If I Loved You Less
By DJ Clawson
Last time on our series, an emotional wounded Georgiana Bingley ran from a physically wounded Geoffrey Darcy by spending a year in a womens' school in France. There she learned trust herself, open up to other people, and that if you start killing people, it's going to just pile on itself.
Posting twice weekly. Some chapters may have mature content and will have a ratings notation.
Chapter 4 – Summer in London
Anne was formally presented at court, which was a delightfully short affair. As predicted, the king took little interest in the matter and waved them through with the other girls who were declaring their stake on the polite world. From there they returned to Derbyshire, where the Darcys in whole would remain until Geoffrey left for Cambridge in October.
The Season was well over, and those in town were there for social calls, public assemblies, private balls, or because they lived there. The Bingleys and the Maddoxes had entered the phase of their lives when Town could not be avoided, with eligible daughters that needed chaperoning and elder brothers who were often unavailable to do it. Jane, Edmund, and Charles the Third stayed at Kirkland, but Mr. Bingley was in Town, mainly for business, but also because he did not want to leave all of the care of his daughters to Dr. Maddox or George Wickham. Georgiana eased the burden by immediately taking off to Ireland for a few weeks, as she was quite fond of doing. Elizabeth Bingley, however, was a proper socialite, and had friends in Town to make calls to and receive in the townhouse. Eliza, Emily Maddox, and Isabel Wickham were all about the same age and would often go to little assemblies and dances together, which only required one person. Since Dr. Maddox admitted he was useless for much beyond introductions, the duty fell to Bingley. He could have a trusted servant do it, but this was his daughter and these were his nieces. He was not suspect of every friend they made and none of them were serious about marriage yet, but they were dancing with men and learning the language of Town society and he was going to oversee that.
When he wasn't available, there was George. George's Fellowship had no formal declaration, but he was informally apprenticed to Dr. Maddox, setting his sights on a medical career. Dr. Maddox insisted George needed clinical practice, and so George spent his days at clinics in observation and nights following his sister to private balls. The resulting schedule made him rather grumpy after a few weeks.
"Why can't I be a chaperone and not a bachelor? Must I write 'Fellow' on my forehead?" he said to his Uncle Bingley one night.
"If you're not in your gown, you're not a Fellow as far as they're concerned. And they just want to dance."
"I don't want to dance. I want to watch my sister dance."
"Well," Bingley said with a sigh, "you could try dying your hair grey. That might throw them off."
Isabel loved dancing, and George loved to indulge her. Her experience standing at the altar in Gretna Green at fifteen had taught her caution, and she readily thanked her brother for his intervention. If anything, it gave her a few more years to be silly and worry about balls and gowns and ribbons and who asked her to dance and how many times.
On more than one occasion, George was tempted to ask Mr. Bradley to go in his stead, as Mr. Bradley was fully obligated to watch over his step-daughter, but it was not a reasonable expectation. George genuinely liked his stepfather, but he knew he wasn't particularly bright and easily influenced by his mother, resulting in the mess in Scotland that almost ruined Isabel's life. So, George didn't ask.
"George! It's not polite to fall asleep on Mr. Hart's stairs!"
He opened his eyes. "What? Oh, right." He managed a false smile for his sister.
"Do you want to go home?"
"I'm all right."
"I've had enough. Three sets are enough. We can go."
"Was it all with the same man?"
"Of course not! Though it could have been, with you nodding off like that. Why didn't you tell me you were tired?"
He didn't tell her he wasn't sleeping well. She didn't need it. He was the protector. She was his responsibility, because no one else was taking that responsibility, though there were moments when he wished someone would. There were people he could write, but he didn't want to disturb Uncle Darcy, or further burden Uncle Bingley or Lady Maddox.
He requested a lightened schedule at the clinics and it was granted. Eliza and Isabel could be very persuasive, and he agreed to even dance, and not slight the ladies when men were short, as they increasingly were as the shooting season arrived. He danced several times with a lady named Miss Habersham, who seemed persistent despite his constant mentioning that he was not eligible for serious attachment.
"I thought gentlemen were called gentlemen because they did not have to work?" Estelle teasingly asked him as he buttoned up his vest. "You've done it wrong."
"I may be a bit distracted," he said, noticing that he had indeed missed the first button and would have to do them all over again. She crawled over to his side of the bed and did it for him, which seemed to amuse her. He kissed her as thanks (beyond the payment left on the dresser). "Having a sister in society is work." And work it was. He'd cut back to two appointments a week at Harcourt. He had the time (he always managed to find time when he wanted to) but he lacked the energy. "And now women are courting me."
"You say that like it is such a terrible tragedy," she said, the 'is' a more pronounced 'izzz' with her French accent. He did like a courtesan with a French accent. It made it seem more sophisticated. "Being a wanted bachelor."
"I don't like it." He felt like he could say that to her. Not that he wanted to make his regular courtesan his confidant, but something about sharing the most intimate physical process with a woman (repeatedly) made him a bit more open about non-physical intimacy. "I don't trust them."
"Not to trust a woman? That is a very important lesson to learn, Monsieur Wickham, and it seems you have already learned it."
It put a smile on his face, but an uneasy one it was.
On Friday there was a private ball, and George put on his best outfit and escorted his sister, only to discover to his horror that the hosts were none other than Mr. and Mrs. Habersham, respectable members of society but nonetheless not the people he wanted to be talking to. There were plenty of other people there, but George retreated into a corner and then into the library as soon as he found it. He was not just tired, and irritated, but he was also nervous. He knew it because his hands were shaking when he poured himself whatever beverage was in a leftover pot; it turned out to be very sweet but cold tea.
"Mr. Wickham, I presume."
It was his host. He bowed. "You presume correctly, Mr. Habersham."
"I've heard much about you, Mr. Wickham. Your father was not George Wickham, was he?"
Wondering if this would actually put the host's obvious intentions off, he said, "Yes, he was. My Christian name is also George."
"Well, well, enough of that," Mr. Habersham said, taking a seat. George hid his hands behind his back and stood by the window, occasionally looking out. "It seems you are a very mysterious person to my daughter."
"I believe I have made myself very clear."
"You have a living but intend on an academic career. Purely for your own amusement, I assume?"
"No, sir. I intend to become a physician, if I pass my exams. I've no intention of being an idle gentleman." If it would be taken as an insult, so be it. He didn't know how else to phrase it.
"A most noble endeavor. I know few men who've seen it through."
He just shrugged.
"I also understand you live with you family on Gracechurch Street."
He frowned. "Mr. Habersham, to be blunt, will you get to the part of the conversation to which you are heading? I apologize, but I am here to chaperone my younger sister, and I am remiss in my duties at the moment."
"She is quite well, I assure you. But if you wish to be so blunt about it, then we very well shall. My daughter has thirty thousand pounds, as you've probably discovered through your own channels. Combined with your fortune, your family could do very well – "
"Money," he said, horrified but not surprised. "Is that all marriage is to you?"
"Of course not! Young men these days; so serious. My daughter is smitten with you."
"I can't imagine why."
"Perhaps you are more likeable than you believe yourself to be, George."
He didn't like this conversation. He didn't like being called by his Christian name and he had decided that he didn't like Mr. Habersham, to say nothing for his daughter. "With all due respect, Mr. Habersham, I thank you for a lovely evening, but I will be taking my leave now."
"Mr. Wickham! Surely the proposal – "
He stopped in the doorway. "A proposal is when I, after courting your daughter for some time after your permission, make her an offer of marriage of my own free will and desire. Not a meeting in a library. I apologize if I did not clarify that earlier, but now I believe we are on the same page. Good evening, Mr. Habersham."
His host had more to say, but he tuned it out. He encountered none other than Miss Habersham in the hallway and, never having gotten her Christian name, he bid her adieu in a way that meant it. The precise wording was lost on him later, because it was all a blur until he found Isabel, who thankfully was the only member of his family invited, and pulled her aside.
"George! What's wrong?"
"We're leaving," he said. "Can you please just do what I say?"
She nodded. She trusted him. And with no proper good-byes, they took their leave. It was still early, but there would be no going out. George retreated to his room in the Gracechurch Street house, slamming the door behind him, and began to pace. How could Mr. Habersham possibly – no! He didn't want to hear that name again. He wanted to strike it from his mind. He would. He tried.
But he just couldn't.
For the first time in recent memory, George pleaded illness to Isabel's next request and asked that she find another chaperone – even Mr. Bradley would do, if Mr. Bingley was not in town (he wasn't). She had been hesitant in the asking and so agreed. She even put up with it a second time. He did not leave his room, except to go to the clinic and watch people be cut up and then die. He watched it with a morbid fascination and then went home, washed himself, and climbed into bed long before he found sleep. Some nights he didn't find it at all.
When his schoolbooks failed him, he pulled out his old favorites, some of them worn from years of use. He was only a quarter into Malory's first book when there was a knock on the door. "Come."
Of course, it was Isabel. Neither of his parents had come near him in a week. She shut the door, and inquired as to his health, and then caught him on his series of obvious lies. She knew him too well, and it irritated him.
"What about that girl you liked? Miss Habersham – "
"I didn't like her!" he said. "She just wants my money."
"You talked to her."
"She's – " He broke off and put his hands over his head again. "Forget it."
"George."
"I said forget it!" he shouted, and Isabel stepped back. George never shouted. He seemed horrified at his outburst, and sunk further into the chair's cushions. "I apologize for my behavior."
"You do not have to apologize," she said softly, taking a seat on his bed. "Tell me what happened." Reassuringly she added, "You can tell me."
"We made conversation. To be fair, multiple times."
"You danced with her."
"Yes. I suppose that says something." He sighed. "But despite it, I came to my conclusions through conversation with her, and some very forward conversations with her father. While there may be some ... inherently good qualities in Miss Habersham, I do not want to spend the rest of my life with her. I didn't know how to tell her. I told her I was a Fellow. I told her I had no intention of leaving Cambridge before passing the Tripos exams. There were so many ways – " He buried his face in his hands again. "I can't do this, Izzy."
"You can. Your only fault is your poor esteem of yourself."
"I can't do these balls and these people when they look at me and wonder how much I'm worth and when I will be available– it's bad enough when they look at you. At least then I can stop them. Or try to look at them reasonably. But I can't – " He put his hands down and shook his head.
She put her hand over his, which was now desperately clutching the wooden arm of the chair. "Fine. We won't go to balls and I'll talk to Miss Hab – "
"There's no need. I can assure you, she will not be pursuing me any longer, and let us leave it at that."
She decided to. Whatever he had said, it was bad enough. "I'll retire for the winter. I'll go to Chesterton in December and stay with Emily and Lady Maddox."
His eyes seemed to glitter with hope. "You should not put yourself in a position – "
"George," she said, "your health is more important than my social calendar."
"It shouldn't be."
"Of course it should. You're my brother," she said. "But promise me you'll talk to Uncle Darcy."
"Uncle Darcy is busy enough."
"When has he ever been too busy for you?"
He just looked away, having no proper answer.
"At least talk to Dr. Maddox. As his student, you're obligated. And I doubt he's failed to notice it – "
"Why would you say that?"
"Because he's not blind," Isabel said, and then covered her mouth. "All right, he is blind, but you know – "
" – what was meant, yes," he said, cracking a weak smile. "I will talk to Dr. Maddox."
"Good." She hugged him. "You're my brother. You should not have to suffer."
"It is not your decision."
"I can at least try," she said, before turning on her heels and leaving him alone with his thoughts.
George waited until he was announced to invade Dr. Maddox's study. "Dr. Maddox."
"George. You're early," the doctor said, quietly dismissing his manservant, who had been reading him the paper when George entered. "Have a seat. My schedule is particularly quiet this morning. Did you breakfast?"
"I had something, yes."
"Good." The doctor sipped his coffee. "What brings you by?"
"I think you already know, Dr. Maddox."
The doctor set his cup down, stood up, and navigated his way to where George was sitting. He put his hand on George's forehead. "No fever, but your skin is rather clammy." He found George's hand. "Your hand is shaking. I assume you are not also covered with lesions?"
"No, sir."
"Hmm," was all the doctor said as he returned to his seat at the desk. Dr. Maddox was exceptionally good at getting around either of his houses without aid. "So. You've not been sleeping well."
"No."
"What about the sleeping brew?"
"I ... haven't been taking it."
Dr. Maddox didn't judge. Nothing about him looked judgmental. He was calm and relaxed in his chair. He didn't say anything.
George finally was too anxious and had to jump in, "I can't – I can't sleep with all of these thoughts in my head. Usually I can just dismiss them but – "
"But you won't take the brew."
"No. It is foolish. I cannot properly explain my actions, why I am so suspicious of it – "
"I can teach you the ingredients, if you wish to make it yourself," the doctor said. "But that is hardly the point, is it?"
"You treated my uncle, didn't you? After you returned from the Continent?"
Dr. Maddox sighed. "That was years ago, and the circumstances were different. In the years since then I've attempted to come to ... some understanding of it, but every psychical doctor says the same nonsense. The mind is still a riddle to us."
George looked down and wrung his hands.
"That said," the doctor continued, "I've always been one for empirical research, and it is my conclusion based on reading various case studies and – well, to be frank, watching your uncle – that there is usually an exacerbating incident immediately proceeding a rise in symptoms."
"And the treatments?"
"Hardly the issue, as it has been established that people always seem to get sicker when they apply them. Why I am the only one to come to this conclusion, I have no idea. That is why I restrict myself to the other organs, with which I have more success." He sighed. "With that said, how is the situation at home? And be assured, you may consider this a patient-doctor conversation, not a family question."
"Of course," George said, swallowing. "It's been – all right. I've contributed a bit to keep the place up, but I think it is fair, and Izzy doesn't want to leave because she loves the Bradley children, and Mother loves the help. All things considered, I think I am getting along quite well with my mother."
"Isabel and Emily are quite close," the doctor said. "They do appreciate your chaperoning them. There are balls and there are balls. You are not alone in your fears. Seventeen is not too young to be courted, but I dread the day a man comes to my door and asks my permission to court Emily. Or worse, does not ask my permission. These are the sorts of things that keep parents awake at night."
Instinctively, George nodded before answering, "I imagine."
"It is very hard to be a parent to a sister, or a brother. It ruined Brian for many years. I was such a handful in so many ways. I didn't envy him, but I understand it now a bit better than I did at the time. I am sure Darcy will tell you the same thing concerning Lady Kincaid." He continued, "You are doing an exemplary job. You should know that."
"Thank you."
"It does not mean it should fall to you, but for Isabel's sake, we are grateful. Now, that that's all said – have you written to Darcy?"
"Not yet."
"Have you written to Grégoire?"
"I – hadn't thought of it."
"You've never been out of England, have you? I hear the weather is very lovely in Ireland this time of year, and Grégoire has a place on the coast. Miss Bingley is there now, but you may want to write and see if they are up for more visitors. You know your uncle – he always is eager to see you. And your sister."
"Y-You don't mind? That I'm gone? I promised – "
"I managed without your wonderful assistance for many years, Mr. Wickham. I believe I can manage to do so for a few more months. Just be back by October."
He smiled, genuinely, for the first time in days. "I will."
Next Chapter – The Emerald Isle
