Chapter 2

Darcy saw, from his study window, Georgiana returning from her walk. He had been watching for her return for at least an hour now. It bothered him deeply that she insisted on walking the estate paths by herself, without even a maid; he knew he ought not to indulge her and should insist on stricter behaviour. But ever since he had severed the Ramsgate lease, she had been withdrawn, deeply so, and he could not think how to cheer her. Logic told him that he could simply hire a more reputable companion and set her up in a different household—his cousin, Viscount Ridley, had even provided an impeccable name. Yet, before leasing Ramsgate, he had meticulously researched Isabel Younge; her credentials had been flawless, her references—he had checked them all himself—many and glowing. Who could he possibly trust, after the dreadful mistake he had almost made? Allowing his sister the freedom of Pemberley’s gardens seemed a small enough concession.

Soon, much too soon, he would have to bring her out, give her a Season. He had been witness to dozens of such failures in that arena—lovely young girls, their dreams shattered when their husbands took mistresses or gambled away their fortunes or behaved as a drunken William Hurst. Darcy had assumed he would have his own wife by now, in his twenty-eighth year, to help with such matters. But his father’s sudden death and all the resulting estate issues had limited the time he could spend in town. Just when he had begun to be comfortable in his mastery of Pemberley’s needs, Richard’s troubles had begun. ’Tis not my fault that I have neglected my sister’s future!

But his conscience would not allow excuses. Had he not baulked at the marriage mart, his aversion to the subject honed by years of arguments with his mother? Facing the problems of marriage…and purposely going to town wife-hunting had been pushed further and further back onto the list of ‘Problems for Another Day’.

From this prospect, watching his sister strolling slowly into the manor, Georgiana appeared as though she carried the weight of the world upon her young shoulders. He must think of some way to give her the life she deserved; none of his worries should have fallen upon her. Quickly, he made a decision and plotted a path to intercept her, only just reaching her before she disappeared into her chambers.

“Georgiana,” he said, and stupidly could think of nothing else to add.

“Yes?”

Her face wore its solemn expression, but…was it more troubled than usual? It seemed so.

“You appear a bit…unsettled,” he said awkwardly.

“I am well,” she said, her voice stiff, her head bent to avoid his gaze, the view of her feet evidently one of great interest.

There seemed little else to say. Georgiana had never been a talkative girl, but now she was nearly a brick wall.

Try harder, he ordered himself, determined to move beyond discomfiture.

“I am sorry that this summer did not turn out as we planned, as I know you wished. I have not forgotten those promises I made to you, regarding your future. I wrote to Ridley, and his wife has a cousin—a Mrs Annesley—whom she has known all her life, and who will be available by Michaelmas. We shall interview her then, together, and if she is right for you, we shall move forward again. I know and understand my responsibility for your happiness, even if I have failed of late to encourage it.”

To his surprise and distress, her face crumpled. He opened his arms, and she walked into them. For the longest time, she sobbed against his chest as he held her.

“What is it, dear girl?”

She shook her head, saying nothing.

“I am sorry,” she finally managed. “I only…I just…I mean…I cannot tell you. Not yet.”

“Promise me that you will confide in me soon,” he said, looking into her tear-swollen eyes. “I appreciate how difficult it can be to find the right words, but you must know how much I love and care for you. You can tell me anything.”

At last, she nodded. “We shall talk…later.”

He wanted to press the point, but she obviously required more time.

“Later,” he said at last. “But not too much later.”

She nodded, slipping into her room and shutting the door quietly behind her. He stared at the closed door for at least another five minutes, wondering what else he could do. At last, nothing occurring to him, he walked away, returning reluctantly to his study to ponder the latest trouble laid at his door.

Before the nightwas half over, Georgiana knew she could not do it.

She had been willing to toss away her dreams of a Season in London, of making new friends and having new experiences in the social milieu of town. She had discarded her ideas of betrothal teas and parties, of a wedding at St George’s, of a wedding breakfast at their lovely home on Curzon Street, of an endless stream of wedding gifts, of a new wardrobe and a new wedding dress of ivory satin and all the pleasures and privileges accorded a bride of the ton. These she had been willing to sacrifice for her love of George Wickham.

She loved George, she truly did. She was certain, even, that her father, who had loved George like a son, would have approved the match, despite the disparity in their births. But when she had agreed to elope—and accepted the costs of such a choice—she had overlooked the most important one.

To grieve and offend the brother who had been like a father to her since Papa died, to push such a dreadful dagger of disloyalty into his heart…it was insupportable. He had not been perfect, but he loved her. He was trying. He had done nothing to deserve this.

Neither, however, could she imagine telling Fitzwilliam, to his face, that she meant to marry his enemy. If he raged at her, if he were upset and angry, she would never be able to say all of it, and it was vital that every word of her heartfelt love for them both be expressed.

Accordingly, she decided to put it all in a letter. While she was writing, she might gently make her opinions known on the childish misunderstandings the two men had shared, revealing her great and deepest wish that it all be put behind them. She would tell him that she was willing to wait, for ten years if necessary—when she would come into her fortune—but also of her hope that he would care for her happiness more than to force her into spinsterhood before marriage was possible. Perhaps he would insist upon giving her a Season, trying to turn her head away from her commitment. Having a Season, and George too, would be lovely, and better for both of us. George will be able to use those connexions I make amongst society to further his plans for a career in the law.

She would even confess how very much George himself wished for reconciliation, even though George probably would not thank her for betraying his sorrow and guilt over the past. He had made his admissions in confidence, but Fitzwilliam should be the one to know, should he not?

Pale morning light was stretching over the horizon before she finally was satisfied with the result of her literary efforts. A thick letter, four sheets of paper written quite through in a very close hand—even the envelope was full—sat before her. Quietly, she crept into her brother’s sitting room, across the hall from her own, and set the weighty letter upon his writing desk, where he would be certain to see it first thing—she knew from long experience that he took his tea at this desk upon awakening every morning.

Finally, she returned to her room and soft bed, falling into an exhausted slumber within moments.

Georgiana did not wakeuntil the sun was high in the sky. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, and saw it was well after noon. After ringing for her maid, she could not help but wonder—what had been Fitzwilliam’s response to her letter?

In a way, she was happy that she had slept so long; Fitzwilliam would probably be meeting with Mr Tilson, his steward, by now, and she would not have to face him until dinner. Griffin arrived to help her dress, seeming in all ways her usual self—hence the household could not be in any sort of uproar. Once she was ready for the day, however, Griffin paused at the doorway with an armful of nightclothes, adding almost as an afterthought, “Oh, miss, the master wished to see you once you wakened and had your breakfast. Said he would be in his study, waiting.”

Georgiana’s heartbeat rapidly increased, her throat closing against speech so tightly that she could barely manage to nod her agreement.

Breakfasting was a failure. She picked at her meal, managing only two or three bites before it became apparent that her throat would not reopen. Part of her wished to delay this confrontation, but it was a useless longing. There would be no peace for her until she got it over with.

She paused for several seconds just beyond the entrance to his study; no footmen lurked in the hallway beyond it—he must have sent them away. He was, plainly, taking no risks that their conversation might be overheard, despite the thickness of the door. Her pulse drummed, and her hand, when she reached for the knob, trembled. Nevertheless, she held her chin high as she knocked, then opened it. No matter what, she refused to be ashamed of her love.

Fitzwilliam was standing before the window, looking out upon the grounds below. In all ways he appeared exactly the same as usual—sober-coloured clothing, perfectly tailored. ‘Nefarious Man of Mystery!’ she remembered one of the broadsheets calling him. But when he turned, he only looked weary and troubled.

“Please, Georgiana, be seated.”

He took his own seat on the other side of the massive desk that once had been her father’s. Papa might have held her in his lap from that chair, once upon a time. How she missed him!

But there was only Fitzwilliam now. He seemed at a loss to know where to begin. Well, she and her recalcitrant throat could not help him. Not in this.