Darcy and Anne (14 page)

T
HE WELL-INFORMED READER, AWARE THAT “The COURSE OF TRUE love never did run smooth,” will not be surprised to perceive, from the thickness of the pages remaining, that Anne and Edmund did experience some further difficulties.

However, the initial few days of their engagement gave no hint of troubles to come. Then, one morning, several carriages drew up to the front of Pemberley.

“Oh,” cried Anne. “It is my dear Mr Bennet!”

Indeed it was, and with him, a handsome, rather over-dressed lady, with a slightly peevish expression, whom he introduced as his wife. Two young women, one pretty, one quiet and rather plain, were: “My daughters, Mary and kitty.” From the second chaise there emerged a very sweet-faced young woman, bearing a strong resemblance to Elizabeth, and a good-looking young man, whom Darcy shook enthusiastically by the hand: “My friend Bingley.” But there was another lady, and Anne thought that Mrs Darcy's face fell slightly when she saw her, for this lady, though younger by far than Mrs Bennet, appeared equally peevish, if not more so. Could this be another sister? the extraneous vehicles contained such a supply of nursemaids, valises, and trunks, as may well be imagined, and Mrs Bingley, hastening urgently to one of them, demanded and received a small baby into her arms. It transpired that the unknown lady was not Mrs Darcy's, but Mr Bingley's sister, who had been quite unable to travel in the same carriage as the infant, owing to her extreme dislike of hearing a child crying.

The new house was ready, Mr Bingley explained, and they were on their way to it. “But you must have received my letter? I wrote to you, I did indeed, a week ago, that we had heard from the builders—the roof and chimneys are repaired, the house is habitable, and as for the new greenhouse, and the pinery, all that, you know, can be seen to far better when we are in residence. I wrote to you, at least a week ago,” but no letter had been received at Pemberley.

Not knowing that her family were coming, Mrs Darcy had invited the Rackhams, mother and children, and Sir Matthew and his mother to dinner. “And to keep the numbers even,” she said, “I asked Mr Kirkman, too, for now that I am not matchmaking any more, I find that I quite like him.”

“Well,” said her husband, “maybe we can find a use for him, for we must persuade someone to like Miss Bingley. He is a little older than she, but they might deal very well together.”

“How comes it,” Elizabeth asked, “that she is here? For I know she does not like me, and I am sure she has not forgiven
you,
for having the bad taste to marry me.”

“It seems that Mr Hurst has a sister who must be invited, with her husband, once in a while, and they asked poor Miss Bingley to vacate the spare bedroom for a few weeks, so the Bingleys had to bring her; and unless we can persuade Mr Kirkman to take a fancy to her, I do not know what we shall do. But you need not be concerned, my dear, for I am quite certain that Mrs Reynolds already knows how many people are arrived, and is making arrangements accordingly, and Forrest, too.”

“I am quite sure that they have, but I must go, all the same, and assure them both that I am perfectly astonished with all that they have done, and do not know what we should have done without them,” and Elizabeth, excusing herself to her guests, hastened away.

By dinner time, a mystery had been unraveled. Mr Bingley, on examining his travelling-desk, had found the letter, addressed and folded, that should have been sent to announce their incipient departure from Longbourn, and the probable day of their arrival at Pemberley. He recalled having no sealing-wax, and laying it aside until he should ask his wife for some. “And then, oh yes, Bailey came about the horses, and I went out to the stable yard with him, and I must have forgot.” By this time, however, rooms had been found and prepared for everyone, and in spite of, or perhaps because of, Mrs Reynolds's perturbation, the dinner was all that a Pemberley dinner ought to be.

Afterward they danced. Owing to the shortage of gentlemen, each of the ladies was sometimes obliged to sit down, and after an energetic country dance, Anne was glad to do so. She overheard Mrs Bennet ask Mrs Darcy, “But why is Miss de Bourgh to marry that very odd man? He is not rich, he is not handsome, and you tell me she could have married a Lord.”

“Hush, madam, pray hush, she will hear you.”

“Oh! nonsense, no one can hear in such a crowd. Well, if such a man as that is to marry into your family, and to be invited here, I do not see why you, and your husband, had to be so very nice about inviting poor Lydia. After all, she is one of us; she is your sister still, and he is your brother, and his brother, too.”

“But, the circumstances…”

“Oh, pooh; nobody cares about that; dear Wickham should not have run off with her, but much may be excused to a man in love, and they are safe married now. Lydia is in poor health, for she is expecting an interesting event, as I told you, and their lodging is not commodious or comfortable. I do think it is hard that she is not to come, for a spell at Pemberley, with her sisters, would have raised her spirits, and improved her health. And dear Wickham talks a great deal about his childhood home, and I am sure he misses it very much. Why should you not all be reconciled, pray? If you and Mr Darcy are ashamed of her, you must be ashamed of us, too.”

This was perhaps the first time that Mrs Bennet and her daughter had had a serious conversation since Elizabeth's marriage. But Mrs Darcy was no longer the unmarried and not-much-loved daughter, who must treat a parent with respect and deference. She answered with the authority of a married woman, with a home, husband, and child of her own. “I am sorry, madam; but I cannot invite her. For one thing, I do not think she would do well at Pemberley, for you know how noisy and indiscreet she is. But even if I did wish to invite her, it cannot be. I could not ask her without asking her husband, and Mr Darcy will not permit it; he will not receive him.”

They moved away, leaving Anne puzzled and surprised. To refuse to invite a sister, who was not at all wealthy, and not well! It seemed so unlike the new, kind cousin whom she had begun to know! She turned and found Georgiana standing beside her. Mrs Bennet, who might, Anne thought, be becoming slightly deaf, had spoken pretty loudly, and she could see clearly, from Georgiana's expression, that she had heard, too.

“You think my brother unkind,” Georgiana said.

“I do not understand,” Anne said. “It is not like him, or Elizabeth. They are so generous, they have been so welcoming to me, though I am but a cousin and might be thought to have far less claim on their hospitality. It disturbs me that these people seem unwelcome here, because they are poor and of lower rank than I.”

Georgiana drew a deep breath. “I can explain,” she said, “and I will. I cannot bear it, that you should think my brother ungenerous. But I cannot tell you now. Come for a walk with me, come tomorrow morning; the men will all be out shooting—yes, Edmund too, for I heard him tell my brother that he should go—and we can be private.”

T
HE NEXT MORNING, THEY WALKED OUT TOGETHER, AND WENT up the stream, whose deep, secluded valley was the chosen spot for every quiet conversation, every confidence. As soon as they were out of sight of the house, Georgiana began: “What I am going to tell you now, Anne, I have never spoken of to a soul,” she said. “My brother knows of it, and Elizabeth knows some of it, but no one else. I know I can rely on you to mention it to no one.”

“Of course,” Anne said. If secrecy meant so much to Georgiana, then clearly even Edmund could not be told.

“This happened a few years ago,” Georgiana began, “before my brother was married. Both my parents had been dead for some years, and I was at a school in London. My brother sometimes came to see me, but a young man has not often very much time for visiting a younger sister; and I missed my dear mother so very much.”

“My father and I were very close,” Anne said. “I know what it is, to mourn a beloved parent.”

“When I was fifteen,” Georgiana continued, “I was judged old enough, or accomplished enough, anyway. I was thought ready for life, for I could play the piano very well, and the harp a little, and paint, and could speak French and read italian. No one gave any thought to the fact that I knew nothing of my own feelings, or of my own nature. Since my brother was not married, an establishment was set up for me, and a lady was hired to take care of me: that is, to see to it that I was fashionably dressed, and to take me into company. She was lively and gay, and if some of the sentiments she occasionally expressed seemed not very proper, she was amusing, and I thought it a part of fashionable life. She would tell small lies, and laugh, and recount improper stories—but again, very amusingly, so that the impropriety seemed not harmful, and it would seem prudish to object. Her taste in clothes was excellent; I liked her, though I did not love her; we saw something of my brother from time to time, and I did not think myself unhappy.

“London is not a good place to stay in for long. I began to cough, and the doctor said it was from the bad air, and that I should go for a while to a seaside place. So Mrs Younge recommended Ramsgate; she had friends there, she said, and the place was delightful. She found us some pleasant lodgings, and we began our stay. I had not been there three days, when on coming back from a walk, I was told, 'Somebody to see you, miss,' and there, in our sitting room, was… Mr Wickham.”

“You mean… the husband of Mrs Darcy's sister?” said Anne. “Oh, but of course, I had forgot, you knew him well; he was born here, was he not?”

“Yes, during my earliest years he was almost like a brother to me, and I knew him at once, though I had not seen him since he had gone to Cambridge. He came to me and gave me the affectionate greeting of a brother. Anne, I fell in love with him at that moment. He was with us every day; Mrs Younge encouraged his visits. She was forever telling me how much in love with me he was; she had seen it at the first moment; she had never seen a man so much in love; what a pity that my brother, so cruel, harsh, and proud, would never countenance his suit! She advised me on no account to speak of my feelings to my brother, for he would certainly be very angry.

“I thought that it must be true, for Wickham had told me, very sadly, that my brother's former friendship to him was at an end; he did not know why; but he had been promised a living near Pemberley, and when the incumbent died, it had been given to another man. I learned later that his way of life was so dissipated that he was highly unsuited to be a clergyman. But of course I saw nothing of this; his manners to me were unvaryingly gentle, affectionate, and refined; and I believed Mrs Younge's assertion that my brother had changed, and become proud and selfish.

“Anne, I was but fifteen, and had never received such attentions from any man before. All this, and two or three novels from the lending library, were enough to make me see myself as a star-crossed heroine. I was convinced that my life would be blighted forever, unless we were married. Both Wickham and Mrs Younge assured me that there was but one thing to do: to elope. But, she said, she would assist me, she would make every arrangement; and I assumed her to mean that she would go with us, to make everything proper, until the knot should be tied.

“I consented.” She paused, and then continued.

“It was a Saturday, and since I did not like the idea of Sunday travel, we were to depart on the Monday. What a scruple to advance, against such impropriety, such rashness, such deceit! But it saved me. The chaise was ordered for Monday. Then I learned, walking into the drawing room and accidentally overhearing their conversation, that she was not to accompany us; I was to go alone, with Wickham. She could not endure it, she said; I thought
then
that she only meant that she could not bear the fatigue of such a long journey. I was shocked; they saw my face; they rushed to reassure me: Did I not trust, Wickham asked, the man I loved? I had given my word; I did love him; but I was frightened, I was doubtful. I could only tell myself that he did love me, and that once the border was crossed, we would straightway be married.

“That same evening, my brother arrived, and cutting short Mrs Younge's gushing flow of greetings and enquiries, requested a private interview with me. In the most affectionate terms, he enquired after my health and state of mind; he told me that he regretted having stayed so long away, and having seen so little of me in London. He asked me how I liked Ramsgate—was I truly happy? If not, a pleasanter place could be found; and did I truly find Mrs Younge a suitable companion? He seemed so different from the ogre who had been depicted to me by Mrs Younge—she must have been mistaken—surely, so kind a brother would not refuse me the marriage I so deeply desired! I began to recall other things—small things, that suggested that she was not always truthful or honest; and I admitted that, in many ways, I did not trust her.

“He told me then that, before leaving town, he had made some enquiries that he should have made before he engaged Mrs Younge, and had learned that she had been for some time the partner, in an irregular connection, of Mr Wickham. There could be no doubt; he had spoken to some people, cousins of hers, from whom they had rented some expensive furnished lodgings, from which they had decamped without paying any rent.

“I recalled all manner of speaking looks, of gestures, of things said, that had obviously a meaning from which I was excluded. The scales fell from my eyes. I was the victim, the foolish victim of a vicious deception, intended to put them both in possession of my fortune, for only the want of money had caused them previously to part, and go their separate ways. If my kind brother had not come when he did… If I had eloped, if I had married him…”

Anne shuddered.

“So you see, Anne, that is why Mr Wickham cannot be invited here; and since he cannot be invited, neither can his wife. I have never set eyes on him since that day. I could not bear it, and neither could my brother.”

“But I am glad I have told you this, cousin. I have said nothing of it to anyone, not even to dear Elizabeth. She knows, of course, but we have never spoken of it; and I only mentioned it, because I could not let you think my brother unkind; but telling you has somehow made it more bearable; I do not know why.”

Anne said everything she could to reassure Georgiana and tell her how honoured she felt by her confidence. Poor girl! As they walked back to the house, Anne thought of Edmund's honesty, the delicacy and integrity of his behaviour, and of her own good fortune. She could only hope that her poor cousin's heart would soon receive its only proper cure, in the affections of such a man—but where was another to be found to compare with Edmund?

The gentlemen were to return by midday, and it had been agreed that they would all meet in the dining room. She could hear men's voices: yes, they were back. As she hurried to the library, to leave Minette in her accustomed basket, she wondered whether Edmund would guess where she was, and meet her there. As she crossed the hall, one of the younger Miss Bennets came hurrying out of the library, and she recognised the elder sister, the rather plain Miss Mary.

“Oh, Miss de Bourgh,” Miss Bennet cried. “I went to look for you, everyone is looking for you. You are to come at once, for they are all in an uproar. Mr Darcy has had a letter, and Lady Catherine has taken all your money away, and they say that you cannot be married.”