Everything had been easy at first. She’d bought a beginner’s grammar and worked at that, making sure always to have a fashionable novel at hand, for the benefit of Mrs. Annesley and unexpected visitors. The novels were a pleasure, anyway, when her mind was tired. Latin turned out to be much like mathematics, and enjoyable as that was, you had to stop sometimes and allow yourself a respite, use the brain in a different way.
Georgiana had been so excited when she reached the stage of being ready to read texts. She had considered carefully where to start, poetry or prose, and had chosen the Aeneid. Everyone learned that, and an expansive, straightforward narrative might be easier than the compact, convoluted forms of poetry. And it was respectable, with none of the unsavory associations of some of the poets and their verses. Her disappointment when she found how almost impossible it was to go from vocabulary lists, verb conjugations, and noun declensions to translating whole sentences and paragraphs still stuck in her throat. She knew she must have a Latin master if she was going to make any progress, and she would need Fitz’s permission to put an advertisement in the newspaper to hire one.
It had been but a small lie. When Georgiana spoke about writing to Fitz, Mrs. Annesley thought she meant an Italian master. That’s when the idea occurred to her, of asking Fitz if she could engage an “Italian” tutor for conversation. She had composed the advertisement herself, to make certain it was correct, but that’s when things went horribly wrong. Once the applicants learned they’d be teaching a young lady—Georgiana still couldn’t bear to think of it. Some had been shocked, others incredulous. Worst were the ones who, having heard the Darcy name and getting a look at their prospective pupil, had been all too eager. One man had actually licked his lips, just like a barn cat with cream all over its face.
Georgiana’s other masters hadn’t behaved like that. Dancing masters and drawing masters knew their pupils would be girls. Act like a fox invited into a pen of clipped-wing geese and not only wouldn’t they be hired, their characters would be ruined and no one else would hire them either. But Latin masters expected a boy, or a youth. The only one who wasn’t scandalized was so clearly disappointed, like an ardent groom discovering his veiled bride has been scarred by smallpox, that he had declined the position on the spot.
If Miss Gatling, as she was then, hadn’t applied the next week, Georgie would have been in despair.
“TELL ME,” FITZ said, his voice in that oily, suggestive tone Georgiana hated, the one he used when he tried to trick her into admitting some childish misbehavior he couldn’t quite prove, “is everyone in the Brotherhood married now?”
“Certainly not,” Charles said. “Monkton’s still single, as you can surmise. And Verney. Although if the ladies ever got a look at him he wouldn’t be free for long.”
“Why?” Elizabeth asked. “Is he a hermit? Or a recluse?”
“What? No, he’s a baronet,” Charles said. “Sir Frederick Verney, of Sussex.”
“He takes his shirt off in company,” Jane whispered. “At the card table. I didn’t know where to look the first time he did it. When he remembered there were ladies present he was very apologetic. He said it was a custom of the club, which is all gentlemen of course, so it’s perfectly all right there.”
“I see,” Elizabeth said. “Oh, I almost wish we had stayed in Hertfordshire, so we could visit.”
Fitz stood up. “I am extremely grateful not to live within easy distance of Hertfordshire.”
“Don’t worry, Fitz,” Elizabeth said. She stood up also and moved to his side to take his arm. “I can’t imagine even a shirtless baronet can compare with you.”
“No, indeed,” Charles said. “Verney’s a fine-looking fellow, but—” He thought better of this line of conversation, although the ladies showed only benign interest, and lapsed into red-faced silence.
“THOUGHT IT WAS you,” Miss Gatling had begun the interview in a most unconventional way. “Recognized the address.”
Georgiana had apologized, at which the older woman had softened considerably. “Sorry? For what? For being clever? For being Miss Darcy? Only meant I didn’t suppose your brother needed a Latin tutor after two years at Cambridge.”
Georgiana had engaged her immediately. There was no one else, and Miss Gatling seemed to understand without having to be told that Fitz didn’t know. “Wouldn’t tutor a boy,” she said. “Don’t need the money. Only applied because you’re a girl. Men think they’re the only ones capable of higher learning. Don’t suppose you’ve read any of Mrs. Wollstonecraft’s work.”
When Georgiana protested about not wanting to be a bluestocking or a radical, Miss Gatling just laughed. “A little amo, amas, amat never made a girl unfit for marriage. All the better for it, really, if men had the wits to see it. Damned fools. Pardon my language. I’m a little rough sometimes, take after my father, but I don’t mean any harm. Now, show me where you are in the grammar.”
The lessons quickly became the highlight of Georgiana’s day. Miss Gatling was the cleverest woman she had ever met. Cleverest person, even more than Fitz in some ways. Georgiana insisted on paying the standard fee and Miss Gatling accepted without being pressed. “Keeps everything honest,” she said. When Georgiana told her about the “Italian” misunderstanding, Miss Gatling laughed and offered to teach that too. She knew all the modern languages—French and Spanish, Portuguese (“because of the war, you know”), German—even Russian and Greek. When they had worked through the requisite amount of Latin prose, they would discuss the meaning in Italian, then in French, before finally going over any remaining questions in English.
“Best pupil I ever had,” Miss Gatling said one day. “Not that I’ve had many besides my brother, George. Sweetest, best-natured young man you can hope to meet, but not a scholar. Wish I could put the two of you through an examination, side by side, and then ask those stuffy old sods who run the colleges which sex should be educated.” She didn’t apologize for her language that time.
“THEN THERE WERE the other marriages,” Charles said.
“Whose?” Fitz asked.
“Carrington and Thornby’s,” Charles said. “And Pierce and Witherspoon’s.”
“Charles,” Jane said, in the kind of warning voice she almost never used.
“Oh, we’re all friends here,” Charles said. “It was Carrington’s idea, I think. Hired some peculiar dissenting preacher to perform the ceremony.”
“Charles,” Fitz said, in the same tone of voice as Jane.
“Well, we didn’t go,” Charles said. “Wish we could have. That would have been something to see. But didn’t seem quite the thing, especially as Jane and I had only just been married ourselves.”
“If you don’t tell me,” Elizabeth said, “I will ask Fitz.”
Fitz nodded his head in Georgiana’s direction. “Not in front of my sister.”
Charles moved over to sit by Elizabeth, speaking in a low voice.
Georgiana kept on playing, making sure to pound the keys harder than usual so as not to seem to be listening. She only caught the word molly before the rest of the words were drowned out by Elizabeth’s laughter.
GEORGIANA HAD RECOVERED easily enough from her slip of the tongue at Alex’s party. “Oh no,” she’d said, her blush at Mr. Finchley’s wicked taunt making her denial all the more believable. “I’m no scholar. My brother reads a lot and was at university. I must have heard him reciting it so many times that I memorized it myself.”
“Yes, that would be it,” Alex agreed blandly, that same conspiratorial smile on his face. Then he turned back to his partner, Miss Swain.
Charlotte Swain, daughter of a peer, taller than most of the men, blond and buxom. Really huge. And not very bright. Georgiana told herself that was wrong, almost a sin, to think of someone in that way who hadn’t done her any harm. Miss Swain wasn’t stupid. Just not educated. And not a reader. Not even novels, as she confessed gaily, almost shamelessly, to the party when the subject of the latest books came up. But Alex show
ed her more than mere politeness. Every time he looked at her his face warmed, as if she were his partner in life, not just the one assigned to him for the party.
Oh, Georgiana thought, what was wrong with her? Hadn’t Fitz said, more times than she could recall, that men don’t like clever women?
But that was silly. Because look at Elizabeth. Other than Miss Gatling, Elizabeth was the cleverest woman Georgiana had ever met. She was clever in a different way, and she disguised a great deal of it. Knowledgeable without being studious, she kept up with novels and modern poetry, although of course she didn’t have any Latin. She was quick where Georgiana was slow, able to come up with a quip or a witty reply without a moment’s hesitation, while Georgiana would be stammering, tongue-tied, her thoughts tangled in her head and making her look to the rest of the world like a complete idiot. For all her learning, Georgiana would never be judged clever if she and Elizabeth were in the same company, yet Elizabeth, because of her playful, easy manner, would never be mistaken for a scholar or accused of being a bluestocking.
And Fitz had married her, in despite of so many impediments: her poverty, her vulgar family, and, worst of all, the shame of becoming Wickham’s brother-in-law. In fact, Fitz was so in love with her that Georgiana had sometimes watched, openmouthed in awe, as she said the most scandalous, teasing things to him, and instead of losing his temper, or worse, going all white and silent, he would smile and take her hand or even kiss her right there in the drawing room in front of Georgiana. Even in front of his friends Charles and Jane. Sometimes he laughed or went red in the face, as if he were the woman, to be embarrassed.
So there was no reason Alex, Marquess of Bellingham—“the beautiful Bellingham,” everybody called him—mightn’t like a clever woman also, except he didn’t. He looked at Georgiana as if she were a curiosity, or perhaps a friend, and because he was kind he pretended to flirt, but he was practiced enough to make it very clear he was only playing. He saw how young and innocent she was and was too much of a gentleman to cause hurt. And all the time he was smiling at that enormous Miss Swain and it was obvious that she hadn’t been picked for him; he had chosen her. They would probably announce their engagement any day now. Which just showed how hopeless it was going into society because all there was to choose from were married Apollos and free—What was Mr. Finchley? Sort of a Silenus, except not with that horrible pot belly, or old and wrinkled. A satyr, that was it. Goat’s feet and horns would suit him perfectly. You couldn’t fall in love with Mr. Finchley, but that’s who was out there for girls like Georgiana.
“IT GOT ME thinking,” Charles said. “Between inconvenient acquaintances on one side, and Jane’s family on the other, things were becoming somewhat—crowded—and we thought it might be time to look for something a bit more out of the way.”
“Or out of Hertfordshire,” Fitz said.
“Yes. And you’ll be glad to know that we’ve found a delightful little manor, just over the border in Staffordshire, and we’re going to move in as soon as the weather’s better and the roads are clear for travel.”
BACK WHEN GEORGIANA was fifteen it hadn’t been so bad. She had thought herself in love with Wickham because he was good-looking and charming—and because she had known him all her life. She’d had no idea of “love” except flirting and talking with an attractive, friendly young man. Now, though, things were very different. Now she understood what it meant when you saw a man whose face resembled the engraving of a statue of Apollo she had seen in Fitz’s book on antique sculpture. Now she appreciated the joke when Elizabeth and Jane laughed about Sir Frederick Verney taking his shirt off. Imagine the beautiful Bellingham without his shirt!
Thank goodness she had another year before her formal debut. If she had to go to balls and dance with Bellingham she would disgrace herself. And there would be all those Finchley-satyrs pestering her and she would have to choose one of them eventually. How did ladies do it? How did Elizabeth and Fitz meet and fall in love? And Charles and Jane? Well, that could be no solution for her, because it was fine for men with good fortunes to marry penniless ladies, but never the other way around.
That was one benefit of having Elizabeth for a sister. For all her playfulness, she was intuitive, quick to recognize when someone needed kindness and understanding. She had confessed to Georgiana early on her own mistaken partiality for Wickham. “I was lucky,” she said, in that smiling, flirtatious manner that was so natural for her she used it even with other ladies. “I had no fortune to tempt him to honesty and matrimony. If I hadn’t learned in time the sort of man he is, I might well have ended up in a worse condition than Lydia, as Fitz could hardly have been expected to force him to marry me.” A loud burst of laughter followed this shocking statement, with its acknowledgment both of Fitz’s early love for her and his awareness of her affection for a rival. But what a comfort! From that moment Georgiana was free of her guilt and self-reproaches, and began to accept her lot as a wealthy, handsome young lady who might hope for a husband she could both respect and desire.
Gradually she gave up her childish notions of remaining unmarried. That was not allowed, not when one had thirty thousand pounds. Besides, wouldn’t it be better to see a man without his shirt—without anything on at all—than to go through life never knowing…
She reached the end of the sonata, let the last note fade away, placed her fingers in position for the opening chord, and started in.
“Oh, not that gloomy thing again,” Charles said. “Can’t we hear something else for a change?”
Thirty
LADY CATHERINE STOOD over the bed, turning the rings on her fingers and watching her daughter moan in her sleep. “Can’t we do something?” she said for the tenth time.
Mrs. Collins put a hand on her patroness’s shoulder and guided her toward a chair. “The laudanum will help,” she said in a whisper. “Just give it a few minutes.”
Lady Catherine allowed herself to sit. Thank goodness for the vicar’s wife. How had things gone so long without her? And to think she was the friend of that horrid little chit who’d stolen Darcy—she caught herself on the verge of another apoplexy, took a deep breath, and forced herself to wrench her thoughts away.
Maybe Mrs. Collins was right after all. Darcy wouldn’t have been kind to Anne. Even if Lady Catherine had forced the match, what good would it do if he was cruel to her child? Men were so thoughtless. Ignorant, pigheaded, stubborn fools. Even dear Sir Lewis. At least he’d had the good sense and good manners to defer to his wife. But Anne had inherited his poor constitution instead of the Fitzwilliam strength, the noble blue blood that had taken them across the Channel with William the Conqueror to establish their line here in England. And down through all the centuries they’d kept their power and their wealth by their strength. Darcy had it, and his two cousins, the young earl and his brother, Colonel Fitzwilliam. Why did Anne have to suffer?
And why, come to think of it, had she, Lady Catherine, borne only the one child, no son? Because poor dear Lewis had been weak. Couldn’t father more than one. Even that much had more or less worn him out. Yet she’d loved him, chosen him herself. She admitted now, years too late, that it had been a mistake, picking a weak man. But it had been a good marriage. Two strong—and strong-willed—people in a marriage was a recipe for sorrow, even divorce. And she’d done well. Rosings was not Pemberley, but it was a fine property, and Kent was a far more desirable location than some bleak northern extremity like Derbyshire.
And Anne. She was her darling girl, conceived in the early days of the marriage, while Lewis could still do his duty as a husband. How proud he had been! As if the one child fulfilled the marriage vows. After that, no matter how Catherine chafed him and scolded him, he kept to his own room most of the time, and when he did venture to share her bed he’d been good for little more than a cuddle. “Tipping the velvet,” he called it. Pleasant enough, but not likely to bring a son into the world.
Ah, well, perhaps this marriage was the answer. Thank Mrs.
Collins for that too. This George Witherspoon, he wasn’t actually weak. You could see it if you looked past the Greek-god exterior and the diffident, gentle manner. If you looked at his hands, those broad-tipped fingers stained with pigment, you could see the power in him. Claimed to be an artist, a painter. To be fair, he didn’t go about announcing it, like some of the vile boasting peacocks in town. But he answered honestly when asked. He didn’t display his work, after all, had the decency to keep it in the attic, like a true gentleman. No harm there.
And his sister, Lady David Pierce. She was a woman after Lady Catherine’s own heart. Didn’t fear to put forth her opinion. Always sensible. Not a pretty, simpering little miss, like that Mrs. Darcy who looked as if butter wouldn’t melt. Lord! Lady Catherine could strangle her and him both. But enough. Think of something else. Agatha, Lady David Pierce. She was a worthy connection. No title in her family, but a solid fortune of her own, not a mere sponge on her brother, and married to a duke’s younger son. True, an Anglo-Irish nonentity, but a duke is a duke, and it was a connection to be prized. How the ghastly vicar, Collins, would crow. At least Collins recognized the value of titles and ancient families, and gave them the deference they were due, while so many of his generation, even her own nephew, disdained them.
Anne’s moaning quieted and she rolled onto her side.
“There,” Mrs. Collins said. “What did I tell you? She’ll sleep until morning and she won’t be troubled by bad dreams.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Collins. You will stay with her? I will inform Mr. Collins that your duty is here tonight.”
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