It was not an option to bring her closer still, until she leaned against his chest, her head resting on his shoulder. Nor to soothingly stroke her and tell her he would never let her come to any harm. So instead he forbore to lead Ares into a canter and earnestly whispered:
“You are perfectly safe. Trust me. I will not let you fall.”
She did not glance at him this time.
She merely whispered back, “I know.”
* * * *
They soon overtook Wilkins, his Nellie and Mr Bradden’s gig. Darcy halted their progress only for long enough to offer an apology for leaving him behind, thank him for his efforts and undertake to send someone from the stables on the following day to see to Nellie’s injury.
Old Wilkins was quick to respond just as he ought, but wisely laggard to raise a brow at the young people’s chosen mode of transport, at least until Mr Darcy was well out of sight.
The prudent choice was not altogether necessary. Mr Darcy was past caring about Wilkins’s raised brow or anybody else’s, for that matter. Because Elizabeth was coming home with him. And, God willing, by the morrow he might find the right words to persuade her to stay and let him win her hand and her heart.
But that was for the morning.
For now, Ares was bringing them home apace. Rising and falling as one, with the even gait. Her anxious tension gone, or at least greatly softened. The warm weight of her legs draped over his knee. Her cherished form gathered to his chest.
The rain still fell in heavy folds slanting from behind them, over his back rather than hers, to drench his hair and send rivulets insidiously trickling behind his collar and dampening his shirt as well. Yet not even that had the power to chill him as he rode in the gathering dusk through sleepy Kympton back to Pemberley, his heart full to the brim with an overwhelming sense of peace. Of homecoming.
Were it not for the need to bring her back to warmth and safety, he might have wished this ride would last for some considerable time.
CHAPTER 21
Ever since she had received word from her brother about the findings in Kympton, Georgiana had not budged from the window overlooking the approach to the house. She waited, agonised and prayed as the minutes dragged, seeming like hours, and the half-hours as long as an age. Just as she had begun to fret over the settling dusk, coming early at that time of year and on such a horribly wet day, she was rewarded with the most welcome sight of her brother’s mount making fast tracks along the road, unmindful of what seemed to be a double burden.
She lingered at the window, keen to assure herself that the failing light had not misled her, and clasped her hands together in silent gratitude when it became quite clear it had not. As soon as the large stallion halted at the entrance her brother promptly dismounted, allowing Georgiana to perceive beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was not alone. A cloaked figure was perched before the saddle, and he reached to help her down – only to sweep her up into his arms again to carry her towards the house.
Georgiana’s concern was instantly rekindled. She gasped. Heavens, was Lizzy injured? Was she ill? She must be. Either one or the other or terribly weak – otherwise why would he be carrying her?
She peered out for a few moments longer and breathed a long sigh of relief. No, Lizzy did not seem to be in pain. If anything, she looked very much like her determined self as she spoke up to Fitzwilliam. Demanding something. Georgiana could not make out a single word but, judging by what followed, Lizzy must have requested that she be set down, for he did so with obvious reluctance. And, despite the fact that she could walk unaided, still kept a hand under her arm to support her up the stairs, to the entrance.
Without delay, Georgiana left her outpost and eagerly hastened down.
* * * *
The flurry had by now given way to calm, at least by comparison. Georgiana had greeted Elizabeth in the entrance hall with a warm embrace but, kindly and wisely, had not beset her with a dozen questions. Instead, she had earnestly entreated her friend to go up and change out of the dreadfully wet apparel, and Elizabeth had been all too glad to comply.
Even in the privacy of the small bedchamber Georgiana had not pressed her friend to talk about the hardships of the day, but warmly insisted she change for the night and nestle into bed. To ward off the cold. A proper night’s sleep would do a world of good. Unless she was hungry? Would she like a tray brought up from the kitchens? Or tea at least, to warm her up? No, she was not hungry. A tray need not be sent for. But tea would be most welcome.
By the time a maid came up with the steaming-hot brew, Elizabeth had changed into warm nightclothes and Georgiana had tenderly assisted with brushing her hair, drying it before the fire and plaiting it for the night. In a strange reversal of their ages and rapport, Georgiana then settled her friend under the bedcovers and watched over her with a maternal smile as tea was poured for both and duly drunk.
Despite Elizabeth’s insistence that she was well, Georgiana stayed for longer, to pull the quilts up, rearrange the pillows, stroke her friend’s hair and lean to kiss her feverish cheek, then found a slim volume of poems in the small bookcase and nestled in the chair by the fire to read aloud in a gentle cadence and low, tranquil tones.
Whether her efforts to soothe her friend’s spirits had borne fruit or not, she could not tell, but by the time Georgiana left the quiet chamber Elizabeth was fast asleep – or uncannily adept at feigning it.
A mildly surprising sight greeted her in the darkened corridor. Her brother was waiting for her, leaning against the panelling, arms crossed over his chest. She closed the door with caution, then approached him, sheltering the flame of her candle with one hand, only to note when she was near enough that he was still wearing the same clothes.
“Goodness, Brother,” she tenderly admonished. “You should have had a warm bath and changed into something dry. Have you been here the entire time?”
“Yes. Never mind that. How is she?”
“Asleep, I think.”
“But not ill or anything of the sort?”
Georgiana’s brow furrowed.
“She did seem a little feverish…”
He muttered an oath – and neglected to apologise – as he ran his fingers through his hair and promptly turned away, casting over his shoulder:
“Let me send for the doctor. I will return directly.”
“No, wait. I would not disturb her sleep. We can send for him in the morning, if need be.”
He stopped to rub his temples, then conceded her the point, at least in part.
“Aye. Or later tonight. Ask her maid to sit with her and send word at once if she is getting any worse.”
“I will sit with her myself. I would have stayed for longer now, but I thought you might be ready to go down for dinner.”
“God, no,” her brother impatiently retorted. “I am in no humour for it. A tray in my room would suffice. That is,” he remembered to civilly amend, “if you would not object. I ought to keep you company.”
“Not at all,” she warmly assured him. “I am not hungry either. I will send word to the kitchens. Pray go and rest. We would not want to tax poor Dr Althorpe with two patients,” she finished with a smile, only to see him nervously run his fingers through his hair again.
“Nor with one, either. Do go and sit with her, Georgiana, and leave someone in your place when you retire for the night. Tell them I must be informed if she is worse, regardless of the hour.”
With that, he excused himself and would have left to stride to his own quarters at the other end of the family wing, had she not softly called his name. He spun around.
“Yes, dearest?”
“You have not told me… How did it go?”
“Pardon?”
“Did you speak to her? Will she stay?”
A long sigh was her first answer.
“I have not,” he said at last. “There was no time to stop and talk. She was cold. It was raining. I will speak to her on the morrow and persuade her, God willing. She
must stay!”
He suddenly ran his hands over his face and glanced at her, making her brows shoot up in mildly anxious wonder. Her dearest older brother – sometimes solemn, occasionally stern, yet at all times her tower of strength, perfectly confident and in absolute control – was now bearing a very strong resemblance to a conscious, tousle-haired youngster. And then, to her further disbelief, he called her by the name he had not used in upwards of eleven years. But that was nothing to what he had to say. That left her positively speechless.
“You might as well know, Georgy. I will ask her to marry me as soon as I stand a chance. I love her. I could not bear to see her go.”
The words fell between them in the silent corridor, and Georgiana still stood staring, until joy propelled her out of her stunned state and she rushed to drop her candlestick on the nearest flat surface and put her arms around her brother in a tight embrace. With a strained chuckle he returned it, just as tightly, and his words rumbled in her ear.
“I take it that you would like to have her as your sister.”
Georgiana drew back to beam into his face.
“More than I could say. Oh, do! Do ask her, Fitzwilliam! I so feared you would choose some daunting lady of the ton. If she were not asleep, I would scheme and entice her into my sitting room, so that you could ask her right away.”
Her boundless delight and energy brought a faint smile to his lips, but it did not have the strength to reach his eyes. His lips tightened in something which, to her tender glance, looked very much like pain.
“Too soon, sweetling, much as I would wish to. It would shock her dreadfully just now.” His voice trailed and he took a deep breath. “Goodness knows what I could possibly say to atone for today and persuade her to forgive me. But I must find a way to start afresh – win back her trust – win her heart. Somehow.”
Ensconced in her brother’s embrace, Georgiana smiled a pensive little smile as a great many things were suddenly made clearer. With that new insight, she found it a vast deal easier to justify, and thus forgive, his ghastly error. She dearly hoped that Elizabeth would, too. Burning jealousy was still a poor excuse, but a more comprehensible explanation than plain misjudgement and unwarranted mistrust. Especially as it had a way of blinding the very best of men when sparked by someone they reviled.
She stood on tiptoe to drop a kiss on her brother’s cheek.
“It seems you have a monumental task ahead of you to choose the very best of words, and I should leave you to it. I hope you have sufficient pens and paper. If not, I can send for more. A shame Richard is not here to advise you. He might have been able to coin a phrase or two and between the pair of you a tolerable declaration would have been put together. As it is you only have me to tell you what I would wish to hear in like circumstances, but I assume you would much rather not take dictation from your little sister, so… get to it.”
He gave a choked bark of laughter.
“The impudence! Where have you learnt your sauciness?”
She grinned and shrugged.
“Lizzy, of course. And with any luck you might get accustomed to it yet.”
She tenderly kissed his cheek again and finally released him to make his way towards his bedchamber and find those words that might help him win his heart’s desire, and thus fill her own heart with unmitigated joy.
* * * *
Georgiana paused before the door to Elizabeth’s bedchamber in a haze of thrilled anticipation. How wonderful life at Pemberley would be if her brother’s suit were to be successful! And it would be. It must. It simply must. She would help in any way she could. Tell Lizzy what a wonderful man he was – the sort who would move heaven and earth for those he loved. Tell her that he–
The whirl of plans and hopeful notions were disrupted when she spotted a young maid coming up the stairs. The girl bobbed a curtsy, then walked up to join her.
“Yes, Martha?”
“I were juss comin’ up wi’ this, Ma’am. A lad brought it from the stables, said they found it strapped to the Master’s saddle. I doubt ‘tis the Master’s. Thought it were Miss Bennet’s. But perchance ye’d know.”
Georgiana cast a glance at the wet and muddy canvas bag the girl was carrying.
“Aye, it must be Miss Bennet’s. But do not take it in just now, you might disturb her sleep. Bring it into my bedchamber. Whatever is in it must be dried. You can put the things up in my dressing room.”
They went into Georgiana’s bedchamber together, but the girl was reluctant to place the bag on any of the chairs.
“‘Tis bound to leave a stain, Miss Darcy. Let me bring a cloth or summat.”
“No need. You can leave it in the window seat, ‘tis easier to clean,” Georgiana suggested and the girl was prompt in doing as bid.
She opened the bag and gasped in dismay.
“What is it, Martha?” Georgiana turned back from the door.
“This beautiful dress, Miss. Looks to me ‘tis ruined.”
Georgiana came closer to glance at the garment the young maid had lifted from its confines and let it drop down to its full length. Sadly, the girl was in the right. The dress – the one she had ordered for Elizabeth at Christmas – was in a sorry state. The bag’s dye had seeped into it, leaving a host of indigo stains. They might come out with some skill and effort, but it was unlikely. She sighed. A shame, but there was little to be done about it.
“Pray go and hang it by the fire in my dressing room. We shall have to ask Mrs Reynolds if she knows of any admixture that might bring out the stains.”
With a nod, the girl took the dress into the adjoining room, leaving Georgiana to tentatively assess the rest of the contents for the expected damage.
She shook her head at the sight of Lizzy’s sketchbook. The cover was marked in indigo stains as well, and as for the charcoal sketches… The first was damp and stained, and it clung stubbornly onto the cover, so that it tore when Georgiana sought to prize it off. A great pity. How pretty it was too, a skilfully drawn view of Pemberley. And then another, from across the lake. Not so badly damaged, just some dark stains seeping in from the top corner. Martha should place the sketches carefully by the fire too, and perhaps they could be saved. Ah, this was lovely! A charcoal portrait of herself, that she could not remember sitting for. Maybe she had forgotten. Or maybe Lizzy had drawn it from memory. She set it aside, to find another sketch of Pemberley, and underneath it one that stopped her hand poised in the air. Her brother’s portrait. Faithfully done. A remarkable likeness.
And underneath another. And another. And another.
She lost count – not that she was really counting. There must have been over a dozen. All of Fitzwilliam, each and every one. In a chair, reading. In profile, standing by the window. The next one up close, looking straight at her out of the paper, a smile playing on his lips. And then several others, still up close, at slightly different angles. Fitzwilliam. Fitzwilliam. Fitzwilliam.
Georgiana stared. Then, with trembling hands, she began to gather all the detached pages and safely return them between the covers of the sketchbook, lest Martha return and catch sight of them. Then she clasped the sketchbook to her chest and allowed herself a smile, before hastening out of her room and along the corridor, all the way down to her brother’s chambers. And, for the first time in her life, she rushed in without pausing to knock.
* * * *
Her smile widened to see that he was, in fact, sitting at his writing desk, pen in hand. His cravat lay crumpled alongside his sheet of paper, and his coat and waistcoat were discarded on the long seat at the foot of the bed, along with the cloth he must have used to dry his hair, for it looked even more ruffled than earlier, if that were even possible.
She saw him start and scowl at her sudden entrance.
“What the blazes…?” Instantly, the scowl gave way to concern. “Georgiana? What is amiss?”
Her bright smile should have told him she did not come bearing ill tidings, but she put that into words nevertheless.
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“Nothing is amiss. Quite the opposite. There is something I thought you should see.”
Without another word, she walked up to place the sketchbook bearing Lizzy’s name on the writing desk, before him, and opened it to reveal the treasure trove. Then, wrapping her arms around his neck, she leaned over his back until she was cheek to cheek with her awestruck brother, as he discovered one sketch after another, and with them a glorious and humbling truth.
At last she straightened to drop a kiss on his temple.
“There you have it,” she tenderly whispered. “‘Tis not too soon to ask, and you do stand a chance. Look for no more words. Just tell you love her. And that you cannot bear to see her go.”
Then she vanished once again, and this time she did not return. Thus, with no further interruption, Darcy was left to stare chin in hand at sixteen charcoal portraits and the dates on their backs – and count and damn his failings, one by one. And likewise count and damn each moment left until the morning, when he might see her and throw himself at the mercy of a heart he had done nothing to deserve so far.
* * * *
The first words that Georgiana’s lady’s maid said to her after the customary greeting were, “Mr Darcy wishes to see you in his chambers as soon as you are ready. He sent word earlier this morning.”
Seeing as the clock on the mantelpiece showed it was only half past eight, his impatience could not be justified by the lateness of the hour. He must have risen very early – that is if he had slept at all.
Georgiana took pity on her dear brother and made haste with her preparations and the inquiries she knew he would like her to make. Before long, as asked, she was knocking on the door to his bedchamber. She found him clean-shaven, impeccably attired and ready for the day – outwardly at least. But his drawn countenance told its own story. He had not spent an easy night.
Miss Darcy's Companion: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 24