The binding of the book cracks as it falls open. Fitzwilliam draws a sharp breath. “Shakespeare,” he whispers, his voice reverent. “Father read this to me countless times before he sent me to bed.” He leafs through the worn pages; I finally look up. Softness has descended into his features and there is awe in his eyes. He turns back to the note in his hand. “I wrote this in the evening on my ninth birthday. I did not know he kept it.”
“I am sorry for intruding on your privacy,” I say quickly. “I did not mean—”
But he silences me when his maskless, gentle eyes meet mine. “Georgiana, please do not apologize. There is very little that Father left behind; I’m quite pleased to have this.” He kisses my cheek and departs the library, leaving me quite confused indeed.
The next weeks are wet and quiet in London. My brother and I speak little to each other, and the air between us is strained. At long last, one evening he startles me by entering the music room and laying a hand upon my shoulder while I am in the middle of a Beethoven piece. I stop and look up, curious. He meets my eyes; his are tired.
“You were right,” he says quietly. “I did presume that she would accept me. I assumed, because of our different circumstances, that she would want—that she would be obliged, even, to accept me. I went to the parsonage that evening certain of my success.”
“Will you tell me what happened?” I ask, my voice small.
“It is quite a story, my dear girl,” he replies. “I have been mulling it over these many weeks. I feel...drained.” He lets out a breath.
“If you would rather not—”
“No, no,” he assures me, sitting down upon the bench. After a pause, he offers, “I would, perhaps, prefer to abridge the story for you. I am afraid that I have violated your privacy, and you ought to know of the circumstances.”
“Did you tell her of my letter?” I ask, rather wishing I had burnt the cursed thing after writing it.
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I was obliged to tell her about Ramsgate.”
I am quiet for a long moment. “Do you trust her with this secret?” I ask, not certain whether I am angry.
Fitzwilliam settles me by taking my hand. “I know you have no way to know it,” he says, “but Miss Elizabeth Bennet is most scrupulous; she will not make it public.”
“Why did you tell her?”
My brother then tells me of Mr. Wickham’s enrollment in the militia, and his stay in Hertfordshire. He tells me of his chance meeting with him, in the streets of Meryton. He tells the not astonishing tale of a young and charming gentleman with exquisite manners who captivated the whole of the county.
“Making his true character known to Hertfordshire would have only succeeded in my being even more disliked,” he says with a wry kind of smile. “But he took a particular liking to Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and when I tried—albeit halfheartedly—to put her on her guard, she would not hear it. He had told her that our father had willed the living at Kympton to Wickham and that I had denied him it upon Father’s passing.”
“But it was willed conditionally only,” I protest.
He smiles again. “I know that, Georgiana, and Wickham knows that, but all of Hertfordshire would have made the issue my word against his. You of all people know how I hate to be questioned.”
“Fitzwilliam, were you really so terrible? Did no one see you truly?”
“They all saw me truly, Georgiana, and that was the trouble. I did not force the issue of Wickham’s character because I thought it beneath me to lay my private actions open to them. I paid almost none of them attention, excepting Miss Bennet, and I did not encourage Bingley in his acquaintances either.”
I have never heard my brother utter an admission of guilt so readily before, and am a little stunned, but not displeased. It is comforting to know that sometimes the great Fitzwilliam Darcy makes mistakes. “How did this come to light?” I ask gently.
He draws breath slowly, staring at the keys instead of looking at me, and a sadness creeps into his features. He speaks deliberately. “I went to the parsonage that evening knowing that Miss Bennet was quite alone. I thought of a number of approaches, and then, deciding that a direct one was best—”
“You always do,” I say, laying my hand on his knee.
He smiles a little and takes it. “Yes—I do. I declared my feelings for Miss Bennet—she was surprised, as I had expected. And then, after foolishly letting her know the difficulties of such a connection, I asked if she would not become my wife.” He then looks at me with a heartbroken expression. “She would not. I have been over it so many times in my head, Georgiana, that I could quote her reasons for refusing me—my arrogance, my conceit, my selfish disdain for the feelings of others...and then she accused me of having ruined Mr. Wickham...among other things.”
“What other things?” I ask, curious. I would not wish him to hide anything from me.
“Nothing that signifies, dear girl.” He pats my hand. “I wrote her a letter...a very long letter. In it I detailed my dealings with Wickham. I delivered it to her in the grove at Rosings the next morning. I do not expect to ever see her again.”
Smiling, I squeeze his fingers. “I am sorry that your heart was broken.”
He is quiet for a moment, and then turns to face me more squarely. “I...I know I am not perfect, but I truly never knew...” He looks away.
I take his dimpled chin between my thumb and forefinger, as he has wont to do to me at times. “Your heart will mend, Fitzwilliam,” I say quietly, “and you can improve your behavior. Our closer acquaintances know the truth of your character; they know of your charity...that you are simply shy, like me. You can show it to others beyond your own circle.”
He smiles. “Georgiana,” he says, and then kisses my cheek. He pulls away and sighs. “I am exhausted. Take your brother to bed.”
I walk with him up to his rooms, and then decide to retire myself. An odd feeling grips me as Michelle, yawning all the while, brushes out my hair. I feel almost giddy; as if something unexpected and wonderful is about to happen. For not only have I this moment reconciled the one and only disagreement which I have ever had with Fitzwilliam, I have realized that I have not thought or dreamt of Mr. Wickham since my brother’s return from Rosings some three weeks earlier. He has not crossed my mind in a lazy, melancholy moment; he has not crept into my dreams to unsettle me; and he has not walked off the pages of a book I ought to be concentrating on. He is slowly melting from my memory, as ice off the meadow in spring. The lessons left behind are a nutrient to help me grow and blossom in the splendor of the season.
“Being at Pemberley, with guests,” says Mrs. Annesley in the carriage, “will be excellent practice as hostess for you. Your age will excuse you from any faux pas that you might make, and with the Bingleys—one in particular, mind you—you cannot make a mistake that is not charming.”
It is early August. We are on the last leg of our journey from London to Pemberley. We are in the first carriage, and Miss Bingley and the Hursts are behind us in a second, with our servants in a third. Mr. Bingley rides beside us on his horse, and my brother rode ahead of us after receiving a message from Mr. Albertson.
“I do hope you are not referring to Mr. Bingley,” I say, looking sideways at her. Mrs. Annesley likes to tease; I do not always appreciate it.
“Oh, yes,” she replies, a most serious look upon her face. “He is quite smitten.”
“He is not smitten with me,” I assert. “If he is he shall be sorely disappointed.” I lift an eyebrow and turn to look out the window again. We drive but a few feet more and then stop. As we alight from the carriage, my brother is there to hand me down. He greets me in a reserved way, as he usually does, but he smiles and I tell him how pleased I am to be at Pemberley. Mrs. Reynolds is there, as well, and I introduce her to Mrs. Annesley, whom I think she will like very much. A maid offers to guide Mrs. Annesley through the house and she and Michelle make themselves busy directing footmen with our trunks. As the Bingle
ys and Hursts descend from their carriage, taking their time, my brother says nothing out of the ordinary, but in his eyes I can see a certain pleasure. I think he has got a secret—perhaps a surprise for me.
He takes my arm and we walk inside. The Bingleys and Hursts disperse to rest and direct their servants; Fitzwilliam steers me toward the main rooms of the house.
“I am sure you know that I have a surprise for you,” he says, his eyes twinkling.
“Yes,” I say impatiently. “What is it?”
We turn into the music room—my favorite in this house, as well—and he gestures into one corner. I am confused for a moment, until I realize that the pianoforte that used to stand there is gone, and a new one—ornately carved, painted, and polished—stands in its place. “Oh!” I gasp, covering my mouth and smiling. “Fitzwilliam, it is beautiful!” I run my fingers across it and sit down upon the bench, declaring that I cannot wait to play it. I begin the first few notes of a scale but discover that it is not tuned and wrinkle my nose.
He smiles fully and his cheeks flush. “I am glad that you like it. There will be someone here to tune it this afternoon, and you may play me something after supper this evening.”
“It is too much!” I declare, but would not have him send it away for anything. “Thank you. For what reason, may I ask, did you go to such trouble?”
“Nothing is trouble for my dearest sister,” he replies playfully, which causes me to suspect that there is something more to surprise me with. “It was purchased to thank you for your honesty and generosity. Despite all that we Darcys have, Georgiana, those are two things we receive rarely.”
I smile sheepishly and pull my hands away from the keys. “If I am either honest or generous, it is because of you, sir.”
Dipping his head solemnly in acknowledgement, he folds his hands and sets them on the top of the instrument. He smiles slowly, and then lets his eyes dance at me again. Now I am certain that there is something more. “I have another surprise for you, which you might like better than your new instrument.”
“I cannot imagine what it is,” I say. “As it is, I shall drive you mad and play this all day long.” I gaze over it, and up at him again. “Thank you, again.”
He bends down and kisses my cheek. “It was nothing, if it gives you pleasure,” he says. “Now, you must go and change out of your traveling clothes. There is someone I would like you to meet at last.”
I look at him, fiercely curious. “Who is it?”
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet and her aunt and uncle are touring Derbyshire. They are all staying at the inn at Lambton. I asked if I might introduce you to her while she is there.”
My stomach begins to flutter in nervousness, but I take hold of his arm. “Oh, yes!” I declare, all nerves. “Oh—whatever shall I wear?”
Fitzwilliam laughs. “Anything will be fine. I have got the curricle coming around. Mr. Bingley will follow us on horseback once his sisters are settled. I shall meet you downstairs.” He kisses my head and I turn toward my room, calling for Michelle.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet is only a little shorter than I am. She is ravenhaired with round cheeks and a pleasing figure. She is dressed modestly, which suits her open and sincere face. She smiles at me, and the fine eyes about which my brother has raved brighten the sitting room. Oh, I quite like her. She is lovely.
My brother lets Miss Bennet know that Mr. Bingley is also coming to call upon her. She smiles, and for the briefest of moments, my dear brother’s face is graced with such an expression of tenderness that I smile. It is clear, to me at least, how much he really likes her. For this reason, I cannot think what to say, and am sure I seem quite silly when she tries to engage me in conversation and I make only brief replies to her comments.
Her uncle and aunt, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, are kindly-looking people and I like that same openness and sincerity in their features which I observe in Miss Bennet’s. Mr. Bingley makes his appearance in quick succession to our own, and comes into the room all smiles and eager to talk and please. I find it amusing that Mr. Bingley, a man who misplaces his pens upon the surfaces of writing tables, recalls the precise date of the ball he gave at Netherfield. I wonder if something particular occurred then, as it is evident that there is something more he wants to say about it. He keeps his inquiries general, however, and though Miss Bennet is kind and clearly pleased to see him, there is no special attention paid to him, and neither has anything truly noteworthy to say.
My brother is perfectly composed and relaxed in her presence—on the surface, at least. We stay with them for about a half an hour and then, just before we leave, my brother persuades me to invite them to Pemberley for dinner, which I do quite nervously. Mrs. Gardiner accepts for the party, and smiles encouragingly at me. We settle on the day after next, and then must take our leave. Fitzwilliam and I are both close to silent, but smile stupidly on the return to the house.
To my vexation and delight, Mrs. Gardiner and Miss Bennet call upon us the following morning. Her uncle had accepted an invitation to go trout fishing at Pemberley, issued the previous day by my brother, and they had set out earlier in the morning with a party that included Mr. Bingley. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst greet our visitors coldly. I wonder if something happened between them in Hertfordshire and rather suspect the sisters of being less than gracious neighbors.
Mrs. Gardiner is as open and friendly as she was yesterday. She talks easily with Mrs. Annesley, and Miss Bennet listens respectfully to their conversation, joining in occasionally. I, of course, say next to nothing, as I am afraid of saying something silly.
I am afraid Miss Bennet is not very comfortable in the presence of the Bingley sisters, for she seems quite anxious. After remaining silent since her arrival, Miss Bingley screws up courtesy enough to inquire after the health of the Bennet family, and receives a reply formulated with as much consideration as Miss Bingley showed in waiting more than a quarter of an hour to ask.
After this exchange, finally I notice Mrs. Annesley looking at me as though something is expected of me, and I am reminded that I am the hostess and must ring for some refreshment. Some lovely fruits are brought, and we all gather round the table, and not long afterward, Fitzwilliam comes to join us.
He issues a general greeting to the room, and I smile a little as I see Miss Bennet’s cheeks flush. He explains that he had heard from Mr. Gardiner that the ladies intended to call at the house, and that all of the gentlemen were still enjoying themselves at the river.
I observe Miss Bennet as he speaks. After some moments she seems more relaxed and at ease, which pleases me, and I think her smiles must please my brother. It does not escape my notice that he seems particularly anxious for she and I to speak, and I do exert myself more to do so.
Miss Bingley, unfortunately, also notices that my brother is attempting to forward conversation between Miss Bennet and myself, and from the expression upon her face, she is not pleased by it. She proves it then, by asking Miss Bennet whether the regiment of militia, which I knew Mr. Wickham had joined, had not removed from Meryton.
“They must be a great loss to your family.”
Knowing the nature of Miss Bennet’s acquaintance with one in particular of those officers, I would feel more for my new friend if I did not more clearly recall what connection I had with the same officer. Miss Bingley has never heard a word of the incident, and would not have posed the question if she knew of it, but the comment was made out of anger and jealousy, and with the intention of injuring my brother’s opinion of our visitor. It has the unintended side effect of silencing me for the remainder of the visit.
Miss Bennet answers quietly and disinterestedly, and they do not stay much longer. When they have gone, Miss Bingley begins abusing her abominably. I can see she wants me to join her, but I cannot. My first introduction to Miss Bennet through my brother’s glowing descriptions in his letters was enough to ensure my good opinion. Now that I have met her for myself I have no objection whatever, and so I ignore Miss Bingley
, and go quietly and smilingly with Mrs. Annesley to my French lesson.
Fitzwilliam does not join us for tea that afternoon, but Mr. Bingley does. He and I have pleasant conversation, while his sisters are uncharacteristically quiet. Soon Mrs. Reynolds pops in and tells me that my brother would like to see me. I cannot think what for, so curiously I go in the direction of her pointed finger. My brother is waiting in the hallway.
“I should like a turn in the garden with you,” he says, his hand extended. I smile and take it.
We reach the garden. It is so beautiful at this time of year. Fitzwilliam tucks my hand into the crook of his arm and smiles at me. “You and I did not have the chance to talk yesterday evening,” he says. “What were your impressions of Miss Bennet?”
Honestly, Brother. Don’t beat around the bush. A direct approach is always best, after all. “She is lovely,” I say, to quickly assure him of of my regard. “I very much like her.”
“I am glad to hear it,” he says. Then he stops and turns to me, squeezing my hand. “I think that it is time we had a talk.”
“What about?” I ask, my stomach aflutter.
“You know that I must marry,” he says, his voice low. “I know that you do not know her well...but…do you suppose that you might like to have her for your sister?”
Though I am rather inclined to call his valet and send him back to the inn with our mother’s wedding ring, I consider the question. I do like Miss Bennet, very much. My first impressions of her are everything good and amiable, and adding to that my brother’s own good opinion of the lady, the fact that the dogs do not growl at her as they do at Miss Bingley, and Mrs. Reynolds’ rapture over her the night before, I do not think I have greatly erred. As to her fortune and connections, I am perfectly indifferent and always have been to anyone’s. But if she is my sister, then she is my brother’s wife. This means many things and I sit on a bench to ponder them. Fitzwilliam looks nervous and a little surprised.
The Road to Pemberley Page 27