“I don’t know how to make the pain stop,” James choked.
“It may never stop. You have to come to grips with that. But it will become tolerable. It will lessen in time. If, that is, you quit ignoring life to come here and stare at a cold grave. Anne isn’t here, James. She is alive inside you and inside your two children. Don’t let her die completely.”
“I’ll try, how’s that for now?”
“I’ll accept it, mainly because I am starving and tired of lecturing you. Come on. Show your guest some hospitality.” George slung his arm over James’s shoulder and steered away from Anne’s plot, his grip firm enough that James could not look back and had no choice but to walk with him. “I came directly here from the house. Didn’t even grab a drink. I’m parched and it is all your fault.”
“Did we really sit together for a half hour?”
“Yes. We talked too. You told me I looked especially handsome and debonair and in the prime of my life.”
“I did?”
“Well, you said I looked good. I knew what you meant though.”
James laughter was music to George’s ears. “You also thought I was William for a second there. I suppose that means he is as dashing as I am?”
“Not sure how I can mistake you for him with that get up.” James waved at the blue sherwani with braided gold and red trim George wore over yellow shalwar trousers. “He does look like you though. It is uncanny at times. Wait until you see him, George. Or did you?”
“No. I came straight here to rescue you from digging a hole and climbing into it.”
“I am glad to see you, Brother. I might even forgive you for hitting me. Eventually. And you do look good. What is your secret?”
“I’ll tell you later. First, tell me more of my nephew and niece.”
With gentle prodding, George kept the topic away from Anne as they walked the familiar path back to Pemberley. He felt it best to avoid mentioning Jharna and his own felicity for the present.
Mr. Taylor had alerted Fitzwilliam of his uncle’s arrival, so the youth was waiting on the rear terrace. He bowed in George’s direction as soon as he and James mounted the steps.
“Uncle George, welcome to Pemberley. I apologize for not noting your arrival and greeting you properly.”
“I snuck in, lad, so as to avoid any polite greetings. The lengthy falderal is a waste of time. Besides, I needed to search out your father so I could punch him in the nose. Got a nice lump starting there, James.”
“Pleased with yourself, I suppose?”
“I daresay I am! Rather impressive overall, although I was holding back. Didn’t want your ugly mug to look any more ghastly than it does already.”
William’s eyes had widened and he was staring between the two men in astoundment. “Father, I shall send for some ice and soothing ointment immediately.”
“Never mind that, William. He’ll be fine. Do him good to feel it as a reminder of what will happen if he indulges in another bout of self-pity. Now, I think food is in order. Maybe tea too, unless you have some illegal whiskey hidden about?” He raised his eyebrow in James’s direction, then nodded when James shrugged, trying to look innocent in front of his son. “Thought so! Go fetch your stash, Brother, and make it quick but clean up. You look like you have been rolling around in the dirt. It’s disgusting. Now, William”—he clapped the gaping youth on the shoulder, turned his back dismissively on James, and headed into the house without skipping a beat—“you do realize how fortunate you are to resemble your grandfather and me? Stunning handsomeness is advantageous, let me tell you. Ladies fall over themselves for a man who can dress well and dazzle with his appearance. Height is a plus, too, and you are nearly as tall as me! You will have every lady at Almack’s vying for your favors.”
“If you say so, sir.” William looked terrified rather than enthused, blushing furiously and fidgeting with the edge of his tailored coat.
George resisted laughing by greeting Mrs. Reynolds, who was in the parlor bent over a tray of food and beverages on the low table surrounded by several settees and chairs. He heaped on the charm, Mrs. Reynolds laughing and teasing in return. Judging by the slack-jawed gape on William’s face, Mrs. Reynolds engaged in frank coquettishness was unheard of.
“By the way, Mrs. Reynolds, one of the bags I brought with me is a smaller portmanteau with red handles and green clasps. I assume the excellent Pemberley staff has taken it to my chambers, but if it is not too much trouble, could someone bring it to me here? I am led to believe there is a young lady in the house, a particularly beautiful miss with a lovely name and golden curls. Is this true?”
“Yes, Doctor. This would be Miss Georgiana Darcy you refer to,” the housekeeper confirmed with a sage nod. Neither glanced to the chair across from the one George fell into and pretended not to see the glimmer of blond hair or corner of a sky-blue eye peaking from behind the tall back.
“Would I be correct in assuming that this angel from heaven is fond of colorful ribbons, fine cloths for dresses, glittery jewels, and pretty trinkets?”
“You would be correct, yes.”
“Excellent! The case I requested is stuffed full of surprises that should delight this mysterious, as yet unseen girl.”
“I will get it straightaway then.” And with a bow and a wink, Mrs. Reynolds left the room.
Georgiana disappeared from view when George looked at William, where the boy was standing in the middle of the room in confusion. “Have a seat, William, please. I honestly deplore formality and I want us to have a quick man-to-man chat before your father returns.” He leaned forward to pour a cup of tea. As he sat back, cup in one hand and fruit tart in the other, he shot a rapid glance to Georgiana and winked before she ducked back behind the chair. Seconds later, he saw her peeking at him, more of her face showing and a tiny smile at the edge of her mouth.
“I know I have startled you with my words and actions, lad. I apologize, but it was necessary. I am going to speak obliquely due to small ears listening and will be quick before the master returns. I need you to trust me, William. Understand that I have years of experience in dealing with situations like this, as well as personal knowledge of losing one very close. Plus, I know him very well and in a manner different than you. Anything I say and any way I act is because I love all of you and want to help. Do you believe me and understand so far?”
William was staring at him in the intense manner George recalled from his previous visit. Patiently, he waited and submitted to the scrutiny. Finally his nephew acknowledged with a single short nod, but his lips were pressed into a tight line and creases marred the clean ridge of his brows.
George continued in the same level tone. “I know this is a difficult time for all of you. I am not minimizing the impact of loss to you and your sister, nor is my intent to offend when I tell you that the impact on your father is a million times worse and of a critical nature. I am trying to be careful with my words”—he jerked his head minutely toward the lurking Georgiana—“and I appreciate your doubt in light of my reaching these conclusions in a matter of minutes. Nevertheless, you must trust me and follow my lead. Can you do that, Fitzwilliam?”
This time William’s nod was swifter and more confident. The frown and serious cast remained, but a dose of dawning hope inside his blue eyes revealed to George the youth’s awareness of his father’s acute depression. Shoulders straight and broad with the promise of mature masculinity were visibly drooped under the weight of being forced to deal with sadness and other negative emotions. Eyes that should have been gay and free of care were haunted and older than seventeen years. George’s heart wrenched. The effects of trauma and death upon a person, especially a sensitive adolescent, George understood better than most. For one like William, who was also far too somber at the best of times, the ramifications were potentially multiplied. For George, it meant the stakes were even higher. He would pray ferventl
y that his temporary presence and influence set the stage for everyone’s healing.
A servant entered the room at that moment, interrupting the topic and worrisome contemplations. In his hand was the portmanteau. “Ah! Thank you, my good man. Now, let me see what I have in here that might pique the curiosity of a pretty girl.” George opened the case and pursed his lips. “Hmm… I may need your input, William, as to what the hitherto unseen Miss Darcy may appreciate. I would not wish to burden her with a, oh, blue silk ribbon with glittery gold threads if she would hate such a thing.” He pulled the ribbon out with a flourish and let it flutter to the floor. “We can throw it in the rubbish heap if offensive to her.”
From behind the safety of the chair, Georgiana, biting her lip with tiny white teeth, watched with one wide eye as the ribbon curled on the carpet. George rummaged inside the big bag, making a show of it before withdrawing a long, ivory and pale-blue scarf with a sewn beach and foaming surf scene, the pattern so intricately woven that one could imagine the sound of the ocean and smell of salt water. “This ugly thing would surely not delight a little girl, would it?” He draped the scarf over his head and shoulders, the satin flowing in a rippling wave, and pretended not to hear Georgiana’s breathy squeak. “I am assuming she likes dolls, yes? Probably has several dozen, yes?” He looked at William with each question, pleased to see the young man smiling and playing along with the charade. “As I expected. Not sure if she would want another to clutter her room then. Especially one as unattractive as this.”
The “unattractive” doll was a hand-stitched fabric lady wearing a brilliant hued sari and beaded mojaris. Glass gems adorned the horsehair, dyed raven black and styled into intricate braids. Her face was painted and sewn, the painstaking detail bringing life to her eyes. The craftsmanship extended to her fingernails and toes, the plush toy a true work of art.
George held it up for William to see, twisting his wrist so that the sari swayed around the doll’s legs. “Probably nothing that would interest Miss Darcy. I’ll just put this away then,” and he started to rewrap her in a swatch of colorful cloth.
“No! I want the lady, please!”
“My word!” George exclaimed, clutching his chest and gasping. “Where did you come from? Are you a fairy creature who can appear from thin air?”
“No. I’m Georgiana.” Her eyes were drilling into the pretty doll that George held purposely close to his body and out of her reach but turned so that she could see it. Fear that George might stuff the doll back into his bag of miraculous treasures overcame her shyness, a rapid dart at his face followed by two steps nearer.
“You are Georgiana? Impossible! Georgiana, my namesake, is but an infant. Not a young lady such as yourself, magical miss.”
She flashed another quick glance at his face. “I’m not magical,” she giggled, adding as she lifted her chin and held up her fingers, “and I’m almost six!”
“Hmmm… I have no reason not to believe you if you say you are Miss Georgiana Darcy, although you, little princess, are far prettier than I was told.”
Georgiana blushed and giggled at that, but she was looking at her uncle with greater interest and less fear. He held out the doll, still keeping it close so that she had to step forward, his smile friendly and wink jaunty. Ten minutes later, James walked into the parlor to see his painfully shy daughter sitting on his brother’s lap with not one but two Indian dolls in her arms—the second a groom dressed in full marriage regalia to match his stuffed bride. Her forearms were adorned with several metal and bead bracelets clinking musically together as she moved, and her head and shoulders were covered with at least four layers of shimmering silks and satins. He could barely see her under the flood of color! Even her tiny feet were encased in rainbow shades, a different jewel and embroidery encrusted shoe on each one.
Presents opened the door, but it was George’s unique blend of eccentricity, effervescent personality, magnificent storytelling skills, boyish playfulness, and generous affection that effortlessly won the bashful but gay Georgiana over completely and for life. She was glued to him every second they were in the same room together, usually held in his arms or curled in his lap.
Fitzwilliam, on the other hand, was a youth entirely too severe for seventeen. Hints of his levity were detectable at times, and additional clues to his lighthearted character were revealed when he interacted with his friends George Wickham and Gerald Vernor and cousin Richard Fitzwilliam. Unfortunately, George’s need to devote the bulk of his attention to James did not allow him to focus on establishing a strong bond with William and the boy’s austere, introverted nature added to the difficulty. George came to the conclusion that Fitzwilliam Darcy would be a man of uncommon strength of character, exacting morals, temperance, wisdom, keen intellect, and deep compassion, but a close relationship between the two of them appeared unlikely.
One punch on the nose was not enough to break the spell of mourning James was under. For a week they hunted, fished, trekked about the vast estate grounds on foot and on horseback, explored the caves and hills and rivers and lakes as if never seen before, and visited the gamekeeper compound and stables for hours at a time. Inside the manor, George challenged him to cards, darts, games of sport such as tennis and shuffleboard, and billiards, the latter almost always won by William who was typically involved with their activities. George sent messages to old friends, family, and acquaintances all over the shire. Every day, someone rode up the curved drive to visit George Darcy, and by extension James as well.
“Lowell Stine? Who is Lowell Stine?” James glanced from the serene face of Mr. Taylor to George, where he stood by a row of freshly planted pots of herbs in the orangery. A sudden desire to dig in dirt and teach members of the kitchen staff and Mrs. Reynolds on the culinary and medicinal properties of six herbs indigenous to India was that morning’s activity, George insisting that James tag along as his assistant. James could care less about herbs, no matter how miraculous they were, but he appreciated what George was doing so played along. The message delivered by the butler was another matter, however.
George did not look up from the pot he was helping one of the kitchen girls plant, answering as if the question were not important. “Oh, he is a fellow I knew in boarding school. Be careful to bury this seed so that it is far down into the soil or the weak stem will fall over.”
“I have never heard the name, so how could you have known him so well to invite him to dine with us today?”
“I don’t know all your friends, James, so how can you reasonably expect to know all mine?”
“Fair enough, I suppose, but this is the fifth man to visit that I have never heard you mention. Ever.”
“There is also Herbert Malone and Giles Nye from Alfreton who I don’t think you met. They should arrive soon as well. Malcolm and Henry are coming by too, and I told Wickham to put the books away for the day so he can join us in tracking that stag we spotted two days ago. Mr. Burr knows the rough vicinity where he grazes and is planning to accompany us.”
“You told my steward to not work for the day?”
“Don’t be testy. Wickham wouldn’t go if anything vital needed attending. Call it a suggestion if it makes you happier, but he is one of the best hunters I know, after Mr. Burr of course.”
“And when were you going to tell me about these fine plans of yours?”
George shrugged. “I’m telling you now.”
James sighed exasperatingly. “After people have arrived! A little warning would be nice!”
George looked up from the pots and seeds, one brow lifted over wide, innocent eyes. “Did you have other plans for the day, Brother?”
“No, but that’s not the—”
“Then I am not sure I see the problem,” George interrupted. He smiled at the flushed James, then concluded his herbal lesson for the day before blithely leading the still-irritated James into the parlor where Mr. Stine awaited.
This truth aside, George also understood that James had not been able to talk through his grief. Crying produced partial catharsis but too much emotion remained bottled up inside. It was during the quiet, alone periods when George and James sat in the library or on the shaded terrace as Georgiana played on the lawn that the topic of Anne, in life and in death, was gently broached. Subtly, George steered the conversation to reminiscences of Anne as she was when healthy and vibrant rather than the frail, sickly woman who dominated James’s mind. Increasingly, the depressing images were replaced by pictures from happier times.
It was while having one of these brotherly interludes that James crossed his arms over his chest and nudged George’s leg with his foot. “So, when are you finally going to stop coddling my frail sensibilities and tell me about the woman you are in love with?”
The whittling knife clattered against the stones of the terrace and missed George’s bare pinkie toe by an inch.
“Oops!” James bent to retrieve the sharp instrument and handed it back to his stunned brother. “Didn’t mean to cause an accident. Good thing the blade missed, since your digits are just hanging out there and not encased in protective leather like they should be.”
The Passions of Dr. Darcy Page 31