“Grandfather Bennet,” George said quietly, but he had to physically nudge him to rouse him. Mr. Bennet mumbled something and straightened his glasses so he could get a proper look at his intruder.
“George!” he said. His hair had been white for as long as George had known him, but it was even more wild, and his voice not as bold, though his tongue was not lessened by a senile brain. Mr. Edmund Bennet, of almost three quarters of a century in years, had a mind not dulled by time, even if his body was. “What a sight you are! I was not expecting you.”
“My arrival was sudden,” George said. “I was told to see if you’d fallen asleep in the library again.”
“There are certainly worse places to fall asleep than Pemberley’s library. Nonetheless, for the sake of my back and my neck, I ought perhaps to retire more properly.” With George’s considerable help, he got to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane. “My son is so good as to dismiss his servants when it is cold and dark. Too good perhaps, though not the worst quality in a man.”
As they left the library, they did quickly locate the servants, who were ready to escort Mr. Bennet to his chambers. “Good night, George.”
“Good night, Grandfather.”
George did not wander the darkened hallways of Pemberley, instead heading back up the stairs. In the children’s wing, he caught sight of Gawain, Geoffrey’s hound, curled up obediently outside the half-opened door. “Hello, Sir Gawain,” he said to the dog, who recognized him with a growl of approval. “What’s this?” he tugged the fabric out of the dog’s mouth with some fight.
“One of my socks, I’d imagine,” said Geoffrey Darcy, emerging in the doorway. He raised a glass to his cousin. “Mr. Wickham.”
“Mr. Darcy,” George replied, and they both chuckled before embracing.
“It is good to see you,” Geoffrey said, “for whatever reason you’re here. God, I haven’t spoken to anyone my age since I returned. Come in, if you’d like.”
George entered the impressive chambers of Geoffrey Darcy, heir to Pemberley. And impressive they were – this was just a sitting room, with a desk for writing and piles of old schoolbooks stuffed on the shelves. “Here,” Geoffrey said, offering a seat across from him at the writing table. “Would you like a drink?”
“Please.” He had already had the whiskey, but unlike his cousin, he could hold his liquor. Geoffrey poured him a glass of wine from his own little personal stock. “What about Charlie? Isn’t he around?”
“He’s been visiting his Aunt and Uncle Maddox since we returned from Eton,” he said. Charles Bingley the Third was one year younger than Geoffrey and a year behind in school. Geoffrey was finishing up his last year before Cambridge. “He came back today. Or yesterday, depending on the time.” He took a large sip of his wine. “So – what brings you to Derbyshire? Other than the complete lack of things to do.”
“You could go to Lambton.”
“And do what? Everyone knows me at Lambton. Everyone in the county knows me, or has at least heard of me. At least you – ” he broke off. “Well, I wouldn’t say your name would be unknown.”
“Father did have a bit of a reputation, or so I understand,” George said with a smile. He had made his peace with it years ago. No, he would not be making use of any of Lambton’s female offerings. His visit to the Darcys would be an exercise in celibacy. “What about your usual other half? Georgie?”
Geoffrey scowled and leaned back. “Georgie’s a – she’s a proper lady now. She’s different.”
“Really?”
“Really.” But when he saw George did not relent, he added, “She at least presents herself as one. So no, I do not know what she’s really planning. Even she won’t tell me. She came out to society; she does all of the ... proper lady things that ladies have to do ... and that is all. As far as anyone knows.”
So Geoffrey’s foul mood was fully explained. George nodded and did not offer further commentary. “So how is your family?”
“Fine, fine.” Geoffrey patted his hound on the head as he trotted up next to his owner. “Anne is rather eager to come out.”
“She’s young yet.”
“So Mother keeps reminding her. At least Anne has the sense not to mention it within earshot of Father, unless she wants to get his mood up. Which can, at times, be amusing. As far as he’s concerned, they’re all to nunneries.” Geoffrey paused. “What about Isabel? I heard she entered society in the fall.”
“After her fifteenth birthday, yes,” George said.
“Where is she now? She usually follows you everywhere. Are you intending to stay for Christmas?” He frowned. “Why are you here? Not that you’re unwelcome.”
“The story is rather long,” George said, “and depressing. If you want to hear it, more wine is definitely called for.”
Geoffrey, obviously starved for conversation with a peer, refilled George’s glass, then his own. Slowly but surely the whole tale came out. George was surprised by the ease with which he said it, even though he had already told it once to his Uncle Darcy under more trying circumstances and with less alcohol in his overtired system. He had saved his sister. He might have lost a term at Oxford but somehow, Uncle Darcy would make everything right. That was what he always did, and in a drink-induced haze, George believed it.
Geoffrey listened to the tale with compassion, saying little but always being supportive. It was really beyond either of their scopes to understand, and at the end he had to add, “Did you really say that to your own mother?”
George found himself smiling. “Unfortunately.”
“Called her a – ”
“Oh God, don’t say it. I never want to use that word again. I never want to hear that word again.” He emptied his glass again. “So here I am; tossed out of University, tossed out of my own home by my own mother, and drunk off cheap wine with my cousin because I have nowhere else to go and no one else to talk to.”
“This wine is anything but cheap!” Geoffrey said. “Don’t smudge the honor of Pemberley! But seriously – you have money, education, a family – all right, an extended family – that will take care of you, and you saved your sister from the worst kind of disaster a woman can befall. Your lot’s not that bad.”
George smiled tiredly. “I suppose you’re right.”
Chapter 2 – Fashion in Chatton House
Charles Bingley, forty one years of age, was finding himself to be less an early riser than he used to be. Jane was already gone when he rose that winter morning. With nothing pressing on his schedule while his business partner was abroad, he yawned luxuriously and washed his face before thinking about preparing for the day. He was still toweling his face when he heard the scream.
With less alarm than he supposed he should have had, he put on his slippers and padded out of his chambers and down the corridor, still wearing his orange kurta. The source of the noise was a collection of women’s shrieks, but all he saw in the corridor was his monkey. Bingley put his hands over his ears and looked at Monkey, who screamed at him. “Monkey! Kinasi!” The animal obediently leapt up onto the railing and then his shoulder. “At least someone in this house listens to me,” he mumbled, and with his ears still covered, he peeked into his eldest daughter’s chambers.
“Papa!” It was not his oldest daughter, but his youngest, Eliza, who emerged and curtseyed to her father. “Did we wake you?”
“Of course you woke me! You probably woke half the house! What in heaven’s name is going on?”
“That is precisely what I want to know!” said his beloved Jane, appearing behind his daughter. She was about as angry as Jane Bingley was capable of getting, which was admittedly not that angry, but a frightening prospect nonetheless. “Georgiana! Do you want to explain yourself?”
“Papa, you can come in,” came Georgiana Bingley’s voice, completely even and not exhausted, so she at least had not been howling. The occupants of the room were the three women, though one was still a girl, and a terrified maid.
Georgia
na Bingley, now seventeen, was sitting before her mirror, though she rose to curtsey to her father. A robe covered her bedclothes, and she looked as she normally did. The only thing missing was her long hair, which was for the most part on the floor beside her, the scissors still in her hand. “Papa,” she said respectfully, as if nothing was amiss and she was not missing most of her long locks, normally so carefully braided and put up.
Bingley paused, not quite sure what to say to his daughter at this moment, as Monkey leapt off his shoulders and into her arms. At last he said, “It seems I am a bit behind on women’s fashions.”
“A bit!” Jane cried, clearly disturbed by the whole incident. “Georgiana, would you like to explain to your father what you refuse to explain to me?”
“I did explain it to you,” Georgie said rather unapologetically. “I cut off my hair because I was sick of putting it up. I fail to see what’s hard to understand about that.”
“Well, normally – ” Then realizing there was no need to tell Georgiana what was normal behavior for someone of her age and stature, as she knew it thoroughly and clearly had no plans to abide completely by those strictures, he broke off, and started laughing.
“Charles!” Jane said.
“I’m sorry but – well, look at her.” He didn’t like Jane’s glare, but he could hardly hold himself back. “I think we should view it positively – she did stop short of cutting it all off.”
“Papa!” Eliza said. “She looks like a boy!”
Georgiana sneered at her sister.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Eliza. That’s hardly a respectable haircut for a man. And in that area I do actually have some experience.” He knew he was in a precarious position between his wife and daughter, but knew no good way to traverse it. “Well, there’s nothing we can do about it now. You can’t glue it back on.” He approached his eldest daughter. “I can have my man neaten up the sides a bit, I suppose. Oh, and you’re confined to your room.”
“Papa!”
“You can’t possibly expect me to do otherwise.” Nonetheless, the victory went to Georgiana, as no one could reverse what she’d done, and it would be very hard to find a wig that matched her own hair color. With a nervous glance to his wife, Bingley sighed and left the chambers to prepare for the rest of the day.
*****************************************
The Darcy breakfast table had undergone changes in the years, not so much in the wood itself but those present. Between Darcy at one end and Elizabeth at the other sat their two eldest children. Geoffrey Darcy was officially of age to be at the table, and Anne, who was still a child, was old enough to sit beside them and begin learning proper table manners when there were no guests. Mr. Bennet had taken residency at Pemberley since the death of Mrs. Bennet and the closing of Longbourn. Occasionally he went to Chatton House, only three miles away, but he was a homebody to the most extreme and generally liked to sleep under the same roof every night, and Darcy was happy to accommodate his father-in-law. Sarah and Cassandra Darcy were still young enough to take their own meal in the nursery.
Mr. Bennet noticed that there was another absence, however. “Am I not mistaken, Mr. Darcy, in thinking that I saw a visage of George Wickham last night when I feel asleep in the library?”
“You are not mistaken,” Darcy said. “He has just come from a long journey and if he is not yet awake, I honestly cannot say I blame him.”
“Is he staying with us for Christmas?” Anne said. “What about Izzy? Is she coming, too?”
“That is yet to be settled,” said Elizabeth. Nothing could in fact be settled until their guest rose, but it was likely that at least he would be staying through the New Year. “Geoffrey! What did we say about feeding Gawain at the table?”
“He’s not at the table,” Geoffrey said, returning the hand that had fed a strip of bacon to his hound to the table. “He’s beneath it.”
Mr. Bennet chuckled. “He has a point.”
“Papa!” But Elizabeth could neither get that angry with her father nor strict with her son when her husband was not in the mood to be. Darcy clearly had other things on his mind, no doubt all involving Wickham, and he let the incident pass without notice.
At least until Gawain, denied further scraps from his master, came to his side, sniffing at the master of Pemberley’s knee.
“Don’t come to me.”
“But Papa,” Anne said, “you feed him all the time when Geoffrey’s at school!”
Now it was Geoffrey’s turn to laugh triumphantly, though he had to muffle it after a stern look from his father.
Elizabeth frowned at her son but said, “You will learn, Anne, that sometimes your father does not always do the right thing and is given to moments of sentimentality after having lost his own dogs many years ago. Nonetheless, the general rule stands.”
“You had dogs? What happened to them?”
“They died,” he said. “Animals do not live as long as humans, for the most part.”
“What about monkeys? How long do they live?”
“Too long,” Darcy answered in the precise voice that made conversation – at least on that topic – cease.
*****************************************
When breakfast had passed and there was still no sign of George, Darcy ordered a tray brought up for his nephew. When it came back with only the coffee touched, he went himself to see George, only to find him coughing and sneezing over his wash bin. George attempted to apologize for his absence at breakfast, but Darcy hushed him and went back downstairs to call for a doctor, finding Elizabeth already awaiting him in his study. “He has a cold,” he said. “Not all that surprising.”
“I was going to write to Lydia,” Elizabeth said, dismissing the servants, who closed the door behind them so the Darcys could have privacy, “but perhaps you should write to Mr. Bradley.” She paced as he sat down and pulled out his ink and pen. “If George is ill, then you could inquire if his sister would like to visit him during his convalescence.”
“I don’t think Mrs. Bradley will much care for the idea.”
“But at least now we have the excuse of illness. Not that I would ordinarily choose to make strategic use of someone’s illness, but I think George would be more settled if Isabel was within more capable hands.”
They had the same thoughts about Elizabeth’s sister and the way she handled her own children; the nasty words did not need repeating. They had been spoken enough last night. “She may not wish to leave her mother, and drive a further wedge in the family.”
“Then only suggest it, and let her come to her own decision. Or maybe Mr. Bradley will have the good sense to make it for her.” Elizabeth paused in her pacing. “Darcy, if it is too great a burden to ask that we house Isabel indefinitely – ”
“If it comes to that,” he said, “and I will try to see that it does not, it is not a burden. Besides, it would be unfair to extend the offer to George and not to his sister, who is younger and in even more need of guidance.”
Elizabeth leaned over and kissed him. “You are too good to your family.”
“You are complaining?” he said with his patented smirk. “Besides, I only must write Mr. Bradley. You must write Mrs. Bradley.”
“And Jane! That should be done first. Or, after the doctor comes. How sick is he?”
“About as much as I would expect of a man who rode to Scotland, then to Town, then to Derbyshire without much break between stops. In December. But he has no fever and I think he will manage. The doctor is just a precaution.” He rose, and kissed her on the cheek. “We will manage. Somehow.”
*****************************************
It was nearly an hour later that Geoffrey Darcy and Gawain appeared at the door to Chatton House. Normally the walk did not take him an hour, but the inch of snow on the ground and the frigid temperatures made travel a bit more difficult.
“Master Geoffrey!” said the doorman as he entered, and the servants rushed to attend to the flushed and sniff
ling young man.
“I have a letter for Mrs. Bingley,” he explained to the doorman as his outer layers were removed. “Gawain, sit!” The dog obeyed so his paws could be wiped dry before he would proceed further into the house.
Mrs. Bingley quickly appeared. “Geoffrey! What are you doing out in the cold?”
He bowed. “Aunt Bingley.” He handed her a letter. He did not have to explain who it was from. The Darcy seal and his mother’s handwriting made it obvious enough. “Gawain needed a walk anyway. Everyone’s getting a bit restless, being inside all the time.”
“I know. What an awful winter to have, if December has been any indication,” she said. “Is something wrong? Is everyone well?”
“Yes,” he said, “except Cousin George, who came in late last night and has a cold. It’s all in the letter, I imagine.”
She nodded. “Please sit down and catch your breath, Geoffrey. And you are welcome to stay as long as you please if there is nothing pressing at Pemberley. Charlie is, I believe, in one of the drawing rooms.”
He bowed to her again and she excused herself to read her letter. He found Charlie easily enough – he was bickering (if one could consider it bickering) with his younger brother Edmund outside the library. Whatever it was, conversation ceased when Geoffrey approached. “Charlie. Edmund.”
Edmund nodded to his cousin and ran off, leaving him alone with Charlie.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Charles Bingley the Third said with a sweet, completely unconvincing smile.
“What did she do?”
“You always assume the worst of Georgie.”
“That’s because I’ve known her all my life,” he said with a smile. “So? Aside from George’s arrival, this may be the most interesting thing to happen all week.”
“George is here?”
“Yes, he came in last night. But don’t try and change the subject.”
The Knights of Derbyshire Page 2