Mr. Wickham had no compunction about taking liberties at all.
Like warm yellow sand and shining seashells, like fresh sea foam and moonlit nights, Georgiana loved her new freedom with every beat of her heart.
Oh, how she loved him! George would never scold her. She was a bird, he said: a little bird trapped in a cage who deserved to soar.
A little sparrow in the day.
His shy, wide-eyed owl at night.
In the morning he was the hawk, feral and demanding, and Georgiana was afraid.
Fear was its own freedom. With it came brutal clarity. The little sparrow opened her eyes and finally saw the world as it truly was.
Like sharp sea shells, broken and hollow, cutting callously into tender virgin flesh.
Like torn-away stockings on a moonlit night.
There was her freedom made fresh. She had reached for it! Oh yes, she had clutched at her ruin like a greedy child! And then Darcy arrived and she had to watch her poisonous liberty cut him to the very soul.
There was no freedom when they returned to Pemberley. Georgiana forbade it to herself. There would be no music, no deceitful art or pointless indulgence. The world was sharp, and she would let it cut her. That was justice.
The house grew quiet. Her brother remained but some part of him seemed to be missing. This, too, was Georgiana’s punishment. Darcy loved her dearly, but when he looked at his little sister he saw only failure. Her own, of course was obvious. His own failure was far more profound.
Years of careful protection, something which he had prided himself on, had been dashed apart overnight. His efforts were undone; her convictions nothing but words. Worse, his position as the man in her life had been usurped - discarded by a foolish sister at the behest of a master manipulator.
It was a single mistake, and it was not Georgiana who had made it. It was Darcy himself. He had been deceived.
Darcy looked at Georgiana with compassion. He looked at her with a broken heart.
He was silent.
Silence was her punishment.
Georgiana did not fight it. It was when her brother saw her that he hurt the most.
So that was what she destroyed first. Viciously, with fearful logic, she made it impossible for him to look at her again. Georgiana Darcy was gone - erased.
That way, when she fell into the silence forever, he would see a stranger and not a mistake.
Elizabeth did not say all of this to Jane. The little she knew was beyond her ability to describe, and the rest was Georgiana’s story alone. Still, she recited the facts of the matter with enough accuracy for Jane’s eyes to fill with tears.
“Oh, my poor love!” she whispered, all of the glow gone from her cheeks, “Oh, that wicked man!”
Elizabeth’s head ached. She had known the truth, but she had never put it into words before. To hear it laid out like that had made her feel unwell. Her tongue had stumbled so many times that she was surprised that Jane could make any sense out of it at all.
“Darcy cannot speak of it. I shall never ask that of him. I can see it, though, in his manner. He is so protective - almost harsh, at times. He cannot abide innocent flirtations. For him, it isneverinnocent. You saw how he was with Mary, after Fitzwilliam laughed with her at luncheon.”
“He glared.”
“Yes, and had no kind words for his cousin at all. Yet to Mary he was most accommodating and gentle.”
“He has been like that with me too, Elizabeth. Are you sure that is not just Darcy’s manner with all women?”
“Not at all, I am sorry to say. It is the circumstances and not the gender which repel him. He cannot abide easy amity.”
“Forgive me, but…” Jane hesitated and then spoke boldly, “He was just as friendly with you, just as rapidly as Fitzwilliam is with Mary. You were married within a few weeks.”
Elizabeth looked away. “He did not make me his wife until months later, Jane. Even then, he saw that as a mistake. Ever since then we have not…”
