Trouble With Wickham (4 page)

Georgiana shrugged, refusing to respond to his inquiry about the room’s warmth or lack of it.

“Be that as it may,” Darcy continued. “You will not miss the London dampness at this time of year. Now do not dawdle, or else you will be pressed for time. I am sure your ladies maid will do a suitable job in packing your things, but make sure to instruct her properly lest she forget items. I do not wish to incur the cost of a courier to ferry your forgotten frippery back to Pemberley.”

Georgiana frowned at Fitzwilliam but did not argue the point. She knew her brother; once his mind was made up it was impossible to try to convince him otherwise. She turned her back on him without another word and marched away with her nose pointed upward, her feet pounding angrily on each tread of the stairs. While her ladies maid emptied her drawers and wardrobes, Georgiana wrote quick letters of distress to her London friends, cancelling tomorrow’s planned walk in Hyde Park with the Bingley sisters, Lady Caroline Greene and Miss Becky Hawthorne, as well as sending her regrets to Sir Gregory Stanford, who had requested her attendance at his home that evening, for a musicale.

What a pity, she thought, and just as she had caught the eye of his popular son Reginald, a dark haired young bon vivant who had noticed her walking in St. James Park and been immediately captivated. Through his connections with the Bingley sisters, an acquaintance was made. She had been invited to play the pianoforte that night, a talent she was known for in her small, but growing, social circle. She had been looking forward to the attention and the potential for flirting, a skill the Bingley sisters had been schooling her in.

Maybe that is why Fitzwilliam arrived when he did, she thought bitterly—to spoil her chances for an intriguing attachment.

Oh why must Fitzwilliam always ruin my fun?

She wrote as well to cancel the order she had placed the day prior for two fancy dresses at the new London dressmaker that was all the rage. “There is no need for such finery in the country” so the Bingley sisters often said. And they would know, after recently splitting their time between London and their brother’s rental estate Netherfield Hall in the Hertfordshire countryside,

Less than an hour after Fitzwilliam’s appearance on her doorstep Georgiana was packed into the carriage, barely given a chance to throw her favorite cloak over her head to protect her from the rain, and on her way to Derbyshire. She slumped sullenly against the window pane as the carriage wound its way through London’s narrow streets, wondering how long walks in the dusty lane and detailed accounts of rotating crops and the fair price of local livestock, which was the nature of most discussions at Pemberley, could possibly compete with the distractions offered by the wit and vitality of the London ton.

She had not lived continuously at Pemberley since before the incident at Ramsgate—the incident that simultaneously shattered her heart and turned her brother into her warden. Neither she nor Fitzwilliam ever spoke of those days when she fell under the spell of George Wickham’s superficial flattery and naively consented to his plan that they elope.

The specter of those dark days weighed heavily over the small Darcy family. Yet, she wondered, was she forever to be enslaved to one youthful mistake? Fitzwilliam seemed to think so, but she had moved on, forgiving herself for being duped and her brother for the harsh way he had chosen to settle the matter, ripping her and George apart forever. At the time, Georgiana did not think she would survive the humiliation, or her brother’s anger and censure. But survive she did.

Fitzwilliam, however, was not as able to shake off the close call. He was shocked at the shrewd and deceitful manner of Wickham. He impressed on Georgiana, with no little effort, that Wickham was after her heart as a means to her money and that no relationship between them could survive. His reaction surprised her because George was no stranger; all three of them had wiled away empty summer days together in their youth at Pemberley. The senior Wickham, George’s father, was a kind and trusted figure from her memories. That her old friend George appeared in Ramsgate and fell in love with her, and she with him, was no crime.

Yet according to Fitzwilliam, it was. The George Wickham of their childhood was a mirage. On that dark day when the elopement was revealed, Georgiana was forced to trust her brother when he explained to her that no man worthy of her hand would ever suggest such a plan. By doing so, Wickham was exploiting her trusting nature and child-like innocence. He tried to speak gently to his sister, knowing that a difficult lesson in heartbreak was upon her, all the while his anger seethed within.

That day Georgiana had listened to her brother rail against Wickham with skepticism; the treacherous thief that Fitzwilliam was describing did not sound at all like the sweet, earnest, charming man that she had exchanged one stolen kiss with.

Nevertheless, she acquiesced to her brother and George Wickham was banished forever from her company. Her heart had healed, eventually, for at fifteen years of age she was filled with youthful hope, as well as an ability to be easily distracted by newer amusements and the happy belief that all would end well for everyone, in time.

The incident was kept secret from that day forward.

Since those days Fitzwilliam had declared himself protector of her virtue and practically ensured that no other man came near her. At times she thought Fitzwilliam so strict she could hardly bear it. Her co-guardian, Colonel Fitzwilliam, would not go against her brother’s wishes or urge him to relax his grip, no matter how nicely Georgiana entreated him via the post.

As the months rolled on, the young Georgiana saw a dismal future rising up ahead of her. Her devoted mother and father were both dead and buried and her legal guardianship administered by a brother who had netted himself the perfect wife and companion but deprived her of any chance for the same by distrusting her instincts and eyeing every suitor with suspicion. Now here he was hauling her unceremoniously out of London without even the courtesy of a week’s warning.

How she longed to be established on her own, with a loving husband and a house to preside over, and not treated as if she was always fifteen years old. A place as grand as Pemberley was not necessary; a simple home would do with a kind man who loved and trusted her. She would enjoy the distance from her brother’s oversight, and marriage would give her the freedom to ride about the countryside with only a footman and no chaperone, if she should so choose. But arriving at that future seemed impossible with Fitzwilliam in charge of her. What man would ever be good enough to please him, she wondered? She doubted that even the Prince Regent would merit Fitzwilliam’s approval.

These thoughts she kept to herself as she looked out on to the dull, unending countryside, her beloved London disappearing behind her.

Meanwhile, Darcy was prattling on about the new carriage they were riding in, overcome with excitement at his recent purchase. She refused to meet his eyes, instead staring out at the gloomy landscape and grey sky and drawing the soft blanket up to her chin.

“I am married now, Georgiana, and must think of my wife’s comfort first. My old carriage was better suited for a single man. Did you know there is a waiting list for this specific model of coach, but the original purchaser bowed out and I was lucky enough to be in the shop when word came that the prearranged deal would not go through? Naturally I snapped it up. What good luck! Timing is everything in life—being in the right place at the right time.”

She did not share her brother’s excitement. To her annoyed eyes he seemed so pleased with himself. It seemed to her that all he wanted now was to bury her alive at Pemberley, away from any gaiety, in order to settle his nerves, all because once upon a time she had loved the wrong man. Or rather, the wrong man had loved her, and Fitzwilliam did not approve.

There was a collection of butterflies, beautiful but dead, pressed between two panes of glass, hanging on the wall in her father’s study. She was like one of those butterflies now, captured. She would die a spinster, locked away at Pemberley, with the key thrown down the well, if Fitzwilliam had his way. She knew it.

However, despite her initial misgivings, Fitzwilliam was proven right; she did not find it a burden to live full time at Pemberley.

Immediately upon moving back Georgiana found an amiable companion in her new sister-in-law Elizabeth, who was capable of making her laugh out loud with her witty running commentary on country life. Soon Georgiana was feeling that Elizabeth was the sister she never had, and those first days together at Pemberley were a time of great familial conviviality and harmony. Happily, she took to spending her mornings in the music room, devoting hours to improving upon her already established talent in a way that made Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam smile with pride. The notes of her cantatas echoed throughout the halls, bringing joy to the hearts of all who heard them.

Georgiana had to admit that her brother was correct to bring her under his wing. Truth be told, she did not miss her London friends as much as she feared she would. Those tenuous connections paled in comparison to the bonds she felt toward Elizabeth, whom Georgiana loved very much. And she loved her brother, too, albeit some days begrudgingly.

So she was happy at Pemberley again.

Yet that morning’s surprise announcement that she would be expected to pack up and accompany them to the home of complete strangers made her feel on a par with the average prisoner. Georgiana was not sure who it was that Fitzwilliam did not trust—herself or merely every man that crossed her path.

Maybe both
, she fretted.

Noise in the hallway tore Georgiana away from her thoughts. Elizabeth was throwing on her cloak when she walked past the breakfast parlor, saw Georgiana sulking at the table and urged her to join in.

“The sun is out Georgiana. Let’s walk now before the day gets away from us.”

Georgiana did not have to be persuaded to enjoy the beautiful fall morning. Soon the women had cleared the grand steps of Pemberley and made their way to the gravel path that wound through the estate.

As they walked, Georgiana spilled out her woes. “I wish I did not have to accompany you tomorrow to the horse party,” she grumbled.

“Bennington Park is a beautiful estate, Georgiana,” Elizabeth told her in a calming tone of voice. “And you will like Charlotte and her new husband too, I predict.”

Georgiana did not want Elizabeth to encourage her. She wanted Elizabeth to side with her. Nevertheless, for as long as they walked the path together she would have no escape from Elizabeth’s good-natured attempts to persuade her. “There are also two Pomeranians and you love that fashionable sort of dog that Fitzwilliam avoids. Besides, why stay at Pemberley alone? It will be so dull!”

Still, Georgiana resisted.

“What shall I say to these country folk? They will not care about my thoughts or observations.”

“Why Georgiana no one cares about my opinions, either, but that doesn’t stop me from voicing them! You must not be so reticent. You have much to recommend you and Bennington Park will be full of quality people willing to befriend you. You will see.” Elizabeth put her arm through Georgiana’s, patted her hand and smiled at her.

Suddenly, Elizabeth became distracted by the flight of a large bird that crossed their path.

“Oh my, is that a peregrine that just flew by?” she exclaimed, raising her eyes skyward. Elizabeth was trying to identify the types of birds native to Pemberley so that she could better understand her husband’s excitement when he spotted them in their woods.

Georgiana looked to the sky at a disappearing bird that looked no different to her than any other dark blot against the clouds. She sighed softly, inferring that Elizabeth would not be championing her cause to Fitzwilliam, and that her attendance at the hunt party was a foregone conclusion.

However, her acquiescence to the plan did not mean she had any intention of enjoying herself, nor would she exert any effort in that regard. She planned on having a terrible time at the horse party, she thought revengefully, and afterwards she would summon up her courage and have a serious conversation with her brother about his controlling ways. For now, she would agree to tomorrow’s itinerary.

“I am sure any friend of yours is good enough for me,” Georgiana said. “And also, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a peregrine, so I am no help there.”

L
ady Catherine de Bourgh and her daughter Anne were in their chaise and four advancing toward Bennington Park. Lady Catherine rarely traveled, as there were very few accommodations that could surpass Rosings Park in terms of grandeur and comfort. Then there was the matter of her daughter Anne’s tricky constitution. Lady Catherine did not care to expose Anne to foods prepared by unknown cooks in dubious kitchens. However, she had been assured that Bennington Park was a grand home, able to offer the same standard of culinary excellence and modern hospitality she demanded.

Being that Anne’s prospects for marriage with her cousin Fitzwilliam Darcy were recently scuttled, Lady Catherine decided that it was her motherly duty to inconvenience herself and submit to the upheaval of travel. Hopefully the present journey to Bennington Park would settle the matter of Anne’s future; clearly she had no intention of crisscrossing the country, reduced to making inquiries.

The blame for this change in their circumstances fell clearly on Fitzwilliam Darcy, meant from birth to be Anne’s spouse. She had not anticipated that her nephew would posses the nerve to defy his family’s expectations and form an independent, unvetted connection with a very wily, very common girl from Hertfordshire with humble relations.

Trapped him, was how Lady Catherine secretly described it.

As a result of his actions, she no longer felt the same esteem she once had for him. Nay, since the news of his betrothal she no longer wished to be in the same room with him; thus an estrangement existed. Her only consolation in the matter was that her late sister, Lady Anne Darcy, was not alive to witness Fitzwilliam’s shenanigans. Surely, if the elder Darcys had lived, Elizabeth Bennet would not have ascended to her current position as mistress of Pemberley.