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Miss Darcy's Diversions Page 18


  “That is precisely my problem,” I managed to interpose at last. “My brother is not to know. Mr Wicklow fears he will withhold his consent.”

  “But why should he do that? What objection can he have?”

  “Mr Wicklow thinks that my brother will not think him worthy the connection. He says he dare not take the risk.”

  “If he dare not ask your brother he should never have dared to ask you. Faint heart never won fair lady. No, this is all but natural diffidence, believe me. It is but natural that he should feel unworthy of you. He is unworthy of you. How could any man possibly be otherwise?”

  “But these feelings do not last. He will recover his courage and do what must be. He will have to ask your brother for your hand. You cannot marry without the consent of your guardian. Or does he mean to wait until you are of age? That would be too cruel.”

  “He wants me to go to Scotland with him, to Gretna Green. He wants to elope.”

  “That is rather drastic, though highly romantic, of course. In a way, it shows how much he cares for you, that he cannot bear to wait on anyone’s leave but your own. But all discussion is academic unless you intend to go through with the ceremony. Have you, in fact, accepted his proposal, for I recollect now that in my delight and excitement I forgot to ask?”

  “I have said that I will marry Mr Wicklow, but I have not consented to an elopement. I cannot make myself happy at the thought of an elopement. It is not just the scandal….”

  “Oh, I should not worry about scandal if I were truly in love, my dear,” interrupted Mrs Younge, “besides, all the best people elope these days. Remember Lady Caroline?”

  “It is not just the scandal,” I continued, “nor is it the prospect of missing a ‘proper’ wedding, with my family and friends around me, and all the consequence of being a new bride, and the wedding clothes, of course. All that sort of thing does have an influence on me, how could it not? But the thought of letting down my family pains me more than I can say.”

  “And does the thought of letting down Mr Wicklow pain you not at all?”

  “Quite the contrary, it pains me just as much, if not more, and I know not what to do.”

  “Well, my dear, this is what you must do.”

  “You must settle it in your mind which alternative pains you more, differing with your family, or differing with Mr Wicklow. I know it is a hard decision to make, but it must be made, and once made you must stick to it, for only in that way will you ever be easy.”

  “But I do not see why such a decision must be made. I am sure that Fitzwilliam will give his consent when he knows how happy it will make me. Why should we go to all this trouble when there is no need?”

  “But consider, my dear, consider how much more difficult it would be to proceed were you to ask for Mr Darcy’s consent and find that he withheld it. What should you do then? For what it is worth, I tell you that Mr Wicklow is the finest, best young gentleman that I know, and I think the two of you would be perfectly suited in every way. But how many young gentlemen can be trusted to wait nearly six years? What else may happen in those six years, what encounters, what illnesses what accidents, what perils. We are engaged in a most perilous war, are we not, and who knows what a young man disappointed in love might do?”

  And so she continued, pointing out in great detail all the advantages of the match while making little of the drawbacks a rift with my own family might entail.

  "These are heavy misfortunes," she said when I pointed out the consequences of displeasing my brother and my aunt,

  "But the wife of Mr. Wicklow must have such extraordinary sources of happiness necessarily attached to her situation, that she could, upon the whole, have no cause to repine."

  And so we talked the day away, and the whole world knows the outcome of our conversation. I was young, I was foolish, I was naïve, I was every excuse you may care to think of, but in the end, I was weak. I could not bear the thought of possibly losing my lover, and I agreed to the flight to Gretna.

  Chapter Twenty:Counsel and Consideration

  The blandishments of my duenna and the urgings of my lover notwithstanding, I soon found I could not bring myself to be happy about this proposed elopement.

  For one thing, it would involve a great deal of trouble and expense for which I could see no need. I took the trouble, which I very much doubt either Mr Wicklow or Mrs Younge did, to consult the map and the published timetables, all of which were readily available at the library. Gretna is most inconveniently situated on the western side of Scotland, on the way from Carlisle to Glasgow. The Great North Road, that wide and capacious thoroughfare renowned for its fast coaches, inconsiderately goes up the eastern side of both kingdoms, connecting London with Edinburgh, the entire width of the island away from our destination.

  Since we should have to go to London first in any case, and then travel by slower roads, I could not see how we could get to Gretna in less than a week. Furthermore, while in London waiting for connections, the risk of discovery by Fitzwilliam would be very great, and the chances of his consent considerably reduced if such a discovery were to be made.

  I put these points to dear Ethalia and dearest George at the first opportunity when the plotters were all gathered.

  “I care not a fig for the expense, nor for the trouble,” said Mr Wicklow. “But I cannot bear the thought of losing you, my sweet. You can have no notion of how afraid I am, how terrified I am that I might lose you.”

  “Your fears are but shadows, my love. My brother would never deny me, I am sure. One line to him in the post would bring him to Margate on the next tide, and I am convinced that he would love you too, once he got to know you.”

  “Ah, but how long would that ‘getting to know me’ take? A week? A month? A year? Until you are of age? And all this while I should be dying, bursting to make you my own. Have I misjudged you? Could you be so cruel?”

  “But I know my own brother. I know him far better than either of you. Indeed, you do not know him at all, Mr Wicklow. Cannot you trust me to know his disposition?”

  “I trust you with my life, my darling. I place all my hopes on you. But I cannot bring myself to stake all my hopes of happiness - all your hopes of happiness – on the goodwill of a man I have never met.”

  This bade fair to develop into our first quarrel, and it took all the arts of Mrs Younge to soothe the feelings of both sides.

  Fortunately, she pointed out that in any case I possessed no clothes suitable for a journey in the frozen north, and that our first priority must be to acquire the necessary wardrobe. While we were engaged in this agreeable task, Mr Wicklow should make enquiries into the most expedient mode of transport.

  “An excellent suggestion, my dear old friend,” agreed MrWicklow, “but, stay! Will not the purchase of an entire outfit of clothing suitable for cold weather provide a clue to our pursuers if we should be sought after?”

  “If they were all bought at the same establishment, perhaps, but we are fortunate that Margate is well provided with shops, and by buying one thing in one place, and another elsewhere, we may avoid such complications, I hope.”

  I was much taken by this novel proposal, and could not resist asking my companion whether she had done this sort of thing before.

  “Really, Miss Georgiana,” she replied, “you ought to know better than to ask such an improper question.”

  To my mind, this spoke volumes in itself. The suggestion, however, was sound, and I excused myself to make ready for our excursion, for I had decided upon a plan.

  The thought of an elopement, I had determined, did not appeal to me at all. If I were to be married, then I wanted a proper wedding, with friends and family around me being suitably envious, and a big party, and lots of new clothes. I admit that I was more alive to the disgrace which a want of new clothes must reflect on my nuptials, than to any sense of shame at eloping and living with Mr Wicklow a fortnight before they took place.

  It took but a moment to pen a letter to Fitz
william, which itself goes to show that this feeling had been building up inside me for some time. Usually my letters are works of pain and time, but this one flowed naturally from my pen.

  “My very dear Brother,

  I fear I have a confession to make, but before I do so, let me tell you a story.

  Some weeks ago we fell in, here in Margate, with an old friend of Mrs Younge’s, a Mr Wicklow. He is a young gentleman of both sense and sensibility, well-endowed by fortune with both intellect and, I believe, prospects. He is very handsome and very agreeable.

  Mr Wicklow has been paying us a great deal of attention, which at first I thought must be directed at Mrs Younge since they are old acquaintances, and which I encouraged on that account. Perhaps I should not have been so encouraging, however, for it turns out that I was misguided as to the object of his affections.

  Now comes my confession : Mr Wicklow has proposed marriage to me , and I have accepted. I am thoroughly persuaded that he is just such a young man as would make me happy, and you yourself have often advised me to marry, even if only to provide a future heir for Pemberley, since you despair of ever finding a wife to your own liking.

  Perhaps that was said in jest, but it is something to be thought of nonetheless.

  My acceptance, however, was subject to your consent. This must have been so, of course. Legally, I am still more than five years off being able to know my own mind. But it also suits my own inclination. I could not be happy in any course of action without your approval, and I know that once you know Mr Wicklow you will be as pleased with him as I am.

  Mr Wicklow, however, does not share my confidence, as how could he? He does not know how good you are, and how kind you have always been to me. He is – quite understandably – terrified of anything which might deprive us of our future happiness, and is urging upon me an elopement to Scotland, where we may be married without any other consent. In this he is very ably seconded by Mrs Younge, who at this moment is waiting to take me shopping for clothes suitable for the northern climate.

  Between the entreaties of the one and the encouragement of the other I am quite beside myself as to what to do for the best, and feel that I will be carried off with them soon from mere politeness unless something or someone intervenes.

  I know that you have business to detain you in London, but, I beg you, finish it as soon as may be, and come to me, to ease the doubting heart of

  Your loving sister,

  Georgiana.”

  When I had finished writing, sanding and sealing this missive, I hurried downstairs to find Mrs Younge waiting impatiently.

  “I warrant you have been trying on what to wear and given up and come down in what you went up in,” she said. “You have certainly been long enough. But you need not have bothered. Mr Wicklow is gone to enquire about coaches, and there will be no-one for you to impress until the evening.”

  So far, so good. But how to take my letter to the post without exciting dear Ethalia’s suspicions? I should have to think of some ruse, and keep my eye out for an opportunity.

  Although I did my best to feign interest, my heart was not in the shopping we did that afternoon, and Mrs Younge really had the field to herself. By a lucky chance, however, one of the draper’s we visited was just round the corner from the Post Office, and I took the opportunity to discover that I had left my card case in the last shop.

  “You know,” I mentioned to Mrs Younge, “I was writing down measurements with my pencil, and must have left it there.”

  “No matter,” she replied, “we will call in on our way back.”

  “No, no.” I insisted. “I shall just run back myself now, while you are looking at your stuffs, for my own shopping is finished, you know.”

  Before she could object, I was out of the door and turning the corner.

  Where my progress was arrested with a resounding bump, as I cannoned into someone who was going the other way.

  That someone turned out to be Mr Kerr. Could he still be following me around, I wondered? But even as I wondered, a new plan came into my head.

  “Mr Kerr,” I cried, “Pray forgive me for not looking where I was going. But you are just the person I should have wished to meet. Tell me, Mr Kerr, dear Mr Kerr, good Mr Kerr, we are such fast friends, would you be so sweetly kind as to do me a very great favour?’

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “But it is a great deal to ask. You do not mind, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Will you take this letter to my brother in London as quickly as may be, and deliver it into his own hands? Will you set off today with it, for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “It is a terrible imposition, I know, but it is very important. I should not ask if it were not very, very important. But I fear it might be too much trouble. You would tell me if it were too much trouble, would you not?”

  “No.”

  “Well, Mr Kerr, you have my heartfelt thanks, but I fear I have not time to say more at the moment. I hope to express my gratitude more fittingly when we meet again in London. But I am sure I can rely on you, and on your discretion, for it is essential that no-one knows of this save you and I, and my brother, of course. Can I rely on you, Mr Kerr?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, good! I shall see you in London, then. Post chaises may be had at the Crown just over there, Mr Kerr.”

  Poor Mr Kerr! What an unfortunate penchant for the monosyllabic he had! But he was somehow capable of conveying more meaning in that one syllable than many young men of my acquaintance could compress into an entire paragraph. Perhaps I had misjudged him?

  “Did you find it?” asked Mrs Younge, as soon as I returned to her.

  “Did I find it? Oh, yes, it was in my reticule all the time. I had not looked properly.”

  “Silly girl! But I dare say you have other things on your mind just at the moment.”

  “Yes. I dare say I have.”

  Chapter Twenty-one :Encounters

  Once I had written to my brother, my mind was at ease. Whate’er might befall, I had done my best. Either Fitzwilliam would receive my message and come galloping to the rescue, only to be persuaded that Wicklow was the man for me and give us his blessing, or he would not, and I should be obliged to enjoy a trip to Scotland.

  Either way, I was absolved. I had done my duty, and only need wait to see what became of my efforts. One way or the other, I should be married soon, and I might as well enjoy myself in the meantime.

  So I reasoned, but reason is a poor thing to lean upon. I did not want a furtive, hole in the corner wedding. I wanted what I had every right to expect, a big wedding with all my family and friends around me. Gretna might suffice for my lover, but for me it was definitely second best, and by a very long way.

  So, while I made every effort to prepare for the journey to Scotland, I could not summon up any great enthusiasm for it, and in fact was anxiously awaiting Fitzwilliam’s arrival. This anxiety must have communicated itself to my fellow-plotters, for Mr Wicklow suddenly announced that we should be leaving the next morning.

  “The chaise is ordered at the Crown,” he declared, “for seven o’clock tomorrow morning. We shall change at London, and probably several times thereafter, to confuse any pursuit. There will be ample room for three of us, but I must beg you ladies not to be over-generous with your luggage.”

  “Are you sure, my darling, that this is the best course to take,” I asked. “Are you really, really sure? My brother would welcome you as one of the family, I am convinced, and all our worries would be over, all your fears shown to be as unfounded as I know that they are.”

  “You may know that, my love,” he replied, “but I do not. I wish I had your optimism, your confident, trusting nature, but I do not. I fear far too much to risk our happiness on the whim of any man. It is better my way, you will see. All will be well, I promise you.”

  I may have a confiding, trusting, optimistic nature, but I had noticed a change in Mr Wicklow’s manner to me of la
te. Already he was beginning to treat me like his wife and chattel, as if no consequence need be accorded to my views on any subject, and I was beginning to wonder which of the two of us really knew best. His confidence in himself was extreme, and in me hardly less, but I could find in me no faith in his promise, and I lay awake that night praying for Fitzwilliam’s coming.

  There was no news in the morning, however, and Mrs Younge bustled me along the street to the Crown Inn. Mr Wicklow was waiting for us outside, but otherwise the street was very quiet, as near deserted as a town street at that time of the morning may be supposed to be.

  “The chaise is waiting for us in the yard,” said he, “we need but climb aboard and we shall be off on our great adventure. I am glad to see that you have not encumbered yourself with too much baggage, but you are a sensible girl after all, are you not?”

  “And you are a conceited, patronizing piece of work sometimes, are you not?” I felt like answering, but all I actually said was “Let us go, then.”

  We passed through the archway and into the inn yard. There was a chaise in the centre, its curtains drawn. A figure in a greatcoat, his back towards us was holding the bridle of the lead horse.

  “Ho, postilion,” said Mr Wicklow, “stow the baggage while I help the ladies on board, and then we shall be off.”

  “I think not,” replied the postilion, turning to face us, while I gasped, and dropped my parasol.

  It was my Cousin Edward, and the moment I saw him my heart leapt. All misgivings were now dispelled. Eloping was not for me. Wicklow was not for me. None of this was for me.

  Any lingering doubts I may have had were quickly dispelled by what followed.

  “May I ask, Mr Wicklow,” said Cousin Edward, “what you intend by inviting my ward into a coach with you at such an early hour, all dressed for travelling? And may I remind you that abduction of a minor is a serious offence?”