P&P Prelude to Pemberley: Georgiana seeks advice

Welcome to our Pride & Prejudice prequel! P&P: Prelude to Pemberley tells the story of the time leading up to the events of Pride & Prejudice, including what Darcy and Elizabeth were doing and thinking, Georgiana Darcy’s story, the events of Ramsgate, how Mr. Bingley came to lease Netherfield, and much more! Join us on our journey as the Austen Variations authors post the events of 1811 in real time on the date they happened – 214 years in the future.

Georgiana Seeks Advice

19 March 1811

In the past, on those rare occasions when forced to make a decision for herself, Georgiana Darcy had asked herself three questions:

What would Mama have advised?

What would Papa have advised?

What would Fitzwilliam advise?

Only now, confronting a true dilemma, did she recognize the inadequacy of this approach.

That first question—foolish, really, for she would never know her mother’s mind. She hardly knew her mother’s face. At Pemberley, she visited the portrait gallery every morning, staring up at Lady Anne Darcy—or at least, the swirl of paint meant to represent her. Had her mother really been that tall, that graceful? (Would she ever be so tall, so graceful?) How had she known the best pose to adopt, which colors to wear, how to smile, just so? (Would she ever learn to smile with dignity, dress with confidence, stand with pride?)

At school, Georgiana had no portrait to visit. She had considered writing Mrs. Reynolds for the miniature of her mother, tucked snuggly between the images of her brother and herself in the display case of her father’s favorite sitting room. But then she thought of how much her father had loved those miniatures. What if Miss Grantley or, even worse, that horrid Miss Lloyd discovered the painting? Already they had raided her writing desk, snatching her diary and using her own words to mock her. She would not allow her mother’s portrait to be desecrated.

No. Better to keep it safe at Pemberley. (Would that she might keep herself safe at Pemberley!) Her memory of the portrait would have to suffice.

Yet when she attempted to recall her mother’s face, she could picture only the same blur of nothingness that came upon her when asked to recite her lessons. The panic that followed these moments of forgetting was worse than the forgetting itself. Heart racing, head spinning, she would squeeze shut her eyes and pray she might disappear with the memories that had abandoned her. But she had not that power. She always found herself stuck in the same awful place, in the same treacherous body.

So no: her mother could be of no help to her, certainly not now.

Her father, then? Georgiana had been given eleven glorious years with her papa. He had been the kindest, most generous of men—but not one for giving advice. He had given her so much else: riding lessons on sunny, summer days; quick, bracing hugs when she fell, or just felt sad; unqualified praise each time she played the pianoforte.

But advice? No, all his words of wisdom had been for his son: “Compose your countenance, my boy; true gentlemen do not wear their hearts on their sleeves” or “Always treat those beneath you with respect, young man—but never with familiarity” or (her favorite) “Never ignore the ladies of your acquaintance, Fitzwilliam, for they often see what we men do not.”

Why could her brother not heed that piece of advice, when he had followed, so assiduously, all the rest? He, who should have been her true counselor in these times of trouble—why did he feel more distant to her than their deceased parents?

How dare he ignore her wishes? How dare he! She had told him what it was like here; she had described the cruelty of her teachers and her peers. Why had he closed his heart to her, when he was now the only person left to guide her?

No, not the only person…

“My dear Miss Darcy, you are trembling.”

At the sound of another’s voice, Georgiana reared back, clutching the letters she held—one in each hand—to her chest.

“Oh, do forgive me! I did not mean to startle you.”

Only when the figure standing before her came into focus did Georgiana let loose the breath she had been holding.

It was Mrs. Younge, only Mrs. Younge. At least she posed no danger.

The sad truth was, any female voice—and that was all she heard these days, female voices—inspired terror in her now. It hardly mattered if the voice matched the pitch or tone of Miss Grantley or Miss Lloyd. Georgiana expected every word directed at her to be filled with scorn.

And why not? She deserved their hatred after what she had done.

(Did she, though?)

“Have you received bad news, then?” Mrs. Younge asked her, gaze fixed on the one letter she had opened—his letter.

Pressing the letter even closer to her chest, Georgiana opened her mouth to speak—only to find she had nothing to say. Well, that was the usual way of things at Miss Dalrymple’s Seminary.

The unusual thing? Mrs. Younge. Why was she being so kind to her, when no one else had been? Even before “the crime” (her schoolmates’ euphemism—or was it hyperbole?—for what had happened), the teachers and students alike had been aloof toward her. Or, in the case of Miss Lloyd and Miss Grantley, openly hostile.

Still, what she would not have given to return to that time before the nightmare! (That was her word for what had happened, and it was no euphemism or hyperbole: every night since that awful afternoon, Georgiana had shot up in bed, choking back screams and tears at the sight of that tooth, the blood, those silky blonde strands of hair).

Yes, the inmates of Miss Dalrymple’s Seminary were unfeeling and unkind—all except Mrs. Younge. Well, even Mrs. Younge had been indifferent to her at first, but in the weeks leading up to “the crime,” she had warmed to Georgiana. Was it her musical talents? Mrs. Younge was an accomplished pianist, and so few at the school cared anything for music, excepting the applause it might bring them after a recital. Or perhaps it was because Georgiana was the only student to have helped her that day, some months earlier, when Mrs. Younge had dropped the contents of her work basket?

In truth, she could not bring herself to care why Mrs. Younge seemed to prefer her to the other girls. Starving for affection, she could only be grateful for these little scraps of consideration—most especially her teacher’s willingness to deliver letters from “her cousin.”

Georgiana felt her fingers, as if they were someone else’s fingers, pinch and then crumple the letter still clutched to her chest. At the sound of the paper crackling—at the thought of his words, disappearing—she gasped and let go.

“Oh! You have dropped your letter!” Mrs. Younge hurried forward, snatching up the page before Georgiana could squeak out a “No!”

Their gazes locked, and Georgiana wondered, not for the first time: did Mrs. Younge know that Mr. Wickham was not her cousin?

Swallowing hard, Georgiana rasped out a “Pl-pl-please!”

She did not know why she was begging; she knew only that she ought to have been ashamed. Every aspect of Mrs. Younge’s countenance spoke of pity: a gentle frown, the softening of her eyes, that subtle shake of her head. How abject Georgiana must have appeared!

Yes, she ought to have been ashamed, but instead felt such an intense rush of relief that she began to cry.

“You poor, poor dear,” Mrs. Younge whispered, touching a tentative hand to Georgiana’s shoulder. Then, all at once, she was in the older woman’s arms, sobbing into the crook of her neck.

“Come, let us sit,” said Mrs. Younge, steering her first toward the parlor’s settee—and then, after an abrupt detour, to the piano bench.

“After all, we are supposed to be practicing the pianoforte while the others enjoy their repast. If anyone should happen to walk past and see us sitting here, they will be none the wiser.”

Mrs. Younge offered a conspiratorial smile, and Georgiana felt something loosen in her then. It was an odd sensation, both a lightening of her chest and a twisting in her gut, as if even her body could not commit to a course of action.

“Now,” said her teacher, neatly folding the letter—his letter—and pressing it back into Georgiana’s empty hand, “I hope your cousin did not send bad news.”

Georgiana glanced down at the letter in her left hand and then, involuntarily, at the one in her right. The seal on that letter remained intact, but she did not need to break it to know what lay beneath the red, embossed D.

She had already received a letter from Lady Matlock, who had scolded her mightily. Such humiliation her lady aunt had never before suffered—a countess, forced to visit Arthur Lloyd, a man whose fortune was but one generation removed from trade! She, a great hostess of the ton, offering friendship and invitations to such an inconsequential family, all in hopes of staving off scandal not of her own (or even her own children’s) making! How was such degradation to be born?

(How indeed?)

Surely Fitzwilliam’s letter would be no different—or rather, worse. For he would not scold her. He would tell her, in the plainest of terms, of his deep disappointment.

“Miss Darcy?” Mrs. Younge placed a hand over hers. “Is there anything you would like to tell me?”

How long had it been since someone had touched her with such kindness, such concern?

“The news must be very bad indeed,” murmured Mrs. Younge.

Bad? Georgiana again glanced at the letter in her left hand. Beneath the folds, bold words, written in a bold hand: I cannot stop thinking of you, my dear girl. Could such news be bad?

(Yes…)

(No!)

(Perhaps?)

“N-n-no.” She shook her head, for good measure. “N-n-no bad news.”

Except, the news did not feel right, either. She believed him, of course, for there was no man so open, so amiable and sincere, as George Wickham, but still the question pricked at her, insistent as a midge: How could a man so handsome, so charming, so perfect, feel anything at all for—what had Miss Lloyd and Miss Grantley called her—a stumbling and mumbling girl?

“How?” she whispered aloud, unable to stop the word—and yet unable to say anything more.

“What is that, Miss Darcy?”

Georgiana blushed. She could not even speak in front of the one person at the school who wished her well!

“How…how do you”—she drew in a long, quivering breath—“how do you decide?”

Mrs. Younge went very still then, so still Georgiana found herself holding her breath.

Eventually, her teacher asked, “What are you being asked to decide, Miss Darcy?”

Nothing, in fact. He had asked her for nothing, suggested nothing. The letter, except for those daring words buried in the middle—I cannot stop thinking of you, my dear girl—had been as polite as if he really had been her cousin. (Well, perhaps not Richard.) (Or Anne.)

But those words had been enough to pierce her heart: with love, yes, but also with fear. What if he knew what she truly was?

When she had watched the other girls help Miss Lloyd, sniveling and bleeding, from the room, Georgiana had thought, He will be proud of me. But when she had sat down to write him, she had found herself unable to form the words. Yes, she had stood up for herself, just as he had advised her to do—but she had also cracked bone, torn hair, drawn blood. She had unleashed a current of violence she had never known she possessed—and she had, for just a moment, enjoyed it.

Mrs. Younge drew back her hand, and Georgiana flinched at the loss of contact.

“I suppose,” said the older woman, “you are trying to decide if you should make a public apology, as has been requested of you?”

“No!” Georgiana cried out, before clamping her mouth shut.

“No—you do not wish to apologize, or no, you are trying to decide on some other matter of difficulty?”

Both, in fact. She most certainly did not want to apologize! And at chapel, before all of the teachers and students? Never!

It was not that she felt no remorse. God alone knew how sorry she was, and not just for her own sake, either. Never mind how much she despised Cecilia Lloyd (a great deal); never mind the beat of pleasure that had pulsed through her when exacting her revenge (more than a beat, a rush): Georgiana had wept for Miss Lloyd, wept for the damage she had caused. She knew she had been in the wrong.

(Yet—had she been?)

Such violence!

(Such justice.)

Such pain!

(What of her pain?)

Those scars!

(Months of mockery, humiliation, and fear—had those not left scars, too?)

“So you have decided not to apologize,” said Mrs. Younge. Her voice was gentle, but Georgiana knew what she would say next: you must.

It was what everyone had told her. It was, she knew, what her brother would tell her, in the letter she was too frightened to open.

She ran her thumb across the seal, as if that might mute his voice, echoing in her head: You must do what is right, Georgi, even when it is difficult. Especially when it is difficult.

(But was it right? Miss Lloyd would never apologize for the harm she had caused. To apologize in public, as if she were the only perpetrator, and Miss Lloyd the only victim—no. That was wrong, too.)

“Well then,” said Mrs. Younge, rising from the piano bench, “good for you, my dear.”

Georgiana gaped up at her.

“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Younge, with that chest-lightening, stomach-twisting smile, “those are not the words you expected to hear from a teacher at Miss Dalrymple’s Seminary?”

No, they were not the words she had expected to hear, but they were precisely the words she had needed.

(Wanted.)

Shooting up from the bench, Georgiana asked, “How do you decide what is right?”

Mrs. Younge blinked. “Right?”

“That is what I…what I wanted to ask before,” said Georgiana, swallowing. Then, before she lost this inexplicable burst of confidence, she added, “When every choice seems wrong, how do you know which choice is right?”

For she knew these letters from Mr. Wickham were wrong, just as she knew it had been so very wrong (a crime, a nightmare) to hurt Miss Lloyd. Oh, the letters themselves, the words he wrote, those were not wrong. Her love for him, and his for her (could he love her?)—love was not wrong, either. Indeed, her love for him seemed truer than anything she had felt since coming to Miss Dalrymple’s Seminary.

But the exchange of letters, under the guise of a connection that did not, in fact, exist? Such deception was wrong, and she abhorred it. What if Mrs. Younge discovered the truth? What if Miss Dalrymple discovered it—and ended Mrs. Younge’s employment? What if her brother discovered these letters—and punished Mr. Wickham?

Yet to stop writing Mr. Wickham when she had no one who cared for her, except perhaps Mrs. Younge? It was like apologizing in public for a wrong that was only half hers: she could not do it.

She would not.

“I know something of difficult choices,” said Mrs. Younge. Her voice had gone hoarse, her face suddenly pale.

Georgiana shivered.

“What I believe,” she continued, not meeting Georgiana’s eye, but looking somewhere in the distance, “is that you must listen to your heart.”

“But…but…” Georgiana again looked down at the letters. Left hand—Mr. Wickham. Right hand—her brother. Her heart was with them both!

“You must,” added Mrs. Younge, with a firm nod, “look out for your own happiness.”

Yes, happiness! Surely, if it were a matter of happiness, there was but one choice!

(Was there?)

“Ah, listen to me!” Mrs. Younge laughed. “I have spent so much of this hour prattling, and I have yet to give you an opportunity to practice—or read your other letter. And I must prepare for my next class.”

She turned, as if to leave, only to stop suddenly.

“Did you know, my dear, that the tooth was false?”

Georgiana blinked. “What?”

“Why do you think it popped out so easily?” Mrs. Younge leaned forward, smiling that smile of hers. “We teachers were all told, when Miss Lloyd first entered the school, about the tooth—how she lost it in a riding accident last year, how it had been the reason she had come to this seminary, after previously being enrolled at a school in the north, closer to her family. Have you never noticed her predilection for soft foods, or how she likes to press her fingers to her lips when she smiles?”

Georgiana had never noticed any of this; she had been too terrified to look at Miss Lloyd, for fear of catching her attention.

“So you see,” said Mrs. Younge, leaning closer, so close her lips were almost touching Georgiana’s ear, “you are not truly responsible for what happened.”

Georgiana closed her eyes against a rush of tears. She was not responsible!

(Was she?)

“Now, dry your eyes,” said Mrs. Younge. “I must prepare for class and you must read your letters. But do keep them safe, Miss Darcy. You never know who may attempt to read your correspondence.”

“Yes, of course!”

Slowly, carefully, Georgiana slipped Mr. Wickham’s letter into the reticule she kept always on her wrist (the only place she could be certain Miss Grantley or Miss Lloyd—perhaps only Miss Grantley, now—would not snoop).

Then, with three quick strides, she crossed the room and stood before the hearth.

What would Fitzwilliam advise?

She rubbed her thumb across the seal one last time before tossing the letter onto the fire.

Read all the scenes in Prelude to Pemberley here!