What Jane Austen Didn't Tell Us!. Austen Alliance
to his reward. The minutiae of running Pemberley have grown quite onerous, and I have determined to find someone to take care of the property. Uncle Derwent, I hoped you might advise me on this subject.”
The Earl was quite surprised at this request, but gave his assent, suggesting that Darcy talk with the lawyer responsible for the management of the Bleaklow estates. Lady Catherine left them to it, none too pleased, and after a convivial glass with Colonel Fitzwilliam, Darcy escaped—though failing in his purpose.
Returning to Kympton, he found Cassandra abed ... ill. He rushed to her side, taking a hand that seemed almost translucent as a spirit’s. But despite her frailty, Cassandra’s eyes seemed to glow with a brighter light than ever. Confronted with this, Darcy’s words of comfort caught in his throat.
“Fitzwilliam,” Cassandra said quietly, “I am not long for this world.”
When he protested, she closed her eyes and slept. Frantic, he spoke to the vicar, who sadly shook his head. “I fear Cassandra has known of her illness for some time but could find no way to tell you.”
“I cannot believe—”
The vicar’s expression turned to one of pity—and pain. “I know you love my daughter. Cherish her, Mr. Darcy, for all too soon she will be taken from us. Our doctor says it is consumption, of the most virulent kind.”
As summer turned to autumn and Cassandra grew weaker, Darcy despaired. This is a punishment upon me for my cowardice in not declaring my love, he thought.
Cassandra did her best to soothe Darcy’s distress. “You are young and strong, and have a long life ahead of you.” Her voice grew softer. “Your ardent affection is very dear to me. I treasure it and wish you every happiness, with all my heart.”
But in his sorrow Darcy declared, “You are my angel. I will never find another.”
Days passed with Darcy and the vicar at her bedside, each with a broken heart. Cassandra’s passing came as peacefully as one could hope in these cases.
After her funeral, tragedy struck again. The good vicar, distraught over his daughter’s death, succumbed to an apoplectic fit barely a fortnight later. With his passing went the only other person who knew of Darcy’s affair of the heart with Cassandra. He could not bring himself to discuss it with anyone, not even his sister or his good friend Bingley.
Darcy was a broken man. He tried to escape his grief by plunging into the affairs of the estate and seeing to Georgiana’s well-being, but nothing could keep his anguish at bay. The two women he loved with all his heart, his mother—and Cassandra—had departed this life, and with them had gone a part of his heart, a loss never to be recovered.
Then one morning he received a letter from George Wickham, presenting himself for the Kympton living now that the vicar was deceased.
Darcy exploded. The thought of such a dissolute character taking up residence in the place where Darcy had spent so many tender moments struck him as akin to profaning a sacred shrine. Snatching up his pen, he responded with a quick rejection, curt to the point of incivility.
Sir,
I received with some surprise your letter of candidacy for the recently vacated living of Kympton. Perhaps, in the press of business—or the pleasures of the Metropolis—it slipped your memory that you relinquished all claim to preferment in the church for the sum of £3000. I, however, have not forgotten.
Our transaction seems to me more than ample recompense for the benefit my dear father wished to bequeath you. In any case, your manner of living would comport ill with a clergyman’s existence, especially in comparison to the deceased Mr. Graham, a man of God-fearing devotion. I pray you put the notion of the Kympton living from your mind. That holy place is not for you.
Farewell,
Fitzwilliam Darcy
Despite this plain refusal, Wickham maintained a perfect storm of correspondence, reproachfully reminding Darcy of his late father’s fondness, arguing that Darcy had no one else to provide for, pleading the difficulty of his present circumstances, and growing more violent with each succeeding letter.
After turning Wickham’s latest letter into a pile of tatters on the breakfast table, Darcy looked up to catch the expression on his sister’s face. She was staring at him in fright. He spoke to her kindly, calming her, but had to admit that his moodiness was distressing Georgiana.
Perhaps London, with such treasures as the British Museum and the Royal Academy, would be a happier place than Pemberley for her. He discussed the matter with Georgiana’s other guardian, Colonel Fitzwilliam, who readily assented. A respectable lady, a Mrs. Younge, was recommended as the girl’s chaperone, and off Georgiana went.
For months a constant stream of letters kept Darcy apprised of Georgiana’s doings, and as summer drew near, she entreated him to visit her at Ramsgate and enjoy the fresh sea air.
After some weeks, Darcy quit his isolation at Pemberley and went to the resort, to find his sister behaving oddly. When he questioned her closely, she revealed that she had met Mr. Wickham in town. Georgiana had affectionate memories of him, and thanks to his attentions, the fifteen-year-old quickly came to believe herself in love. At length she admitted that she had consented to elope with him in only a few days’ time.
On hearing this, Darcy’s first notion was to seek Wickham at his lodgings and call him out. But cooler considerations prevailed. A duel would make the whole affair public knowledge and damage Georgiana’s good name. Instead, Darcy had to content himself with sending Wickham a sharp, threatening letter.
Wickham quickly left Ramsgate, and Mrs. Younge was soon discharged when Darcy discovered that she had been an accomplice in the elopement plot. A more suitable lady was engaged to preside over Georgiana’s London establishment. But Darcy felt no peace.
By shutting himself up in Pemberley, he had left Georgiana unprotected. What had he been thinking? As her elder brother, charged with deathbed oaths to protect and uphold Georgiana, he had nearly been fatally remiss. Certainly, Cassandra’s loss had been a crushing blow, but to lose himself in sorrow and solitude—that was not the conduct of a Darcy of Pemberley. He shuddered at the ruination Wickham had almost visited upon Georgiana. His was not merely an act of greed for the girl’s fortune, but of malice against the very Darcy name.
Never again, Darcy vowed, would Georgiana be unguarded. He had lost his mother and Cassandra. But he would not be found lacking when it came to Georgiana’s comfort and protection.
Thus he put his grief behind him and left Pemberley to join his sister in London. His days were often spent with Georgiana at lectures and exhibitions. And in the evening there were the entertainments for which London Society was justly famed.
The problem was, Darcy no longer found these diversions to be diverting. His friend Bingley found him at a ball, standing off to one side—alone.
“Come, come,” Bingley said. “This is a ball, not a hanging. You should be dancing, rather than driving everyone to the other side of the room with that face.”
“My expression is merely self-defense,” Darcy replied. “Until your arrival, there was no one here with whom I wished to associate.”
Bingley was reduced to shaking his head. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, “you require a change of scene. As it happens, I am gathering a party to come down to my new place in Hertfordshire. Why do you not accompany us? I have heard that there are numerous handsome ladies in the neighborhood. Perhaps one of them will pique your interest.”
“I think that unlikely,” Darcy said, but he did not voice his real reason. Because none of them can be Cassandra.
Unaware of his friend’s secret pain, Bingley continued to press for his company until Darcy at last consented, though with no great enthusiasm. Oh, he would do his duty someday, marry, and sire a child to continue the Darcy heritage at Pemberley. But, he was sure, none of the Hertfordshire ladies that Bingley extolled would ever stir his heart.
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