by Anna Elliott
Part of me wanted to shake him and demand that he stop treating me like a child. But instead I drew another slow breath and said, softly, “You don’t know that I wouldn’t understand. You could at least try talking to me. I do at least know what it’s like to keep all your feelings bottled up inside.”
Edward’s head lifted at that. Just for a moment, his eyes looked … longing. Vulnerable, even. But then he shook his head. “I don’t think this is such a good—”
I wouldn’t let him finish. I reached up to touch his cheek. “I’m not going to sit by and watch you tear yourself into pieces if I might be able to help.” I stopped. “Please, Edward?” Despite myself, I heard my voice shake and felt my eyes start to sting. “I’m so truly sorry for saying … for saying what I said to you tonight. I couldn’t bear it if it ruined our friendship. Save for my brother, you’ve been—you are—the most important person in my life.”
Edward’s whole body stiffened at my touch; I saw his jaw clench and his fingers curl. I almost held my breath and I counted four, then five beats of my own heart before finally his head jerked in a movement that was half nod, half shrug. “All right. But two conditions—don’t ask questions. I sometimes … I just don’t want to talk about some of it, that’s all.”
The warmth of relief was making my muscles feel almost limp, but I nodded. “It’s all right. I’m like that, too. You don’t have to talk to me at all, if you don’t want to. Just let me keep you company for a while. And the second condition?”
Something flickered again across Edward’s features before he rubbed a hand across his face and let out an explosive breath. “Can we go outside? I feel … I sometimes feel as though I can’t breathe inside four walls these days.”
I was only wearing my slippers and rose silk dressing gown over my nightdress. But Edward didn’t seem to notice. And I didn’t want to risk him changing his mind by doing anything to delay.
We went downstairs together, and when we’d stepped outside onto the lawn, I saw at least some of the tension ebb from Edward’s muscles. He drew air into his lungs then turned to me. “Are you … do you think we could walk for a while?”
“Of course.”
Edward raised one eyebrow, and there was more of his usual self in the lift at the corners of his mouth. “‘Of course’ to a country ramble at nearly four in the morning? Just like that?”
I smiled as well. “At least you can’t lecture me about propriety this time—not without lecturing yourself.”
We did not talk at all as we made our way across the lawn to the lake, and from there onto the path through the woods. The velvet dark shadows of the trees nearly blocked out the moonlight. It was so dark that I could only just dimly make out the path ahead, and Edward was just a shadowed, solid warmth beside me; I could not see his face at all.
We had been walking without touching, but before long I had stumbled over roots and fallen sticks so many times that Edward offered me his arm and I took it, leaning against him for balance when I tripped for what must have been the fourth or fifth time.
“How is it you can see well enough to keep from falling?” I asked.
“Practice.” I could imagine Edward’s grimace, even if I could not see his face. “Too many forced retreats under cover of darkness.”
I wanted to ask him more—to know where the retreats had been, and what had happened to him and his men. But I had promised not to, so we went along in silence for a time.
And then, quite suddenly, Edward said—almost as though the words were torn out of him—“After a battle, there’s a roll call. To see who’s missing. And then all the women whose husbands have been missed come up to the front of the lines to ask the surviving men if they know anything. There was one woman—Mrs. Harris—I’d been next to her husband in the battle at Toulouse. I’d seen him fall. She asked me to take her to the place. In case he was only wounded, and might yet be saved. So I brought her to the spot on the battlefield. Through all the … all the piles of the dead and the groaning wounded men. I—” Edward stopped, and I heard him clear his throat. “Harris was alive. Just. Too far gone to speak, though. And no chance of him surviving. All we could do was … was sit there, and watch him die.”
Edward’s voice was tight with control, but still there was a note in it that made me press his arm more tightly and say, “At least she had you with her—Mrs. Harris, I mean. At least she had the comfort of not having to bear it on her own.”
“Comfort,” Edward repeated. He gave a harsh laugh, a bitter sound without even a trace of humour. “She didn’t think so. She kept screaming at me, ‘It should have been you! You were right beside him! Why couldn’t you have been the one to die?’ And all I could think”—Edward stopped, and I heard him swallow in the dark—“All I could think, standing there on the field of battle was: My God, she’s right. Harris had a wife and family—they had two young children together. And there’s me, unmarried—not even my father’s only son. Of the two of us, I should have been the one to die.”
I couldn’t find a word to say. What was there I possibly could say that would be any help? Any words I tried out silently in my head sounded empty and worse than pointless. And yet, I couldn’t bear the pain in Edward’s voice.
Before I could lose my courage, I turned and put my arms around him, holding him tightly. He stiffened again; his muscles rigid and unyielding. Then he let out a ragged breath. “Georgiana, I can’t … you need to run away again.”
I could feel his heart beating hard against my cheek. “Why?”
“Because if you don’t”—Edward’s voice was husky—“because if you don’t, I’m not going to be able to stop myself from doing this.”
His hands came up, sliding along my jaw to tangle in my hair, tilting my face up to his. He brought his mouth down on mine and kissed me. His arms were solid and strong around me, his lean body hard against mine—and yet his lips were so soft, gentle and warm. In the darkness, without sight, everything was pure sensation. I felt as though my bones were melting, as though every nerve in my body had come alive at his touch.
It took every scrap of will I had to brace my hands against Edward’s chest and push him away. “We can’t!” I heard how unsteady the words sounded.
Edward’s voice was uneven as well, and he was breathing as though he’d been running. “I’m sorry. God, I—” and then he took hold of my hand, pulling me close to him again. I could just make out the outlines of his head and shoulders above mine. “Are you engaged to Folliet?”
“No.” I shook my head, even though he couldn’t see it in the dark.
“In love with him, then?” Edward’s voice still sounded rough.
“No, of course not. Nor he with me. That was what he wanted to speak to me about tonight at the ball. To make sure I was not in love with him.”
“To make sure you were not—” Edward began.
But I stopped him before he could finish. I felt as though the words were hot coals, burning my mouth; I couldn’t speak them fast enough. “That’s not why we can’t … I can’t … I’m not engaged to Mr. Folliet or anyone else. But you are.”
I felt rather than saw Edward’s raised brows. There was a space of silence, and then he said, sounding almost back to normal, “I’m engaged to Mr. Folliet? Do you know, I should have thought that would be the kind of thing I’d be able to remember.”
My chest was too tight for me to smile, though. “I don’t mean that. I meant that you’re engaged. To Miss Mary Graves.”
“I’m—good Lord, where did you hear that?” In the dark, I had only his voice to go by, but he didn’t sound guilty or conscious. Only utterly surprised.
“Elizabeth’s sister Kitty wrote and told her so. Isn’t it”—I had to swallow before I could trust my own voice—“Isn’t it true?”
“True? I should say not. Listen to me, Georgiana. No, better yet”—he took my arm and turned us both back the way we’d come—“keep walking and listen to me. I’m not and never have been
engaged to Mary Graves. She’s the sister of my first lieutenant. She’s a nice girl. And she’s also engaged herself, to a captain with the 95th Rifle Brigade. But she agreed—” Edward stopped. We were coming out of the woods, now, and the moonlight was bright enough for me to see him push a hand through his hair. “Last year when I was in London—before we were sent over to France, General Powell’s wife began to make it clear that she wouldn’t be averse to a—”
It was still too dark to be sure, but I thought colour might have crept into Edward’s cheeks. “A dalliance with me,” he finished. “But besides being an ungentlemanly thing to do, it is also not generally wise to carry on with your commanding officer’s spouse. On the other hand, though, she is General Powell’s wife. Offend her, and she could make my life a misery for me by speaking a false word in the General’s ear: tell him I’d tried to seduce her or was cheating at cards or any other trouble-making lies. Mary Graves and I were friendly. I’d … well, I’d done her brother a favour, once, and she was grateful.”
“A favour?” I still felt dazed trying to take in everything he said, but I asked, “What did you do?”
“I …” Edward rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “Well, I saved his life for him. At the battle of Rolica, and—why are you laughing?”
The tightness had loosened in my chest, though until he spoke, I had not entirely realised that laughter had bubbled up in its place. “Because that’s so like you—because you sound as embarrassed as though you really had been caught cheating at cards.”
Edward’s grin was a quick, rueful flash of white in the dark. “If you’re finished mocking me for not wanting to go about boasting of my own heroics, Mary Graves was grateful for what I’d done for her brother. And she agreed to tell Mrs. Powell that she and I were betrothed, so that Mrs. Powell would look for amusement elsewhere.” He sobered suddenly, and stopped walking, turning to me to take my hands. “That’s the God’s honest truth, Georgiana, I swear. I’m not engaged to her or anyone else. Will you—” Edward cleared his throat. “I’m going to try again to say what I wanted to the other day under the oak trees. Will you”—his hands tightened around mine—“Will you promise to at least listen this time? Not run away?”
It seemed as though I could still feel the pressure of Edward’s lips against mine, the warmth of his touch flooding through me. “Under the oak trees? Run away?” I repeated.
But Edward had already gone on, speaking more quickly now. “Not that I blame you.” Edward shook his head. “I try to tell a girl I’m in love with her and the best I can come up with is to stammer out, ‘You know I care about you’? God, I’m an idiot. But I’m going to try to get it right now.” He drew a breath and looked down at me. “That night with you, at the Christmas ball—just before I left for France. I couldn’t stop thinking about it—about you. I would think about you after battle. Or when we were marching through the heat of summer and men all around me were dropping in their tracks from hunger and disease. But I thought … I told myself I was just homesick for England, for Pemberley. What I’d realised I felt for you that night couldn’t be real. Because I was still thinking of you as the girl I’d known growing up. I … I suppose in my head, I had you frozen around the age of twelve. It seemed wrong to let myself care for you—dream about being with you at night. But then—that first morning I arrived—when I lifted you down from my horse … it was like being hit with a bolt of lightning. Realising that I still felt … what I felt for you. More strongly, if anything. That it was all real after all.”
Edward shook his head again. “I admit it bowled me over. That was why I acted like such a mule with you. I’d made up my mind not to speak—not to say anything. Because here I am, just home from a war, waking up shouting orders to an imaginary regiment at night … unable even to stand an evening in company without coming out in a cold sweat and a fit of the shakes. And there Folliet and Carter and all the rest of them were—the kind of men you ought to marry, the kind of men you could feel easy about having by your side.”
From somewhere in the darkened woods came an owl’s low call. Edward stopped and shook his head again. “Even now, I’m not sure I’m doing the right thing in saying this. But I think I have to, or go out of my head.” He drew in his breath. His dark gaze was a mixture of longing and trepidation that made my heart feel so full it threatened to spill over. His head bent until his forehead rested against mine, and his hand slid through my loosened hair. His voice was an unsteady murmur. “I love you, Georgiana. I may not be sure of anything else—perhaps not even who I am right now. But I am sure of that.”
My throat was so tight I didn’t think I’d be able to speak. But I drew back enough that I could raise one hand to touch his face, trace the strong outlines of his brow and temple and cheekbone. I still couldn’t quite believe I was not dreaming. But he felt solid and real. The rough stubble on his jaw prickled under my fingertips. “Is this a … a proposal of marriage?” I asked.
Some of the light died out of Edward’s face at that. He exhaled on a rush of air. “It… I wish it were. God knows I want it to be. But I don’t see how it can.” His hand brushed my hair. “Even if I thought… even if I hoped I could persuade you to say yes, I don’t … trust myself with you. Not the way I am now.”
“Because of a few nightmares? Because you don’t like to be in crowds?” I looked up at him. “You’re still you, Edward. And I trust you. Completely. And as for persuading”—I heard myself laugh, even if it was a mixture of laughter and happy tears—“I’ve wanted to marry you since I was six years old. I don’t think there’s a way you could ask me that would lead me to say anything but yes.”
There was a moment, a heartbeat of stillness, while Edward’s eyes looked down into mine. And then his arms were around me and his mouth had settled over mine again.
I don’t know how much time had passed—it might have been an hour, even a day—when Edward raised his head. He was breathless again, breathless and shaking, but he put his hands on my shoulders and held me gently away from him. “A year. Give me a year. To put the war behind me, to make myself ready to rejoin the world.” He smiled one-sidedly. “I should say, to give you a chance to change your mind about being saddled with me for life—but I’m never going to let you, not now.”
“You don’t have to worry,” I whispered.
Edward’s arms tightened around me. But he laughed when I kissed him again and turned us both around towards the house. “A year,” he said on a ragged exhalation of breath. “Now let’s get you back into the house before I lose all control of myself.”
That was an hour ago, an hour ago since we parted in the hall outside my room. Edward kissed me again as we stood together at my door and told me to get some sleep if I could. But I’m too happy for that—too happy even now that I’ve written it all out here. It seems a waste to spend even a moment of this morning asleep.
The sunrise is painting the sky in the east with fiery rose-gold. And soon we’ll go downstairs, Edward and I, and speak to my brother. “Your brother may not wish to give his consent,” Edward said. “He may think I’m too old for you. Too—”
But I stopped him with a hand across his lips. “Just let Fitzwilliam try to refuse,” I said.
And Edward laughed. An easier laugh than I had heard from him since he came home.
Even a year of waiting won’t seem long. Not when Edward will be there at the end.
Dear Reader—
Thank you for reading Georgiana Darcy’s Diary. Georgiana and Edward return in Pemberley to Waterloo, Book II of the Pride and Prejudice Chronicles. Book III, Kitty Bennet’s Diary, is also in the works.
If you have enjoyed this book and would like to see more like it, please consider reviewing it and/or tagging it on your favorite sites and telling your literary friends about it. Plans for future projects will be based in part on reader feedback and the success of previous projects. It would give me great joy to write what you want to read.
If you ha
ve found errors or would like to comment privately, I would be grateful for an email at [email protected]. Thank you again.
Click here for a current catalog of Anna’s books, or read on for more about Pemberley to Waterloo.
Pemberley to Waterloo
Can their love withstand the trials of war?
Georgiana Darcy and Edward Fitzwilliam want only to be together. But when the former Emperor Napoleon escapes from his exile on the Isle of Elba, Britain is plunged into renewed war with France … and Edward is once more called away to fight.
To be with the man she loves, Georgiana makes the perilous journey to Brussels, in time to witness the historic downfall of Napoleon at the Battle of Waterloo. But when Edward is gravely injured in the battle, she will need more courage than she ever knew she had to fight for their future together.
Pemberley to Waterloo is the sequel to Georgiana Darcy's Diary and is Book II of the Pride and Prejudice Chronicles.
View a current catalog of Anna’s books at AnnaElliottBooks.com. Regency fans may also enjoy the cozy mysteries Susanna and the Spy and London Calling.
About the Author
The daughter of two English literature PhDs, Anna Elliott grew up in Connecticut in a house filled with books. She is a longtime devotee of historical fantasy and fell especially in love with Arthurian legend and Celtic history while at university. Anna now lives in the Washington, DC, Metro area with her husband and two daughters. She likes Jane Austen, British TV, Castle, Firefly, The Big Bang Theory, sewing toys for her children, and rainbows and unicorns, especially those drawn by her daughters. Mosquitos love her.
Learn more at www.AnnaElliottBooks.com or visit Anna’s online catalog page for small-screen devices at m.AnnaElliottBooks.com.
Credits
The cover incorporates a portrait of Rosamund Hester Elizabeth Croker painted in 1827 by Thomas Lawrence as well as a letter in Jane Austen’s own hand. The title font is Exmouth from PrimaFont Software.
Illustrations are by Laura Masselos and are used with permission. The sketch depicting ladies around a table is based on “Young Ladies at Home” by Henry Moses, 1823, recreated by Laura Masselos in Georgiana’s style.
www.AnnaElliottBooks.com
m.AnnaElliottBooks.com (for small-screen devices)
