Escaping Shadows

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Georgiana Darcy clenched her hands to stop the trembling. She needed to steel herself to say the words.
Matters had progressed too far for her to change her mind, no matter how loud the voice inside her screamed helplessly that this was a mistake.
Outside the blacksmith’s shop the sun cast a golden hue over the cobblestoned streets, and a gentle breeze carried the sweet scent of blooming flowers, freshly cut grass, and the sound of horse drawn carriages. The scene starkly contrasted the cold shadowy corridors of Pemberley. She longed to run through the green hills and wildflowers, free like never before.
The anvil stared at Georgiana. A big heavy piece of metal that looked as though it had been thoroughly beaten in over the years. Behind it the bellows radiated thick heat that made the midday summer oppressive. Hammers, tongs, farming implements, pots, pans, and a plow were flung about the walls and floor.
The blacksmith, her anvil priest, wiped his hands off on his apron. He said, “It’ll be a guinea if you want me to officiate. And I’ll see the coin first.”
George Wickham stood next to her, grinning in his best green suit with a silk waistcoat. He was as handsome as ever.
An irregular marriage of this sort was valid in Scotland and recognized in England.
It was better to be a wife, even to a man like him, than a seduced and ruined girl. No matter how many times Georgiana said that to herself, she couldn’t really believe it.
Next to him stood Georgiana’s hired companion, Mrs. Younge. She smiled and pretended to dab at her eyes. Beside her stood the man who had turned out to be her not actually dead husband. Presently Mr. Younge was dressed respectably enough, in sober colors, and only the wolfish, predatory grin as he studied the tableau they made showed his vicious character. When they sat at nights in the common room of the inn, he cleaned his fingernails with a sharp knife, swore using words that Georgiana not only was not supposed to use, but often didn’t even have more than a vague idea of what they meant, and pinched the behinds of the serving maids.
He was the one who produced the coin for the blacksmith’s inspection, and then ceremoniously placed it down hard on the anvil with a metallic clank, next to a half-formed blade of what would be a pair of shears.
Finally, there was the blacksmith’s friend who would serve as their second Scottish witness. He leaned against the anvil and studied Georgiana with a leer.
Georgiana now understood that she had been deceived and trapped. Mrs. Younge had never been her friend.
They avoided speaking of her fortune when she was present, but despite that, somehow the subject of how the three of them planned to divide it up permeated every dinner, the rocking miles the carriage rattled down, and it was present in the way that Mr. Younge watched and studied George.
Georgiana had learned that Mr. Younge had provided the funds that allowed Wickham to present himself in the manner of a gentleman, despite the insufficiencies of his own purse.
In Ramsgate they made her sell her grandmother’s bracelet and the other jewelry that she’d had — but the bracelet was what she’d been fond of — to fund their galloping pace, changing horses at every other station. She’d cried about losing it for a half hour in the carriage, even though the pawnbroker had promised to hold on to it for at least a month, so they could redeem it after her brother had signed over her fortune to her new husband.
The blacksmith grunted after he grabbed the coin and stuck it into his heavy leather apron. “Well let’s get to it now. Get to it. I've got a bottle of wine I’ll sell you for two shillings afterwards, but we can’t lollygag all day. I’ve got an order to finish these shears. They’ll need two more heats.” He gestured at pieces of iron sitting next to the anvil.
Marrying before the blacksmith at Gretna Green, for all the slapdash and disreputable nature of the idea, held a forbidden romantic charm in the mind of every girl. It had not just been George’s blandishments — escape, she’d wanted escape from the enclosed, plushily appointed cage that was the life of “Miss Darcy.”
Gretna Green!
The blacksmith wasn’t even ugly. Just fat. Bald headed, middle aged, and with big sweat stains around the armpits of his shirt.
“By gad!” Mr. Younge prompted them, “As the fellow said, time is wasting. Wicky, you've got a wife to take.” He laughed obscenely. “But not that wine, we’ll sup at the public house.”
“Suit yourself,” was the indifferent reply of the blacksmith. “Tell them you’ve just married, they’ve special prices for new couples.” The blacksmith wiped his hands once more on his apron. He pulled out from a shelf on the side a worn and mildewed book. “Need a copy of your English prayer book for the oaths?”
Georgiana tottered forward to stand in front of the anvil, as though it were an altar, pushed by George.
George grimaced and pointed at the prayer book. “Is that necessary?”
“Not at all,” the blacksmith said. “So long as you both say that you are marrying by mutual consent, it is a valid marriage. I just keep it because some of you Sassenach like to use them. Especially the women.” He smiled at Georgiana, showing a surprisingly healthy set of white teeth. “Well, miss? The piece of paper in there marks the marriage vows.”
Georgiana’s eyes darted between the blacksmith and Wickham. Her voice cracked, and she said, “I’ll use the church vows.”
The man handed her the book, but Georgiana’s numb fingers didn’t quite catch the volume. It dropped and splayed out on the stone floor of the shop.
Rather than cursing her as she’d half expected him to, the blacksmith looked at Georgiana with concern in his eyes as he handed the book back to her. She didn’t open it again.
George laughed. “Damn it all. I was once supposed to be a churchman — dullest reading in the world. Swore never to touch one of those prayer books again. Well then, I, George Wickham, being of sound mind, body, and excellent spirits do declare that I am marrying Georgiana Darcy. And that happily.”
He put his arm around Georgiana’s waist and squeezed her, kissing her on the neck in a way that made her skin crawl. It held the promise of more of his intrusions into her body — intrusions which he would have the full right of religion and society to make. She would never again have the right to say him nay once she’d made her own oaths.
Georgiana nearly shouted for him to unhand her.
She should not marry him. She desperately did not want to marry Mr. Wickham.
She did not want to let these fortune hunters drink and feast upon what her father, rolling and writhing in his grave, had set aside for his most worthless daughter. But better this than facing the world with her virtue destroyed and no husband. And… there was some small part of her that yearned at any cost to break free from the unyielding rules that had ruled her life under her father’s hand.
“Georgie, little treasure, the man is waiting. Come on, say that you are marrying me.” George smiled at her. His charming expression was like fresh paint on a rotted ruin.
She wished that she’d been able to stop George from taking those liberties each night along the road. But now she was ruined, shamed, unable to ever show herself before society if she did not marry. That was one thing she had understood very well from the moment he rolled over and fell asleep after he’d finished with her the first time.
A woman who'd allowed herself to be seduced had to marry her seducer, or she would be the most despised object possible.
Georgiana had begged him not to take her. She’d told him that it was a sacred thing. They must wait to be actually married, that was what she had been taught, that was what her father would have expected, and that was… she told him. She said that she would not let him, and she tried to push him away. She begged him to stop. George, as you love me, wait till we are married!
He did not, and Georgiana had been too embarrassed to scream.
She’d felt a deep shame as he undressed her, and even though what followed mixed pleasure with the pain, she’d been unable to say another word.
Not that it would have mattered if she had mustered up the courage. They were staying in a house owned by Mr. Younge and there hadn’t been anyone in earshot who would have helped her.
Georgiana’s head spun wildly. Her vision returned to the present.
All through the windows and wide-open door she could see the small market town of Gretna Green. Rolling hills, green pastures, and fields dotted with sheep and cows. The countryside was in full bloom, with buttercups, bluebells and thistles creating a colorful tapestry. The world did not seem real. It was less real than that memory of Wickham’s gripping hands on her, his rough pulling aside of her dress.
Mrs. Younge sneered at her, as though she were enjoying a private joke.
Wickham prompted her again, and she thought there was a little anxiety in his voice. “Georgie, treasure.”
The blacksmith scowled at Wickham, and then said to her in a kind voice, “Miss, you need not. Not if you’ve changed your mind. I’ve a daughter of my own.”
Wickham started angrily, but Georgiana placed her hand on his arm. She started speaking from memory, her voice at last firm and clear. She tried to mean the words. “I, Georgiana Darcy, take thee, George Wickham, to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.”
It was then done.
Taking the prayer book back, the blacksmith congratulated her, “The little Miss — I mean Mrs. — quoted your English book of prayer to the point from memory.” He shook her hand. “I do hope you shall be happy. You must have always been very eager to marry to memorize it.” His hands had a black and sooty residue despite the way he’d wiped them off several times on his apron. The handshake left an oily residue on Georgiana’s fingers.
He then shook Mr. Wickham’s hand, and then Mr. and Mrs. Younge’s.
Following him, the other witness shook their hands.
Mrs. Younge once again dabbed at her eyes, pretending to wipe away tears that were obviously not there.
Mr. Wickham grabbed Georgiana and kissed her harshly, with little of the affection that he’d shown when he was courting her. He fondled her intimately, in front of them all, and then grabbed and kissed Mrs. Younge, shouting thanks to her for her aid in arranging his present happiness.
Mr. Younge clapped Wickham on the back, laughing. “You’ll not kiss my wife; not till you’ve delivered the ten thousand you owe me direct into my hands. Ten thousand!” He laughed. “What a fine haul. To the public house!”
They marched upwards.
Georgiana numbly followed as Wickham loudly spoke with his friends. Her hands still trembled. She glared at Mrs. Younge with loathing that the woman did not notice.
So that had been the price which Mrs. Younge had demanded: A third of her fortune.
But as they entered the pub one thought did come to Georgiana’s mind that made her at least a little happy: She no longer was Miss Darcy. She no longer had to perform at being that creature. Whatever pains would come now, at least they would be different pains.
She’d wanted for so long to be free, to have joy, to simply be able to pull up her skirts and run along a country road, jumping over stiles and stamping through puddles. At least Wickham would never berate her for laughing too loudly, running too fast, or simply being too passionately engrossed in a novel the way her father used to.
The pub had a sickly musty smell, and Georgiana could barely see in the dimness after the bright summer sun outside. Wickham and Younge cried out as one for the best whiskey and food, plenty of food. Younge demanded something called haggis, and the three of them made a merry party.
When she simply stood staring around, Georgiana was pushed by Wickham’s firm hand on her shoulder to sit down in a hard oak dining chair. She did so, hands folded together, not saying or doing anything.