Pemberley to Waterloo: Georgiana Darcy's Diary, Volume 2

by Elliott, Anna

  I thought perhaps that she'd be worrying about the birth. Because women do die in child-bed.

  I hate writing that--I hate even thinking that. But that is how my own mother died. And the baby--the baby that would have been my younger brother--died, as well.

  I can't imagine Pemberley without Elizabeth here, for all she has only been married to my brother these two years.

  I thought Elizabeth might have been about to say something--to ask me something, perhaps--because she looked over at me and drew in her breath. But then she seemed to change her mind. She shook her head and said, instead, "Nothing--except perhaps that I'm beginning to feel as though this child has decided never to be born at all." She smiled. There was just a faint edge of strain in the smile, I thought. And then she said, "I had a letter from Darcy this morning. I know he's to arrive this afternoon with Edward--but he must have posted the letter when he was still in town. He wrote that he happened to run across Caroline while in London. And since she was at a loose end for the holiday season, he's invited her here."

  "Caroline? Caroline Bingley?" I looked at Elizabeth in disbelief. Because after what happened last spring, I should have thought Pemberley the last place on earth Caroline would wish to be.

  Elizabeth got awkwardly to her feet, and seemed very focused on rearranging a vase of flowers as she nodded. "Yes. She's not coming with Darcy and Edward. Apparently she had some engagements in town. But Darcy says she'll be here in a few days' time."

  And then she came over to the table I was working on and hugged me and said, "And you are now officially released from listening to my moaning--you can go and sit by the window and watch the approach to the house for signs of Edward's arrival--as I know you must have been longing to do all morning long."

  Later ...

  I only have a moment to write this; the gong for dinner will be rung soon, and then I'll have to go downstairs. But Edward has finally arrived. And everything is all right, it really is.

  I hadn't even realised I was going to write that until I saw the words forming on the page; it doesn't at first glance seem to make any sense. But as silly as it sounds, I was nervous of meeting Edward again.

  I've known Edward all my life, of course. But somehow now that we are engaged to be married, it seems as though he is someone else entirely to me. Which in a way he is, really: a lover, not just a friend.

  I should be grateful, I know, that Napoleon was defeated last year and exiled to the Isle of Elba--which means that the seemingly endless war between our two nations is finally, finally at an end.

  But Edward is still a colonel in the army, and his regiment has been posted to Ireland these last months. Which I should be grateful for, too--grateful that Edward is with the cavalry and not the infantry. Because so many regiments of the infantry have now been sent off to fight the war against the American colonies.

  Still, Edward being posted to Ireland makes his travelling to Pemberley almost as difficult as it would be from France--and that in turn is why I've only seen him twice before this in the last half year.

  We've written letters, of course--at least it is permissible for us to correspond, now that we are betrothed. But it's not the same as being with him. And each time we've been apart and it turns into weeks and then months since I have last seen him, I have started to feel as though ... as though I must surely have just imagined his falling in love with me.

  Edward is ten years older than I am, which makes him nine-and-twenty this year. And I've been in love with him since I was six years old. Hopelessly in love, I always thought--because it seemed to me I stood a greater chance of being struck by lightning than ever hearing Edward say that he loved me in return.

  And then, too, it occurred to me that our whole relationship has changed. And to worry that perhaps I wouldn't have anything to say to Edward-the-lover. I scarcely ever have my old childhood attacks of freezing shyness anymore. But waiting for Edward's arrival this morning, thinking about seeing him again at last, I could feel one coming on. I kept thinking how awful it would be if he came and we were stiff and awkward with each other, instead of easy and friendly as we've always been.

  I kept playing horrible scenarios over and over in my mind in which we talked to each other like over-polite strangers at a dinner table.

  Terribly cold weather we're having, isn't it?

  Yes, but if it stays so, we may have a white Christmas after all.

  But everything is all right. Better than all right.

  Edward rode up to the house just before dinner time. My brother was with him. I suppose I should have explained before that Edward wrote a few weeks ago to say that he had business in London, and then would travel from there on to Pemberley for Christmas. And since Fitzwilliam also had business to conduct in regards our family's London property, he rode out a week ago with the plan of meeting Edward in town, settling their business, and then travelling back together.

  When they arrived, Elizabeth had finished her conversation with Mrs. Reynolds and come to sit with me, so we went out to meet them together. It was then I realised fully how nervous I was of seeing Edward, because my heart was pounding, and I didn't even mind keeping to Elizabeth's slower pace as we walked out to the drive, where some of the stablehands had come out to take Edward's and Fitzwilliam's horses.

  The air was thickening with the shadows of twilight, the sun sets so early in the winter time. Despite the cold, it hasn't snowed yet, and the landscape looked frozen and barren, drained of all colour in the gathering dusk. Even the Pemberley woods looked a little desolate, stark, treeless branches reaching towards an iron-grey sky.

  Edward was just swinging himself down from the saddle when Elizabeth and I came out. He was wearing riding breeches and boots and a dark-green greatcoat instead of his army uniform. And for a brief instant I did feel ... not that he was a stranger, not exactly. Edward could never be a stranger to me, and I know his face so well I could draw it from memory: the lean hard-cut lines of his nose and jaw, dark-brown eyes set deep under straight dark brows. The white line of a scar running down one cheek, a relic of the fighting he saw last year in France.

  But just for an instant, it did seem suddenly unreal. Too much to believe that seven months ago Edward really did tell me he loves me. That we'll be married by the end of this coming summer, just a few short months away.

  But then Edward saw me, and his whole face changed. Edward has always been one of those who can talk to anyone--and make practically anyone into a friend, even on just a few hours' acquaintance. He's so very relaxed and easy in company and so self-assured, without being in the least egotistical or vain. But when he saw me today, he smiled and his eyes lighted up--that sounds like a novelist's figure of speech, but they really did. And yet if I hadn't believed I would never write the words shy and Edward together in a single sentence, I should have said that that was how he looked. Suddenly uncertain, almost shy.

  His hair is a little longer than when last I saw him, and he looks a little tired, I suppose from the travel. And even at a distance, I could see the love and longing in his lean face. But he went still a moment, his hands on his horse's reins--and that was when I realised he must have been nervous of this meeting, too.

  The gong has just rung, which means I do have to go down. But I'll write this last part, because it's so clear in my memory now and I want to capture it here so that I can remember it always.

  I heard myself say, "Edward!" And then I felt laughter bubble up inside me, where the clenched knot of worry had been before. I'm not sure who moved first, but all at once his arms were around me and he was swinging me up and off the ground, the muscles of his chest and shoulder solid and strong under my cheek. His voice had gone husky and he whispered into my hair, "God, it's good--it's so good to see you again."

  Monday 19 December 1814

  Did I say everything was all right? I only wish it were.

  Last night was ... perfect. So perfect that it hurts in a way to remember it now. Still, I'll write it
all down--if only to remind myself of how things can be between Edward and me. At least I hope they can. Even if at the moment I don't see how.

  Edward and I were seated next to each other at dinner. I could scarcely eat anything, though. I kept looking sideways at Edward and feeling ... feeling as though I'd stepped through a door from winter into a summer's day.

  That also sounds like a novelist's exaggeration, I suppose. But even if the fighting in France has ended, there's still a part of me that's been afraid all the time Edward has been away. There can be trouble anywhere--and in Ireland especially, where there's constantly the threat of another uprising like the one just over fifteen years ago. And wherever there's trouble, the army can be called in to fight, just as they have been in the past.

  Finally Edward looked at me and smiled, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. "You know, keep looking at me that way, and I'm going to start thinking that you're glad to see me again."

  I laughed. "Oh, well, that won't do at all. Give me a moment to shift my chair and I'll turn my back so that I can ignore you properly. Then you can try to persuade me into marrying you all over again."

  After dinner, Kitty went upstairs to the nursery to help with putting Jack and Thomas to bed. Fitzwilliam said he had some letters to write, and so went to his study. And Elizabeth looked exhausted and said she was going up to lie down herself. Though she laughed and kissed my cheek as she went out and said that at least the baby saved her the trouble of pretending to be too tired to stay downstairs with Edward and me.

  So Edward and I were left alone in the parlour. We spoke of--

  Come to think of it, I have no idea what we spoke of. Though I suppose I must have asked him about his journey from London. We were standing together in front of the warm glow of the hearth. The firelight was casting a patchwork of shadows over Edward's lean face--and every part of me wanted to reach out towards him and touch his cheek, run my fingers through his hair. But I was feeling ... if not quite shy, at least still a little unfamiliar with the Edward standing before me--the Edward who isn't just my guardian any longer, but the man who'll be my husband in a few months' time.

  But then--I can't even remember whether Edward said anything, or whether he only reached out and took my hand. I felt the warmth of the touch run through me like the glow of the fire. Though all Edward really did was pull me down with him to sit on the hearthrug, wrapping his arms around me so that I was sitting facing the fire and leaning against his chest, the back of my head resting against his collarbone. He'd taken off his dinner jacket, and I could feel the steady beat of his heart, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

  I have no idea how long we sat like that, either. That was something else I'd worried over--that Edward and I wouldn't be able to sit and just be quiet together as we always had before, neither of us feeling as though we had to say a word if we didn't want to.

  I could have stayed there all night. But then Edward let out a long breath and said, "I'm sorry, I'm not being very good company--I must be boring you to tears."

  I was so astonished I pulled away to look up at him. "Boring me? This is--" All of a sudden I felt a lump come into my throat. Because none of the things I'd been afraid of for Edward had happened. He was really, truly here, alive and safe.

  I did reach out and touch Edward's cheek then, tracing the line of the old scar. "I'd be happy to go and sit outside in a mud puddle in the middle of a thunderstorm if it meant I got to be with you like this again."

  Edward is always so easy-mannered and self-assured that it's not often I've seen him look utterly caught off-guard. But complete and total surprise flashed across his features then. It made him look all at once a little vulnerable, and younger, for all the battle scars and the fine network of lines about the corners of his eyes.

  But then he grinned and said, "You do realise you're setting a low standard if I'm supposed to be persuading you into marrying me all over again?"

  I laughed. "Well, I suppose you could try kissing me. Just to prove to me that you haven't entirely forgotten how."

  Edward was still smiling, but the smile changed somehow. "Oh, could I?" One of his hands slid slowly up my arm, and his fingers brushed along my neck. Just the lightest touch, but it still felt as though flames were spreading outwards, kindling every nerve. Edward bent his head and touched his lips to mine--and I felt as though time had frozen, as though the whole world had narrowed to the warmth of Edward's kiss, the salt smell of his skin, the blood racing through my veins, the sound of his voice, husky again, as he said my name and pulled me into his arms.

  When we finally drew apart, I felt as though all the air had gone from my lungs. But I managed to catch my breath enough to smile up at him and say, "Do you know, I don't think I'm entirely persuaded yet. You'll just have to try again."

  I suppose I can't exactly be surprised that writing all that down has made the thought of recounting what happened this morning hurt even more.

  Today began well. When I came down to breakfast this morning, Mrs. Reynolds took one look at me, shook her head, and said it was tempting Providence to look so pleased with life. But then she patted my cheek and said, "Ah, well, I was young once, too, child. And it's good to see Mr. Edward himself again, and not so thin and worn-looking as he was when he came back from fighting that nasty Frenchman last year."

  Edward has spent the last ten years serving in Sir Arthur Wellesley--now the Duke of Wellington's--army. He fought in the campaigns in Portugal and Spain. And this past spring, he was wounded at the Battle of Toulouse. I suppose no man can live for ten years amidst all the blood and death of the battlefield and not return home changed. Not that Edward has ever spoken to me very much of the things he saw and did while at war. Only bits and pieces. But even the scraps he's sometimes let slip are enough for me to guess at the whole.

  Last spring, when he came home from France, Edward was suffering from nightmares. And he couldn't be in crowds or hear loud noises without it bringing back his memories of battle. I still remember the way his muscles would tense as he tried to stop his hands from shaking, even at a casual after-dinner dance.

  Still, part of me would very much love to see the former Emperor Napoleon's face if he could ever hear himself being described as 'that nasty Frenchman' in Mrs. Reynolds's broad country tones.

  But I haven't yet said what happened today. Which began when I came down this morning, and found Edward and Fitzwilliam had already breakfasted early and gone out to make a tour of the estate and the tenant farms. My brother always likes to do that after he's been away, even for a short time. And then of course there are the charity gifts to the poor for Christmas to be delivered this year--to spare Elizabeth the worry and bustle of having crowds of people coming up to the house. Elizabeth was still upstairs in bed--she often feels ill in the mornings, even still--and Kitty had taken the boys out for a walk. All of which meant that I was alone when Mr. Folliet called.

  To be proper, I should call Mr. Folliet the Earl of Cantrell, for he succeeded to the title earlier this year. But he was Mr. Folliet when I met him last spring, and I suppose that's how I think of him, still.

  He'd sent no word, so we'd not expected to see him at all; I should have expected him to be at his estate, which is in Hertfordshire, or in London for the Season. So it was an utter surprise when Thompson, our butler, came into the music room where I was playing the pianoforte and announced that Lord Cantrell had come to call, and was waiting in the morning room.

  "Lord Cantrell, what a nice surprise," I said when I came into the room. And it truly was. Despite Lord Cantrell's having been one of the suitors my aunt de Bourgh tried to fling at my head last year, I've always liked him very much indeed.

  He rose to greet me and took the hand I'd offered.

  Lord Cantrell is the type of young man Kitty would certainly describe as a beau. He's very handsome--really, one of the handsomest men I've ever seen, with classically portioned features, dark eyes, and waving dark hair. And he dres
ses very well without being in the least foppish--snowy-white cravats, well-tailored coats, gleamingly polished Hessian boots.

  It's quite lucky for him that Kitty wasn't home when he came to call. Though I'm one of the very few people who knows how pointless her trying to flirt with him would be.

  This morning I thought he looked thinner, and more sober than he had? when last I saw him. But he bowed and then gave me the ghost of his old, flashing grin. "Do you think you could possibly manage Hugh? Lord Cantrell always starts me looking over my shoulder for my grandfather. And I've spent the last six months almost exclusively on the estate, where everyone my Lord's me every other word. It's been so long since anyone's called me by my Christian name that I can scarcely remember how it sounds."

  It's strictly speaking an utterly improper request, asking me to call an unmarried gentleman by his Christian name. But he was my only confidant last year when I was so in love with Edward but believed him engaged to another girl. And I am one of the very few people to know that Kitty would never get anywhere by flirting with Lord Cantrell. Not because she's frivolous and silly. But simply because she's a girl.

  So I smiled in return and nodded. "All right. Hugh, then." And then I sobered. "I heard about your grandfather. I am so very sorry."

  Hugh nodded and bowed his head. "Thank you." His grandfather, who raised him from a boy, was an old man, and ailing for some time. But it was just this past August that I heard he had finally died. Hugh lifted his head. "That's why I've come. To deliver something that my grandfather wished to be given to you."

  "To me?" I was completely startled for an instant. But then I remembered what I'd told Hugh six months before: The old earl's final wish had been to see his grandson happily married, or at least engaged. Not knowing how utterly unlikely that wish was to be fulfilled.