by Pamela Aidan
What is Georgiana about? His brow furrowed in puzzlement. She had not come down to welcome him home nor, would it appear, was she occupied in greeting his arrival with song. Perhaps Mrs. Reynolds was mistaken and his sister did not await him in the music room. He stopped at the conjunction of the hall he now traversed with another, which led to the private family rooms, and bit his lower lip as he peered down each in turn, the accumulating silence preying upon his hopes. Could it be that he had deluded himself? Had the changes in her letters been merely his wishful thinking?
In an unease that increased with every step, Darcy continued down the darkening hall until he reached the edge of the softly glowing island of light that fell from the music room door. He stopped just outside its reaches and tried to throw his senses before him, as if he might in some way gain a premonition of what awaited him within. But no impression was gifted to him. Denied even a modicum of foreknowledge, he took a deep breath and quietly crossed the threshold.
She was sitting on one of the pair of divans that faced each other across a low table, her back to the window, her figure erect but pliant. She was attired becomingly in a fine blue wool frock edged with knitted lace, which, while modest, left no doubt that she had bid girlhood adieu. Her eyes were downcast, apparently fixed upon her delicately formed hands, which lay in her lap, allowing him only a view of the dark, glossy curls that framed her brow. There has been no change. Darcy’s shoulders sagged, his disappointment a keen-edged threat to the hope he had nurtured for the last several weeks. The temptation to despair nearly overtook him, but he thrust it away. Georgiana needed him, needed his strength; and in this, he vowed he would not fail her.
“Georgiana?” he ventured softly.
At her name, his sister’s head came up, and to Darcy’s amazement, merry stars danced for joy in the eyes that met his own. She rose gracefully from the divan, a shy smile wreathing her face, and, without a word, stretched out her arms to him. Without knowing how he came there, he found himself across the room, standing over her. “Georgiana!” he choked out, and in the next moment his arms were wonderfully engaged in holding the dearest of sisters against his heart.
“Dear Brother.” Georgiana breathed gently against his waistcoat. Darcy blinked rapidly several times before allowing her to pull away sufficiently to look up into his face. “I cannot tell you how happy I am that you are home!”
The purity of expression upon her face, so completely in opposition to her woeful melancholy of the summer past, bereft him of speech. He could only look with thankful wonder into the placid depths uplifted to him. Georgiana blushed at his scrutiny and rested her burning cheek once more upon his chest before he could assure her of his own joy in being home.
“I had meant to receive you properly,” she murmured against the haven within which he still held her. “I had meant to be quite formal, you know, and say, ‘So, you are home, Brother’ and ‘How was your journey?’” She pulled back from his embrace. “But it all flew out of my head when you came and stood over me. Oh, dear, dear Brother!” The smile she bestowed upon him gave Darcy’s heart to turn again within his chest, and once more he could not speak.
“Will you have some tea now before you dress for dinner? It is all here on the table.”
“Y-yes,” he managed to respond, “tea would be perfect.” He released her with reluctance and allowed her to lead him down onto the divan beside her. The dimple they both had inherited from their father peeped out from her softly rounded cheek as she set about pouring. It deepened yet more as she turned to present him his cup.
“There, you have not been gone so long that I have forgotten how you like it, but do tell me if I have remembered amiss.” He took the cup and sipped at it cautiously, determined to pronounce it perfect regardless of the taste. But there was no need of prevarication. It was just as he liked, and for some inexplicable reason, that fact seemed to loose a wave communicating sweet relief from the heavy, haunting guilt he had carried since spring. The sigh that escaped his lips was unquenchable. Georgiana laughed softly but, at the curious light that arose in his eyes, lowered her own to her cup in some confusion.
“You have remembered exactly, dearest,” Darcy hastened to assure her, hoping to see the dimple again, but Georgiana remained preoccupied with her cup. Although a hundred questions concerning her transformation fought one another to be voiced, he hesitated to broach the subject, fearful that its mention would shatter the wonderful peace that sheltered them at this moment. It would be better not to stray outside the bounds of polite social intercourse, he decided, until he was more sure of her condition. “Should you like to hear of my journey home?” he inquired gently, “or would you rather hear of London?”
At his question, her delicate chin rose slightly, but she still did not look at him, preferring instead to examine the intricacies of the tatting of her napkin. “Truly, Brother, I should like most of all to hear of Hertfordshire.” Her gaze flickered quickly to his face and then away. Darcy could not guess what she saw there, for his surprise at her request was complete, and he had had no opportunity to school his features.
“Hertfordshire!” he repeated, somewhat hoarsely. Something inside him clenched, and a sudden remembrance of lavender and sun-kissed curls sent shards of longing to pierce and shred what remained of his equanimity.
“Yes,” she replied, her dimple returning as she tilted her head and looked directly at him. “Your letter from London told nothing of the ball. Was it well attended?” The reanimation of her manner put Darcy in a quandary. How devoutly he wished to forget Hertfordshire or, at least, to relegate it to those times when he was safely alone and able to come to grips with the memories it conjured up. So quickly its mention had discomposed him, sending him into places he dared not go without great care. Yet this dangerous subject was the one thing that his sister most desired of him!
“Yes,” he answered her, looking away, “it was extremely well attended. It was not long before I began to believe that the entire county was in attendance.” He hoped his dampening tone would discourage any further probing.
“And Mr. Bingley? He must have been pleased that so many honored his invitation.” Georgiana smiled in anticipation of her brother’s affirmation of Bingley’s pleasure.
“Bingley was quite pleased.” Darcy paused, ostensibly to indulge in more of his tea but, in truth, to order his thoughts. “I should say that Miss Bingley was pleased as well. At least at the start of the evening,” he amended. A questioning look appeared on Georgiana’s face, but she did not pursue his qualification. Her interest, as he would discover, lay elsewhere.
“Did he dance with the young lady you wrote of? Miss Bennet?”
“Yes,” Darcy replied curtly.
“Did he show her any particular attention?” Darcy looked closely now at his sister but he could detect no ulterior interest in Bingley’s affairs in her bright eyes. No, she does not ask this for herself, he decided. She does not think of him as anything other than my friend.
“He very nearly made a fool of himself over her, I regret to say,” he replied in a voice rather more harsh than he had intended, “but he has come to his senses and put Miss Bennet behind him. I do not believe he will return to Hertfordshire,” he ended firmly but softened at his sister’s paled countenance. “It was nothing very shocking, Georgiana, just poor judgment on his part, I assure you. He is well out of it and a wiser man for it.”
“As you say…but poor Mr. Bingley!” Georgiana’s face clouded, and she looked down into her cup. After a few moments of silence between them, wherein Darcy deemed the subject closed, he put down his own cup and, relieving Georgiana of hers, possessed himself of her hands. They lay soft and compliant in his strong, corded ones, and she did not resist as he brought first one and then the other to his lips in tender salute.
“Do not concern yourself, dearest. He is a man grown and can take his knocks. You know his happy nature. He will recover.”
Georgiana returned him a serious regar
d. “But what of Miss Elizabeth Bennet? Did she correct her opinion of you? How shall I meet her if Mr. Bingley does not return to Hertfordshire or wish to renew the acquaintance?”
Darcy almost dropped her hands in astonishment. “Is this the meaning of your distress? You wish to meet Miss Elizabeth Bennet! Pray…why, Georgiana?”
His sister gently pulled her hands from his grasp and, with his eyes intent upon her, rose from the divan and walked to the old pianoforte at the window. She ran her fingers along its smooth, polished side before turning back to him and his question.
“I told you in my letter that I cannot bear to think that someone you admire does not return your admiration and, indeed, thinks ill of you. I would know whether she admitted her error.” She looked to him for confirmation but, seeing his face, hurried to add, “Oh, not in words, perhaps, but in her regard? Did you part on amiable terms?”
“As a gentleman, I cannot say whether the terms were regarded amiably on Miss Elizabeth’s part. That would be for her to affirm or deny,” Darcy replied carefully, his curiosity at his sister’s interest in Elizabeth overcoming his determination to put away all thoughts of her.
“Were they amiable on your part, then?” The innocent, hopeful look Georgiana cast him gave him to wish he had tried more faithfully to follow her sisterly advice.
“I followed your advice to the best of my poor ability.” He smiled ruefully as he joined her at the instrument. “I was as amiable as I am able to be on a ballroom floor.”
“You danced with her, then?”
Darcy could have groaned. The more he attempted to conceal, the more his sister seemed to learn. At this rate, she would soon be in possession of the entire story. He looked in wonder at her as she stood there before him, her eyes so alive with interest. Her transformation was astonishing — nay — miraculous, and Darcy meant to know exactly how it had taken place. He would start tomorrow. He made a mental note to interview at first light the woman under whose care Georgiana had overcome so grievous a wound.
He shook his head at her, refusing to answer her question, then smiled down into her upturned face. “My dear girl, if you would have a moment-by-moment account, you must provide me greater sustenance than a dish of tea. Now, what have you ordered for this dinner Mrs. Reynolds spoke of? For I warn you, I am that hungry!”
The dimple that cleft his cheek was swiftly matched by its feminine counterpart as Georgiana returned his loving gaze. Softly, she slipped into his arms once more. “Oh, Fitzwilliam, I am ever so glad you are home!”
His arms tightly woven about her, Darcy looked thankfully to Heaven and then, burying his face into her gathered curls, could only find the strength to whisper in reply, “No more than I, dearest. No more than I.”
Chapter 3
The Uses of Adversity
Sitting back in the chair at his study desk, the corner of his lower lip caught between his teeth, Darcy perused once more the letters of reference he held in his hand. Satisfied that he had committed all the particulars of the first to memory, he laid it aside and proceeded to the second as the baroque clock on the mantel struck a half hour past eight. As regular as that timepiece, the door to the study opened, admitting Mr. Reynolds and a footman bearing a tray laden with Darcy’s morning coffee and toast.
“Reynolds.” Darcy looked up from his reading and motioned the footman to lay the tray upon his desk. “A moment of your time.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Darcy. How can I serve you?” The older man signaled the footman to depart and to close the door behind him.
Darcy laid the remaining letters upon his desk and looked up intently at the most senior member of his Pemberley staff. Reynolds’s knowledge of the inner workings of life at Pemberley was comparable to none, and during and after the elder Mr. Darcy’s illness, his unfailing guidance in all things pertaining to the great house had been as necessary to Darcy as Hinchcliffe’s had been in the financial arena. In short, he was a man who held the Darcy name and family almost as dearly as Darcy did himself, and Darcy trusted him implicitly.
“I find that I must place you in a deuced awkward position, Reynolds, but the matter is of such import that I must ask you to bear with it and assist me.”
“Of course, sir!” Reynolds affirmed his willingness, although his face registered some surprise at his master’s preamble.
Darcy looked away from the kindly face, his embarrassment about the request he was to make acute. “Well, there is no delicate way to put this, so I shall be straightforward with you.” He turned, then, back to him. “What can you tell me of Miss Darcy’s companion, Mrs. Annesley?”
“Mrs. Annesley, sir?” Reynolds’s eyebrows shot up. He slowly rocked forward on his toes and back again before answering. “Well, sir…She be a fine woman, sir, quietlike and dignified.”
“And…?” Darcy prodded, as uncomfortable with insisting upon more answers as Reynolds was in giving them.
“And what, sir?”
“The woman has been in residence for four months,” Darcy observed grittily, annoyed with the man’s obtuseness. “There must be more you can tell me of her!”
Reynolds frowned from under his bushy, white brows as he brought his finger to his stock and pulled at it. He took a few more moments to clear his throat. Then, pulling himself up painfully straight, he addressed Darcy in a tone fraught with disapproval. “I don’t hold with gossip, Mr. Darcy, as you should know. Don’t listen to it and don’t pass it.” He squinted down into his young master’s countenance and, seeing the dissatisfaction etched upon it, added carefully, “All I will say is, she don’t give herself airs, and she’s kind to all the staff, from top to bottom, sir.” He fidgeted a little under Darcy’s silent, searching gaze before bursting out, “Miss Darcy is wonderful fond of her.” He looked for a reprieve from any further expectations and, finding none, seemed to wrestle with himself for a few moments before confessing finally, “And I bless her, Mr. Darcy, bless her morning and night for what she’s done for Miss; and there, sir, is the end of it.”
“That will be all then, Reynolds.” Darcy dismissed him, his lips quirking at what was, for his butler, a spirited defense of the lady. Mrs. Annesley had Reynolds’s approval, and there was much in that. Perhaps he could put more credence in the degree of glow issuing from those references that lay before him concerning the lady. He reached over and poured some of the fresh cream into his cup, then filled it to the brim with the fragrant brew before picking up the two letters again and searching out the third. Bringing his coffee to his lips, he blew on it gently as he committed the facts of the third letter to memory. The contents of the letters were not unknown to him. He had read them just as diligently upon their arrival five months before, when he had been frantic for a new, trustworthy companion for Georgiana. But this time he looked for something more revealing of the lady than impeccable qualifications and unexceptional testimonials from past employers. That “something” still eluded him.
He tossed the letters down again and rose with his cup to contemplate the soothing view from the window. Before his passing, this study had been his father’s private preserve, its carved, wood-paneled walls a place of mystery during Darcy’s childhood and a place of judgment during his adolescence. It was an intimate room and had served as the estate’s book room until three-quarters of a century before, when a new, grandly appointed library had been included in his great-grandfather’s plans for Pemberley’s improvements. Now, although the study continued to house treasured tokens of Darcy patriarchs, it served principally as an archive of Darcy’s personal book collection as well as the papers and folios that recorded the business interests and estate affairs of the family since such records had been kept.
Added to the masculine amenities of sturdy chairs and tables, displays of exquisitely crafted edged weaponry, and hunting prints was a superb view out the study’s several windows. His shoulder propped against a frame, Darcy stared into the sunken garden laid out many years ago by his grandmother. It lay bedecked in a
shimmering gown of snow, its pristine whiteness in artful contrast to a variety of evergreens within the garden’s design and the red-brick walk that meandered delightfully about it.
As pleasing as was the view, it soon disappeared from before Darcy’s eyes, transcended by visions of Georgiana at supper the night before. The dinner she had ordered was more than satisfying, consisting of many of his favorite dishes and a fine wine that had complemented all. The table had supported a tasteful arrangement of flowers and greenery, prepared, he discovered upon his mention of it, by her own hand. She had blushed faintly in pleasure at his approval and thanked him with a graciousness of temper that he had never surmised from her in the past.
Their conversation had been of local matters: children born to his tenants, deaths in the village, the harvest festival in Lambton and the annual service of thanksgiving at St. Lawrence’s a month previously. All the while he had observed her, gingerly testing the extent of the changes in this new creature that was his sister. There were moments still of shyness and hesitancy. His teasing remarks were occasionally answered with a glance of uncertainty; yet she had replied to his questions concerning their tenants and neighbors in sure tones, a gentle, newfound compassion suffusing her countenance as she spoke. By the end of their meal, he could only sit and marvel at her.
She had risen when the last cover was removed to leave him to a glass of port, but he had refused, declaring that surely she must have a piece to play for him after all these months and several letters professing her diligence. She had laughed, her happiness in his company transparent in her face, and allowed him to lead her back to the music room, where she had played for him a full half hour. Then, bringing forth his much-neglected violin, he had joined her at the pianoforte and they’d played duets until their fingers ached.