Miss Darcy's Companion: A Pride and Prejudice Variation (21 page)

The nervous energy spurred her into action. It was the work of a moment to find the dark canvas bag at the bottom of her closet, and not a vast deal longer to fill it with items of necessity as well as those she would not leave behind. A couple of serviceable dresses – shawls – petticoats – gloves – purse, filled – all her letters – the few trinkets that she used for jewellery and especially the garnet cross, her father’s last gift. Her sketchbook.
That
could not possibly be left behind, although it would have served her well to burn it too. Sketches of Pemberley. Sketches of him, above a dozen, done from memory in the privacy of her bedchamber. She scoffed ill-temperedly as she pushed the sketchbook into the barely accommodating bag. Another waste of time, and it would make her feel a great deal better to see each and every one of her sketches go up in flames, just as the handkerchief had. But there was no time for such indulgence. She could burn them at her leisure at Netherfield or at the inn in Bakewell. Besides, it would not do for the smell to draw the notice of some dutiful maid who might come running in fear that the house had caught fire, and find her packing for a surreptitious escape.

She sighed as, for the first time since it had occurred to her, the thought of her escape gave her pause. Surreptitious. Like a thief in the night. Well, not the night. In the light of day. But still like a thief. She sighed again. Georgiana deserved better. A word of thanks at least, and a proper adieu.

But if she saw her friend, the young girl would seek to dissuade her. She would wish to know the reason for her haste – indeed, for her departure. And that could not be disclosed. Not by her. Not now. She pursed her lips. A note would have to do.

She sat at the little writing desk and reached for pen and paper, then let the pen drop in the inkwell as she pondered what to say. She wrapped her arms around herself. Words swirled, all either inappropriate or insufficient, and still they swirled until another glance at the clock warned she could not afford to tarry.

She picked up the pen and swiftly wrote a few short lines, then blew over the paper to hasten the drying of the ink. The note was finally folded and sealed with a plain drop of wax, and Georgiana’s name written on the back. She did not dare walk to place it in her friend’s bedchamber or her sitting room, but left it on her own bed, right in the middle, as visible as possible.

She squared her shoulders and went to re-examine the contents of her closet and the chests of drawers. All this must remain behind. She could not fit everything into her bag and there was nothing to be done about it. He might have the kindness to have his servants gather the rest of her belongings and forward them to Netherfield.

The notion brought another sigh. Her presence in Mr Bingley’s home might cause him some discomfort and strain his connection with his friend. It would not do to force this upon him. She could live in town with her uncle and aunt instead.

Aye. She could. And then she would not run the risk of encountering Mr Darcy when he visited in Hertfordshire.
If
he visited. Conversely, if he were to sever the connection with his friend because Mr Bingley was married to her sister, she would be pained for her new brother, but it could not be helped. Just as it could not be helped if, in spiteful vexation, Mr Darcy would be of a mind to dispose of the rest of her belongings, rather than send them on. Just as he chose. None of them were irreplaceable.

Except…

She bit her lip. Except the two Christmas presents.

She hesitated for no longer than a moment. With a firm step, she went to fetch the beautiful lavender dress, folded it haphazardly and forced it into her bag. There was hardly any room left and it grew awfully crumpled. It mattered not. She would never wear it again. But she could not leave it behind. Georgiana’s feelings would be deeply hurt if she found it carelessly discarded.

The book in her bedside drawer was a wholly different matter. Her countenance hardened as she glanced upon the volume she had stroked and cradled as though it were a living, breathing thing.
This
would not go with her. What purpose would it serve? She had no wish to be reminded of wretched dreams and all her folly. Nor was there any need to spare his feelings. He had none worth sparing.

She slammed the drawer closed and cast a glance around her at the bedchamber that had been her home and refuge for such a length of time. Her lips thinned in acute vexation at the maudlin futility of her reflections.

She bent to retrieve her discarded bonnet off the floor and donned it, then likewise the dark woollen cloak. She tied the knot with sparse, precise motions, covered her bonnet with the hood, tugged her gloves on and picked up her bag. The folds of her long cape concealed it well. It would not be spotted if she came upon anyone on her way out of the house.

Of course, it would be safer to use the servants’ stairs. Yet perhaps not. It would be conspicuous, she had no business to be there. So Elizabeth dismissed the notion and opened the door of her bedchamber to peer down the family corridor instead.

To her relief, she found it was deserted, as was the sweeping staircase and the vast hall beneath. For once her luck held and she encountered no one on her way to the tradesmen’s entrance. Fitting exit for the tradesman’s niece – the lowly lady’s companion who had been warned not to pin her hopes on marriage, she thought, her lips twisting into a bitter grimace.

She got a better hold onto the bag’s handle and hastened along the path screened on both sides by tall yew hedges, so that the servants milling up and down to the outbuildings would not spoil the elegant prospect around the great house.

Thankfully, it was not a busy time of day. Not dawn, when maids would rush with buckets of coal to start the fires. Nor the later time, when carts might come from Lambton or elsewhere to deliver sugar, spices or whatever other goods that could not come from the estate. So Elizabeth only met three scullery maids rushing along with pails of vegetables and a large joint of beef from the meat safe, to peel, chop and prepare, in readiness for the dinner hour. They stopped and bobbed their curtsies and she nodded, then continued on her way.

Not to Lambton. It was too far to walk, and she could not bear to set foot in the wretched place again. Kympton was much nearer. She could be there in just over a half-hour. Sooner, if she hurried. Although the heavy bag was bound to slow her down, now that she was not about to walk to church with nothing more cumbersome than her prayer book and reticule.

Once she reached the village she might find someone disposed to drive her to the coaching inn beyond, where the Kympton lane met the turnpike. If not, it was not much longer than an hour’s walk. There would be a post-chaise at the inn, to take her to Bakewell. And, fingers crossed, a southbound stagecoach thence, sometime tonight.

CHAPTER 18

The breakneck speed and the winds of the hills washed over him, sweeping his hair back, but relieving nothing of the turmoil. It still gripped hold, as violent as on the moment when he had discovered that the woman he had been prepared – nay, eager – to spend his life with would consent to a secret assignation at a country inn.

That the man she had gone to meet was Wickham could only stoke the fire. And he had barely begun to feel if not remorseful – it was not for him to feel remorse – then at least in some small measure responsible for her not knowing the full extent of Wickham’s depravity; he had barely begun to see, through his wretched hurt and disappointment, that he ought to give her fair warning that the scoundrel would not marry her, than she had dealt the ultimate blow. Had blithely admitted she was sunk so low as to know it already – and not care! To shamelessly admit she was not expecting marriage anyway.

Darcy gripped the reins and dug his heels deeper into the poor beast’s flanks. So he did not know her at all. Had blindly woven a picture of perfection that mirrored his own wishes and beliefs, and not the harsh reality.

He snorted – an ugly, bitter sound. Perhaps he should find it in him to be grateful that she had revealed herself worthy of Wickham’s depraved company, and not of the Darcy name. It did not bear thinking that he might have offered for her, not knowing what she truly was. Married her, to find himself not only censured and despised by his peers and relations, but also shackled to a woman of no moral standing. Aye. He
should
be thankful for the warning. Yet gratitude was the furthest notion from his mind.

He spurred his mount again, to no avail. The horse could go no faster. And even if he could, he still would not carry him fast enough to outstrip the vicious anger, nor break its hold upon his very soul.

* * * *

Chilled by the icy wind and unsuccessful in finding her friend, Georgiana made her way towards the house. In time, it seemed. Peter was at the garden entrance quite obviously come in search of her, as he confirmed a moment later, when she was within.

“There is someone to see you, Miss Darcy.”

“Oh? Who?”

“Miss Fenton. She is waiting in the morning room.”

Involuntarily, Georgiana recoiled as though from the hiss of a venomous snake. She dared show her face at Pemberley – still?

“I cannot receive her,” she faltered, as Peter took the muff and bonnet from her hands and helped remove her cape.

“Very well, Miss Darcy. I shall go and inform her.”

“Wait,” Georgiana reconsidered, when Peter was a few steps away. She had to know. She was a child no longer, running to hide behind Lizzy’s skirts or her brother’s back. She had to face her foes. At least the feebler ones. And where better than in the safety of the morning room at Pemberley? “I will see her after all,” she said, smoothing her skirts and smoothing her countenance as well, into a calm she did not feel.

“Should I bring refreshment?” the footman offered.

“No need. Miss Fenton will not be staying long,” Georgiana declared, squaring her shoulders.

She walked into the morning room with her head held high, to see Miss Fenton rising from her seat and rushing to clasp her hands.

“Oh, Georgiana!” she burst out with unprecedented familiarity.

Until that very moment, she had been ‘Dearest Miss Darcy’. Displeased by the nerve as well as the touch, Georgiana withdrew her hands and pointedly replied:

“Miss Fenton. To what do I owe the… hm! I shall not say pleasure,” she enunciated, with more aplomb than she had ever felt she could possess. But righteous indignation gave her all the strength she had heretofore been lacking, and made it very easy indeed for her to fix the other with what many would have recognised as the Darcy glare.

To her surprise, the impudent Miss Fenton hung her head, seemingly affected.

“I did deserve that… But Georgiana–… Miss Darcy, you must believe me when I say I did not know!”

“Did not know what, precisely?”

“That Mr Wickham was not to be trusted. I thought…”

The other girl’s visible remorse gave Georgiana pause, but did not persuade her. Remorse could be feigned. As could a show of decency. Or gratitude. Or honour.

“What did you think?” she asked, just as icily.

“That I was helping. Him. You.”

“
Me?
How?”

“In forming an attachment.”

“And why, pray tell, would it have been to my advantage to form an attachment to the likes of Mr Wickham? The son of my late father’s steward, who resented our family’s assistance because he was not given more?”

“I did not know,” Miss Fenton repeated. “I thought him genuine, and genuinely attached to you. This is what he told me when he came bearing a letter from my brother, who entreated me to assist his friend in any way I could. Mr Wickham said he had been attached to you – loved you – for as long as he could remember, but had no hope because your brother hated him and would never allow you to throw yourself away on a steward’s son. I thought… I thought it should be your choice, and not your brother’s. I would not countenance my own brother dictating whom I should or should not marry. You have your dowry. Your life companion should be your own choice. And by my way of thinking, you could do far worse than a man who claimed to have loved you hopelessly for years, if you were to come to love him too.”

“But he did not love me. It was but a ploy to lure me away. In which you lent a hand. Lizzy – Miss Bennet – told me you sought to send my carriage and my people away.”

“To give him time! Only to give him time to talk to you and disclose his feelings without interference, especially Miss Bennet’s. He said… Mr Wickham said that she was against him. That she was your brother’s tool, fixed at your side to prevent anyone getting close enough – keep you away from everybody until he had chosen whom you were to marry.”

“So you have cast me in the part of the fair maiden locked up in the tower, Lizzy as the gatekeeper and my brother as the unbending ogre,” Georgiana said derisively.

“Well, I… You must own, your brother can be so forbidding at times…”

Georgiana did not know whether to laugh of be truly offended at Miss Fenton’s presumption to pass judgement. On her dearest brother of all people, who was nothing but the embodiment of kindness to her.

“I would have thought you knew my brother better than this. Or, at the very least, not take a stranger’s word against him and so readily believe the worst as to assist Mr Wickham in his schemes,” she said with feeling, and Miss Fenton hung her head again.

“Aye. The vile deceiver. He said… Oh, I went back to the parlour at the inn to see how you were, how you both were, and if he was successful in his application, and as soon as I asked him, he sneered that he was not. An ugly sneer it was, Georgiana. He said you ran away like a frightened little rabbit and that the game was up. The game! I was incensed of course to hear how unjustly he had used me, and told him that my brother and Mr Darcy would hear of this. And he scoffed that I should be sure to tell them both, for all the good it would do me. And then I had to rush here to let you know. To beg your forgiveness. And Miss Bennet’s. And your brother’s too, if he would be prepared to listen when he returns from town.”

“He has returned,” Georgiana calmly informed her. “But he would not listen. Not today.” If anything, he would likely seem more forbidding than ever, but she did not say that. Instead, she quietly added, “If it puts your mind at rest, you do have my forgiveness. We were both deceived by Mr Wickham and I daresay we are not the only ones. At least there was no real harm done.”

“Thank goodness,” Miss Fenton interjected.

“Aye. And thanks to Miss Bennet. You will excuse me, but I must ask you to cut your visit short. We still have matters to address and I must leave you.”

“Of course. Of course. Do come to call at Fenton Park, when you feel… Do come!” the young lady earnestly urged, and charity compelled Georgiana to acknowledge the entreaty and the sentiments behind it with a nod.

Oddly elated by the whole exchange, or at the very least relieved, she escorted Miss Fenton out of the morning room and then to the door, and remained there to see her rush into the waiting carriage to protect herself from the rain that was now falling in cold sheets, slanted by the rising wind. Miss Fenton gave a conscious wave and told her coachman to depart. With a much lighter heart than when she had first heard of her neighbour’s visit, Georgiana raised her own hand, watched the carriage roll away, then took to the stairs on her way to Elizabeth’s bedchamber, to let her know that the world was not quite as full of snakes and crocodiles as they both thought.

She walked up, smiling at the wickedly entertaining picture of Miss Fenton masquerading as a bebonneted crocodile, then went to knock on her friend’s door. Still no reply. She did not knock again, but this time pushed the door open and peered in.

“Lizzy? Are you there?”

Only the silence answered. She walked in to knock on the dressing room door, only to notice that it was left ajar and there was no one in there either. She frowned in mild puzzlement as she returned to the bedchamber, and it was then that she spotted the folded note on the bedcovers, with her own name staring back at her. She picked it up and opened it at once. A very short note, in her friend’s own hand.

Dearest Georgiana,

I am distraught to leave you thus. I would have liked to at least embrace you and thank you for your unremitting kindness. But I had to go. Your brother might be willing to explain the reasons. I can only beg you to forgive me for leaving as I do. I will only add, God bless you.

Elizabeth

Georgiana’s eyes widened in horrified dismay.

Gone?

Why? When? Where?

And Fitzwilliam knew of this?

The note still clutched in her hand, she hastened out of the small bedchamber and then down the stairs, to come upon a startled footman.

“Peter, have you seen Miss Bennet since I asked you? No? I need your help to find her. And find my brother also. Has he left word where he went and how long he would be?”

“All I know is that he went riding, Ma’am. An hour gone. Perhaps a little longer.”

“Where to?”

“He did not say.”

Georgiana sighed in exasperation.

“Send word to the stables to inquire about my brother and if a carriage was ordered for Miss Bennet. Fetch Thomas and Simon. See if they know anything and if not, get them to ask around. The maids. The gardeners. The grooms and stable lads. Someone must know
something
. Must have seen something. And I wish to hear what that was as soon as may be!”

Peter nodded and promptly obeyed. Well-trained as he might have been by old Mr Burton, the ever so exacting butler, he could not help wondering about the cause of the upheaval. Nor could he help marvelling as he went, at how shockingly like the master Miss Darcy had sounded just then, for all her commonly subdued and quiet ways. Bound to grow into a formidable mistress someday, and that day not far off either. Proud to serve her, he was, and the master too. Well, they did say that blood would always tell.

* * * *

His ill-treated mount had slowed to a halt towards the brow of the hill, and this time Darcy took pity on him and allowed it. He scoffed. It was just as well that he had given him his head to gallop over pastures rather than along the road, and find themselves in Lambton. Then he might not have resisted the urge to seek Wickham out.

And then what? Challenge him?

Nay. The vermin did not deserve gentlemanly treatment. Rather be thrashed within an inch of his life like a common blackguard, for coming near his sister and seeking to seduce her companion. Or succeeding to.

He gritted his teeth. Not enough, by God! Not enough, but it would be
some
dark consolation to see him turned into a bloodied wreck.

Still – expose himself and his house to gossip? What purpose would it serve? What purpose indeed, other than feeding his lust for revenge? One might say that was reason enough. Yet they also said that revenge was best served cold. A welcome thought, that. A thousand times better than agonising over Elizabeth’s betrayal. He could diligently apply himself to breaking the rogue instead. Call all his debts. Employ the right men to inquire into his wrongdoings in town. There must be plenty to be found. Enough to have him hanged. Or at the very least transported. Never to see her again.

She would hate him for bringing it about. He scoffed once more. Let her! It was for her own good. Unless…

Nausea threatened, worse than ever. Unless matters
had
gone out of hand already, and they had to marry. It would not come to pass. Not without substantial inducement. How much? Five thousand pounds? Ten thousand?

The heavens opened. Slowly. A few droplets at first, unnoticeable, to steadily grow into an icy downpour. Yet they still stood there, horse and horseman, dark shapes outlined against the wind-whipped clouds. Stood motionless, as Darcy pondered how he had come to lose his senses so completely that he would even consider bribing Wickham into marrying her.