumption. Contrariwise, save for her brother, those in her company often misinterpreted Georgiana’s introspective nature as timidity. She struggled for a time to believe her lack of assertiveness was a result of a motherless upbringing, not an intrinsic trait peculiar but to her. But unassuming as well as shy, suspected diffidence eventually became a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Hence, she harboured the absurd notion that her dearth of self-consequence cast aspersion upon the House of Darcy in general and her beloved brother in particular. Being the culprit whose lack of grace, wit, and charm impugned her family name would have been a heavy burden in one so young had she not been so very anxious to suffer it.

Of the family’s several homes, Georgiana loved Pemberley most. Not only was it the place of her birth, its fields and trails begat her fondest memories. Alas, she was often not free to enjoy such quiet.

Given free choice, both Darcy and Georgiana would have spent all four seasons in the country. However, before his marriage Darcy spent less than half a year there, allowing his sister but half of that (as a female, she had no autonomy over such decisions as where to domicile oneself). Georgiana was mindful that this arrangement was because of society’s dictates, not by his own volition. Although it was never once spoken, she knew London to be as much a trial for her brother as for herself. An example of their differing temperament, however, was how each approached such a dilemma.

Compunction drove him to surrender his presence to society. Georgiana would have been quite happy to hide. Nevertheless, she did not grouse about his despotic bidding that she attend town from Candlemas to All Hallows. For his sacrifice to propriety engendered within her a bit of guilt. She knew what fuelled his determination to consort amongst the patriciate was to facilitate her eventual ingress into society.

Though they were both expected to make good marriages, as her brother and guardian, it was his duty to see that she did. He undertook that commission in all gravity and dedication. This was done exactly as he had undertaken every other commitment in his charge. And it was his belief that any lengthy sojourn by his sister at Pemberley did not serve the better good. That good being Georgiana gainfully married. She weathered London as much as she did but to please his notion that it was there that eligible young men were found in the greatest numbers. All society pundits insisted (her brother unquestionably in concurrence) that the larger the pool, the bigger the fish. Moreover, his belief that nothing less than a very large fish would suffice as marriage material for his sister was absolute.

Not only did she dislike piscine metaphors, Georgiana despised thinking of her fortune as bait.

But she loved her brother.

And as much as she loved him, she revered him even more. Albeit her sibling, he was more than ten years her senior. His paternal dedication to her well-being but enhanced his role as a father figure. Her earliest memories were of desperately running after him and his friends upon their rowdy pursuit of adventure. Slowed by petticoats, young legs, and a faulty constitution, she would call after him, beseeching him to wait. Not only did he await, if necessary he toted her upon his back. Neither Fitzwilliam nor Wickham dared to carp about him allowing her accompany them upon their seemingly aimless exploits.

When her brother married Elizabeth Bennet, she was delighted at last to have a sister. Delighted despite the whispers that the Bennet family had questionable connexions.

Even if her umbrageous aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, had suffered a rather vociferous conniption (one that was but partially vented by throwing both shoes and an empty pint of Geneva at the parlour-maid) over the match, to Georgiana, her brother and his opinions were infallible. Above and beyond that, Elizabeth’s obvious adoration of Darcy was reason enough to inflate Georgiana’s esteem of her to the seraphic.

The saucy banter and relentless bedevilment Elizabeth inflicted upon the exceedingly formidable Mr. Darcy were initially quite alarming to Georgiana. But witnessing him weather his wife’s liberties with superb humour demanded she re-examine her previous understanding of his sensibilities.

Indeed, Elizabeth’s lack of prepossession about all things Darcy called into question all that Georgiana had spent a lifetime accepting as incontrovertible.

Accomplishing the considerable feat of embracing neither condescension nor hyperbole, Elizabeth assured the shy Georgiana that she needed but to be amongst company more to feel comfortable in it.

“Once there, you must suffer with good grace all the attention and flattery you shall receive as one of England’s true beauties.”

It was the approbation of a lifetime. Not because Georgiana was naïve enough to believe it true. That someone she admired gave such sentiments with all due sincerity was compliment enough.

Even holding her with substantially warm regard, Georgiana spoke but once to Elizabeth of her disastrous near-elopement with George Wickham. And then, it was quite obliquely. It was upon the occasion of Lydia’s name coming up in conversation.

“Do you know Major Wickham well, Elizabeth?”

Knowing it a captious subject, Georgiana brought it up at some risk. In her quiet way, she managed to learn just who was in and out of favour at any particular time with any particular member of the household. Therefore, she was not unwitting that Elizabeth was irate yet over Wickham’s seducement of Lydia. (Georgiana did not know, however, that Elizabeth was uncertain that she could candidly assess that man’s character without using the word cur.) However, it lay quite undetermined to Georgiana whether Darcy had confided his sister’s near-defilement to his wife.

Hence, such a simple question incited no little angst. As much as Elizabeth yearned to reassure Georgiana that she was hardly the singular young woman deceived by Wickham’s charm, she could not quite bring herself outright to vituperate the reputation of her sister’s husband (however deserved). Therefore, when she waded into the treacherous waters of character analysis of a member of her family, she said the single thing that came to mind that was neither compleatly condemnatory nor untrue.

“Mr. Wickham’s keenest virtue seems to be an absolute dedication to his looking-glass.”

A smile had tempted the corners of Georgiana’s mouth upon hearing Elizabeth’s analysis. It was the first time Georgiana had been able to find any humour at all in any part of her humiliation. She had not lost her virginity, but the debacle left her innocence considerably fissured.

Whilst falling victim to Wickham’s foul scheme was disastrous to her self-esteem, this violation of the heart was not left uninspected. It provoked a creative eruption within her of volcanic proportions. She wrote of it with passion and fervour, scribbling furiously in her journal. Time allowed these renderings to evolve into verse. And of them, Georgiana was as penurious as a bean counter with the Exchequer. Not only did she not leave them lying about, when they were not in her hand they were locked in the false bottom of the midmost drawer of her escritoire. And if Georgiana was bechanced whilst working upon some sonnet, she took to stuffing the papers beneath her chair cushion, it was difficult for the family not to suspect she was involved in some enterprise that she chose not to share.

Hence, it was a surprise when one day she did just that.

“Elizabeth,” she said, thrusting forth several folded pages, “I have a composition that would benefit from your opinion.”

Literary critique was hardly her long suit, and Elizabeth said so. Georgiana persisted.

“I value your judgement.”

Elizabeth perched the pages upon her knees and carefully read each one. Thereupon, she reread them. With great solemnity, she arranged them in order and folded her hands atop them.

She looked directly at Georgiana and announced, “I have never read anything quite so touching in my life.”

Georgiana beamed.

“You must share these, Georgiana.”

“That I could not. It took all the courage I possess to show you.”

“Any ambition to publish I shall pursue on your behalf.”

A conspiracy commenced. In entering into this plot, Elizabeth exhibited substantial daring herself. There was no possibility that Darcy should look upon such an endeavour other than with extreme disfavour. They attempted to mitigate their offence by submitting Georgiana’s work to the Poetic Registry publication. It was not considered a proper occupation for a woman to write novels, but Elizabeth intended to put forth the argument to her husband that society considered poetry less a transgression.

She practised her entreaties. There were women of consequence in the literary world (Fanny Burney, Lady Montague). But even as she plotted her debate, she did as Georgiana bid and did not yet tell Darcy their plan. She would delay that intimidating duty until the poetry was accepted. No good ever came from borrowing future bother.

Far more promptly than either expected, Georgiana received a post from the -publisher accepting her verses. It would be necessary to meet with the publisher’s representatives, sign papers, accept payment, et cetera. Georgiana’s initial position was to believe a colossal error had been committed.

She insisted, “Certainly they have mistaken another’s work for mine. They could not possibly have accepted what I sent them.”

Convincing Georgiana that her work had indeed been accepted took no little persuasion. Once that was finally accomplished, Elizabeth was elected to the office of intermediary betwixt the poetess and her brother.

With the publisher’s letter in hand, she went on an intrepid search for the soon-to-be beseeched Darcy. Placing the missive before him, she silently allowed his own eyes to be the messenger of the news. Which had been an excellent tactic, for his indignation thus was directed toward the publishing house and not his wife. At least there was no displeasure bestowed upon her until he heard Elizabeth say she had encouraged and aided Georgiana in her literary aspirations. Emboldened, she told him not just that, but that she favoured publication as well.

Elizabeth addressed the issue of Georgiana’s station negating any need of an occupation with the argument upon behalf of her self-confidence. Any pecuniary advantage was to be put in the poor box at church. Therefore, the single remaining issue was of propriety. A large issue.

He stated flatly, “It is inappropriate for a gentlewoman to present herself as a public person.”

Elizabeth’s preparation paid her well, for she countered, “Fanny Burney is a novelist. Lady Montague, a Shakespearean critic. Both are gentlewomen and have kept their reputations intact.”

“Lady Montague, indeed,” he scoffed. “A lady should not even read Shakespeare.”

“You should hear yourself.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“You, sir, read Shakespearean sonnets to me. Is your own wife thought by you as not a lady?”

He stood looking at her for a full minute, apparently finding no method of extrication from the noose he had fashioned himself.

As there were no words that could expose his irrational protection of his sister more clearly than his own, Elizabeth chose to remain silent. Defeated, he sat heavily in his chair and glumly put his chin in his hand.

Taking pity upon him, Elizabeth selected a leather bound volume from the side table and sat herself upon his lap. She opened the book midmost, moistened the tip of her middle finger, and with a dramatic flourish, turned several pages.

“Show me,” she inveigled with a tickling whisper against his ear, “just what parts of Shakespeare a lady is not to read.”

For a man who suffered defeat but rarely, Darcy decided that it was considerably less abhorrent to lose when the conqueror was his wife.

* * *

The invitation from the publisher occasioned the trip much more favourably anticipated by Georgiana, thus, they were quite a merry group when they set off for London. (In truth, Georgiana and Elizabeth were merry; Darcy merely reflected their good humour.) The coaches were laden with manservant, lady-maids, footmen, jewel cases, and trunks. It was thus the family Darcy departed to London for “The Season.”