“Georgie, we have been over this,” he sighed wearily. “The moment you step to the gravel, everyone at Pemberley will be looking to you as their authority. Of course, they will view you with sympathy, but you must assert your command of matters from the start, or it will be all the more difficult when you do wish to take up the reins.”
“But I know nothing of managing the estate! I only wish to retire to the places I love.”
“I know your experiences have not prepared you for this,” he answered gently. “None could have expected that such a duty would ever become yours, but you must rise to it. Those people waiting for you deserve no less than the very best you have to offer them.”
She snatched her gaze back out the window, her teeth set. “I never wanted to be in authority over anyone!”
“And that is precisely why you will succeed. You have not your own interests at heart. Think, Georgie, of all the good Fitzwilliam did with his power. Your influence may be no less benevolent.”
She made no response, but his careful scrutiny discerned some easing of her breath, a slight slackening of her clenched jaw. The house was within sight now, and in only a few more moments, he was descending the steps, then turning to assist her.
From within the carriage, her black-clad arm emerged and her gloved hand tremblingly clasped his. Her bowed head was then visible, and as she lifted it, her blue eyes rounded in terror. Arrayed up the steps of the house, on either side of her path, were all the household staff. All were dressed in their own fashion of mourning, according to their respective stations, and behind them, black shrouds darkened the windows of Pemberley.
Mr Jefferson, the steward, was the first to approach, flanked by the head butler and the housekeeper. “Miss Darcy,” he bowed humbly. “On behalf of Mr Hodges and Mrs Reynolds and the entire staff, may we express our sincerest condolences on the passing of the master.”
Georgiana’s frame began to shake violently, her eyes filling with tears. Perhaps in her imagination she had expected to flee quietly within the house, her presence unremarked by most. This gentle formality on the part of Pemberley’s staff was likely a slap to the face—a harsh reminder that the pinnacle of accountability for the entire estate had now fallen to herself, and she could no longer shelter behind Fitzwilliam Darcy. She managed a broken nod, biting her lips together to prevent an unseemly outburst, and Mrs Reynolds quickly took her in hand.
“Come, miss,” she comforted. “I’ve a nice hot bath drawn for you upstairs. There’s nothing like that after a long, cold journey.”
Georgiana was now looking over her shoulder at him in some bewilderment. “Where is Mrs Annesley?”
“Oh,” Mrs Reynolds cast a doubtful look toward Colonel Fitzwilliam as she shepherded her mistress toward the steps. “Perhaps that is a matter best left for later, Miss. Here is Sarah—come, let us see you to your rooms.” Georgiana meekly submitted to the motherly housekeeper and her upstairs maid—her shoulders bravely squared, but her chin trembling as she passed each familiar face.
Richard Fitzwilliam lifted a brow toward the steward. The man came and Richard spoke lowly, “What of Mrs Annesley? We have heard nothing of any indisposition. Miss Darcy was quite anticipating her company.”
“I believe, sir,” Mr Jefferson answered softly, “that she has been called away on some family crisis.”
“Family crisis? She had only a brother, as I recall from our first interview. What could be so important that it would call her away from her post?”
“I do not know the particulars, but she pleaded that the matter was one of some urgency, sir. She received the summons earlier in the week and believed she could return before Miss Darcy’s arrival. The fault is mine for providing for her journey, sir, but Mrs Annesley is a lady, and not answerable to me—”
“No, no,” Richard held up a hand. “I am sure you did right. She has always proved dependable, and Mr Darcy promised her that she might request any holidays she desired. It only seems strange that she would do so just now.”
“Indeed, sir. Colonel, if I may be so bold, three letters arrived for you this morning, and I took the liberty of sending them to your accustomed apartment. Also, I expected that you would wish to view the accounts and business correspondence of the estate. Shall I arrange for them to be brought to the study?”
“The study! Saints preserve me, but I dare not. No, the library shall suit.”
“Very well. I am at your disposal, at whatever time may suit.”
“Thank you, Jefferson.” Richard felt his chest freeze, contemplating the duty he himself was about to shoulder. Everything once in Darcy’s able care—how was he to oversee it all for Georgiana? He owed it to his cousins to try, but he would have greatly preferred to be once more astride his battle charger with a brace of pistols at his hip. Nevertheless, he gave the steward a quick nod. “I need little time to refresh myself. Perhaps we may meet in the library in an hour?”
“Very good, sir.” Jefferson bowed, and left to attend his duties. A footman approached, offering to show him to his apartment, but Richard waved him off. If there was one thing he did know, it was the location of the room he always took. His brow pricked as a new notion occurred to him. Georgiana’s things ought to be moved to the Mistress’ quarters—but not yet. Not until something had been done about the adjacent Master’s chamber and Darcy’s personal effects….
Richard closed his door and leaned against it. His head swam, and his stomach twisted nauseatingly. Were his hands shaking? How was it that he could stare fearlessly down the barrel of Boney’s cannons, with the dead and dying all about him, but the present civilian demands seemed too daunting? War was what he understood—war, and politics.
Unconsciously, he straightened his uniform front with a jerk. War was no more than his duty, he tried to counsel himself. His duty he would do, though his current post was a bewildering one. So reasoning, he made his way to the writing desk and the silver tray of letters.
The first letter was from his father—odd, since they had scarcely left Matlock House. The letter must have been sent in haste to arrive before them. Sighing reluctantly, he broke the seal.
Grosvenor St, 21 September
Richard,
I have received word at last from Darcy’s attorney here in London. It is as I believed; George Darcy’s will stipulated no more than that you and FD should retain guardianship of Georgiana upon his death, and that any further provisions were for FD to make. You were to have complete secondary charge of her in the event that FD should be incapacitated or deceased.
A careful search of all the late Darcy’s records and correspondence find no instance of any changes to that arrangement. The only alteration he made was one curious document regarding Georgiana’s settlement. The stipulations therein placed very heavy constraints on the release of her dowry, in case he should disapprove of her future husband. He seems to have issued this condition only a year and a half ago; a few months after she was taken from school, as I understand. In any case, this matters little, as the document named you as a secondary person of authority in that regard. Even were it not so, the entirety of Darcy’s fortune falls to Georgiana, therefore thirty thousand pounds seems hardly worth troubling ourselves about.
This is all excellent news, for it permits us to shield Georgiana properly and completely until her marriage. I know you find the duty a disagreeable business, my boy, but I think in time you shall overcome your discomfort. Georgiana will greatly depend upon you these months. In my experience, there is no surer way to a man’s heart than the trust of one who needs him, nor to a woman’s heart than the faithfulness of a protector. I trust you will make good use of your time at Pemberley.
Fondly,
JF
Richard groaned and tossed the letter aside. His father had an inarguable point—no one else could yet be relied upon to care so tenderly for Georgiana. It seemed scarcely possible that she might find one better suited to her fancy, in whom he co
uld trust utterly to preserve her best interests. Though the quest was a worthy undertaking, the chances of success seemed too slim to risk her heart on yet another rogue like Wickham. Could he, himself…?
An inner shudder tightened through his stomach. No! seemed to be his own heart’s vehement response. She was… why, she was everything sweet and delightful, but she was a child! Besides that, his were eyes that had seen too much of the horrors of the world for him to wish to impose his scars on one so innocent. He had expected never to marry, but if he did, the woman he chose would be… would be….
He swallowed. That hope was long gone, and there was no sense in mourning it.
Grimacing, he turned to the next letter. His eyes leapt wide in glad shock when he read the script. It was from an old correspondent in the Bow Street Runners, one who had many times proved his worth in clandestine affairs. He tore eagerly into it and flew over the words.
My dear sir,
My deepest condolences on your recent loss.
Regarding the matter of which you wrote, I have obtained some little information that might be of interest. Please advise how to proceed.
Richard turned the letter over, not truly expecting to find more. The man was always discreet and succinct, never penning a word or even a name that might be traced back under unfavourable circumstances. He was a spare, taciturn fellow, but extraordinarily well connected to London’s underbelly, and perfectly willing to take on private matters for one able to pay.
Perhaps he had at last unearthed details of Darcy’s attackers. Not that it would bring back his cousin, but Richard still burned with fury at the audacity of it all. Nobody murdered one of his family without bringing the wrath of Colonel Richard Andrew Fitzwilliam, and of every resource among his formidable connections!
He could not summon his investigator to Pemberley—no, it must be somewhere unremarkable, on the road to a large town where two men meeting quietly could not generate much interest. Nottingham or Leicester might do, though both were still too near Derby for his comfort. The outskirts of Birmingham seemed more promising, though it would mean leaving Georgiana alone for nearly a fortnight while he made the trip. To obtain the information that might avenge Darcy, however, was worth every inconvenience.
Richard took the seat at the writing desk and addressed himself at once to pen and paper—noting how well-stocked all the supplies were. It was yet one more innocuous reminder of the workings of that great house. And Georgiana and I must now manage it all. Oh, what he would give to exhume Fitzwilliam Darcy from the grave and demand some life-restoring miracle from the man’s Creator!
As he shifted the letter tray out of his writing space, the third and final letter caught his eye. He glanced at the seal, froze, and studied it again. It was from his aunt.
What could she want of him now? She had retired to Kent a few weeks prior, and had been remarkably silent in her correspondence. His toes beginning to curl in dread, he ripped open the letter, then let it fall in shock.
Lady Catherine was coming to Pemberley.
~
12 October, 1813
At Sea
The heavy wooden door groaned on iron hinges, swinging open to a flood of light. It was the first time it had done so in days—was it weeks? When was the last time he had seen a human face?
Twice daily a smaller door had opened and a hand had delivered food, but otherwise he had been entirely and maddeningly alone. In the dark. And at sea… he had never known sickness such as had plagued him those first days. With no proper horizon, no fresh air, and no means of orienting or bracing his body, he had endured most of the journey in a wretched indisposition.
The bucket placed in the corner of his fetid cell was wholly inadequate to the demands of his present affliction, and the entire chamber stank. He stank. Fitzwilliam Darcy, the gentleman of impeccable dignity and one of London’s most eligible bachelors, whose estate was the jewel of Derbyshire and whose family pride traced well over six hundred years of nobility, had been reduced to a displaced, nauseated, and thoroughly revolting example of humanity.
Two men entered through the blinding portal, speaking in low voices to one another. Darcy squinted, panting. He braced one hand beneath himself, preparing to rise, while the other shielded his weakened eyes from the sudden light behind the door. Just as he began to focus on the men’s faces, a trickle of sweat mixed with grime stung his eyes and he was obliged to wipe them before once more trying to identify his visitors. “Who are you?” he demanded in his best approximation of authority. “Why have I been brought here?”
Neither of the men answered him directly, but one of them bent low. His nose wrinkled in disgust, but his hand wrenched open Darcy’s jaw, inspecting his teeth as if he were a horse. With a briskness born of long practice, he next inspected Darcy’s hair, peeled back his eyelids, and lastly turned over each hand for a quick perusal of his fingers. Darcy flinched and writhed away with each new discourtesy, swatting and protesting the indignity of such treatment, but the quick little man was not troubled.
At last the stranger stepped back, gesturing plainly for him to rise. Darcy crouched hesitantly, sweeping his gaze up and down the pair. He was not entirely certain that such an act would not inspire another beating such as he had sustained upon boarding the ship. What could they want of him? Their appearance was not remarkable to his eyes, but there was something immediately foreign about their mannerisms, and the words the pair had exchanged sounded alien to his ears. Where the devil am I?
Long as he had been at sea, he might be halfway around the world—but no, there had been too many ports of call for the ship to have crossed the Pacific. Spain, then? Italy? The heavy, smothering air of his little chamber exchanged now for fresh air from the sea, and he hungrily sucked it in. Warm—not quite warm enough for a tropical port, he thought, but far more temperate than the crisp autumn air back home. Home!
A bitter shudder rent his being, and the anger surged once more. No man could feel loss more deeply than one who has lost much, and none had more to lose than he. His freedom and dignity as a man; his home, the pride of generations. He choked—his family—dear Georgie, and Richard, and his aunts and uncle… what did they think had become of him? Were any searching for him, or did they believe the worst?
Yet the deepest pang, the most crippling heartbreak of all that had been ripped from him, he reserved for the one thing that had never truly been his own. Elizabeth! his heart cried out in agony. Greater even than the deprivation of his worldly treasures had been the loss of his hope—the one energy that had driven and inspired him to prove worthy of all the others. Where once he had been a man with a dream for the future, now he knew not whether he would be permitted another day, nor what purpose he was destined to serve.
The man had grown impatient with Darcy’s reluctance to rise. He flicked a head to his companion, and the pair each took one of Darcy’s shoulders to force him to his feet. “Wait!” he cried, pushing them away. “I will stand on my own.” Yes, at least he would do that much! No man need assist Fitzwilliam Darcy to his feet.
His vow was not an easy one to keep. Weakened from poor food and illness, and disoriented by the piercing light revealing the space that had been his home for untold weeks, he was scarcely able to shift to his knees. Shakily he placed his right foot forward, but as he tried to push his weight into it and rock back to his other foot, his knee gave way and he dropped painfully to his backside. The change in posture had caused the blood to rush from his head, and all his vision was rocking, sickening field of blackness.
Grimacing, he made the attempt again, but the men had seen enough. The man who had looked him over turned to the other with angry words and gestures, pointing to his soiled clothing, his failing stature, and clearly demanding that something be done.
Darcy had spared little attention for the second man. In truth, his eyes had only just cleared somewhat, but now he could see that the second man wore some manner of seaman’s uni
form. Perhaps, then, this had been the man responsible for his well-being during the voyage, and had been found wanting in his duties. The seaman scurried out of the chamber, and Darcy heard him calling to his mates.
He shifted his attention back to the other man. “Who are you?” he asked again. “What do you want of me?”
The man reached to roughly pinch the flesh of Darcy’s shoulder, testing the tone of his muscles. Darcy swept angrily away. “Tell me who you are!” he thundered, earning himself a short coughing fit from his swollen throat.
The man stepped back and made eye contact at last. He smiled tightly and crossed his arms, then spoke in thickly affected tones. “My name is Pereira. You are Senhor Darcy, yes?”
Darcy rubbed his offended arm, staring suspiciously. “Where am I, and why am I here?”
“That is for my master to tell. Now, rise. You must come with me.”
“I certainly shall not.” Darcy rocked back and assumed the most disinterested pose a man in his position could possibly summon. “I am in no humour to be made to wait upon a man unknown to me, whose men slight me with such offences. Let him come to me, if he dares show his face.”
The man offered a faint chuckle of condescension. “I think, Senhor Darcy, you do not understand of whom you speak.” He turned his head sharply at the reentry of the other man. Returning to his native tongue, he gave quick instructions to the seaman. Before Darcy could react, a cold bucket of salt water doused over him.
He sputtered a moment, in equal parts insulted by the lack of courtesy to his person and refreshed by the shower. A second bucket was then placed at his side with a greasy rag floating upon the surface, and Darcy understood this would be his only hygienic provision. Glowering, he slowly took up the rag and meticulously cleaned his bristled face, his arms and torso, and then submerged his head to scrub his hair. When he turned his attention to his fingernails, his “host” finally lost patience. “Come now!” he insisted.
These Dreams: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 6