by Anna Elliott
Friday 20 May 1814
If the writing of this entry looks like a drunken, ink-covered spider has wandered over my pages, it’s because my hands haven’t entirely stopped shaking yet.
George Wickham is here. Here at Pemberley, I mean.
A part of me had always been bracing myself for having to see him again sometime. Because after all, he is married to Elizabeth’s sister.
But Elizabeth always said that she would never have Lydia or Wickham here at Pemberley. For one thing, she would not be answerable for what my brother might do if Wickham ever set foot on the grounds again. And for another, Elizabeth said she would be far too tempted to shake Lydia until her teeth rattled.
Wickham is here, now, though. And I do not think that anything could have prepared me for the shock of seeing him again.
Mr. Folliet, Anne, and I had just finished our morning’s practice in the music room and were crossing the foyer to the breakfast room for the morning meal. I was happy, too, because Anne really is doing quite well with the dancing. She smiled and laughed and talked to Mr. Folliet as they danced today—and afterwards she said she was starving and wasn’t it breakfast time yet? That is another change in her: the last day or two, I’ve noticed at table that she has actually eaten her meals instead of only picking listlessly at the food.
At any rate, just as we were passing my brother’s study, the door opened and George Wickham stepped out.
I was so shocked I stopped dead and Anne bumped into me from behind. I could not move. I felt as though I had been forcibly detached from my body and was watching myself from a long way off as George said, with a faint echo of his old, charming smile, “Ah, Georgiana. How delightful to see you again.”
He even tried to take my hand and kiss it, but I recovered myself in time to yank it back before he could raise it to his lips.
He has changed. Not ‘so much that I wouldn’t have recognised him,’ as they always say in novels; nothing so dramatic as that. But he has changed very much. He was wearing his army uniform, red coat and tan breeches. But where he was once muscular and broad-shouldered, he’s grown paunchy. His corn-coloured hair is now thinning on top, and his face has grown puffy, with lines of dissolution about his eyes and mouth.
I think he had been drinking, despite the early hour, for he reeled back shakily when I pulled my hand away and had to steady himself against the wall, shaking his head as though to clear it.
I think he might have said more, but my brother appeared in the doorway behind Wickham.
Fitzwilliam does not often lose his temper. All the time I was growing up, I do not think I ever heard him raise his voice; when he is very angry, he gets cold and quiet rather than loud.
He was very angry this morning. Not that it showed much, save in the tight line of his jaw. “We have an understanding,” he said, very softly to Wickham. “Now get out of my house.”
Wickham wobbled unsteadily around to face him. “You might have put that more amiably, Darcy, old friend. Yes, indeed you might. A man less generous-spirited than myself might be inclined to take offence at your tone. However”—he drew himself up with a little swagger and replaced his black officer’s hat on his head—“however, to demonstrate the perfect amiability which I hope will mark all our future relations, I shall do as you ask. Georgiana,”—he made me a bow—“I hope to see you soon again.”
Saturday 21 May 1814
If George Wickham’s arrival is what the old gypsy woman meant all those nights ago by telling me an old love would return, I feel at the moment as though I could ride alone into their encampment and demand a refund of the coins I paid her. Or tell her that she is in need of spectacles for her second sight, or whatever it is she calls her powers.
I am a little surprised that my hands are not shaking again as I write this, for what happened today was worse than merely seeing George Wickham again. But my hands are quite steady, strangely enough.
It is seven o’clock in the evening, and I am dressed for the masquerade ball as a queen: a long red velvet cloak for a royal robe and a crown of primroses in my hair. The costume did not take long to put on, so I have a few minutes to sit down at my bedroom table and write this.
Today I woke early and went out alone into the garden before breakfast. It was a beautiful day, with the warmth almost of summer in the air, and I’d taken my sketching book outside to draw in the garden. I had barely begun to pencil in the outlines of my picture—I was going to draw the rose trellis, just breaking into a tumble of blooms—when a shadow fell across my page.
I was expecting Elizabeth—or maybe Mr. Folliet, since I had seen him come outside a little while before. But when I looked up, it was George Wickham I saw standing over me. I gasped and drew back instinctively, and an unpleasant smile tightened the edges of his mouth. “Ah, I see. Too proud to associate with me now, Georgiana?” he said. “I remember a time when you liked me well enough. That summer at Ramsgate? You weren’t so high and mighty in your tastes, then. Now you’ve set your sights towards grander things, though, eh? The son of your father’s steward isn’t good enough for you?”
He had been drinking again. He was leaning over me, and I could smell the liquor on his breath. It was like a nightmare repetition of Sir John’s proposal, almost. But worse—much worse—because as much changed as Wickham was, I could still feel myself slipping and sliding backwards in time as I looked at him. Not towards falling in love or infatuation with him, I don’t mean that. But sliding back into being that girl I was three years ago, the one who had been so lacking in confidence, so much afraid of issuing a refusal, that she had been intimidated nearly into an elopement.
I stood up and said, as steadily as I could, “I assure you, Mr. Wickham, that your parentage never did concern me in the least. And if you were a son of the King himself, now, I would still not wish to have any further acquaintance with you. Please, leave me.”
Wickham swayed unsteadily and then lurched forwards, towards me. I tried to step back, but he seized hold of my wrist, his eyes focusing blearily on my face.
It was then I realised he was even more intoxicated than I had thought. Far more so than Sir John had been. I had never been around real drunkenness before, and a prickle of cold fear started to spread outwards all through me. The rose garden is some little distance from the house, and I didn’t see another soul anywhere close by; I was not even sure anyone would hear me if I screamed.
“A little bird told me you were likely to be soon engaged—and to an earl’s grandson,” Wickham went on.
He must have meant Mr. Folliet, of course. There are no other earls’ grandsons staying at Pemberley. But before I could deny it or ask where Wickham could have heard such a rumour, his grip tightened and his fingers dug into my arm. “But it’s not going to happen. The old earl’s not going to want his grandson marrying a baggage who was on the brink of marriage to me, a lowly steward’s son.” Wickham shook his head and then leaned forward confidingly. “Been having some money troubles, you see. Cards haven’t been lucky for me of late—not lucky at all. And my lovely wife”—his mouth twisted on the word—“likes spending money, you know. That’s when I hit on this scheme. Get your brother to pay me for my silence. I wrote him—but he didn’t send the money as I asked. So I came on here to Pemberley. After all, I ought to be paid something. You owe me. You and your brother both.” His lips were almost touching my ear. “Never breathed a word to anyone about our little love affair, Georgiana. Never a word that might sully your reputation.”
I felt as though I had been kicked in the stomach. My whole body flashed cold, and I could not seem to draw in a full breath. And then a red-hot wave of anger seemed to spread all through me. I could almost feel it hissing through my veins. Because of course I realised now what that letter to my brother had really contained. And where Edward had actually gone.
Miraculously, though, I was not frightened any longer. I jerked my arm out of Wickham’s grasp, then put both hands on his chest and sho
ved as hard as I could.
If he had not been so far gone in drunkenness, I would never have managed to make him fall. But as it was, he was so unsteady on his feet that my push sent him over backwards, sprawling and crashing down onto one of the rose bushes.
Wickham was roaring and swearing—I’m sure the thorns were scratching him very painfully indeed—and thrashing around, trying to get up. But I did not wait to see whether he would manage it, or even look back. I was already on my way up to the house and my brother’s study.
Edward was there, too; he and Fitzwilliam were speaking together and they both started and looked round when I flung open the door. Edward was in dusty and sweat-stained riding gear. He must have been tracking George Wickham ever since he left, and only this morning traced Wickham back to Pemberley. But at that moment, I was too angry to feel surprise at his presence or even care that he had returned.
“Georgiana, what—” my brother began. He looked alarmed, but I would not let him finish.
“It was a lie,” I said. “About old Mr. Merryweather’s son. He never abandoned his regiment at all. George Wickham tried to blackmail you, and you sent Edward to deal with him. And you never told me!”
Fitzwilliam and Edward exchanged a look. Then my brother said, “I thought only to spare you the pain of—”
But I interrupted him again. “You should have told me! No matter how painful it might have been. I am not a child. And the matter concerns me—it is my reputation Wickham is threatening. And I had to hear it from him instead of from my own brother!”
Fitzwilliam’s face darkened at that. “Wickham is here?” He sounded as close to losing his temper as I have ever heard him.
“Yes, in the garden, I—”
Edward was already gone, striding past me out the study door. I’m sure on his way to the garden and Wickham. But he did not even glance at me as he passed. His shoulders were set and a muscle was jumping in the line of his jaw.
“Georgiana, please let me—” my brother began as the door closed behind Edward.
But all at once I didn’t want to hear any more. Couldn’t bear to hear any more, actually. I could feel a hot press of tears behind my eyes and a lump in my throat—and that would have been the final, impossible humiliation, if I had broken down then and there and sobbed like a child.
I turned and ran out of the study. Ran up the stairs and to my bedroom, shut and locked the door. I did think for a moment about throwing myself on the bed and indulging in a fit of tears. But it would have been just as childish to cry in private as in my brother’s study.
So I made myself draw a long, slow breath, splashed water from the washbasin on my face, and then went to Anne’s room and went in without bothering to knock.
Anne was lying on the chaise—her mother always insists on her lying down for a rest in the middle of the day—wearing a silk dressing gown and with a little satin pillow filled with lavender seeds resting over her eyes.
“We are going to the masquerade ball tonight,” I said.
Anne started up. The lavender scented pillow slid to the floor with a soft thump. Anne blinked at me. “Georgiana, what in the world—”
If I had been in a better temper, I might have found the number of speakers I seemed to be interrupting in mid-sentence a little funny. As it was, I did not care about that, either.
“The masquerade ball,” I said. “The one at the Lambton assembly rooms that Mr. Folliet spoke of. We are both going to attend.”
Anne’s hands went nervously to the neck of her dressing gown. “Georgiana, I couldn’t possibly attend … I mean to say, a function of that kind … my mother would be so angry if I went—”
“Yes,” I agreed. “I’m sure she will be very angry indeed if you attend. And if you don’t attend, you can turn thirty years of age secure in the knowledge that you never once made your mother angry by following your own wishes or living your own life. But apart from that, I don’t see what is to be gained by always doing exactly as she says.”
Anne’s mouth formed a perfect round O at my tone. But she didn’t speak.
I do love my brother. He is all the close family I have, and everything that is kind and good in an elder brother. I do wish he had told me of Wickham’s threats. Though now that I have had time to think, I cannot say that I entirely blame him for failing to do so—he is my guardian, as well as my brother. Charged by our father to see to my protection. I know he meant for the best, and to spare me pain.
It’s not really him I was—am—so angry with, but rather myself. For so very nearly being swayed and intimidated into an elopement with Wickham. For not asking my brother for the truth in the first place when I suspected he was lying about where Edward had gone. For not standing up to my Aunt de Bourgh and being afraid of refusing Sir John Huntington and …
I suppose that that is really why I have been so determined to help my cousin Anne. Because, apart from the fact that her mother is Lady Catherine de Bourgh, she and I are in so many ways exactly the same.
“There are some old pantomime costumes and gowns of my mother’s stored upstairs in the old nursery rooms,” I told Anne before she could say any more. “We can surely find something in the way of masquerade attire for both of us.”
I am not sure even now whether Anne truly wanted to find masquerade costumes, or whether she simply thought I had taken leave of my senses and ought to be humoured. But she did come upstairs with me. The nursery rooms have not been used since I was small, of course, and they have turned into an attic of sorts where all the old or broken or disused things are kept. Old-fashioned, heavily carved wardrobes and dressers. A broken spinning wheel. Hat boxes and an old wooden cradle that I remember using as a bed for my dolls.
Some of my old dolls were actually still sitting on the shelves, and the ball and Bilbo cups my mother and I used to play with.
And pushed up against one of the gable windows were a couple of trunks with pantomime costumes and old clothes. There was no dust—Mrs. Reynolds is far too thorough a housekeeper for that. And all the clothes were packed with cedar blocks to keep the moths away.
Anne and I set to looking through them all. And if Anne had come upstairs just to humour me, she soon began to enjoy herself. It’s been years since we had any pantomimes or dressing up at Pemberley, so I had not seen the old things in ages. Papier-mâché masks, painted in silver and gold. Spanish lace shawls. A blue velvet doublet, the sleeves slashed with red satin. A black domino costume: hooded cape with an attached black mask.
It took some time for us to find something that would fit Anne, she is so very thin and small. But finally in the bottom of one of the trunks, I came across an old-fashioned, long-waisted gown in buttercup yellow satin with inset panels of white satin trimmed with tiny pink flowers. I think it must have belonged to a very young girl, for it looked as though it would fit Anne exactly.
“Look, Anne!” I held the dress up for her to see. “It’s perfect—it might have been made for you.”
I could see Anne wavering again as she studied the dress. “What would I be meant to be?”
“You can be a shepherdess,” I said. “We’ll fix your hair in curls and find you a crook.” I turned up the hem of the yellow gown. “There’s enough fabric here in the facing to trim a bonnet—you can borrow one of mine, if you like. I’ve a white straw that would look well with this yellow. And you can wear this mask.” I held up one of the eye masks, a white one with little spangles of gold set over the brows.
Anne hesitated. But her fingers were already moving almost of their own accord to stroke the full skirt of the gown. It was beautiful: the elbow-length sleeves trimmed with three flounces of lace and the neck and bodice ruffled with lace, besides.
“You could at least try it on,” I told Anne. “Look, there’s an old mirror over there in the corner. And you’re still wearing your dressing gown. We can see how it looks on you right here.”
I helped her into the gown, tying the laces, doing up the dozens o
f tiny hooks that attached the bodice to the skirt. Then I stepped back and drew in my breath. That sounds silly, but I really did, the change in Anne’s appearance was so complete.
Anne looked at me nervously. “How do I look?” she asked.
“Come and see for yourself.” I tugged her to the mirror.
Anne turned this way and that in front of the glass, just staring at her own reflection. “I look—” she finally said.
“Lovely,” I finished for her. The buttery yellow just suited her, bringing out the blue of her eyes and the sheen of her hair. “You have to agree to come to the masquerade now, Anne. You can’t possibly let this dress go to waste, lying in a trunk up here.”
Anne looked at her reflection another moment. Then she nodded with sudden decision. “All right,” she said. “I will come.” And then she smiled and looked down at her feet, nearly hidden by the skirts of the gown. “You’ll have to help me hem this, though. I’m uncertain enough of my dancing without worrying the entire evening that I’m going to trip on my own costume.”
I did help her hem it. The waist had to be taken in just a little, as well, so we brought the gown down to my room to make the alterations. We have been working all afternoon, except that I ducked downstairs to where Mr. Folliet was playing billiards—or rather practising on his own in the game room—and enlisted his help in getting Mr. Carter to the masquerade as well. Properly masked and attired, Mr. Folliet promised me. And at my request he said that he would invite Caroline, as well.
But apart from that, I have been upstairs with Anne all day. The alterations to the yellow gown took us until just an hour ago—hence the relative simplicity of my own costume—because I was terrified of spoiling the silk with uneven stitches. And I did not dare call in any of the maids to help us; I was worried that if any of the servants knew, word would get back to Aunt de Bourgh, and my aunt would bully Anne into giving up on going to the masquerade after all.
Now, though, the hemming is finished, my bonnet is trimmed with a length of the yellow silk and a bunch of pink silk flowers, besides, and I have sent Anne off to her own room to dress. I helped her to curl her hair, and I have even persuaded her to wear a pair of my silk stockings instead of her usual woollen ones. We are to meet Mr. Folliet and Mr. Carter downstairs in twenty minutes time. I only hope—
I had to stop writing just now. Someone knocked at my door—and my heart tried to jump up into my throat at the sound, for fear it was Aunt de Bourgh. But it was only Elizabeth. She had come, she said, to ask whether I would slap my brother’s cheeks if he tried to apologise again.
“I would never—” I began, shocked, and Elizabeth laughed.
“No, I know you wouldn’t, Georgiana. You’re too sweet-tempered by half, as I said before. But—” she studied my face. “Your brother really does wish to apologise again. Will you forgive him? He would have come himself, but he didn’t wish to upset you any more.”
“Did you know of Wickham’s attempts at blackmail?” I asked her.
Elizabeth shook her head. “No. I … I did suspect that something was troubling your brother. But no more than that.” She paused and then said, “Your brother is very reserved. Though he is your own brother, so I’m surely telling you nothing you do not already know as well as I. You and he are very much alike, really. Of course, I’m sure you know that already, as well. He is”—Elizabeth smiled a little—“learning to share his worries. But I don’t like to push him too much, either. Even a married man deserves his privacy, surely. So, no. I didn’t know about Wickham’s letter to him. If I had, I would have told Darcy that in my opinion, you ought to be informed of the matter. But—“she trailed off, then said, a flicker of worry in her dark eyes, “are you still angry with him, Georgiana? I hope you’ll speak to him yourself and accept his apology.” Elizabeth smiled again. “I never had a brother. Though I should have liked one. But I think it’s likely difficult for any elder brother to accept that his younger sister has all of a sudden grown up.”
“I know. And I am not angry with him,” I told her. I truly was not. There was a strange burning, scraping feeling inside my chest. There is yet. But it wasn’t—isn’t—directed at my brother. At least I do not think it is.
Am I still angry with myself? Maybe. I suppose I must be. Or Edward?
But I had better finish writing this, or it will be time for me to leave before I’ve done.
Elizabeth let out a breath of relief. “I’m so glad.” And then she seemed to take in my velvet cloak and crown of flowers for the first time. “But why are you wearing fancy dress?” she asked.
I explained about Anne and the masquerade ball—and when I had finished, Elizabeth clapped her hands over her mouth to keep from laughing. The worry had gone from her eyes. “You’ve actually managed to persuade Anne to attend a masquerade? You must be either a miracle worker or a witch,” she said. “But how are you planning to get her out of the house?”
“That’s just it,” I admitted. “I’m afraid if Anne sees her mother before we leave, she won’t have the courage to go at all. My aunt will realise Anne is missing when she’s not here for dinner, of course. But by then it will be too late for her to do anything. It’s only keeping Aunt de Bourgh from seeing us get into the carriage that’s the real trouble.”
“Never mind.” A touch of mischief crept into Elizabeth’s smile. “I believe I am about to have an urgent need for Lady Catherine’s opinion on some new shelves I was thinking of having installed in one of the closets. In a room far, far at the back of the house.”
“Oh, thank you!” I did not doubt that would keep my aunt occupied. “And please, will you tell my brother I’m not angry and will see him tomorrow? I imagine you will have retired for the night by the time we’ve returned.”
“Of course I’ll tell him.” Elizabeth hugged me. “And I hope you have a splendid, wonderful time at the ball.”
And now the little clock on my mantle is showing the hour, so I had better stop writing and go down to meet the others. Elizabeth has gone already to distract my aunt, so I hope we will indeed be able to get Anne away in secret.
All that remains is to see what kind of a time we have at the masquerade.
Monday 23 May 1814
I had not thought I would be picking up this diary again tonight, directly we returned from the ball. But I can’t sleep. And neither can I face the thought of lying in bed and staring up at the ceiling, counting the minutes as they slip by.
So I am writing instead, curled up on the window seat. I suppose Mrs. Reynolds will be appalled when she sees how many candles I have gone through these last weeks.
In fact, I only need one word to answer my earlier question of what sort of time we had at the ball: Horrible.
No, actually, that is not fair. Anne and Mr. Carter certainly enjoyed themselves. Mr. Folliet may have, too, save for being punched in the jaw.
Thanks to Elizabeth, we did manage to leave the house without being seen by Aunt de Bourgh. Anne was nervous and kept tugging at the strings of her (my) bonnet. But she looked truly exquisite—she really did—in the yellow gown, with colour in her cheeks and golden curls framing her face.
Mr. Folliet met us in the hall. He had asked Mrs. Reynolds for help with a costume, he told me. And she had found him a grenadier’s uniform that once belonged to her uncle, who fought in the war with the American colonies. The red coat, with its blue velvet facing on the lapels and gleaming brass buttons, did smell rather of the moth balls Mrs. Reynolds keeps it in—but it fit Mr. Folliet beautifully. And he wore a powdered wig and a black three-cornered hat, as well, to complete the costume.
Caroline was feeling ill and had declined coming. But true to his word, Mr. Folliet had somehow persuaded Mr. Carter to attend. And had got him into a costume, too, of a kind: a black friar’s robe, with a rope belt and a heavy wooden cross worn around his neck.
When he saw Anne, Mr. Carter’s jaw did not drop open and he did not stare, exactly. He just went ver
y still. And then he crossed to Anne and took her hand and said, without even stammering, “You look beautiful, Miss de Bourgh.”
The assembly rooms had been decorated for the dance, all draped in garlands of flowers. There were ice sculptures on the supper tables, and the candles in the chandeliers overhead shone.
There were crowds of people already there when we arrived, all masked and costumed as we were. Harlequins and Columbines. Gypsy maidens. Crusader knights and Egyptian queens and Red Riding Hoods.
There was dancing, of course. When we arrived, the musicians had already begun to play. At first I was nervous for Anne’s sake—I could not help but watch her, afraid that she would trip or have some mischance during one of the figures. But she did amazingly well. Mr. Folliet partnered her for the first two dances, and led her through just as they’d been practising and I think that bolstered her confidence. I rather lost track of her after that, but every time I caught a glimpse of her she was smiling or laughing. And I did see her dance with Mr. Carter at least three times. And she went into the supper room with him, besides.
That was when it happened. I was dancing with Mr. Folliet and had just seen Anne and Mr. Carter go in to supper when I suddenly began to feel faint.
I suppose it served me right for pretending to feel dizzy with Edward the night of the Herrons’ party. I had lied about faintness then, so I was struck with it in truth now. For the first time in my life, too; I never faint as a rule.
But—I suddenly realised as my vision tilted and the room began to swim about me—between George Wickham’s appearance before breakfast and then working on Anne’s costume all the afternoon, I had entirely forgotten to have anything to eat all day.
Mr. Folliet was everything attentive and kind. I could not face the thought of all the noise and crowd in the supper room, so he brought me downstairs to the level of the street and out into the open air.
The coachmen and other servants were having their own supper and party in the yard outside the assembly rooms. Some of the laughter and singing floated out towards us, but apart from that, the street was quiet. There was a bench, between two of the trees that lined the road on either side, and Mr. Folliet led me there.
My head cleared and I felt very much better once I had sat down, and once I had assured Mr. Folliet that I was not ill, only thirsty and hungry, he went and fetched us both plates from the supper room. Roast chicken and cold ham and pickles and gooseberry fool.
“In short,” Mr. Folliet said, “an array of every dish that looked as though I could carry it without staining Mrs. Reynolds’s uncle’s coat. I promised her I’d have it back to her in pristine condition at the end of the night.”
He spoke with a flash of his usual smile. But he was quiet all the time we were eating. Our bench was a little distance away from the lanterns that lighted the doors to the assembly room, so the shadows were too thick to see his face clearly. But I could feel him watching me. And then when we had both finished, he seemed to hesitate, then said, “Miss Darcy, may I ask you something?”
I felt a qualm about my heart at that, for fear he was going to propose. I do like him very much. But I don’t love him at all.
Of course, my aunt would say that is no reason whatsoever to refuse a man’s proposal. Marriage has little or nothing to do with love.
Maybe at one time I even might have been persuaded—not exactly to agree, but at least to accept a marriage based on liking or respect rather than love. But not after seeing Elizabeth and my brother together. I may sometimes feel lonely, seeing the two of them so happy in each other. But it would be lonelier still to know that I had lost my chance at that kind of happiness forever by marrying a man I did not love.
All that flashed through my mind in an instant—the fear that Mr. Folliet might propose, the sickness that swept through me at the thought of having to decline. I felt much worse just at the thought of it than I did actually refusing Sir John. Because I do like Mr. Folliet so much.
If he was planning to propose, though, he never got the chance. I’d barely nodded in answer to his question when all at once he was yanked to his feet and then sent reeling backwards by a hard punch full in the face.
“I thought I told you to stay away from her, you little swine!”
It was Edward’s voice, low and rough with anger, and Edward’s lean, broad-shouldered form that appeared out of the shadows to strike Mr. Folliet on the jaw. But the whole was so unbelievable that I thought for a moment that this was some fresh hallucination from going all day without food.
I roused myself to jump up, though, and caught hold of Edward’s arm before he could strike Mr. Folliet again. “Edward, stop it!” I cried. “What in the world do you think you’re doing?”
“You know his character, Georgiana.” It was too dark to see much of Edward’s face, either. But his voice sounded as though he bit the words off from between clenched teeth, and the muscles of his arm were iron hard, taut and quivering under my grip. “Or you ought to, by now. What on earth possessed you to meet him out here—”
I was still so stunned that my thoughts felt like the jolting movements of a clockwork toy. But still, realisation dawned. In the dark, all that Edward—or anyone—would be able to distinguish of the uniform was the red coat. The same shade of red still used on the uniforms of the army regulars.
The same thought had evidently struck Mr. Folliet. Or part of the same thought, at least, for so far as I know, he knows nothing about George Wickham. His lower lip was bleeding from Edward’s blow; he had been thrown backwards, closer to the lighted lantern posts, and I could see the trickle of blood on his jaw.
He had one hand clamped over his mouth, muffling his words, but he said—very politely, considering that he had just been punched by a bare acquaintance and entirely without provocation—“Is it possible you may have mistaken me for someone else?”
Edward stared at him. His mouth dropped open and his throat worked as though he were trying to speak, but no words emerged. I might have found it comical under any other circumstances. But as it was, I was far too furious.
“You actually thought I would be idiot enough to meet with George Wickham, alone and at night?” I demanded. “And what are you doing here, Edward? Were you following me?”
I heard Edward draw one hissing breath through his teeth, then another. He didn’t look at me, but said, to Mr. Folliet, “My most sincere apologies, sir. I did indeed mistake you for someone else. If there’s anything I can do—”
Mr. Folliet had found a handkerchief and pressed it to his bleeding lip, but he waved the apology away with his free hand. “Nothing, save perhaps explain to Mrs. Reynolds for me why there is blood on her uncle’s coat. I don’t think I can stand being struck in the face twice in the same night.”
The rigid line of Edward’s shoulders relaxed. “Done. Though I will let you in on the secret that Mrs. Reynolds’s bark is a good deal worse than her bite.” He put out his hand. “I really do apologise, Mr. Folliet. Though that sounds very inadequate, I know.” He let out a ragged breath and raked a hand through his hair. “I feel as though I ought to let you strike me in the face in return.”
Mr. Folliet accepted the hand Edward offered and they shook. “Nothing so drastic is necessary, I assure you. Besides”—Mr. Folliet was looking at me—“I rather imagine the score may be evened on my behalf, and sooner than you think, if Miss Darcy here has anything to say.”
He stepped back before Edward could respond. “And now I ought to leave you and go in search of some cold water to use on these bloodstains. Mrs. Reynolds may accept my apology more readily if I can assure her that I did everything possible to keep the stains from becoming set.”
He vanished inside, and Edward turned to me. “Georgiana, I—”
I interrupted. Mr. Folliet was perfectly right. Just then I was feeling angry enough to strike Edward across the face. “You were following me. And you actually had so low an opinion of my good sense as to believe that
I would come out here with George Wickham alone. As though I would be naive enough ever to trust him again—especially after the threats he made to my brother!”
Edward passed a hand across his forehead. “I heard from Elizabeth that you had come here, to a public assembly. I was … concerned that Wickham would try to approach you again. So I decided to come after you, yes. And as for your other charge—you were fond of Wickham, at one time.”
I could hear him struggling to speak patiently—which only made me angrier still. I felt as though acid were eating outwards from the hot, clenched space in my chest. “Yes, perhaps—before I knew his true character! But I’m not a child anymore to be won over by an amiable word and a charming smile—however much you and my brother persist in treating me as one!”
Dark as it was, I saw Edward’s jaw clench. “And yet I did find you out here, unchaperoned, and in the company of an unmarried man. You seem, still, to have small care for the harm such behaviour may do your reputation.”
“We were in full view of three dozen serving women and coachmen!” I gestured across to where the servants’ party was still going on in the carriage yard. “On a public street. And Mr. Folliet behaved as a perfect gentleman.”
“That’s not the point.” Edward’s voice still sounded tight and stiff. “If word of this got round, people might still say—”
“Oh, yes, people might certainly talk!” All of a sudden, the hot, tight space inside my chest had cracked wide open. I hadn’t even realised how angry I was until I felt the words spilling out. “Because I’m a woman. If I were a man, I might visit every house of ill-repute in London, keep a dozen or more mistresses on a string—and the world would slap me on the back and cheer me on. It’s true, isn’t it?” I took a step towards Edward. “Can you look me in the eyes and tell me that you have never—”
“Georgiana!” Edward rubbed a hand across the back of his neck and then went on in a quieter tone. “Good God, how do you even—”
“Know of such things? I told you, I’m not a child. I have lived in London ever since I left school; I know what goes on. And I know that merely because I’m a woman, the merest whisper of a rumour that I might almost have eloped with the son of my father’s steward and my reputation would be forever ruined. No gentleman—not even one of those who does keep a dozen mistresses and spends his nights in the brothels, besides—would consent to have me for a wife.”
“I never claimed that it was fair. Only that it is true.” Edward cleared his throat, then went on in the same quiet tone. “And as your guardian, Georgiana, I am responsible for pointing out the way of the world, however unjust it may be.” He cleared his throat again. “Are you—that is, are you and Mr. Folliet likely to become engaged?”
His face was an austere mask in the shadows; lantern light gleamed like metal on the lines of his temple and jaw. His voice, too, was all but expressionless, impersonal and polite.
And all at once my throat ached and for the second time today I felt my eyes stinging. “I am sure that as my guardian, you would greatly prefer it if I were. You would be spared all worry of what damage tonight might do my reputation. And be spared having to ride out after George Wickham again, besides.”
I managed to get the words out without my voice shaking. But I could not trust myself anymore. I turned and ran back inside the door to the assembly rooms. I heard Edward calling after me, but I did not stop. And Edward did not follow me inside.
Tuesday 24 May 1814
Elizabeth is going to have a baby!
I am so happy for her. Her and my brother, both.
It was completely by accident that I found out. Well, accident and eavesdropping. Though I truly did not mean to overhear.
Despite going to bed so late last night, I woke early and could not fall back to sleep. And I was afraid that if I stayed in the house, I might meet with Edward.
So I went out for a walk before breakfast—and happened on M. de La Courcelle, of all people, walking in the garden with Aunt de Bourgh. I suppose he must have come to see Caroline and met my aunt as he approached the house. At least for Caroline’s sake I hope he came here to see her.
I have been wondering whether there has been some quarrel or trouble between them, because Caroline has been looking even paler than Elizabeth these last few days. It is not just her declining to come to the ball last night. And unlike Elizabeth, she seems no better in the afternoons and evenings.
At any rate, M. de La Courcelle must have offered Aunt de Bourgh his arm, because her hand rested on his bent elbow. They were strolling together past the lilac bushes that grow by the south wing of the house, and as they came near, I heard M. de La Courcelle say, “Ah, but this scent, it reminds me always of my grand-mère the duchesse. She grew lilacs always at her chateaux in Aix.”
They hadn’t seen me yet; I was partially screened by the bushes. And all at once, I absolutely couldn’t face the thought of M. de La Courcelle’s hand-kissing. Or my aunt’s anger.
I am not such a fool as to think I can indefinitely postpone the inevitable tirade of reproaches for bringing Anne to the masquerade. And maybe I’m gaining courage—or at least not such a coward as I used to be—because I do not seem to dread it as much as I might once have done. But all the same, this morning, every word of Edward’s polite, As your guardian, I am responsible for pointing out the way of the world, speech felt as though they were still being driven into my ears like spikes. And I just couldn’t stand the thought of meeting M. de La Courcelle and Aunt de Bourgh, as well.
I stepped quickly backwards, towards the house, and then blindly ducked through the first open door I came to. It was the French door in Elizabeth’s own little parlour, as it happened, where she sits to write letters or sew on her own. I had come up behind the heavy length of velvet curtain that keeps drafts from the door out of the room—and I was just about to push the draperies aside when I heard voices and realised Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam were alone together. Or had been until I’d come.
It was the tone of their voices that made me stop and stand, frozen.
“A baby?” my brother said. He sounded stunned. “Truly?”
“It has been known to happen.” Elizabeth was laughing, but there was a little quaver as of tears, as well. “Are you happy about it, then? I didn’t want to tell you until I was sure.”
And my brother said, “Happy?” There was a soft rustle of fabric, and I knew he’d pulled her close to him. “Do you have the faintest idea how much I love you?”
The laughter was entirely gone from Elizabeth’s voice as she whispered, “Oh, but I do.”
I stepped back as softly and slowly as I possibly could, back out into the garden and pulled the door closed behind me. And then—counting the doors, this time—I found the music room and went inside.
Elizabeth found me there a little while later. Her cheeks were still flushed and her eyes were bright—and she had come to tell me properly, so really it did not make so much difference that I had overheard.
“Aunt Georgiana,” Elizabeth said when she had given me the news—and I must have pretended surprise enough, because she did not seem to notice anything amiss.
“Yes, Aunt Georgiana,” I repeated. “It sounds terribly old and proper, doesn’t it? I’ll have to make sure my behaviour sets a proper auntly example from here on. Maybe Aunt de Bourgh can give me lessons.”
And Elizabeth laughed and said, “Don’t even think it! And actually I’ve far more confidence in the thought of you as an aunt than me as a mother. I’m afraid I’m not nearly sober or serious enough for the responsibility.”
“You needn’t worry,” I told her. “My own mother was never sober or serious—I loved that in her.”
Elizabeth’s smile faded, and she put her hand on my arm. “Georgiana, I—”
But I shook my head. “No, don’t spoil such a happy day.” I hugged her. “I am so very glad for you, Elizabeth.”
I truly am.
I think I’ll go
find Anne and drag her out with me to visit the village poor again. Before I bump into Edward in the hall or the library or the drawing room.
I have not seen him yet today, but I cannot hope to avoid him forever—the house isn’t that large.
Later …
I have an hour before dinner to write this. I feel so sick with guilt, I think I have to.
I did persuade Anne to come out with me this afternoon. Actually, it did not take any persuading on my part at all. She came quite readily. And she even brought several shillings in her reticule on purpose to give to old Mrs. Tate for the hawthorn berry tonic Mrs. Tate had promised her.
Mrs. Tate tried to give some of the money back, saying that it was too much, but Anne would not hear of it. “Oh, but this is just payment in advance on any future bottles you make for me,” she said. She held up the bottle of murky-grey liquid Mrs. Tate had given her and said, without even a tremor of irony in her voice, “I have no doubt I’ll be wanting more.”
Mrs. Tate was so pleased. She’s promised Anne that she will have her glowin’ like a rose in full bloom before a month has gone by.
Anne thanked her—and waited until we were well out of sight of Mrs. Tate’s cottage before she emptied the tonic bottle into a bush.
She asked whether she ought to take some first—just so that she could tell Mrs. Tate she had tried the tonic without telling a lie.
“Not unless you’re tired of living—or at the very least, hoping to spend the rest of the day in bed with stomach pains,” I told her. And we both laughed.
And then, quite suddenly, Anne started to cry. It was not at all like when I found her sobbing in the music room. She cried very quietly, this time, without any noise. Just the tears rolling down her cheeks under the brim of her bonnet.
“Anne, what is it?” I asked her.
We were walking up the lane to where we’d left Jem and the barouche. There was rain a few nights ago, and the road to Mrs. Tate’s had been too deep in mud for Jem to risk the wheels getting stuck.
Anne wiped the tears away with the back of her gloved hand. “What is it?” She let out a sound that was half ragged breath, half choking laugh. “It’s Mr. Carter, that’s what it is.”
“Mr. Carter? But didn’t you have an agreeable time with him at the masquerade last night? I thought that you’d—”
“I did.” Anne swallowed and brushed at her eyes again. “It was lovely. It was”—her voice was suddenly almost fierce—“it was the loveliest night I have ever had in my entire life. That is just the trouble.” She looked up at me. “Can you see my mother ever in a thousand years agreeing to my marrying Mr. Carter?”
That brought me up so sharply it was like a slap in the face. I had been so entirely focused on drawing Anne out of her shell—and so pleased that Mr. Carter seemed truly to like her—that I had not thought through to what the ending was likely to be. Anne was perfectly right. Aunt de Bourgh would never consent to her daughter’s marrying a penniless clergyman. To be perfectly fair to my aunt, it’s not just her—I doubt many earls’ daughters would let their own daughters marry men in Mr. Carter’s situation in life.
“I do have my own money,” Anne went on. “My father left it to me. But I can’t have it until I marry—and only then if my mother gives her consent to the match.” Her lips twisted bitterly. “You can well imagine my mother insisted that my father include that clause in his will.”
I said, “You’re of age. You could marry Mr. Carter without your mother’s consent. So long as you were willing to be poor.”
Anne heard the doubt in my voice. She gave me a brief, fractured twist of a smile. “You may not believe me, Georgiana, but I would be willing to be poor, actually. It’s not so simple as that, though. John—Mr. Carter—has no parish of his own. He’s only holding his present vicarage—it’s one within the gift of Sir Hugh Annesley, in Kent—until Sir Hugh’s second son is old enough to take it. Which the boy will be next year. And then John will have no living at all, nor even anywhere to live. And if I married him, don’t you think my mother would use every scrap of influence she had to ensure that no one ever would invest him with his own vicarage?”
“Surely not,” I said. “You’re her own daughter. She might be angry at first, but she’d—”
“She doesn’t love me, you know.” Anne’s voice was clogged with crying but quite matter-of-fact. “I’m a great disappointment to her. I think she would have liked a daughter who was spirited and bold. Like your brother’s wife Elizabeth, actually. But I’m not and never have been—and she punishes me by telling me I’m ill all the time. If I disappointed her in who I married, too, she’d be far too angry to ever forgive me. She would sooner see me starve than wedded to a man she disapproved of.” Anne brushed at her cheeks. “If I married Mr. Carter, I’d ruin his life. I’m not going to do that to him.”
“Does Mr. Carter … does he care for you, too?”
“I think so.” Anne swallowed. “He said—or at least hinted—as much. But he said he was in no position to make any declarations of love. That is how I know of his situation with regards his vicarage. He was very … very honourable. He told me that with nothing, not even a home, to offer a wife, he couldn’t insult any woman he truly cared for by telling her how he felt. ”
Anne wasn’t crying anymore, only staring straight ahead, her eyes fixed and unblinking. “So he’ll leave Pemberley in another two weeks’ time. And I’ll go back to Rosings with my mother. And I’ll never see him again.”
That is why I feel so sick with guilt now. I meant to help Anne—but I have succeeded only in making life worse than ever for her.
Mr. Carter is probably the first man who has ever really talked to Anne. It’s no wonder she fell in love with him. I remember how I felt about George Wickham.
But if it had not been for me, Anne never would have begun to care for Mr. Carter. Or maybe she would, a little, but only in so far as to admire him from a distance. She wouldn’t have spoken to him or danced with him—or heard him make guarded, doomed declarations of love.
It must be far worse, I think, to lose all hope of freedom when you have been given just a taste. If it weren’t for me, Anne would never really have known what she was missing in living so constantly under her mother’s thumb.
It is my fault that she is so unhappy now. And I can’t see any way of setting matters straight again.
Later still …
I seem to keep putting this diary down and then picking it back up again today. But I forgot to say that I spoke to my brother, in between coming back from my outing with Anne and going upstairs to dress for dinner.
He apologised—again—for keeping Wickham’s demands from me. And I told him I had long since forgiven him—and hugged him and said how happy I was about Elizabeth’s and his expectations.
And then I told him that I wanted him to promise me that he would not pay Wickham anything more. That it was my error, and that it was intolerable that he should be the one who had to pay for it.
“Your error?” Fitzwilliam shook his head. The line of his mouth had tightened. “Mine, rather. I should have protected you from him. I could have made his true character known to you much earlier. And I should certainly not have left you in the charge of Mrs. Younge.”
“When I was ten, you were left to be father and mother to me, both,” I told him. “And without warning. You can’t blame yourself for having been unprepared for the role. And you’ll have to learn to let children make their own mistakes, or your future son or daughter will turn your hair snow white before you’re five-and-thirty.”
Fitzwilliam smiled at that.
“But I’m not ten any longer,” I said. “Nor yet fifteen, to be alternately dazzled and frightened into an elopement. I do know my own mind—and I have thought long and hard about my decision. I truly do not wish you to pay Wickham one single farthing more. Let him spread what rumours of me he likes. I won’t have us living our whole lives afraid of him, constan
tly bowing to his demands. For if you pay him now, you can’t imagine he won’t be back for more, when he’s run through his current funds.”
My brother looked at me, long and hard. I could see him wishing to refuse and forcing himself not to. At last he said, “You do realise the damage that may be done by Wickham’s speaking out?”
“You mean that my reputation will be blemished,” I said. “I do know it. But not—at least I hope not—in the eyes of anyone who truly knows my character. And as for marriage—I wouldn’t want to marry any man who was frightened off by mere rumour, from the mouth of someone like George Wickham. I would not wish to marry anyone who would not at least give me the chance to explain the truth of what happened at Ramsgate.”
I could see my brother stopping himself from interrupting again, and I pressed forward. “If you heard anything to Elizabeth’s discredit—wouldn’t you ask her yourself without letting it alter your opinion of her in the slightest? I know how much you love her—how could I not, living with the two of you for this past year? Can you suppose I would wish to marry a man who did not feel the same about me?”
My brother let out his breath. Slowly, he nodded his head. “It’s hard for me to agree to what you ask. Hard for me not to wish to shield you from the consequences of what I still blame myself for. But if that’s truly what you wish—”
“It is.” I felt my chest expand with the force of the relief that filled me. I took a breath, then asked, “And will you tell me what’s become of Wickham now?”
Fitzwilliam seemed to hesitate. But then he said, “Edward found Wickham in the garden where you’d left him. He didn’t tell me exactly what had passed between them, but”—a grim smile touched the edges of my brother’s mouth. “But I rather think Edward gave Wickham a lesson in good manners that he won’t forget in a hurry. And that, I think, will make him hesitate to intrude on the grounds of Pemberley again.”
I didn’t—I still don’t—entirely like the idea of Edward’s thrashing Wickham for my sake. As though I were the helpless princess in a children’s fairy tale, who cannot take care of herself without the prince riding to her rescue.
But I have to admit that I am relieved, too, if Edward has truly frightened Wickham off, because it means I need not face him again.
Fitzwilliam paused, then said, with studied casualness, “You’ve been in the company of Mr. Folliet a good deal of late.”
“Oh, not you, too!” I told him. “I’ve heard the same from Elizabeth—and Edward, as well!”
My brother laughed. “I’m still your elder brother. It’s my job to keep a stern eye on all possible suitors for your hand.”
“I like Mr. Folliet—I like him very much. But I’m not … I mean, I don’t—”
“All right.” My brother held up his hands. “I’ll spare you any further interrogation. Just promise me that if you do decide in favour of someone, you’ll tell me about it?”
“I promise.” I hugged him again.
“And don’t be too angry with Edward for what happened last night,” my brother added. “He meant for the best.”
My head jerked up. “Edward told you? That he’d—”
“Punched poor Folliet in the face? He did. He came home and demanded strong drink to help rid him of the memory,” my brother said.
I don’t know why it should bother me that Edward repeated everything of last night’s events to my brother. But there’s still a prickling feeling like anger running to the tips of my fingers at the thought.
Is it the thought of Edward coming home to discuss me with my brother? As though I truly were the helpless princess in a tower—or a little girl?
I’m not sure.
I managed not to see Edward at all today, except at dinner, where the only words I had to speak to him were “thank you” when he passed me the salt.
Thursday 26 May 1814
I can truly say that I have never, ever been more surprised or shocked in my entire life. There is really no way of working up to this, so I will just write it straight out:
Aunt de Bourgh is engaged to be married to M. de La Courcelle.
Even seeing it here, in ink on my page, I can scarcely believe it. I’m sitting here in the window seat of the morning room, half-expecting the letters to dissolve and rearrange themselves on the page into some other words entirely.
But it is true. We had just finished with breakfast when M. de La Courcelle’s arrival was announced. He came into the room, and Aunt de Bourgh rose to meet him, gave him her hand, and then turned to us all and said she had an announcement to make: she and M. de La Courcelle were going to be married.
There was a moment of absolute, stunned silence from all of us sitting around the table.
M. de La Courcelle appeared to notice nothing amiss, though. He only pressed Aunt de Bourgh’s hand to his lips and said that she did him more honour than he could say, and that truly, today he was the happiest of men.
My brother was the first to recover himself. He rose from his place at the head of the table and went to kiss Aunt de Bourgh’s cheek and offer his congratulations. There was a stiffness in his manner, I think, when he turned to offer M. de La Courcelle his hand. But he did shake with him. And he responded perfectly politely when M. de La Courcelle put his hand over his heart and promised “on my life, to cherish your beloved aunt as she so richly deserves.”
I was watching M. de La Courcelle, because I was so very surprised after the attentions he had paid to Caroline. I kept searching for a look of consciousness, a flicker of guilt or regret or something. There was nothing to be seen, though. M. de La Courcelle looked just as always: handsome, suave, very polished and self-assured. His snowy-white neck cloth falling in precise folds over his chest. His boots polished to a mirror sheen. His dark hair curling over his aristocratic brow.
And my aunt looked?
I can’t entirely put into words how Aunt de Bourgh looked. Happy? Perhaps she was. I mean, whatever I may think of the match, I do hope she is happy in her engagement to M. de La Courcelle.
Maybe it is only because I cannot remember ever seeing my aunt really happy that triumphant seems a better word to describe how she looked. Triumphant and proud as she stood there, her arm resting on M. de La Courcelle’s arm.
The two of them went out shortly after, in my aunt’s carriage. They were to drive into Lambton, so Aunt de Bourgh said, to dispatch a notice to the Times, so that an announcement of the engagement might be made in next week’s papers.
Caroline stumbled up from her place at table and rushed blindly out of the room almost the instant M. de La Courcelle and my aunt were gone. Poor Caroline. However much I may have resented her in the past, I am so sorry for her now.
To lose my brother to Elizabeth was bad enough. But to lose M. de La Courcelle to Aunt de Bourgh—
Caroline sat as though frozen, just staring at them all the while Aunt de Bourgh was making her announcement. But I was sitting next to her, and so saw how tightly her hands were clenched in her lap, and that her whole body was shivering as though she were using all her will not to move or cry out.
Anne looked every bit as stunned as I felt. Not upset or unhappy, I don’t think—just utterly surprised. She turned to Mr. Carter, who was sitting beside her, and said, “John—” and Mr. Carter murmured something I did not hear and took her hands and led her out.
Mr. Folliet rose, too, and bowed and said something about realising that our family might like time to speak together alone, without the presence of outsiders. Which was very perceptive and thoughtful of him. My brother nodded and thanked him. And when Mr. Folliet had gone, it was only Fitzwilliam, Elizabeth, Edward, and me left in the breakfast room.
Edward was the first to speak. “He’s a bloody French fortune hunter,” he said. “He has to be.”
No one contradicted him. It is terrible to say, perhaps, but I do not think any of us imagined for a moment that M. de La Courcelle might truly care for Aunt de Bourg
h.
My brother rubbed the place between his eyes as though it ached. “Of course he is. And there’s no mystery about why he should want to marry Aunt de Bourgh. As wealthy as she is, and as great an estate as she has? What confounds my mind is how she can possibly have been taken in by a smooth, oily, sycophantic little swine like him.”
Elizabeth’s mouth curved just a little at that. “So, then, what do you really think of him?” Her brief smile faded, though, and she put a hand on my brother’s arm. “You’re not thinking. To whom did your aunt last bestow her patronage? Mr. Collins—as toadying and sycophantic a man as ever opened his mouth. Simply because he knew how best to flatter and fawn on her. Lady Catherine de Bourgh has spent the whole of her life frightening and intimidating people and making them resent and fear her. What does she know of true, sincere love? I doubt anyone has ever loved her in her life. Setting yourself up as Queen of the Castle—as your aunt has done—doesn’t just make one proud and unreasonable and tyrannical. It makes one terribly vulnerable, as well.”
There was a moment’s silence, and then Edward said, turning to my brother, “Is there anything to be done, do you think?”
My brother’s brows drew together, but he slowly shook his head. “I don’t believe so. What can we do? We could try to discover more about M. de La Courcelle. But the war in France makes such inquiries next to impossible. And besides, even if we learned anything to the man’s discredit, what good would it do? Would Aunt de Bourgh listen to either of us? I doubt it. If she’s already gone to post an announcement to the Times, she won’t turn back now—whatever we learned about M. de La Courcelle. Breaking the engagement would mean admitting publicly that she’d made a mistake. She’d never bring herself to do that.”
I had to leave off writing just now. Mr. Folliet came into the morning room to ask whether there was anything he could do to be of assistance. He even offered to move to the Lambton Inn—or leave the neighbourhood entirely, if our family wished to be alone at this time.
But I told him of course he need not go. As my brother said, what is done is done. And Aunt de Bourgh should be free to marry whomever she chooses.
Mr. Folliet studied me a moment, then sat down on the window seat beside me. “You know,” he said, “I’d a great uncle—my grandfather’s brother—who reached the age of seventy, still a crusted and cantankerous old bachelor. And then suddenly announced he was going to marry his housekeeper, a woman of five-and-thirty.”
“And what happened?” I asked.
Mr. Folliet shrugged. “His heirs were furious, of course, because the old boy was immensely rich and the thought of all that inheritance going to a servant instead of to them…”
“Were you angry, as well?” I asked.
“Me?” Mr. Folliet looked surprised. “I’ve enough of an income to satisfy my wants—I don’t begrudge my uncle’s housekeeper a chance at what must have seemed an impossibly large fortune to her. And you know, they were quite happy together, after a fashion. Mrs. Hastings—that was the woman’s name—took very good care of my uncle. Nursed him devotedly during his last illness. And she proved to have a surprisingly good head for business—she’s done a fine job of managing his estates ever since he died.”
I know what Mr. Folliet meant to imply—that my aunt’s marriage to M. de La Courcelle may turn out all right after all. It was very good of him.
Mr. Folliet is gone—he had some letters to write, so he said.
I’d meant to go into the music room and practice the pianoforte. But even knowing that what Mr. Folliet said may be true, I don’t think I could pay attention to the music just now.
Maybe I will take my sketching pad and pencils out into the grounds instead.