Page 24 of The Winter of Our Discontent
Georgiana paused long enough to eat several bites, and I thought perhaps the subject was closed, but on noting my sister-in-law’s slightly furrowed brow, I wondered what the girl was thinking.
“And if he meets all these requirements,thenwhat is he like?” she persisted.
“I see we are to be badgered to death. He is a gentleman, third son of Cardle of Thomasville, trained in London, experienced in the fleet, and recommended to me by my friend Captain Mayweather. To what do we owe this burning curiosity over a doctor, my love?”
Georgiana blushed to the roots of her hair, and Mrs Annesley put her hand on the young lady’s arm in reassurance before I came to the rescue.
“I believe Georgiana is anxious for her companion to get some relief for her persistent headaches.”
“Waverley did not help you, ma’am?” Mr Darcy asked Mrs Annesley directly.
“He most certainly did not,” muttered Georgiana.
“I thought he prescribed for Mrs Annesley,” her brother replied a little tersely.
His tone must have nettled his sister because she replied without her usual hesitation. “Oh, he did. He prescribed a composer as though she was angling for a little attention.”
“Did you feel as though he patted you on the head, ma’am?” I asked.
Georgiana again replied hotly for her companion. “That is precisely what I thought, Elizabeth. I, for one, am glad he is no longer travelling around Pemberley administering to women as though we are all suffering complaints of our imaginations.”
Mr Darcy and his cousin looked uncomfortably guilty, condemned as offending males right along with the principal misogynist, while the women at the table swelled up in righteous indignation. I strove to look only at my plate, lest I say ‘I told you so’to Mr Darcy with my eyes.
After a moment of this collective misery, however, I relented and spoke directly to my husband in my most conversational tone. “I shall have a room made up if you care to invite Mr Yardley to Pemberley upon speaking to him.”
“I intend to do so if I find him respectable and capable. Richard and I are for Lambton this evening to wait upon him.”
22
FITZWILLIAM DARCY
Journal Entry, November 28, 1811
Whatever Richard has to say for his companion’s reputation and experience, Yardley strikes me as far too young to serve as a physician here. He is approximately the same age as my cousin, at two-and-thirty, favoured with a look of intelligence, breeding, and refinement that calls to mind George Wickham. I have come to understand that a certain appearance almost guarantees a man social success, and this man has the winsome grey eyes and long elegant nose of a poet that would make him the rage of London’s saloons. Although I could not take exception to anything in particular about him, I heartily wished not to be obliged to invite him to Pemberley. Recollecting the situation at hand with Mrs Travers and Mrs Pirtle, however, I unbent and did my duty. Mr Yardley is now my guest.
Richard has since accused me of behaving towards the man as if I am in need of surgery to remove a riding cropfrom my personal anatomy. He then felt the need to goad me with the remark that I cannot hate my wife at the same time as I guard her like a jealous hound. He prated on that perhaps Mrs Darcy and Mr Yardley should be thrown together so that they could conduct an affair, and I could then submit myself to the scandal-broth of divorcing her for adultery.
After sitting silently while this waterfall of gibberish poured forth, I said—in a rational tone—that my concern was for Georgiana. I do not want my sister falling in love with some itinerate clap doctor. To this he laughed aloud and slapped his leg, saying I was a worse prude than Mr Grundy, which I took to mean that he classed me in the same mould as Lady Catherine’s righteously moralistic, nitwit parson.
Richard left me to stew after a parting quip that Mrs Darcy may well have entrapped me, but she did not strike him as entirely awful, and perhaps I ought to have that riding crop removed if I plan to fill my nursery.
My cousin enjoys his crass humour very much, and I began to hope Wellington would send him to Spain. Meanwhile, I am charged with running a significant estate, a burden he refuses to try to comprehend, and I must now arrange for Yardley to meet my wife, so the three of us can develop a plan for the confidential matter. I have yet to anticipate any meeting involving that woman without a feeling of trepidation.
I did not tear this entry out of my diary, having given up censoring my entries. I had nothing to write if I could not write what was, for me, reality. The exercise was too cathartic,too valuable, and in the back of my mind, I supposed I would burn the lot of my diaries at some point.
Upon the designated time of our meeting, it fell to me to make the introductions.
“May I present my wife?” They curtseyed and bowed and said meaningless things between them. I minutely observed them for signs of sexual interest. Discerning nothing of the kind, I continued to observe them for any such signals that might arise.
Mrs Darcy was dressed in a slim, elegant gown that did not appear to be new, unusually expensive, or even particularly remarkable. I could hardly accuse my wife of dressing to impress and seduce, as was Caroline Bingley’s sartorial habit. But I did not absolve her of exercising a form of allurement in the manner in which she carried a gown so offhandedly—as complementary, yetsecondarilyto herself. She did not glide forth like a swan, a particular style I found lightly irritating, but she moved like a brisk breeze that ruffled the room. It was this vigour—her vitality, in fact—thatI resented. Yardley’s eyes brightened, his somewhat artistic posture improved, and he seemed to hang on the woman’s every word.
Suddenly, they both looked at me expectantly, and I was forced to clear my throat to give me time to think of what I should be saying to them.
“Yes,” I said, pacing towards the window. Once there I turned. “We have a delicate problem at Pemberley. Mrs Darcy has been approached by two?—”
“Now three.”
“Three?”
