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Chapter Seventeen
In love?Mr Bingley, with Anne de Bourgh? I looked at Georgiana sharply. “No,” I said. “That is not at all what he told me.”
She resumed staring out over the wild scenery. Her voice, when it resumed, was as hard and dry as Mr Darcy’s had once been. “We had only been married six months when I discovered it. I was very happy at first, and imagined myself in love. And then, during our Christmas visit of 1817, Mr Bingley began acting strangely. I was upset, and unsure what to do. I went to Anne for advice, and she-she told me…”
My heart froze in my chest at the thought of what she might have said.
“She told me that my brother hated her and she did not understand why but that she loved him desperately and would do anything to make amends. That she had been so despairing and ready to-to harm herself, and Mr Bingley had come upon her, had comforted her, and it had gone too far. That he had always been in love with her, and that she had arranged for his marriage to me because she wanted him to be happy, to forget about her. That in her moment of desperation and weakness, she allowed him to l-love her as he had always wanted, but never been permitted. That afterwards she had felt so guilty and broken it off, swearing to me that she would never consent to it again, on her life. I held her as she sobbed in my arms, begging that if only I would say nothing, if I would forgive her, we could pretend it never happened, that all could be put right.”
“What utter balderdash,” I said, borrowing one of Mrs Reynolds’s favourite phrases.
“Yes,” she agreed. “It could never be put right. I tried pretending, for a long while. But every time we–we were together, I could not…I could only imagine that he…that Mr Bingley pretended also. That he pretended I am her. Eventually, I could not bear it. I have not allowed him in my bed for over a year.”
“Oh, Georgiana,” I said, feeling an overwhelming rage towards Anne de Bourgh. She had played this poor girl like a fiddle, and she—and Mr Bingley too, as likely as not—had been dancing to her tune for years.
“I never told Fitzwilliam. Even though I could not feel towards Anne as I once did, I could not wish her ill, and I hoped my brother would be able to restore his marriage. He has always been a fair man, but I knew if he discovered what Bingley had done, it would be impossible to recover it. Although I do not think he has been happy, not for a long while.”
I could only shake my head in dismay. “My dear sister, of course he has not been happy. But if you believe that Mr Bingley was Anne Darcy’s only affair, you have been naïve. Furthermore, I would lay money that she seduced him, and just so that she could ruin your marriage and hurt your brother with it. He has known of Mr Bingley’s perfidy since it happened. Anne made certain he knew.”
Georgiana stared at me in open-mouthed shock. “N-no,” she stuttered. “It cannot be.”
“She carried on an affair with Mr Wickham for their entire marriage,” I continued ruthlessly. “I do not condone Mr Bingley’s actions, but I am certain he regrets them, and that love is the last thing he feels or ever felt for that dreadful woman. She was a monster. You must talk to your husband. You have been ill used, but you must not continue to be her victim. Her vicious games must die with her.”
I decided that I had said enough, and sat down on the low wall to give her time to absorb my words. I was beginning to grow truly chilled before she spoke again.
“Anne used to sit on this wall,” she said quietly. “But she sat with her feet dangling over the edge. I always hated when she would do it. I had told her long ago, you see, of a time when my brother was a very young man, perhaps sixteen years. He played a trick upon me, a horrible trick. He pretended to drop off this terrace to his death. I was terrified, frantic. But he had found a ledge beneath one section where the drop was only eight feet or so, and he had strung a rope ladder so he could climb back up—assuming he did not break his neck in the process. Papa was so very angry with him! Of course he apologised, most profusely, and never did anything like it again. And now I think…I wonder if she sat balanced on this precipice to taunt me, to remind me of the horror of that long ago, stupid, childish, prank.”
“I certainly would not put it past her,” I said.
“Oh, my poor brother,” she murmured.
How soft her heart! She had been subjected to that woman’s evil for years, and she only thought of him. He had suffered more often, perhaps, but she had not suffered less.
“Your brother’s happiness can be restored,” I said. “Once he knows you are happier, he will be so much improved. Perhaps your marriage cannot be revived, and trust is not easily earned. But perhaps you and your husband could work at…a friendship. Or would that be too impossible? I know I would have difficulty forgiving such a betrayal.”
“I am not sure,” she said. “Nothing is as I thought. It does seem to me that, now I consider it, he has tried more diligently of late to earn my notice. Since Anne died, I suppose. Perhaps she did hold it over him, in whatever ways she could. And of course, it is certain that what I have been doing has not brought me anything but grief. I have been so lonely.”
I stood and reached to press her hand. “You have a different sister now. I promise you my friendship, whether or not you reconcile with Mr Bingley. Let us remove ourselves from these disturbing rooms and your unhappy memories, and ask Mrs Reynolds to bring us tea in the library. It is my favourite room in the house, to be sure.”
“Fitzwilliam loves it too. Oh, I am so happy he married you, dear sister! I did not know…I never realised how he has—”
“He did not want you to know,” I said softly. “He has a habit of deciding in favour of the happiness of others at all costs to himself.” I remembered what he had said of Bingley’s lack of confidence in himself, and taking her arm, led her back towards the stairs. “Just a thought, however—I believe your husband looks to you for guidance about how it shall be between you. Never wait for him to do or say or remember what you like—tell him. Men, I have learned, are seldom very good at guessing a woman’s true feelings. Be bold.”
I opened the door to the servants’ stairs and locked it from the other side.
“Is that what you do?” she asked. “Are you…bold?”
“Only when it matters to me,” I replied. “Which is, possibly, rather more often than your brother would wish.” But I laughed, and, after a moment, she joined in.
* * *
At dinner that evening, I was pleased to notice a difference between Mr and Mrs Bingley. For one thing, he was much more attentive to her—and she, in turn, tried harder to be a part of the conversation. Of course, I saw that Mr Darcy observed them both carefully.
I suggested to Georgiana that we retire to the music room after the meal, as her brother claimed her most expert at the pianoforte—although in their previous visit, she had not touched it once. After only a slight hesitation, she agreed, and I asked for the tea tray to be brought there.
“I once loved to play,” she murmured, after we had departed the gentlemen, “but I have not in ever so long. Years, I think.”
“Why not?” I asked.
