The Road to Pemberley

by Marsha Altman

  I am stunned. Absolutely stunned—I cannot think for several moments. I understand now. I understand why my father always spoke highly of Fitzwilliam, only to decline to visit him at school. I understand why he wrote such long letters, with every intention of assisting Fitzwilliam in whatever he asked for, but relegated himself to London during the summers. Oh, I understand—for here before me, immortalized on canvas, is my mother, and there is not one feature of hers that she did not give to my brother in birth. Fitzwilliam’s beauty is merely a copy of hers. My father could not bear to look at Fitzwilliam—at his own son.

  “And it was not only this,” he says, gesturing severely at the portraits, trying desperately to control his voice. “Every mannerism... every tilt of my head or gesture of my hand reminded him of her. Now I ask you, Georgiana, what young boy would not be angry at a father who refused to look upon him, as though he were hideous?”

  His voice becomes choked at the last; I silently stroke his arm and wish I knew what to say. Faster than I realize, connections are being made in my head. My father could not stand to look at his own son, but his steward’s was a fine replacement for the affection that he missed, for he could look at a Wickham and not see his wife—a wife whose death he blamed on himself, for she died in childbirth, which was a circumstance he brought upon her.

  “Why did he not hate me?” I ask. “If she died giving me life, then why did he not despise me?”

  He takes a breath and turns, smiling a little at me. “Nobody can hate such a tiny little thing as a baby,” he says softly. “Especially a little baby girl with golden curls, such as you had. He fell in love with you from the moment he laid eyes on you.”

  My eyes fill with tears as I look again upon my mother. “How can you bear all of this, Fitzwilliam?” I ask him. “He fell in love with me, as you put it, at the same time he resolved on never looking at you, his son and heir. It is not just.” My voice breaks and I look away for a moment. “It is not reasonable.”

  He is quiet for a moment before he answers me. “Many things in life are unfair, my dear,” he replies. “I was angry with Father my whole life for this reason, and I never truly got to know him. Now he is gone and I have not the chance.”

  “You may regret the anger, but it is not unfounded. I never understood, until now.”

  “There is more that I regret,” he continues softly. “I regret ever having hidden these away. Not for my own sake, for I recall Mother’s face with clarity in my mind, but for yours, Georgiana. You might have known your mother all this time, and because of me, you have not.” There is that heaviness in his voice which is a clear indication of the self-reproach he is unfortunately good at.

  “You take too much upon yourself,” I say quickly. “Truly, my dear brother. You are not to be blamed for every little thing that goes ever slightly amiss in my life. I know you think you could have protected me from Wickham, but you were misled about Mrs. Younge’s character, and I should have known better than to arrange to run away with him. And these portraits...” I pause, turning to them. “I am just grateful to have them now.”

  Fitzwilliam embraces me. “My dear sister,” he whispers into my hair. “Whatever would I do without you?”

  “You would be thirty thousand pounds richer with a less heavy heart,” I reply in all seriousness.

  My brother pulls away and solemnly takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Georgiana, that is not true. You mean so much to me...I do not know how to tell you how much.”

  There is a rather unexpected rap on the wall at the far end of the gallery. We both look up, but my brother is not surprised at it.

  “Yes?” he addresses the footman, patiently.

  “The carriage is ready, sir, and your horse is ‘round front.”

  “Thank you, Davis.” He nods and walks away.

  “Carriage?” I demand impatiently. “Where are you going?”

  He hesitates before he answers. “I am going to join Bingley at Netherfield. I have some rather important personal business with him.” He pauses again and swallows. “It concerns a young lady he is exceedingly fond of.”

  My heart plummets into my stomach and my face turns white. Before I think what is about to come out of my mouth, my lips move. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake—not me, I hope?”

  He smiles and lays his hand against my cheek. “Georgiana, I am sorry. Mr. Bingley is fond of you, but he is in love with the lady of whom I speak. There are some things about her that I said to him, which I ought not to have, and some things I did not say, which I ought to have. I must set things right. It is quite likely that he will be engaged within the month—within a week, if I know Bingley.”

  I let out a breath. “Oh...I am pleased for Mr. Bingley,” I say, but really more relieved for myself.

  He shakes his head and takes my hands in his. “I presumed too much when I matched Bingley with you,” he says. “It was only in my own head, I know, but my desire to see you settled safely within my reach interfered with my good judgment. For that I must apologize, and do what I am able to do for my friend.”

  My face shines with a smile; I am so very proud of him. “How long must you be gone?”

  “I do not know,” he replies. “I should think not longer than a week, but that should depend upon Bingley. Then I will be on to London.”

  “Perhaps Mrs. Annesley and I could come to London in a few days, in case you decide you rather enjoy London too much to come home?” I ask, hoping he will agree. I hate to be away from him now.

  He smiles. “Yes, I think that shall do nicely. You can make the arrangements to travel with your companion, and write to let Mrs. Edstrom know to expect the pair of you.”

  I smile and kiss his cheek gleefully, until a thought occurs to me. “Fitzwilliam,” I say slowly, “do you expect to see Miss Elizabeth Bennet while you are in Hertfordshire?”

  His face turns somber. “Yes, I do,” he replies quietly. “The lady that I spoke of, who Bingley is in love with, is Miss Elizabeth’s elder sister, Miss Jane Bennet.”

  “Will you send her my best wishes, and invite her to write to me, if she will?”

  My brother lays his hand in mine and smiles a little. “If Miss Elizabeth and I get the chance to speak, yes, I will.” He swallows and continues, in that pessimistic way he has, by saying, “Keep in mind, however, that I do not expect that Miss Elizabeth and I will have the opportunity to speak privately, or that she will speak to me at all.” I just shake my head and kiss his cheek. He promised, so he will do it.

  After a whirlwind of preparation with Mrs. Annesley and Michelle, we arrive in London on Wednesday and expect my brother on the following morning. He arrives in relatively good spirits and though he has some business to conduct with his solicitor and a handful of calls to return, he and I are able to spend much of the day together.

  That afternoon, on a search for a boring letter from Putrid Anne which I have misplaced, I take myself into the front drawing room. I am not paying much attention to anything but surfaces and the placement of the items upon them, so I am startled to find a young man standing next to the fireplace. I jump and cover my mouth, and then begin to apologize profusely.

  The young gentleman holds up a hand to reassure me. “I beg your pardon, Madam,” he says. “I am sorry to startle you. I am waiting for Mr. Darcy.”

  “I am here,” comes my brother’s voice from the entrance to the room, and with a happy look on his face he strides swiftly over to the young man and holds out his hand.

  The man takes it, smiling as well. “It is good to see you, Darcy.”

  “And you, Henry,” replies my brother, shaking his hand firmly. “You look well.”

  “I am well; thank you.”

  My brother looks to me with a smile. “Miss Georgiana Darcy, this is Mr. Henry Beresford. Henry, this is my sister, Miss Darcy.”

  I used to think that my brother was the most beautiful man that I had ever seen, but oh...how wrong I was. Mr. Henry Beresford has the most clear g
reen eyes I have ever seen, and as they focus on me, he smiles and they turn joyful. I am so stunned that I have quite forgot on what purpose I came into the sitting room. As I go through the motions of my curtsey, I almost cannot bear to take my eyes off of his.

  “I am pleased to meet you, Miss Darcy,” he says. “I have heard much about you over the years.”

  My brother goes on to explain that Mr. Beresford is an old friend of his, and while he and my brother have written very faithfully they have not had a chance to meet in several years.

  Fitzwilliam then invites Mr. Beresford into the library and we part. He is gone by the time my lessons with Mrs. Annesley are all complete. I am disappointed, but take the opportunity to question my brother about his friend with the bright green eyes as we take our tea.

  “Tell me more about Mr. Beresford. Where is he from?” I demand.

  Fitzwilliam smirks and sips tea. “He is from Northhamptonshire, where his family has lived for several generations.”

  “And have they an estate?” I ask. “Has he any brothers or sisters?”

  “They have a vast estate,” he replies, “possibly as large as Pemberley. And he has two brothers.”

  “And how long have you been acquainted with him, my dear brother?”

  Fitzwilliam chuckles a little. “I met him several years ago in London, where his father introduced us. His father and ours were great friends.”

  “They were?”

  “Yes. Is it such a shocking thing to know that our father had friends?”

  I smile at his remark. “No. It is only that I do not remember any of them.” I fall quiet for a while, wanting to ask more but too embarrassed to do so. Fitzwilliam watches me as I look idly around the room.

  “The elder Mr. Beresford is still living. It is very likely that you shall meet him one day...perhaps he will have a tale or two to tell about our father.”

  I look at him shyly. “I would like that.” Then I sniffle, for no reason, and look around the room some more. I catch my brother shaking his head.

  “What is the matter, Fitzwilliam?” I ask in all sincerity.

  “Georgiana...” He pauses and looks thoughtful for a moment. “Please understand, dear girl...your upbringing has been something I would not have let another do for anything, and I am not going to let you go so easily. I will not give any man my consent—I would not even have given it to Bingley—until you are eighteen.”

  I want to laugh at him but dare not. “What has effected such a statement from you, sir?”

  He smirks. “Let me say only that in the library, Mr. Beresford was quite as curious about my sister as she now is about him.”

  My cheeks turn bright red. “He is not married, then?”

  Fitzwilliam sighs. “No, he is not.” He then adds quickly, “But I beg you to be careful, Georgiana...I do not want to see you hurt again.”

  My heart fills and I smile at him as my eyes glisten. “With your guidance, Fitzwilliam, I shall be well. I promise.” He smiles at me, and out of the corner of my eye, I finally see the item for which I have been searching. I jump up, kiss Fitzwilliam’s cheek, and twirl out of the room, waving Putrid Anne’s boring letter.

  In the late afternoon on that Saturday, we receive a most unexpected caller—my esteemed aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh.

  “Georgiana,” she says, before the poor butler has the chance to announce her, “you will leave your brother and me to speak privately.”

  I gaze at her. Her entire face is red and puffy and there is a sharp gleam in her eye which I do not like—she is furious. I am too stunned to move and would prefer to stay and hear what she has to accuse my brother of.

  “Georgiana, you are not hard of hearing. Go find something useful to do; we have important business to discuss.”

  Finally my brother rises and manages to stammer, “Lady Catherine, it is a pleasure to see you here.”

  “Mr. Darcy, I have had quite enough cheek for one day,” warns my aunt, and then she turns back to me. “Georgiana, I will not repeat myself.”

  After a confused pause, Fitzwilliam tilts his head to me. “Georgiana, perhaps you should go.”

  I purse my lips and glare at him and plan to quiz him later. With a significant look of displeasure at both of them, I rise to leave the room.

  To my surprise, Mrs. Edstrom is standing there with a drinking glass. She hands it to me, and I take it.

  “Whatever is this for?” I ask, wondering if the world has gone suddenly mad.

  She says nothing, but takes the glass from my hand. She steps left of the drawing room door and places the rim of the glass against the wall and presses her ear to the bottom of it. Then she hands it back to me. Curious, I copy her and hear my aunt say, “…speak with your sister about her growing impertinence. I have read her letters to Anne...”

  I smile at Mrs. Edstrom in thanks and turn back to the wall as she walks away, intently listening.

  “What is the purpose of your visit, Madam?” He sounds impatient.

  “What is the nature of your relationship to Miss Elizabeth Bennet? I demand a straightforward answer.”

  “I am acquainted with Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and have been for about a year. Why do you ask?”

  “And have you made Miss Bennet an offer of marriage?”

  My brother says nothing for a moment; I am nervous for him. “What has you asking these peculiar questions, Lady Catherine?”

  “I will tell you,” she snaps, and I can hear her cane tapping on the floor as she paces. I imagine her circling my brother as a vulture does his prey. “On Thursday evening Mr. Collins paid me a visit. He was very alarmed and knew that I would be, and when you know the reason for it, I hope you too shall be alarmed. Mr. Collins informed me that your friend—that Bingley fellow—is lately engaged to Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s sister. He lamented, as he should, for your friend; I hope you know that his choice is not a wise one.”

  She pauses here, and I assume she is waiting for my brother to agree. He does not; she continues. “He then informed me of a particular report currently circulating in Hertfordshire which concerns you.”

  “And of what does the report consist, Madam?”

  “It is said that you will soon be, if you are not already, engaged to Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Although I know this to be impossible, we must now formalize your engagement to my daughter. I will not have these rumors flying about and upsetting my Anne every time you smile at a young lady.”

  “I do not smile at young ladies, Madam.” Fitzwilliam’s tone is dark; he is clearly upset.

  “Nevertheless, these things cannot be allowed to get out of control, Darcy. I have already secured the young lady’s assurances that the report is false, and there is no more reason to delay the engagement.”

  I wonder where the rumor came from as I wait for my brother’s reply. He is quiet for an uncommonly long time. He coughs. “You have...her assurances that she is not engaged to me?”

  “That is what I said.”

  “And how came you by this information?”

  “From the lady herself, of course,” she replies, nettled.

  “You visited Miss Bennet?”

  “I did. She was impertinent and willful and I was too long in her company.”

  “What did she say?” Here my brother’s voice is slightly raised in pitch; he is nervous.

  My brother is nervous.

  “If you must have the narrative, I will give it to you,” she snaps, and the cane begins tapping again. “I arrived at Longbourn this morning and was greeted only by silence and open-mouthed stares.” This, of course, is a clear indication that she was exceedingly rude. I am not surprised. “I applied to Miss Bennet to walk out with me, which she did reluctantly. I came directly to my point, as I always do, by demanding that she contradict the report which I received from Mr. Collins two days ago. She pretended not to know of it and then informed me that she may choose not to answer some of my questions, if she did not like it. She had to be consistently remi
nded of my superior consequence. She paid no mind to my position. It was outrageous! That girl is headstrong, conniving, and foolish, and Darcy, if you do not take care, she will ruin you!”

  Fitzwilliam coughs. “Did you happen to mention your desire for Anne to marry me?” asks my brother, with that nervous pitch in his voice.

  “I did. For my part I explained too much—she ought to have accepted my wishes and made the promise which I asked of her.”

  A pause. “Promise, Madam? What did you ask of her?”

  My aunt snorts. “Of course I asked for her word that she would never enter into an engagement with you,” she replies. “She would not give it, though if she did I doubt that I could trust it. She is perfectly obstinate. I do not want Georgiana in her company, Darcy, if you should choose to visit Mr. Bingley and his unfortunate new family after he is married.”

  “She would not promise?”

  “No, she would not. You see how serious this situation is. Therefore, I must demand—”

  “I thank you, Lady Catherine,” says my brother hurriedly, “for bringing this to my attention. As it happens, I shall be in Hertfordshire this Tuesday morning. I shall do whatever is in my power to settle these matters while I am there.”

  There are footsteps heading toward the door, so I am forced to dash for the kitchen while Fitzwilliam shows Lady Catherine out. When I am certain she has gone, I search for him again. He is pacing in the drawing room.

  “Fitzwilliam?”

  He turns at my entrance and rushes toward me, taking my upper arms. His eyes are wild with nervousness and excitement. “She did not promise she would not marry me.”

  I try to feign ignorance. “Who did not promise?”

  “Georgiana, I know you were listening,” he admonishes with a silly kind of smirk. “I am speaking of Miss Bennet, of course!”

  I blush and bite my lip. “You are not upset that I was listening?”

  “No,” he replies, “I am too anxious to be concerned about what you are doing.”

  I laugh at him. “Fitzwilliam, I told you!” I declare, laying my hand against his cheek. “I told you that you must hope, and now you see that there is reason to hope.”