by Beth Poppet
He was entirely aware of his selfishness, but as he was incapable of conquering it in the moment, he said nothing, allowing Darcy to inform her of the reason she’d been called into an interview with them.
As Georgiana slipped into the chair opposite him, Darcy looked to the colonel, expecting him to begin, perhaps. His unusual silence would have to do as refusal. He was not up to this at all.
Darcy narrowed his eyes in momentary confoundment, then turned to Georgiana and said with neither prompt nor prelude, “Richard Polbright has asked to pay you court, Georgiana.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam did not like that this announcement produced a blush from her, especially since it was the healthiest she’d looked for days. “Oh!” she released a long breath as if she’d been holding it in for some time. “Has he?” She did not appear overly charmed. The head was downcast, the flush remained, but there was neither spark nor smile, and her brow made a little knot of concentration in the centre of her forehead.
Darcy went on, taking no notice of these miniscule details. “Indeed. He is of age, position, and means with his family fortunate secured, so it is evident he is no rogue fortune hunter. I am familiar enough with his parentage to know it is a respectable one of the gentries;” he glanced back down at the pages before him, “and of course you are aware that Lady Catherine approves highly of the match, which would spare you the grief and frustration that I could not spare Elizabeth. What do you say?”
She glanced surreptitiously at the colonel, but he had eyes only for the missive on Darcy’s desk.
Being that her dearest friend and comforter would give no indication of his considerations, she looked to the guardian she loved second best in all the world. “Do… do you think I should encourage him, Fitzwilliam?”
“I have no strong opinion either way,” he stated simply, “I’ve no personal objections to the gentleman, though I do not know him well enough to give a proper answer based on my judgements alone. He is young, but then, so are you.” His smile was full of fondness, “Mrs Darcy is continuously reminding me that you are more grown that I realise you to be. You have proven yourself prudent and capable over the past few years, and I trust your judgement of him, Georgiana.”
“I do not trust myself,” she said with quivering lip, and eyes filling voluntarily with tears, though they were obedient enough to resist spilling onto her cheeks.
“Fitzwilliam,” Darcy addressed his friend abruptly, “you’ve been remarkably quiet this morning. You’ve met the gentleman. What are your thoughts concerning his request?”
A slight rise and fall of his shoulders and a blank expression were part of his guarded response. “He’s a bit puppyish,” he prided himself on not saying worse, “But if Georgie wants him…”
“There is no question of that!” she cried with startling vehemence. “I do not… want…” she blushed fiercely, dipping her head again. “I am not in love with him. I have made him no promises, nor done more than spoken kindly to him. There was nothing untoward in any of our interactions.”
“Of course,” Darcy said with conviction, “Neither his nor your reputation are in question, I assure you. I have absolute confidence that was there any reason for concern, you would have said as much the moment you returned home. Have no fear, Georgiana. We want only to see you happy with a good match.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam cursed himself for not being the one to reassure her with those words, but he was still incapable of voicing them in context of the blasted letter from Mr Polbright sitting there on Darcy’s desk.
“Well,” Darcy said when Georgiana still failed to reply, “There is no reason to rush into any serious arrangement. He has not asked for your hand in marriage, but merely to be allowed to write you, and spend some time here in your company if we will permit it. If you are amenable to furthering your acquaintance with him, I will ask Mrs Darcy to arrange a dinner party which he will no doubt be glad to attend.”
“I should like to think on it more,” came her meek little voice.
The colonel released a great breath and every bit of him seemed less on edge as she uttered her desire to wait. There was time for him to conjure a probable excuse for escaping Pemberley before anything further was arranged. He tolerated Mr Polbright at Rosings when he had no other choice, but here there was Darcy to look after Georgiana, and Elizabeth as well. He could leave them to bear witness to the uncommon good looks and damned charming quips of Mr Polbright without fearing any liberties were taken.
“Of course,” Darcy nodded his approval. “Should two days be sufficient time? I ride to London at next week’s beginning and should like Elizabeth to be aware of the arrangements before I leave.”
Her yes was barely audible, but it was enough to satisfy Darcy. Georgiana fled from the room just as soon as she was able, leaving the baffled and unhappy colonel to ponder his next course of action.
∞∞∞
He found her on the fallen log in the wooded grove beyond the pastures. He would have thought her praying but for the way her shoulders shook, and her hands, rather than being folded in reverence, were each clutched at an opposite arm as they crossed her chest.
His practiced tread of caution was not heard over the sound of her weeping, and he was confident that she was unaware of his stealing by her side, so consumed was she in her apparent grief.
But Georgiana did not startle at all, even when her weeping subsided, and when she spoke it was as if she had sensed him there all along. “Do you want me to marry Mr Polbright?”
“Damme, no!” he growled, and the shocking outburst made her laugh once, even through her tear-stained face and shuddering breaths.
“Then why did you not object when Fitzwilliam asked?” she begged to know.
“Object to what, exactly?” Bitterness laced his words, though he attempted to keep his tone even. “A fine young man of rank and wealth who cares to court you properly?”
She took his offered handkerchief, but rather than pressing it against her face to staunch the tears, she smoothed the creases of the lawn to each laced edge between her fingers. The lacework was of her own hand. How shamefully nervous she had been to gift the colonel her first finished handkerchief. At that time, he had not been Colonel Fitzwilliam, of course. Only Arthur.
“I do not understand,” she murmured, still holding the piece of cloth like a rediscovered treasure. She could count each mistake as she turned it over and over in her hands, but unsurprisingly, he had always been blind to them. “You think well of Mr Polbright, you approve of him, and yet you do not want me to marry him.”
It was a strange feeling to be so unsettled by the way she held on to his handkerchief. He wanted it back, safely tucked away again. Even though it had been a gift of her making, it did not seem right that she should hold on to it with such tenderness while she wept over another man. “I want you happy, Georgie,” he said at last, and meant it with all his might. “I want you to marry someone worthy of you. Someone who will not make you cry so. Someone you can give your whole heart to.”
“It is not a question of his worthiness,” she replied wearily. She handed back the coveted article, still unused.
“Whatever can you mean?” he took hold of one corner, and she seemed reluctant to return it for they remained there a while; each holding on to the small, folded piece of fabric that connected them.
It was Georgiana who first relinquished her hold. “He could never know my secrets,” she uttered as her hand withdrew. “I think it would devastate him to know of what occurred between Mr Wickham and me at Ramsgate. Or, perhaps… if I did tell him…” She could not finish the thought, for she did not know how.
“No, Georgie. I would not tell him. Not upon so short an acquaintance.”
She bobbed her head gently in acceptance. “I do not think I should marry. Not Mr Polbright, nor anyone else.”
“You are not serious. You cannot be!” He turned so that his whole person faced her. “Georgiana, of the few persons who know what transpir
ed—or nearly did—at Ramsgate, do you think any of us are cruel enough to tell? Your brother and I would throw ourselves in front of a lunging blade before we allowed Wickham to ruin you, or anyone else for that matter.”
“But he has ruined me!” she insisted with passion, the indignation giving her boldness to lock eyes with him. “Can you not see? Marriage may make a man willing to cover a multitude of sins to protect his family honour, but it cannot erase the past.” Her head sank again, depriving the colonel of his favourite view. “How could I marry a man and vow to give my whole self to him if he must remain ignorant of my history? And what man with knowledge of it before our binding union would dare to associate with me again, let alone join in matrimony?”
“Georgiana, you are not…” he swallowed thickly, throat dry and tense, and he wished he had brought his flask rather than his handkerchief, “You do not consider yourself unworthy of a good man’s love?”
“What I believe is of no consequence if my husband could not know, nor forgive,” she uttered with a resignation that angered him deeply. “And that is where I stand as a maid. Between the isolating gulf of perpetuating a husband’s ignorance and the prospect of losing his respect and love.”
“Then it is he who is the unworthy one.”
“No, you mustn’t say that,” she gently chided, sounding far more like her own self for a moment. “Not against Mr Polbright. He has not been given the opportunity to prove himself, and it is I who have no wish to put him to the test.” She let her eyes wander to some uncertain thing in the distance, almost as if she watched her blank future play out before her between the thicket and brambles, and the silent calm that overtook her unsettled the colonel even more than her tears.
“Only one thing seems certain,” she breathed at last, “and that is I cannot marry.”
“This is unbearable!” he declared, and though she raised her head a little, even his outburst barely roused her from the weariness that seemed to overwhelm her entire frame. “I cannot abide this, Georgiana, to see you lovesick over a fool who should not have you.”
“Lovesick?” she echoed fretfully, “You imagine me in love with him? After all I said to Fitzwilliam?”
“Why else would you hide yourself away in your rooms for days on end? Refuse to eat anything of significance? Cry yourself to exhaustion every chance you have alone? It kills me to see you so unwell, and now you speak of wasting away as an old maid for the sake of sparing a husband…” he huffed his frustration, “Sparing him what, I must ask? The affections of a tender, darling wife, with a sweet temper, and not a single mean-spirited bone in her body? Any man who cannot see your worth beyond one foolish mistake at fifteen is an utter ass. If I were not your guardian, and more than fourteen years your elder…”
He clenched his teeth together before the treacherous words could escape and dragged a hand across his forehead in agitation.
“You would what?” she found the hand he rested on the gnarled log and pressed her own atop it. With a shock he realised she had not bothered to don her gloves before making her escape from the house.
He tenderly brought her other hand forward to cover them both with the warmth of his own. “Your hands are like ice, Miss Darcy,” he murmured. “You should not be sitting in the cool of this shade without gloves.”
“Arthur?” she pressed.
“I should… I should marry you myself,” he crumbled, voice as hoarse as if he’d been the one weeping all morning, “and begin at once to properly kiss your tears away.”
He thought her fingers shook within the confines of his palms, but she did not wrench them away, and he found himself unwilling to release them of his own accord.
“Do you have no other objections to having me?” she whispered, and the deep, rosy hue that danced across her cheeks was like a burst of sunlight to chase away the lingering fog.
“I… what?”
“Could you not… love me a little, despite how young I am, and how foolishly I’ve behaved?” she pleaded. “Even if you care for me just enough to consider marriage, I do not mind waiting. I should not mind loving you more.”
“Loving me more!? Georgie, are you in earnest?”
“I am not the one with a propensity for inappropriate jests,” she sniffed, a little wounded that he felt the need to put such a question to her.
His hands forgot their task in warming hers as they cupped her dear face, instead. “Would such a treasure truly be mine?”
“I would,” she said with perfect sincerity. “I am. I have been your own since I was barely six. I only love you better, now, and with a fuller understanding of what love truly is. Not a passing infatuation for dashing good looks and flattering words, but love that is solid, and lasting, and true.”
He closed his eyes for one long breath, and when he opened them, she still was there within his grasp; hopeful, trusting, not a feature less adorable by the marks of grief still wetting her eyes. “Could I make you happy, do you think?”
“I refuse to be happy with anyone else,” she insisted, her determination making him giddy. “I do not think I could endure being another man’s wife. There was once a time I might have professed such things in haste without knowing what it truly meant, but now I mean it with all my heart, and I do hope you will believe me.”
“If I have trouble believing, it is not your heart that I doubt, but my own senses.”
“Then you could… could love me? As a wife, and not just the pitiful creature you are under obligation to look after?”
“Oh, heaven bless you, darling girl, for loving you is all I have ever done, and ever shall do. Georgiana.” His enthused reply brought her quite suddenly into his arms. Not by means of necessity from fainting spells along the road or the innocent caresses of a little girl to her near kin, but merely because they both desired to have each other close, as a man and a woman with two hearts entwined.
They might have stayed in that way until nightfall, were it not for Georgiana’s hiccoughs that brought the colonel to draw away and assess her wellbeing. “Are you well?”
She laughed merrily and hiccoughed again. “Yes! I am well, now! So much so that it seems my happiness,” hiccough, “has caught in my throat!”
Colonel Fitzwilliam chucked her under the chin and grinned. “I shall kiss you now,” he announced roguishly, “and as your guardian, I shall allow it only so long as you are amenable.”
There seemed to Georgiana nothing more to do but to listen to the wisdom of her faithful guardian and acquiesce to his wishes.
Chapter Ten
It was a rare and unfamiliar thing for Fitzwilliam Darcy to be taken by surprise. Even through the most irrational of his marital disagreements, the most unguarded of Elizabeth’s saucy revelations, and the scandalous nonsense of her kin, he was able to maintain a cool demeanour, and generally had a quick and ready answer, even be it one that would fail to endear him to the listener. Though brusque, he could respond with a confidence devoid of either hypocrisy or coddling.
His current position was a singular one, for he did not know what to say, nor how he wished to respond, despite the fact that the two people before him were dearer and more familiar to him than anyone save his wife.
For perhaps only the second or third time in his life, Fitzwilliam Darcy found himself uttering the first words that came to his lips, not tempered by silent judgement or careful, ponderous thought, but brought on by feeling alone.
“This must be in jest,” he announced, his eyes furrowed in deep perplexity, the intensity of his grimace bringing no relief to either him or the other two occupants of his study. “Fitzwilliam,” he addressed his friend, “you are toying with me, and have somehow persuaded Georgiana to assist you in your idiocy. I confess, I am incapable of seeing what gain there is to be had in such foolery, but if the aim was to make me confounded and unsettled, you have thoroughly succeeded.”
“Well, this is a bad beginning,” the colonel responded with a forced laugh. He waggled his eyebrows at t
he blushing Georgiana who stood beside him, hand grasped tightly in his.
It was not as if their hands meeting in such a fashion had never before been witnessed by him. Colonel Fitzwilliam had often been Georgiana’s defender in moments of her girlhood that required additional bolstering, and she evidently found solace in the gesture. But this was utterly dissimilar to any of their youthful worries in that they stood before him, deliberately clinging fast to one another as they proclaimed to be in love and desirous of marriage. To say that he was astounded was a poor description of his mind in turmoil.
“We are perfectly serious,” the colonel said with more brevity. “I have developed a deep, romantic attachment to Georgiana over the past few years, but did not feel it prudent to confess to either you or her lest she feel obligated to accept or distressed by my attentions. I have not pressed my suit with one look, word, or action until this morning when she confessed her own heart to me, and I was no longer able to allow the truth of my feelings to remain cloaked in guarded silence.”
This was altogether too much. Darcy had never heard such tenderness of phrase from the colonel before, and it was especially strange to hear it in regards to his sister. He could detect no deceit in his friend’s voice or looks—indeed, he appeared a vast deal more sincere than Darcy ever imagined him capable of being.
No reply was forthcoming, and so the colonel went on, asking in wounded pride, “Do you trust me with her guardianship, but not with her heart?”
“It is not…” Darcy shook his head, attempting to overcome the cloud of confusion that had settled within it. “I had never considered…” He looked to his sister then, and more than merely content she had the calm and happy demeanour of one perfectly self-assured. “What then of Mr Polbright?” he put to her.