Chapter 5

Georgiana paced back and forth across her chambers, wondering what to do. Her heart hurt. Her head ached. Worst of all, she was afraid.

Her brother’s dismissal of George’s threat to bring Pennywithers into the matter resounded loudly within her fears. The papers would not publish anything libellous; they were not idiots. There was no doubt in her mind, now, that George was the one sending falsehoods to those papers—or at least, he would be henceforth. He would pen far uglier ones than Miss Bingley could ever think to send, and would laugh himself silly if she became her sister after all. Fitzwilliam and I would be punished for the rest of our lives.

She had always wondered why her brother never seemed to tire of lending his assistance and reputation to the Bingleys. Now she understood Fitzwilliam’s loyalty to them. For their father’s sake, he would see them given every advantage he could give, for the rest of his life. For their father’s sake, he would always overlook Miss Bingley’s brashness, Mrs Hurst’s gossip-saturated nature and drunken husband. Mr Bingley was loyal and kind, but she had heard Fitzwilliam worry aloud that he failed to make any moves towards the life his father had sacrificed so much to give him. He had never purchased an estate, for instance, which would provide his future generations with the income needed to support a lifestyle he was accustomed to, despite the properties her brother had shown him for sale or lease. If something needed doing in his life, she knew that it was Fitzwilliam who would have to see that he did it.

She thought of her brother as a nineteen-year-old young man, outgrown all his clothing, trying to make small payments to a tailor. He always chose dark colours, but it made more sense now—he had accustomed himself to fabrics that would show the least wear. She imagined him seeking out Bingley, knowing he could offer the younger boy the advantage of his name and nothing else, and those humiliating first conversations he must have had with the senior Mr Bingley. Thank goodness the older man had, evidently, been kind and discreet! He had taken that young, inexperienced Fitzwilliam under his wing and helped him to prosper. How lonely a time it must have been! She rubbed at the ache in her chest, knowing that she, too, owed the Bingleys much. She had been only ten years of age when Papa died, but she remembered well his close friendship with old Mr Wickham. The idea of her beloved Papa being vilified and humiliated was abhorrent, even if he had done wrong. It was unfair that Fitzwilliam now was the one whose name was being dragged into scandal.

There was nothing mysterious or shameful about Fitzwilliam’s reasons for remaining at Pemberley this past year; he wanted to be close at hand for Richard’s sake. Richard was a hero of the Napoleonic Wars, for heaven’s sake!

With a heavy heart, she sat down to write out the invitations to his house party. A few days ago, she would have been full of excitement, despite her fears. She had always wanted to try her hand at entertaining, and this would have been the perfect opportunity—a small setting, with only those known to her. She struggled with timidity, and yet, she knew she was a good manager. Mrs Reynolds had taught her so much, and the exclusive London seminary she had attended put a polish on her skills.

She wrote to her aunt and uncle first. They seldom visited since Richard had taken up residence in the dower house; Lord Matlock and Richard were at loggerheads, and Lady Matlock supported her husband in everything, even when he was wrong—as Georgiana believed he was. Still, they would be duty-bound to attend if she invited them.

After that, she wrote out an invitation to Lord and Lady Ridley. Richard’s elder brother was nothing like him; where Richard had been muscular and convivial, Lord Ridley was slender, haughty, and often wore an expression that appeared disgusted by some imagined foul aroma. But his wife was nice enough, and Georgiana would have no fears of failing before either of them.

A shaft of anger struck her without warning. Had Wickham utterly destroyed her confidence in herself? Why should she be afraid of a larger house party? She knew what must be done for it. Since hunting grouse was its sole purpose, she would not have to invent other activities beyond the meals, and Pemberley’s servants were the very best, most helpful in the world. She could invite a dozen more people without a problem!

And why, she wondered, was she waiting around until Wickham permanently damaged her brother’s reputation rather than doing anything to stop it? Even if these public mentions of him did little to significantly hurt him, the fact remained that because of her perfidy, Fitzwilliam would be in a much greater hurry to marry than he had been only a few days ago. Any haste to the altar would favour Caroline Bingley. Oh, of course Cousin Anne was theoretically a possibility, but her brother had long ago made his rejection of her unequivocal. If Fitzwilliam truly decides that he wants Miss Bingley, I have no right to interfere—and yet how can I stand by and allow his reputation to grow ever darker and corrupted, until she is the only one left who would have him? She owed her beloved brother better than this. But who did she know? Who else could she ask?

Fitzwilliam had given permission for her to invite others, but young ladies her own age would not do for him. Of those neighbours with daughters who might be considered potential mates, there was no one whom she felt he would like. She could not see him with any of the giggling Claringbould sisters, nor gossipy Henrietta Knatchbull, nor the dictatorial Camilla Milles—indeed, he had never shown the slightest interest in any of them.

There was one young lady, from school, with whom she still kept in touch. Sarah Bentley was seven years older than herself, having avoided an education in the feminine arts, she had said, because she was immersed in them at home. Her widowed father was the earl of Hampton’s heir, and Sarah had run his household since she was quite young. She was a jolly, unpretentious girl, and hopefully still unattached—she had mentioned nothing of weddings or engagements in her last letter. What a joy it would be if Sarah and Fitzwilliam grew to love each other! Sarah’s caring, mature attitude had been lifesaving at school. Had all the other girls been so kind, so unaffected, she would actually have enjoyed her time there. Impulsively, she wrote out the invitation.

While her courage was still high, she included a note with Lord and Lady Ridley’s invitation, hinting that she was worried about Fitzwilliam’s social abilities growing dusty with disuse, and asking them if they could bring along someone else who might ‘enjoy the grouse’. Ridley would get the hint—or if not, his viscountess would.

She had little worry of inviting more ladies than men; there were any number of ancients in the neighbourhood to round out the numbers, all of whom would enjoy Pemberley’s fine table, if not shooting food for it.

After finishing her note, however, she sighed. Perhaps Ridley’s pick might be perfect, but Sarah, although pretty and extremely eligible, was not exactly a diamond of the first water, and she had the unfortunate habit of commenting constantly upon various specimens of flora and fauna, her father being overfond of horticulture.

“Would it be wrong to ask Sarah to bring other suitable young ladies? If only one of those stupid scribblers were to come here!” she complained aloud to no one. “They would see, first-hand, how fine and good is Pemberley! How perfectly wholesome and honourable, even, is its master! There are few so principled as Lord and Lady Matlock! Lord Ridley is not so charming but a good man, nevertheless.” Pacing back and forth across her chambers, she enumerated all her family’s finest attributes, as if arguing before a courtroom. When she thought of Richard’s flaws, however, she paused.

“Well, perhaps Richard is not amiable, but he never comes to the main house and if we tell him we have guests, he will do everything in his power to avoid us all. We are, by and large, the usual brand of family, and any article written with any truth at all must show us as we are!”

An idea began taking shape in her mind. It was an impossible one. It was a highly improbable one, as well. Would she truly consider writing to a reporter?

She could not risk another blunder so soon; if Fitzwilliam discovered it, he would probably put her in a nunnery or sail her to America. But she must do something!

How would she even send such a letter if she did write it? If she did not pay the postage, it was unlikely any publisher would, and yet she could not leave it out for Childers to frank—the whole household would soon know it if she did.

An idea came to her. Sarah was not only good natured, but loyal and wise. If she sent a letter to her to post, she had no doubt that Sarah would see it done. She was the kind of friend one could rely upon, one who could keep a confidence, and, if it was the right thing to do, one who would figure a way to do it. Quickly, before she could change her mind, Georgiana added several lines to Sarah’s letter of invitation.

Then she paused again, trying to carefully consider the problem from all angles. After a few moments, she again took up her pen.

Dear Mr Pennywithers, she wrote at last.