The Knights of Derbyshire

by Marsha Altman

  “Well, if you want, she’s in the drawing room.” He gestured over his shoulder. “It should be obvious.”

  Even more intrigued, Geoffrey opened the double doors to the drawing room. The lone figure inside rose as her cousin and brother entered. Georgiana Bingley had been, in fact, drawing, or inking one of her pencil sketches into a more permanent medium. “Geoffrey.”

  He did not attempt to hide his pleasure at the amusing sight of his cousin, who looked decidedly different from when he had seen her at dinner three nights before. “Georgie.”

  “The barber did try to even it out,” Charlie interrupted, which earned a glare from Georgiana. “I simply mean that it was worse before.”

  “You’re not helping your case,” Geoffrey said to Charlie.

  “Don’t say anything, because I’ve heard every insult that possibly could have been imagined by the mind of my sister,” Georgie said, and sat back down.

  “I didn’t say anything! It looks nice” Geoffrey said. “But if you want to change the subject, there is some news from Pemberley. George is staying with us for ... well, I don’t know, an indeterminate amount of time.”

  “Really?”

  “He came in late last night, we had a drink and some conversation, and he woke up with a terrible cold,” Geoffrey said, pacing the room, his eyes occasionally roaming to the wide windows. “Not surprising considering all the traveling he did.”

  “Am I going to hear it from you or do I wait to hear the censored version from Papa?” she said as the dog padded up to her. “Sorry, Gawain, but I’ve no food for you.”

  “There’s little to censor, so I might as well, though I probably don’t know the half of it,” he said, As he paced, he related the story that a slightly inebriated George Wickham had told him the night before, from his sister going out in the fall to his being thrown from the house in Town and his flight to Oxford and then Pemberley.

  Georgie did not attempt to hide her disgust with her aunt, but she did not verbalize it so readily. “Izzy’s out? She’s fifteen! She’s younger than Eliza!”

  “Barely, but yes. George didn’t say he approved of it. They did it while he was up at Oxford.”

  “Where he no longer can attend.”

  “Father says he’ll either have to find a way to make amends or try Cambridge.”

  “And Isabel’s betrothed?” Charlie asked.

  Geoffrey shrugged. “I think my parents are going to invite her for Christmas, so she can spend it with her brother. Or at least visit him while he’s laid up.”

  “What will Aunt Bradley think of that?”

  He just shrugged again.

  “If he’s well enough for visitors, I’ll come see him immediately,” Charlie said.

  “Send him my regards.” Georgiana couldn’t visit him in his sickbed, even though they were cousins.

  “I will.”

  “I suspect Aunt Bingley is going to take a carriage to Pemberley as soon as she finishes reading the letter from Mother. You might want to ride with her,” Geoffrey suggested. “Tell her I’ll be along later.”

  Charlie nodded and excused himself, leaving Georgiana and Geoffrey alone, aside from the servant in the corner. Georgie was absently scribbling at her current work, and he walked over to her and looked over her shoulder. “Isn’t that the waterfall near Pemberley? The one with the shelter?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I sketched it in November.” She was inking the pencil lines now.

  “So where’s the surprise?”

  She blew on the ink to dry it, and passed him the drawing. “Look very closely.”

  “Where?”

  “God, Geoffrey, if you can’t find it, no one will.”

  He was tempted to scold her for the insult, but instead focused on the unfinished work. Nothing jumped out at him immediately. The original work was done with a colored pencil. “The man behind the waterfall. In the little corner there.” He pointed proudly to it.

  “Don’t smudge it.”

  He smiled and took another look. “He’s tiny. I know one hand has a sword, but what’s in the other hand?”

  “If I tell you, it stays between us.”

  He handed the picture back. “Of course.”

  “The head of his vanquished enemy. He’s holding it up by the hair.”

  He laughed. “Some people would call you rather morbid, you know.”

  “I do know. Trust me, I do know.” It was the first smile he’d seen from her today. She had always smiled less easily than he did; odd because he was a Darcy and she was a Bingley, but his father always said he’d inherited his mother’s countenance and that it was for the best. “You really think it looks nice?” she said, clearly not referring to the picture.

  “I’ll ask for an explanation first before admitting to that.”

  “I got tired of putting it up. How ridiculous is it that a girl spends years growing out her hair to ridiculous lengths, only to spend ages every morning having it pinned up so neatly, and then checking all day to make sure everything’s still in place. It’s silly. If showing long hair is such a detestable thing for a lady – well, then I don’t have long hair.”

  He laughed. “I suppose you’re right. So what’s the real reason?”

  She turned away. “You know me too well.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “It was too much effort to put it back together when it fell apart,” she said. “Making myself look presentable when I returned from walking. And it ruined my balance when it would just fall down.”

  “Still searching for the perfect balance?” It was a metaphysical concept to Georgiana, one she had been obsessed with for reasons he never fully understood, but was willing to take at face value. “I assume you haven’t found it yet, because you’re injured.”

  She retracted her left arm, which had a bump in the sleeve from a bandage. “You know, you’re the only one who noticed. And what are you doing, admiring a woman’s arms, anyway? Geoffrey Darcy, you are in danger of violating propriety.”

  “And I would speculate that you were in danger of violating propriety when you hurt your arm,” he said.

  “Don’t be snide.”

  “I’m mocking. It’s different from being snide.”

  She didn’t answer, but she didn’t contradict him. That was something.

  “So I assume you are being properly disciplined for the horrible transgression of ... giving yourself a haircut?”

  She rolled her eyes. “My parents? All they did was said I couldn’t leave the house until after New Years except on official outings. God, I couldn’t imagine what Uncle Darcy would say.”

  Geoffrey tried to picture himself shaving his head and presenting himself to his father. “I don’t want to imagine it. If it were me, I wouldn’t be able to sit down for a week. Yes, you are definitely growing up in the right house.”

  “Speaking of right houses,” Georgiana said, “do give George my regards. I don’t know why Aunt Bradley would do this to him – ”

  “He did call her a – ”

  “I know!” she giggled. “Well, if he said he did, it must be true. George is a terrible liar. But besides that – ”

  “He has money,” he said, his tone more subdued. “She wants it. And he has no obligation to give her anything significant, not while her husband’s alive.” He shook his head. “I’ve never seen a man more upset about having money than George. All right, Uncle Grégoire, but he’s another matter entirely, and he’s made his peace with it.”

  “Uncle Darcy will sort everything out,” Georgie said. “That’s what he does, doesn’t he?”

  Chapter 3 – The Matter with Mr. Collins

  “The soonest we can expect a reply is probably within a week,” Darcy explained to George, who was pale and sweaty, but hardly incoherent as the local doctor tended to him, ordering the servants to provide various supplies. There was little to do for a cold but sit it out. “If they respond positively, Isabella could be here by Christmas.”

&nb
sp; “Only if she wants to be,” George said. “I don’t want to force her to do anything else she has no wish to do. She is devastated. She was in love.”

  “She believed herself to be. She is not old enough to tell the difference between fleeting romance and true emotional attachment.”

  George leaned his head sideways to give his uncle a look.

  “I am not saying she had no feelings. In fact, they could have been passionate. Nonetheless, they were not reciprocated and you were wise to act as you did. It was a great stroke of luck that you were there in time,” Darcy said. When his nephew only sighed, Darcy continued, “You have more sympathy here in Derbyshire than you could possibly imagine. I rescued your Aunt Kincaid from very similar circumstances. She was not sixteen and meant to elope with a man –” Realizing that he was speaking, very awkwardly, of George’s own father, he continued, “– a man who was after her fortune. Let us leave it at that. The circumstances are still painful to me. Your Uncle Grégoire would say that it was an act of God that I happened to visit her and discover the plot in time, and for once, I would agree with him about the hand of the Divine.” Darcy shook his head. “I am starting to talk like him.”

  “Reading too many of his columns?”

  “Precisely,” Darcy said with a smile. “Nonetheless, at least I was seven and twenty when I had that terrible duty of consoling my sister, and a man of few pressing obligations at the time. In that way, I was very fortunate.” Of course, his sister had also almost stepped into an incestuous marriage, but he didn’t need to say that. He didn’t know it at the time, and George didn’t need to know. For strange reasons, he told George many things he was unwilling or unable to tell his own son, often because George was older, or had more weight on his shoulders at this time in his life, but this he would leave out of the family history. “You did well, George. Anyone who is not proud of you is a fool.”

  “My mother is less than pleased.”

  “I will make no further comment, but neither will I withdraw my former one.” Darcy rose from his chair as there was a knock at the door. “Hopefully with all of these relatives arriving, you will still manage to get some rest, even if you have to ask me to forcibly eject them.”

  George smiled. “Let them in.”

  Darcy opened the door to his nephew Charlie, who bowed. “Uncle Darcy.”

  “Charles. Come to see your cousin?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your mother is here?”

  “She is with Aunt Darcy.”

  He nodded, and left them together, returning to his study. His son, when he inquired, was still at Chatton House or on his way back. Darcy had not written Bingley personally, as he trusted Elizabeth to do so, and he had other things to see to. The doctor assured him that George was a strong boy and his health would quickly return.

  Upon entering his study he withdrew a fresh piece of paper and prepared his pen, pondering how he would phrase this to Grégoire. His brother visited often, but would not be coming for Christmas. Patrick was still a toddler and traveling in the cold was not good for him, and Grégoire would only leave his wife and child for dire emergencies. The only way this would escalate to an emergency – as it seemed, the real emergency had already been averted – was if Lydia Bradley challenged his sheltering of George (and possibly Isabella) in some way, and Grégoire would be little help with that. He would still want to be informed of his nephew’s doings, but his presence was not required when it was so cold and hard to travel. It did not look to be an easy winter for Derbyshire. Concerns for his tenants and land were of high priority, but Darcy shoved those aside for the day and focused on the new presence in his home and what needed to be done.

  Fortunately there was no need to pen a letter to Georgiana, a task that would have been terrible indeed, as it could not be done without unintentionally forcing both of their emotions about Ramsgate to the surface. It was always painful to open wounds anew. She was not at home, but on her way to Pemberley with her husband and child for Christmas, and even if she had been delayed, she would not receive the letter before her departure. When she got here, it would be Elizabeth who would comfort her. Elizabeth was better at that. Elizabeth, as always, was invaluable. It seemed as if he had been married longer than the sum of his bachelor years, and he simply could not imagine what he would do without her. Had he been remiss in telling her that recently? Guiltily he scratched himself a note to find something special for her for Christmas.

  Actions were always so much easier for him than words.

  *****************************************

  Jane Bingley’s distress at the news was obvious. Elizabeth had picked a private sitting room for just that reason. “Lydia has had outbursts in the past, but to throw her son from his own house? Surely she regretted it immediately. Surely she will send someone to fetch him immediately or come herself.”

  “I hope for her sake that she does not come herself,” Elizabeth answered. “And I do not think George particularly wishes to return to the Bradley house. The only concern he voiced to me was for his sister.”

  “Isabel is turning into such a charming young lady,” Jane said. “She has never expressed discontent with her life in Cheapside. And she has her younger siblings to dote on.” The Bradleys now had two daughters and a son, all still very young. “Mr. Bradley is a good man and has never treated her unfairly, and she has nothing to worry about concerning an inheritance.”

  “Apparently she has everything to worry about,” Elizabeth said, “if she is to receive advice that lands her in Scotland.”

  “Lizzy!”

  Elizabeth smiled. Jane was not naïve, just unwilling to see ill in her sister, however deserving Lydia was of it. Or at least, she would not give up her positive thoughts without a fight. “I think the events as recounted are ample proof of that. Either way, we wrote that Isabel can come to Pemberley if she wishes to see George, so it is up to her as much as it can be. And as much as she may love the Bradleys, you know how she adores her brother. Mr. Bradley is a good man, but it is only George that I can say truly has her best interests at heart.”

  “Poor George,” Jane lamented, and Elizabeth frowned in agreement. “And now to be ill on top of everything else.”

  “It is only a cold. Besides, we all know colds can come about at most auspicious times.”

  To that, Jane could only hide her grin behind her teacup.

  *****************************************

  No more visitors arrived after the two Bingleys as they departed and Geoffrey returned from Chatton House. Mr. Bingley sent his regards but would wait for a sick visit, until he came for dinner the following evening. Darcy was reassured by his wife that nothing else could be done at this juncture; all the appropriate people had been contacted, and there was no traveling to be done for almost anyone in this weather.

  Dr. Maddox would only be called if George worsened. Sir and Lady Maddox (and children) were not coming to Derbyshire for Christmas this year. They were hosting the Hursts, the Townsends, and the Bertrands for Christmas at their manor outside Cambridge, where Dr. Maddox was a full professor of very good standing in his department. The only new addition to that particular party was Mary and Andrew Bertrand’s daughter Margaret, whom the Darcys had formally met at her christening in July. To their relief, Joseph Bennet had taken a liking to his little half-sister “Maggie” and was often seen holding her. The only ones missing from the picture were Brian and Princess Maddox, who were travelling on the company ship to Japan and due to return in early spring. With no children, they had time to travel widely and seemed to take great delight in doing so, and in lavishing attention and gifts upon their extended family of nephews and nieces when they returned. Nadezhda Maddox was a strong woman, a good balancing force for Brian’s wild nature. He had proved a responsible business partner to Bingley, an avid scholar in all things exotic, and a loving husband. That he could not be a father seemed to not affect him, at least openly. The Maddoxes were a private couple i
n their strange little house outside London, and what they said to each other in Romanian or behind closed doors was anybody’s guess.

  The old generation was gone, with the exception of Mr. Bennet. The group that had once been young couples were now parents, some of them with children entering adulthood. They collectively braced themselves for the tumultuous years when their children would become marriageable and the entire race to marry and settle would begin anew with the next generation.

  *****************************************

  At the same time that George Wickham was riding to Derbyshire, hoping to be well-received at Pemberley, the Bellamont family received a very strange guest at their home on the Irish coast. With a bit over two weeks to Christmas, they did not expect anyone from England, much less a Rector of the Church.

  Only Grégoire Bellamont recognized him immediately. “Mr. Collins.” He bowed. “Do come in, sir. You must be freezing.”

  “Mr. Bellamont.” Mr. Collins, Rector of Hunsford and heir to Longbourn, was indeed standing in the doorway, his black cloak soaked with melted snow. “Thank you for receiving me.”

  “It is no trouble,” Grégoire said, not questioning any further until he dispensed with his self-appointed duties of washing the hands – or at least the fingertips – of his guest using a silver cup that sat by the doorway over a bin. It was an old monastic custom that he had retained and he took a perverse pleasure in the annoyed look he received as he performed it. “Welcome to our home.” He handed him a towel. “You are very fortunate. We are about to serve supper. But first, is there some emergency?” Honestly, he could not conceive of a reason for the sudden appearance of Mr. Collins. “Are your wife and children in good health?”

  “They are, thank you. No, there is nothing that cannot wait until after dinner.”

  It was not a large house and the smells from the kitchen filled the dining room, which was the next room over. “Caitlin! We have a guest!” Grégoire called out. There was a servant to take Mr. Collin’s coat, but no others visible. “And Mr. Collins, I am pleased to introduce my son Patrick.” With great pride he lifted Patrick off the floor in the dining room, where the boy had been playing with his wooden building blocks. “Patrick, this is Mr. Collins. It is important to welcome guests. Say hello to Mr. Collins.”