(2017)
Pride and Prejudice
"Miscommunications of the Written Sort"
George Wickham's letter provokes an unexpected reaction in its recipient.
My dear, dear little delicate flower,
George stopped and read what he had written so far. He felt his shoulders shake. Then he threw back his head and indulged his merriment. After all, there was no one to be disturbed by it here.
Delicate? Perhaps that description was not too far off the mark. Little? She had been once. Now, she was every bit a woman in figure, if not in years.
He thought of one decidedly not delicate, smiled, and let more words flow from his pen:
Do not you wonder what manner of nonsense you hold in your hands at this moment? The little treasure begged a note from me. Who would have thought a Darcy to be such a romantic? I endeavoured to oblige her but got no farther than the salutation for laughing. I shall have to try again. I dare say the task will be less onerous when we return from the north. Then, I should be happy to write her a note for every thousand she provides in return. Do not you think that pretty behaved of me? It is a good thing she is no richer; more than thirty might well tax my abilities.
Yours, etc.,
W
He really ought to send it.
Should Georgiana ask her companion why he had written to them both, Mrs. Younge—he always called her that, even in his mind, so as never to slip—would pass her letter off as some last-minute particulars regarding their journey.
He would send it.
Mrs. Younge would disapprove. She would consider it a foolish risk. Then she would take amusement from it as he had done.
First, however, he had to write the girl a love note. He snorted, suppressing the urge to laugh again, and put an empty sheet of paper before him.
Five crumpled pages later, he had composed a passable missive for a young, naive woman on the brink of matrimony. He quickly set it aside, not wishing to be reminded of how often he had penned the word “dear” or “sweet” or the word “love” in some form or other.
He dared not deliver the letters himself. He went out for a bit and soon found a girl to do the job. She was a cute little piece, easily persuaded by a coin, a kiss, and the hint of more coins and kisses to undertake the errand. She would look presentable enough in _______ Street and be taken for the servant of some respectable family summering in Ramsgate, delivering correspondence for her mistress.
Darting back into his room, he shuffled the papers on the table in search of a coin, found said coin, and then folded and sealed both letters. He wrote the direction on each, smiling to himself at how differently the two ladies would respond to the same greeting. He had decided to begin Georgiana's letter with a repetition of his very first efforts, not having come up with anything better.
Little did he suspect he would receive not two, but three letters before evening, none of which would provide the least pleasure.
Georgiana ran up to her room, clutching the precious piece of paper to her side. She was sure it was from Wickham. Who else would have written to her? Only her brother and her aunts ever wrote, and this handwriting was unfamiliar.
Her friends from school, if she could call them friends, had never bothered to correspond with her after discovering what little help she would be in establishing and advancing an acquaintance with her brother and titled cousin. Well, now she was to marry before them all, and the object of her choice was such a man as would have made them swoon!
In this jubilant mood, Georgiana shut herself in and carefully, delicately opened the letter.
Not one minute later, the letter was crushed in her iron grip. She looked up and saw that her door was open and Mrs. Younge stood just beyond it, looking in anxiously but not daring to breach the threshold.
Georgiana had never felt an emotion like this in the whole course of her life. It was something entirely new.
She did not weep. She did not shudder. She did not faint. Neither did she wrap her arms about her and rock back and forth. To her own amazement and with a very un-Darcy-like lack of self-command, every vestige of delicacy now extinguished, Georgiana let loose a howl that brought the housekeeper, the butler, and a pair of matching footmen flying to her aid.
It was into this scene of confusion and noise that Fitzwilliam Darcy entered on his unannounced and unexpected visit to his sister that day. When the howling ceased and the story was told, Darcy sat down to write a letter. Georgiana did the same. Mrs. Younge sat mute, looking on.
Once his and his sister's letters were completed, Darcy spared a glance for Mrs. Younge, whose eyes seemed to hold some entreaty. “What is it?” he asked. “What can you want?”
“I know I deserve no consideration,” she said frankly, “but before I go, I would also like to write to George—to Mr. Wickham.”
Something in her expression checked Darcy's refusal. “I will read it first,” he replied instead.
“You are very welcome to do so,” she said, and he perceived that she meant it.
Darcy rose, giving her access to the writing materials. He watched her spare movements. She was quick in her execution of the task.
After reading her brief note and approving of its contents, he sealed it and sent it with the others.
George Wickham looked about his lodgings with conflicting feelings. He would be glad to leave them in a day or two. At the same time, he imagined the long, tedious journey north would soon have him wishing for the meagre comforts of the cushion-less chair and flat mattress.
He gathered his belongings together, for the first time in years unconcerned that they were so few. He would remedy that presently.
That task completed, George's usual ennui set in. He could go out for a drink, but he had given the last of his discretionary money—the last of all his money, to be precise—to that girl. At least her kisses had been sweet.
He paced the room, stopping every minute or so at the window. He might come back here after the wedding and perhaps hire an even grander house than the one Darcy had for his sister.
Just as boredom and restlessness threatened to drive him mad, he was startled by a knock and the delivery of three letters. He thought at first that Georgiana, in a burst of eagerness, had repaid him in triplicate. Then he saw the writing on the second letter and froze. He dismissed the messenger and sat down, glad for the firmness of that chair, and opened the first letter.
My not at all dear Mr. W,
I did not know one could turn love to hate in a moment, but you have done it. Congratulations. I hope you are consoled by the fact that thirty letters will not be required of you, since you dislike the task of writing so much.
Not yours,
G
Thirty letters! What did she mean? Surely Mrs. Younge had not shown her that—the letters were—but hers never said—
No.
No!
He laughed. Surely not! That was impossible. But...
Oh no.
George leapt to his feet. He tore open the letter from Darcy, read it, and almost wept in disappointment and grief. Darcy would show up just now, unlooked-for and unwanted! Still, he might have had a chance, had he not...
He groaned.
He recalled the third letter and picked it up. He supposed it would be too much to hope for any palliation of his distress from Mrs. Younge.
He was right. The missive, succinct and fitting, contained only two words:
You IDIOT!
When George Wickham was surprised again by Fitzwilliam Darcy, this time on a street in Meryton in the autumn of that same year, the man had the gall to sit atop his horse and laugh at him. Oh, he did it silently and even elegantly, but Darcy's eyes and shoulders gave away his mirth.
George saw Darcy glance at his new acquaintance, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and that mirth faded to anger as he fixed his eyes on George again. The frown did not last, however, and soon Darcy was laughing outright, to the shock of those who witnessed it.
George looked down, shook his head, and suddenly felt himself laughing as well. He looked up at Darcy and saw a bright smile. The others' voices had died away. Even the loquacious parson and the pair of chatty girls who had besieged Denny stood quiet, watching them both.
“My sister still finds your name a punishment to pronounce,” Darcy said at last.
So there would be no possibility of holding the foiled elopement over Georgiana; it appeared her fury outstripped any fears for her reputation. George shrugged. He usually refrained from such vulgar gestures, but he had nothing to lose after his earlier display. “I ought to find my own name a punishment to pronounce after the excess of stupidity I exhibited last summer,” he admitted to his erstwhile friend, surprised by his own candidness.
“Well,” Darcy said, regarding him with a sober look. “Watch how you go about your business here.” Darcy's gaze took in all four ladies, and George acknowledged his message with a smirk.
George also noticed Darcy's eyes lingering longer on Miss Elizabeth than on the others. When Miss Elizabeth's eyes, brimming with lively curiosity, turned more and more in Darcy's direction, an idea began to form.
This family of Bennets did not appear to be on a level with Darcy, but if the proud man were to choose a wife from among them, there would be sisters enough to provide George access to the Pemberley coffers again. It would have to be one of the younger girls. The bold one, as womanly as Georgiana in figure if not in manners, might do nicely. The eldest girl was beautiful but completely engrossed in whatever Darcy's friend was saying, and George did not believe in wasting effort.
Idiot. He had been an idiot. He was grateful to find himself no worse off for it than being made the object of a joke on his first day in a new town.
He would keep an eye on developments amongst these Bennets. And in the meantime, should he discover any heiresses hereabouts, a little self-deprecation and a lot of charm—and no unfortunate lack of wit at a crucial moment—might not go amiss.
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