Mr. Darcy's Decision: A Sequel to Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice Page 13

  Darcy held his wife’s gaze with a passionate stare. The more serious and brooding the set of his expression, the more she was enticed to tease him, she took in the firm line of his mouth and his captivating eyes and began to jest.

  “I am surprised you have any time for even an ounce of compassion for any living soul when you have been so unfortunate as to procure such an ill-favored wife.”

  Darcy bristled at Elizabeth’s comment although he knew she only mocked him.“What joke are you playing now, Elizabeth?” he asked.

  Elizabeth stood tall and effected an expression of superiority, she lowered her voice and in a poor imitation of her husband she said through suppressed laughter, “She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me.”

  Darcy had her hands in an instant, he held them firmly, the anger in his eyes as much in jest as her teasing had been. “It is beneath you to mock an affliction in another, it is not your character.”

  “I have heard it said that you are without fault so what affliction of yours is it that I mock, sir?” Elizabeth said flirtatiously.

  Darcy pulled her closer to him. “The blindness that prevented me from seeing what you really are.”

  Elizabeth relished his closeness and set out to further antagonize him.“Pray tell me, what is it that I really am?”

  Darcy would not relinquish his grip, he pulled his arms further and tighter around her then raised her face to his and said, “What you really are is handsome, no, you are beautiful beyond the realms of imagination.”

  Elizabeth, as always, was stirred by their embrace and she said quietly,“Your words are worthy of Crabbe, sir.”

  Darcy spoke passionately. “You would inspire poetry in the coldest of hearts.”

  “Then I can tempt you, Mr. Darcy?” she said mischievously.

  Her husband smiled knowingly. “Mrs. Darcy,” he whispered, “the temptation is such that no other could imitate it.” Then he kissed her with unbridled intensity and though he was ever conscious of Elizabeth’s delicate condition, his desire recognized no limitation but the love in his heart meant that his every caress was one of tenderness.

  CHAPTER 18

  “I am grieved, indeed,” cried Darcy,“grieved—shocked.”

  Darcy’s rejection of Mr. Collins’s proposal was rebuke enough to inspire Charlotte in the pursuit of encouraging her husband to arrange their return to Lucas Lodge as soon as possible. William Collins was enraged but displayed none of his displeasure to anyone other than his wife. Charlotte bore the tedium of his grievances with admirable patience. No sooner were they seated in their departure carriage than his lament began. “Position in the church, it seems, governs more than mere dedication, my dear Charlotte.”

  Charlotte attempted to placate her husband. “George Holcombe is indeed graced with a high appointment in his parish, but it is not merely his status which secures the ceremony as his own, he is a devoted and respected man who, I understand, has been involved with Pemberley and the Darcy family for years.”

  Mr. Collins took his kerchief to mop his brow, he could not deny the truth in his wife’s words, but he was all the same consumed with resentment at his own thwarted progress. Although it was Charlotte who had insisted upon their departure from Pemberley, on this point, the husband and wife were in agreement. William Collins wished to retreat from the site of his rejection as speedily as possible in the hope that he could forget his humiliation. Their carriage drew away from the house just moments after the de Bourgh party had done so. Lady Catherine had decided that no matter what fluctuations occurred regarding her daughter’s health, she could bear no more of Pemberley. “I am grievously distressed by the theatricals therein,” she said, casting her eye over the house as her carriage pulled away.“I am not sorry to take my leave.”

  Caroline Bingley, who was to travel some of her own journey in Lady Catherine’s barouche, could only sympathize. “You share my sentiments, your ladyship,” she said, “and did you notice Mr. Collins’s ridiculous neckcloth? I do believe it was tied horse-collar style.”

  Lady Catherine nodded in agreement. “A most vulgar adornment, but unaccountably fashionable with the lower classes these days, I daresay due to their inability to tie one in any other style,” she snapped.

  Having offered the politest of farewells to their departing guests Elizabeth kissed Mary upon the cheek then she and Darcy watched as the carriages drew away. Neither husband nor wife waved, but once the parties were away, they turned slowly and walked hand-in-hand up the steps to the house. In the hall Elizabeth remarked upon the quiet.

  “I have begun to fear peace, not for itself, but I am apprehensive of the discord it so often precedes,” she said quietly.

  On the road away from Pemberley and towards Lambton Mr. Collins’s equipage closely followed Lady Catherine’s barouche.The former privately enjoyed the status afforded to him by traveling not a quarter of a mile behind such a notable carriage, although he was not about to own the fact. It was universally known that Anne de Bourgh did not travel well; she seemed not to tolerate anything particularly well, but travel was deemed the greatest hindrance to her health and it was therefore expected that Lady Catherine would order her horsemen to halt frequently to allow her daughter the remedy of taking the air.

  By the time the parties were not five miles from Pemberley and had reached the village of Lambton,Anne de Bourgh had taken the air three times. On each occasion the Collins’s progress was delayed also, for although the road out of Derbyshire was good and wide enough to allow two carriages to pass, Mr. Collins thought better than to assume his equipage might take precedence over Lady Catherine’s. His own horsemen had been duly informed of this matter and the subsequent delays made the journey tedious. On hearing his man call the horses to a halt for the fourth time Mr. Collins could not contain his exasperation.

  “Oh, surely the girl cannot wish to take any more air, we have little chance of getting out of Derbyshire in reasonable time with these constant hindrances.” He moved awkwardly to rise from his seat and extended his hand to his wife. “Come, Charlotte, we may just as well take the opportunity of God’s pure air ourselves seeing as the chance is forced upon us.” He stepped down from the carriage himself offering his wife little assistance. Narrowing his eyes to focus his view of the de Bourgh party he went on, “Oh, what is this all about? Some trouble on the road ahead, I cannot make it out, Anne is not taking a turn, no.... Oh, that is Miss Bingley getting out and...who is that person?” Charlotte was watching the scene with as much fascination as her husband, but her sight was better and she was, without difficulty, able to note that a figure on horseback was engaged in the office of talking with Caroline Bingley. She could see the man’s features clearly and was able to ascertain his identity with as much conviction as was to be had at such a distance. Mr. Collins continued his objections.

  “What is going on?” cried he. “Are they to slow everyone’s progress with their partiality to giving directions to every lost traveler?”

  Charlotte touched her husband’s arm guardedly.“I do not think they give directions, Mr. Collins, you are mistaken.” She paused and watched the man dismount and lean into the carriage and exchange words with Lady Catherine. She sighed and declared,“That man is not a traveler lost, I do believe he knows exactly where he is going.”

  Mr. Collins strained his eyes to focus his view of the man.“And what knowledge do you have of this stranger and his business, Charlotte?”

  Charlotte’s face was pale. With reluctance she professed, “That man is not a stranger Mr. Collins, he is Mr. Wickham. Mr. George Wickham.”

  Mr. Collins, satisfied that his wife had correctly identified the man as no other than George Wickham, again observed the scene played out ahead of him.This subsequent viewing confirmed all to Mr. Collins. Yes, it was Mr. George Wickham, he could see that now. For how much easier it is to see specifically when we are told exactly what it is we are looking at.

  In watching the actions of those persons
ahead of him, Mr. Collins could glean no details that might give indication of what the purpose of the meeting might be. Clear though the day was, it was impossible to judge if the brief discourse that ensued was one with angry overtures or if the exchange was a pleasant one. Before very long, he saw that Mr.Wickham had re-mounted his horse and the wheels of the de Bourgh carriage were once again set in motion to take them homeward. Charlotte could not bear to look from the carriage as the sound of hooves passed them but Mr. Collins pulled the curtain aside in time to see that the gentleman was, without doubt, George Wickham and he was heading in the direction of Pemberley with a look of grim determination upon his face.

  CHAPTER 19

  “When my eyes were opened to his real character—Oh! had I known what I ought, what I dared, to do! But I knew not—I was afraid of doing too much. Wretched, wretched mistake!”

  With Lady Catherine and Caroline Bingley gone, Georgiana Darcy was more inclined to show herself outside the music room, for she too had quietly welcomed their departure. It must be remembered that Miss Darcy, despite being naturally constrained, was still young and appeared markedly so as timid girls often do. Her manners were elegant and pleasing, and she was all that her brother had ensured she would be, ladylike and accomplished. But, like him, she was not naturally disposed to put herself forward to those she did not know.The girl, like her brother, did not converse easily with people with whom she was little acquainted, so when she took it upon herself to go to Lydia’s rooms to visit it was as unexpected an occurrence for the recipient as it was for the visitor. But Miss Darcy had been told the girl was sick, although she had not the first notion of what ailed her, and felt very strongly that a visit might help the invalid suffer the tedium of bed rest with some fortitude.

  Lydia was confined to her bed, a course of action that had little to do with the physician’s advice and more to do with the girl’s own determination to be as miserable and sorry for herself as possible. She was emotionally frail from circumstance but rosy enough in appearance. She sat up in bed; she had removed her chemise and sat quite comfortably. She found herself very glad of Georgiana’s company for she was beginning to find her Aunt Gardiner’s conversation and children tedious and exhausting respectively, and although Lydia was not always intentionally unkind, she was often cruel by error. “Oh La! I am pleased to see you Georgiana, my aunt has no understanding of the kind of things that interest young women. I know I am a married woman, but Heavens, I am still closer to sixteen than I am seventeen.” She looked at Georgiana. “The lace on your sleeve is very pretty.”

  “Thank you,” said Georgiana. “I am trying to copy the style myself. I hope to fashion a large enough piece by September, if am successful I should like to make a gift of it to Elizabeth for the baby.”

  Lydia sighed heavily.“It is so boring being unwell, I should like to sit by the window, my aunt is determined that I should stay in bed for eternity, but I do not want to,” she said defiantly pulling back her bedspread. She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, and gave a brief examination of her arms.“I’m grown so blemished these days. I am sure I have not had such abominable freckles before. I shall tell Lizzy to give me a good dose of Gowland’s lotion for I shall not be fit to be seen.” Lydia’s conversation was oft of little worth, unless complexions or bonnets are to be taken as serious subjects, but she was never lost for a topic, mostly she spoke about herself, therefore, with her vanity thus catered for, she could talk unchecked at length about everything that concerned her. When she had settled herself in a seat with a fine view of the grounds she turned to Georgiana.“You must be having as dull a time as I am, do you not long for a ball or some other amusement?”

  Georgiana shook her head.“I am not at my best in large gatherings, I have not your confidence.”

  “Oh, my confidence is all very well, but it has not afforded me a great deal of luck.” She looked again on Georgiana and said, “I wish I had been a quieter sort of girl, like you, perhaps then Wickham would not have singled me out as his favorite. Yes, I would infinitely prefer to be you, Georgiana, for I daresay my husband has scarcely ever noticed you exist.”

  Lydia Bennet was and always had been a girl too taken up with her own thoughts to really notice a great deal about those around her.The fact that Georgiana’s countenance had paled dramatically had no effect on her; she went on regardless of her companion’s obvious discomfiture. “You know my husband, of course,” she continued,“but none knows him so well as I.”With an eagerness to impress Georgiana with an appearance of worldliness, she rather falsely referred to her married state with a small measure of pride and a definite tone of superiority.“I should not even be speaking of it, but I have been treated very ill by Wickham and it is supposed I shall never see him again. Not that I anticipate it. I should not wish to see him,” she said sourly.

  Georgiana tried to divert Lydia by beginning a conversation about music, a subject in which she was well-informed enough to espouse, but it was to no avail. Her companion was set upon reminiscence.

  “He is fearful handsome, as you know,” she said remorsefully, “you cannot imagine, Georgiana, the joy when I first fell in love with him.”

  Georgiana gave a weak smile. “No, I am sure I cannot,” said she. Her expression was downcast, for she did not need the assistance of imagination to allow her to know what it felt like to think herself in love with George Wickham. With distress and no other sentiment she recalled, in the privacy of her mind, her own infatuation with the man and wished heartily that she had not been so unfortunate to be reminded of it. She prayed Lydia would follow her lead and talk of other things, but the girl was determined to give Georgiana every detail, both good and bad, of her marriage.

  This detailed account of Wickham was more than Georgiana would have wished to bear, but she was obliged to endure it and she feared the renewed picture of him she had in her mind would stay there a long time before fading. Still intent on reflection, Lydia took pleasure in her descriptions and seemed to gain some relief from them as if such recollections exorcised her demons. She gazed out of the window, but took in none of the impressive view it framed. She saw only the images in her mind’s eye, only the visions created therein by the color of her words. And so, blinded with passion in equal part resentful and yearnful, she gave scant regard to the appearance of the well-featured gentleman who rode his horse with urgency into the grounds of Pemberley. He could have been any one of a hundred foreigners for all the regard she paid him, yet it was her husband George Wickham, and despite her own failure to recognize him, his arrival was noted by Georgiana Darcy with very real feelings of alarm and despair.

  That George Wickham saw fit to present himself at Pemberley goes a fair way to give illustration of his character, of the deficient nature of his conscience, for he went through the world feeling neither guilt for his own misdemeanors nor gratitude for others’ generosity to him. But, as ever was his manner, he carried himself with an air of decency that would only truly befit far more gentlemanlike fellows than he could ever contrive to be. This expert guise allowed him into people’s affections and society alike. He gave such a convincing performance of honor and affability that not many were ever alerted to his true evils.Those who knew him well were few, and those who knew his history were fewer.

  When Mrs. Reynolds noted Wickham’s arrival her expression and her color changed all at once, she took on the look of a woman who had experienced the apparition of a specter. Quickly she sent the butler to receive him at the door with strict instructions to maintain him in the hallway to afford the master time to decide on appropriate action. She ran to the drawing room to her master and mistress, arriving, established etiquette abandoned, without knocking upon the door, and came upon them in a such a state of sickness as they had never before seen her in. Her words fought with her breath. “Oh, Mr. Darcy, sir,” she cried,“he is come, sir, Mr. Wickham, here to Pemberley, Brooks has him in the hall.”

  Georgiana arrived now, her state of distre
ss being far in excess of the housekeeper’s. Elizabeth gestured for the girl to sit by her. Darcy stood abruptly and left the room. Elizabeth had never seen such a display from him; his face had turned white with fury. He was beyond that stage of agitation that colors a man’s complexion red. Georgiana was pale and afraid, Elizabeth wished to comfort the girl but could not find the words to do so, she held her hand but it was not long before her thoughts ran to Lydia and what the consequences of seeing her husband might be.