“I should very much like to give over housekeeping to your wife, Fitzwilliam,” I say, which is not the answer he was expecting at all. He stares uncomprehendingly at me for a moment but then realizes where my thoughts have gone, and sits next to me. “I should have to share you,” I say quietly. “Rather a lot, I conjecture.”
“But with a woman worthy as I believe Miss Bennet is,” he whispers to me, “would you share willingly?”
I look up at him. “Do you remember the Weldons?”
He quirks an eyebrow. “Of course—Philip and his sister Agatha. What makes you think of...oh.”
My cheeks are crimson, but I meet his eyes. Agatha was several years older than me, but the only other young lady who lived in Portnam Square, so I knew her reasonably well. Like Fitzwilliam and I, there were more than ten years between her and Philip, and their parents had passed on.
“She adored Philip,” I remind my own, dear brother, “but when he married, she was left in London without a visit from him for an entire year.”
“I would never do such a thing,” he replies. “Georgiana, you know I would not.”
I feel silly for even thinking such a thing, and smile sheepishly at him. “I do.”
He tilts my chin up with his crooked finger. “And—assuming everything turns out the way that I hope it shall—Miss Bennet would not hear of leaving you behind.”
“I should dearly love to have a sister,” I tell him, smiling. “And I do like Miss Bennet very much.”
“And so,” he continues, uneasily, “if I were to court Miss Bennet—properly—and if I could show her that I am not the vicious beast she must have thought me at times, perhaps she would consent to marry me. You would approve?”
I smile at him. It is rather endearing to hear him speak in terms so uncertain. “Yes!” I declare. “Unless of course, you think Miss Bingley would like to fill the office.”
He raises his eyebrow at me. “If a lifetime of torture was what I wanted, I would choose Anne first. At least it would be quiet torture,” he retorts, and we continue our walk. He is smiling all the way, and I know his head is full of Miss Bennet. “We will have a new family at Pemberley,” he declares just before we reach the house again. He kisses my forehead and leads me inside.
The next day I rise and practice early in anticipation of spending the remainder of the day getting ready for, and enjoying, Miss Bennet and the Gardiners’ visit. My brother leaves the house before I am finished and when he returns he has distressing news: Miss Bennet has been called home unexpectedly and will not be joining us today. I am disappointed, but my brother—who had the day before been talking of marriage and new families—is, quite clearly, both angry and brokenhearted. This combination of emotions I have seen before, regarding the same woman, and I do not know what to do. He is close to silent for the remainder of the day, and in the evening I want to suggest that perhaps he should join Mr. Bingley when he returns to Hertfordshire, but am too afraid to speak to him.
I try to outlast Mr. Bingley’s sisters, but as I do not wait until ten o’clock to rise, I cannot. Fitzwilliam approaches me and recommends that I retire with a kiss on my head, which I know is not a suggestion, but a command. I sigh and bid him good night, walking slowly to my room. The day has turned out quite differently than I had expected and hoped and I wish that I knew why.
When the house is finally dark and quiet I hear his footsteps. They are distinctive—strong, sharp, and quick. He is pacing. He walks up and down the hallway at least four times before his steps slow down, and before long he is shuffling his feet. When I hear his footsteps stop at the end of the hallway opposite his chamber door, I rise and put on my robe. I step out to the hall.
He is sitting slumped on the cold marble floor, his arms resting on his legs, bent at the knee. There is—not surprisingly—a bottle of wine resting between his feet. I sit next to him.
“Go to bed, Georgiana.”
“Tell me what is troubling you.”
“No.”
“I am not a child, you know, Fitzwilliam. You can confide in me. I may not be able to do anything for you, but at least I can listen and help bear your burden.”
He looks at me with eyes swollen from sorrow and narrow from anger. “Go to bed, Georgiana.”
“No,” I say emphatically, quite perturbed with him. “I beg you, Fitzwilliam, just talk to me. It will do more good than drowning your troubles in that bottle of wine.”
His head thumps against the wall; I wince for him but he does not seem to feel it. “Oh...my dear sister.” He shakes his head now, back and forth, in a rather exaggerated manner. “You would be too distressed by what is going through my head.”
“And what is going through your head?”
“The fact that I am in love with a woman who will never have me.”
In any other circumstance, I would rejoice at his confession of love. “You are speaking of Miss Bennet?”
“I am.”
“And why will she never have you?”
“Because her youngest sister has run away with damned Wickham, and she knows that I could have prevented it.”
Stunned, I stare for a moment. “What has Wickham done?”
Fitzwilliam flops his head in my direction. “He ran away with Miss Lydia Bennet.” He reaches for his wine. “She has nothing—no money, no connections, few friends. Nothing that will tempt Wickham to marry her. She is lost to her family and I could have prevented it.” He lifts the bottle by its neck to his lips and takes an untidy swig.
“He has ruined that poor girl,” I whisper, covering my mouth with my hand. “Miss Lydia Bennet could so easily have been me.”
“No,” drawls Fitzwilliam, “for Wickham would have married you. He will not marry Miss Lydia Bennet. She has nothing to offer him.”
“Truly, they have nothing?” I ask, beginning to worry for my new friend. How distressed must she now be! “There is no way he would marry her?”
“If she had what you have, perhaps,” he replies with another swig of his wine, “but she has not, and so he won’t.”
We fall quiet for a moment. I know not what my brother is thinking, but my head is swimming with the words that he used to describe Miss Lydia Bennet’s situation.
She is lost to her family.
He will not marry Miss Lydia Bennet.
I could have been lost to mine—despite what my brother might say, had I married Wickham I would eventually have figured out that he did not love me, and only wanted my fortune. I am enough ashamed of what I almost did; had I actually eloped, I would never have been able to face my brother again.
I eye the bottle and am tempted to drink of it myself. Instead I shake my head. “She will now never see her parents and four sisters again. Oh...poor Miss Bennet.” My words are but a whisper, but my brother hears them.
Fitzwilliam, astonishingly, belches and then sighs. “I do hope, dear sister, that the poor Miss Bennet to whom you are referring is Miss Elizabeth Bennet, because while Wickham is a complete rake and I would like to throttle him for what he has done, Miss Lydia is not exactly...bright.”
This declaration disquiets me and I sit back against the wall. Is this what my brother thinks of me—that because I fell for Wickham’s charms and deceitful ways, that I am similarly obtuse?
“Which makes it all the more shameful!” he declares, starting his rant again. “He knows she does not realize he will not marry her.” He sighs and drinks again, letting the wine dribble down his chin before wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. “The man could charm the scales off a bloody snake.”
It is an interesting thing, hearing my brother talk in clichés. And curses. Belching, with wine dribbling down his chin. I look him over, and for perhaps the first time in my life, I see him not as my older brother, deserving of respect and deference; a young man born not just to wealth but to tremendous responsibility, forced upon him before he was ready. Before me instead I see a sulking little boy who has not gotten his way, and
I want to giggle before I recall what the cursing and wine is all about.
“Fitzwilliam, all is not lost. You do not know that Miss Bennet would never have you.”
“No,” he dismisses me, “she will not. I have had a hand in ruining her family; what woman would not hate such a man?”
“You do not deserve hate,” I say sharply. “Wickham does. And how on Earth could you have prevented this? You did not know he would do this.”
“But if I had not felt it beneath me to explain the rift between Mr. Wickham and myself, none of this would have happened. None of it, Georgiana, none at all. For God’s sake, I might even be married already.”
I laugh a little. “Oh...my, brother, what a dramatic streak you have got,” I tease. He ignores me. “What would you have done—would you have exposed your entire past, and mine, to all of Meryton? No one should have to do such a thing. This is not your fault. And let me be the first to assure you, being a young lady myself, and knowing what it is to be deceived by the man, that Miss Elizabeth Bennet is at this moment likely blaming herself for what has happened. She also knew what he was, Fitzwilliam....” I sigh and look earnestly into my brother’s tortured eyes. “And neither of you are to blame. It is Mr. Wickham and Lydia Bennet’s doing.”
“She did blame herself,” he says quietly, and shakes his head. “But she is not to blame. I am.” I start again to protest, but sobriety has suddenly overtaken Fitzwilliam and he stands. “And so I will have to do something about it.” He picks up his wine bottle and begins down the hall, striding confidently as though nary a drop of alcohol had touched his lips.
I rise to follow after him. I have to walk quickly to keep up with his long, purposeful stride. “What are you going to do?”
He slows to a stop. “I must find him. I have no doubt that Mr. Bennet and Mr. Gardiner are intelligent and resourceful, but they will not know where to look. I am the only one who can find him, and find him I must.” He puts his free hand on my shoulder. “Georgiana, I will have to go to London early tomorrow. Mr. Bingley will not want to stay long and will encourage his sisters to return to Grosvenor Street in a few days. I will write to you every day and will return as soon as I possibly can.”
I kiss his cheek before I turn back to my chamber. “You must do one more thing.”
“And what may I do for you, dear sister?”
“You must hope.”
He pauses a moment, looking me in the eyes. Purpose has returned to his, but that is not what I want to see.
“I will if I find reason to.”
It is all I can ask for. I smile and enjoy an embrace from my brother before turning in.
In the morning I am left with the unenviable task of making my brother’s excuses and playing hostess to the Bingleys and Hursts. Mrs. Annesley tells me not to fret over it. “It is good practice,” she says. “You will one day find yourself hostess to less gracious visitors.” Mr. Bingley and Mr. Hurst are well able to entertain themselves; one out of courtesy for me, the other out of habit. It is the Bingley sisters that have me flustered, since I am certain that at some point I shall be questioned about my brother’s reasons for returning to London so hastily. When the time comes, however, I find happily that a general explanation of business satisfies and bores them into changing the subject.
The next day, the Bingleys and Hursts depart Pemberley, no doubt at Miss Bingley’s urging. My brother’s first letter arrives the day after. He says only that he has arrived, that he has been rather occupied with his task and that he is hopeful that Wickham can be located. I wish that I could write to Miss Bennet and ask how she is faring; to reassure her that my brother’s regard is steadfast, but I did not have the opportunity to ask her before she left Derbyshire.
The weeks pass slowly, and I receive a letter at least every Wednesday from Fitzwilliam. He does not mention his quest at all and in his words there is a tone of distance. I can almost see him as he writes them to me, with the mask in full force.
Mrs. Annesley’s lessons provide much-needed routine and purpose for these long days. She seems to think my French is improving and she wants to teach me German. I hope she allows me to concentrate on one language at a time. I have barely mastered English, after all.
Five weeks after my brother suddenly departed Pemberley, I receive a letter to lift my heart.
Dear Georgiana,
It will be but a few days before I am home again. I am sure I am as anxious to be there as you are to have me return.
I have not mentioned the purpose of my coming to London to you since I arrived. This has been largely due to the general unpleasantness of the situation and the fact that I did not wish to trouble you. However, I think that you should know that Mr. George Wickham and Miss Lydia Bennet were married this morning. The bride at least was pleased with this event, although I believe Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner mourn somewhat for their niece. I do not know whether they will travel into Hertfordshire before he is obliged to join to his regiment in Newcastle, but it does not signify. However ungrateful they both are, my task has been accomplished and perhaps my mind can now be at ease.
That would, indeed, be welcome. Fitzwilliam continues the letter by telling me all about Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner’s children, and how kind that couple was to him during his search. When I am finished with the letter I tuck it away and prepare the house to receive him in the next day or so.
When he arrives, he is somber and quiet. He does not talk much and he spends several days almost exclusively with Mr. Albertson. We spend every morning at least together and many afternoons walking in the park; I play and sing for him every evening, but weeks pass before we have meaningful conversation.
“Georgiana,” he says, hesitantly, as we have our breakfast some three weeks after his return from London, “may I ask...does it trouble you?” His shoulders are tense and there is gravity in his look; he fidgets with his butter knife.
“Does what trouble me?”
“Wickham’s marriage. You...you at one time had some very strong feelings for him.”
I look into my teacup. “I do think on it sometimes,” I confess, “but beyond wondering how Miss Elizabeth Bennet is faring, it does not trouble me.”
“It does not?” he asks. My assurances seem to have lifted some weight from his shoulders.
“No,” I say quietly. I take a breath to steel myself and then continue. “If I still believed Mr. Wickham loved me, or that I loved Mr. Wickham, I am sure it would bother me. I...I am still angry at him.” I look my brother in the eyes and can see what Mrs. Annesley sees... the pain of a betrayed friend. “For what he did to you as well as for what he did to me. But I shall ever be grateful to you, Fitzwilliam, for making me see what he truly is.”
I want, desperately, for my brother to embrace me, but I know he will not.
Instead he draws a mighty breath and informs me, “I have taken every precaution to ensure that Mr. Wickham will not importune our family any longer. I may not say it very often, Georgiana, but I do adore you and I would be heartbroken if I ever lost you.”
Tears fill my eyes as I exhale. “I love you, my dear brother.” Proud of both of us, and knowing he will want to collect himself, I rise, kiss his head, and leave the breakfast room.
The following afternoon when we gather for tea, Fitzwilliam is quiet and I amuse myself by watching a pair of rabbits play just beyond the window. Mrs. Reynolds enters the room and quietly addresses my brother. She leaves quickly, and then he approaches me.
“Georgiana,” he says, while taking my hand gently in his, “I have a confession to make.”
I set down my teacup. This statement was not lightly made. I prepare myself for some shocking news. “What is it?” I ask.
“When you were a little girl, you asked if our mother had not sat for a portrait. I said that she had not. It was not true.”
This, I am shocked at. Not so much that there should be a portrait of my mother, but that my brother should have lied about it, and that he should remember my a
sking so long ago. “It was not?”
“No,” he says solemnly, shaking his head. “Though I did not know it at the time, I have known it for a number of years. I am sorry, Georgiana.”
“Then there is a portrait of my mother? May I not see it?”
Fitzwilliam smirks a little. “Yes,” he says, and tucks my hand into his arm. We leave the sitting room, bound for the gallery. He explains himself as we walk. “There are two. She sat for one when she was sixteen, and another shortly after her marriage to our father. When she died, he requested that the first, which hung in Matlock, be sent to him. He was very, very angry...he was bent on destroying them both.” In the gallery we stop before two portraits draped in black. “No one knows who put them away, but Mrs. Reynolds found them after his death and asked if I would not like them to be hung. I did not even look at them—I was too upset. I told her to put them away...but I remembered them a few days ago.”
“Why were you both so very angry with her?” I ask. This does not seem rational at all.
“I was not angry with her,” he tells me, but his voice is sharp with the emotion. “Our father was. His anger I cannot vouch for, nor can I say when it ebbed. He sent me to school but a day after she was laid to rest and I did not see him for two full years.”
“You were angry at him.” I am starting to understand some things—dare I think one of these could be my brother?
He is quiet, staring at the shrouded portraits. Oh, and there it is—that strong, controlled facade. I hate it when this happens.
I clutch his arm. “Please,” I beg him. “Please tell me what you are thinking.” He turns his head, and for a moment, he will not look at me. “Fitzwilliam, please.”
He turns back to me, and the mask is gone. Sorrow fills his eyes. “Yes, I was very angry with him. It was not her fault that she died... it is not my fault...”
He turns away again. After a moment, he turns back, and without looking at me, removes the black covering from our mother’s portraits.
The Road to Pemberley Page 28