These Three Remain

by Pamela Aidan

  “My girl…” He reached for her hands and, holding them to his chest with one hand, nudged up her chin with the other. “I have not behaved toward you as an elder brother should and, in so doing, have caused you pain and denied you what is your due.” He breathed in shakily. “I cannot reveal everything that has occasioned my ill behavior, for it involves others; but what is due you, I will.” Bowing his head, he grasped her hands tightly. “I have come to beg your forgiveness, Georgiana, and beg I must; for I have done nothing that would recommend myself to your mercy.”

  A tear slipped quickly from his sister’s lashes and traced a path down her cheek to fall upon his hand at her chin. “Dearest Brother.” She gave a small gasp. “Freely and with all my heart!”

  “As quickly as that!” He bit his lip, looking down upon her glossy tresses. “Do you ask no penance?”

  “No deeds, no penance,” she answered, shaking her head. “Mercy requires neither.” Georgiana’s smile was pure joy. “I would rather tell you a story. Will you hear it?”

  “I will listen, dearest, and carefully.” A knock at the door signaled the arrival of his coffee. After Georgiana had poured and he had supplied himself with the first solid food in almost an entire day, he settled back as comfortably as was possible on the divan. “Now, your story,” he prompted, “after which, I beg you will permit me to explain a little concerning my behavior of late and what you saw last night. Is that agreeable?”

  “Yes, above all things.” Georgiana nodded, tucking her hand intimately against his arm. She allowed him to pull her head comfortably against his shoulder before drawing a deep, tremulous breath. “There once was a foolish young girl who, save for the mercy of God, nearly ruined her family and her beloved elder brother by putting herself into the power of a wicked man…”

  It would have been impossible to keep an account of how many times during her narrative Darcy went hot, then deadly cold. Wickham’s treachery, his smooth and unscrupulous seduction of his generous benefactor’s daughter, Darcy’s own innocent sister, stirred into flames the fury that had lain smoldering in his breast for almost a year. As Georgiana spoke of their meetings under the complacent eye of her companion, Mrs. Younge, anger and guilt very nearly choked him. What he said, what he did when she had finished, he knew to be of the utmost importance. If he had learned anything in the last weeks, it was that he might no longer entertain a careless confidence in his ability to deal rightly with his fellow man. But when his sister related how she had succumbed to the blackguard’s urgent plea that they elope, her words of self-recrimination forced them from him.

  “No, Georgiana! Dearest girl!” he remonstrated, holding her close. “What chance did you have against him?” He stroked the curls that tumbled against his shoulder. “You have been too generous with me, for the world can see that it is I who am to blame! You had no defenses against him, for neither was I with you to shield you nor have I any credible reason for my absence. I should have taken you to Ramsgate or wherever you desired to go!” Releasing her, he rose and walked blindly to the hearth. Leaning his head against the cool marble, he took a deep, shuddering breath. “I neglected you. And for what? Nothing! Nothing half as important as your well-being. God and you forgive me!”

  “No, Fitzwilliam.” Georgiana’s negation vibrated delicately in the air between them. “I lacked nothing in the way of true defenses against his blandishments. Credit me at least with knowing what was right and what was due my family!” She rose and came to him, laying a hand upon his back. “What I lacked was the character to reject his appeals. He played to my sympathy and romantic dreams, yes, but he also encouraged my vanity and fed my discontent with countless pointed insinuations.”

  Darcy shook his head and turned away.

  “Brother, I have always been encouraged to think so well of myself. Insulated by wealth and rank from any serious demand upon my character, I had little experience of its worth. I have since learned that in those more important things I am poor, helpless, and needy. It was the most important lesson I have in this life to learn.

  “So, you see, Fitzwilliam.” She laid earnest hold of his arms. “You may not take upon yourself the entire blame. But for what blame you do hold in it, dear Brother, I forgive you with all my heart.”

  Darcy looked down at the young woman, anxiety for his receipt of her absolution troubling her features. He had gotten what he had hoped for in this part of his confession, but it seemed altogether too easy.

  “I was unforgivably selfish, Georgiana!”

  “Brother.” Georgiana tried to stem his confessional flow.

  “I should have done —”

  “Fitzwilliam! I know you are selfish!” she exclaimed and then laughed at his affronted expression. “You are usually the most kind and generous of brothers, but with others, and also at times with me, you do look to your own concerns first. Oh!” she cried, “please, do not frown so when I merely agree with what you have confessed! Did I not forgive you already? More and I will suspect you of taking pride in your confession!”

  The blush that colored his face he would have wished due more to contrition than to the embarrassment and chagrin he truly felt. It seemed he could not even confess his faults without a display of pride. “Well, ahem, I thank you, then.” He cast about, unable to look his sister in the eye. “You are very kind.”

  “No, not ‘very’ kind, for now” — she turned and, resuming her seat on the divan, indicated the place next to her — “it is your turn, and I hold you to your promise.”

  His turn! How was he to begin? Ignoring her invitation, he circled behind her and across the room. The rustle of her gown informed him that his progress was being followed. His bid for time to collect himself denied, he turned back and, with a sigh, sat down beside her.

  He closed his eyes and leaned back. “You will remember my letter from Hertfordshire about a certain young woman. We spoke of her at Christmas, I believe.”

  “Yes, Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

  Darcy opened one eye to peer down at her. “You remember her name?”

  “Oh, yes.” Georgiana’s gaze was wide with expectancy. “I could not easily forget the name of a woman who had caught your interest and approval so well as she had.”

  “Yes, well.” Darcy sighed. Then he began, in a fashion, to acquaint his sister with all that had occurred, the memories crowding upon him too swiftly, too poignantly to offer a precise chronology.

  “At Rosings, I found my attraction to her growing stronger each day. I came to the point that, despite the manifold obstacles, I decided I could not live without her. I began to court her, at once eager to conclude the matter and ashamed of what I regarded as the sure consequences of my choice. My ambivalence was so complete that my object had not the slightest suspicion she was being so singled out. When finally I could deny my desire no longer and went to her, she greeted the offer of my hand with cool dismissal, professing herself surprised that I had held her in such regard.”

  “She refused you!” Georgiana looked up at him, incredulous. “No, it cannot be! There was a mistake, some misunderstanding —”

  Darcy took her hand between his, quieting her. “Yes, there was a mistake and a misunderstanding.” He shook his head at the hope that began to light her eyes. “It was my mistaken conceit that intervened between Elizabeth’s sister and Charles. Elizabeth had only that morning discovered my hand in her sister’s unhappiness and justly tasked me with it. The misunderstanding…” He paused. Must he reveal to her Wickham’s reappearance? “The misunderstanding concerned a malicious rumor about me that Elizabeth had no reason not to believe given my ill behavior toward her earlier. Of course, once she knew of my interference in the former, she was disposed to believe me perfectly capable of the meanest injustice.”

  “But you explained this, surely!” Georgiana protested. “I know you must have been sorry for what you had done!”

  He gripped her hand more tightly. “I am sorry to say, I was not. Her rejection so paine
d and humiliated me that I justified myself to her at every turn.” He sighed. “We exchanged words that I will regret to the end of my life. Later, I wrote her a letter explaining my actions in regard to her sister, for which she will never, I believe, forgive me. As for the misunderstanding, I have hopes of being acquitted in that quarter, but none so strong as to support a rapprochement. Her opinion of me and my faults, she made quite clear. No, she does not, nor can she ever, love me, my dear.” His voice dropped.

  “Dear Brother!” Georgiana’s pity was sweeter than he had ever suspected pity could be.

  “I raged against the crushing of my heart and the advent of a joyless future. I blamed her for deceiving me, fate for toying with me, everyone and everything save myself. As you said, we have been brought up to think well of ourselves, perhaps too well. Since my return from Kent, I have meanly thrashed about in my pain without a thought for those who care for my well-being. Last night, despite good counsel, I plunged into dangerous company for no better reasons than an appeal to my pride and the flattery of my person. It took Lord Brougham’s intervention to bring me to my senses, yet I rewarded his trouble with drunkenness. In my pride and conceit I have behaved abominably, foolishly. I stand shamed.” He swallowed hard. “I am not the man I had thought to become, before the memory of our father. Further, I have given you pain, Georgiana, most selfishly,” he concluded, “and I am heartily sorry for it.” He released her hand and waited, steeling himself for whatever should come.

  “Brother,” she gasped, putting fingers to her lips to force back the sob in her voice. “Such pain, Fitzwilliam! I knew your anger, your isolation came from hurt of something, but this! To love so and receive…” Emotion caught her up again, preventing her from continuing.

  “My pain…” He reached into his coat pocket and brought out his handkerchief to daub at her cheeks. “My pain is not sufficient excuse for my actions even if I had not brought its cause upon myself.”

  “What a sorry pair we make.” She looked up at him as he did her his gentle service. “We have, both of us, been given to see ourselves and have responded like children, unwilling to be taught and resentful of our discipline.”

  “But you are reconciled, I think.” He looked at her closely. “Whereas I am only resigned.”

  Gently, her head came to rest upon his shoulder, and her hand was shyly laid over his heart. “I know,” she whispered. “But it is a step away from the angry pain you have been suffering so cruelly and alone. Pray, do not continue so, Fitzwilliam!”

  Slipping his arms around her, Darcy held her close and placed a kiss upon her curls. “Shall you be my Portia, pleading my case before the bar?” He laid his cheek upon the place he had kissed.

  Georgiana sighed as she burrowed deeper into his shoulder. “Not I alone, dear Brother; but yes, ever your Portia.”

  What remained of the day, Darcy spent in his study working at his neglected affairs under the benevolent observation of his hound. Trafalgar had forgiven him also, it seemed, appearing unexpectedly at his usual place by the desk when once Darcy had turned his back to the door. Erewile House still lay hushed, but it was no longer silent as the servants brought it to order for that evening’s dinner and guest. From the other side of his door, footsteps softly clicked down the hall, doors opened and closed on the clink of china and silver, and murmured orders were passed along to underlings, all creating an undertone reminiscent of normalcy.

  More than once during the early evening, Darcy’s gaze strayed from his papers to his sister’s portrait, and he wondered again at their extraordinary interview. She knew now all that was needful. His character had been laid quite bare, his devastating misadventure into love revealed, and the result had been not an estrangement but rather a new closeness built upon who rather than what they were to each other. Rising from his desk, he looked more carefully at her image and, after his study, determined that she had seen better than he. Lawrence had gotten her entirely wrong. It was a fine painting, no mistaking that, but Georgiana was correct. Although she had put it in quite different terms, he now saw that it had not captured the essential humanity of the remarkable young woman who was his sister. No, he would not insist on a public unveiling, he decided. Let the family come to view it if they wished and the thing be sent on to Pemberley.

  A knock at the door brought his head around, and Trafalgar’s came up as the door opened to reveal Witcher’s smiling mien. “Excuse me, Mr. Darcy; Lord Brougham is here to see you, sir.”

  Darcy looked past his butler but saw no sign of his supposed visitor. “Lord Brougham, Witcher? And where might he be?” A sound of footsteps signaled the approach of his erstwhile dinner guest, who appeared a trifle breathless at his study door. “Ah, yes. You are correct; it is Brougham. A bit early for dinner, are you not? Or is it late for tea?”

  “You were to give me a few moments, Witcher!” Brougham cast the servant a look of exasperation. “It was meant figuratively, man! Never expected you would be precise to a pin!” He turned back to Darcy as the unrepentant butler bowed and closed the door. “The man is inestimable, Fitz, but remarkably obtuse at the most significant moments.”

  “Meaning that you have yet to discover a way around him.” Darcy’s laugh was tempered by an acute unease at the arrival of his friend. After a day’s reflection on his foolish actions and sodden confessions, how might Dy regard him now? “Inestimable, indeed! But you are rather early. We did not expect you for another hour.”

  “I could wait no longer to satisfy myself as to the condition of your head, old man! Or the rest of you, for that matter. I have no doubt that it has been quite some time since last you had that much to drink.”

  Declining to answer, Darcy instead offered him a tight smile and sketched a bow. “Here you see me! Judge for yourself.”

  Taking his invitation with irksome literalness, Brougham circled him round in precise imitation of the examination Brummell had given him the night of Lady Melbourne’s soiree. “Rather the worse for wear, my friend,” he concluded, shaking his head. “Dare I ask how you feel?”

  “Not as bad as I might thanks to Fletcher’s vile potion, but bad enough to entertain the thought of going Methodist.”

  Brougham looked at him sharply. “What do you mean?”

  “Only that I believe I shall abstain from drink for a time.” He returned his friend’s regard cautiously. “What should you think I meant by it?”

  In his typical fashion, Brougham ignored the question in favor of another of his own. “You have explained last night to Miss Darcy?” he asked, strolling over to the bookshelf.

  “Yes, yes, I did.” Darcy watched as Dy’s fingers lazily caressed the ranked, leather-clad volumes.

  “In detail?” Brougham asked as he perused the titles.

  “No, of course not!” he replied. “Georgiana knows only that I fell in with some questionable company and you helped me to see how impolitic it was to remain.” He paused before adding, “I told her about Hertfordshire and then…and then about Kent.”

  “Ah.” Brougham pulled out one of the company upon the shelf and gingerly opened it. “She knows about the lady, then, and the rest.” His gaze traveled steadily to and fro across the pages, nor did he lift it to ask, “How did she respond?”

  “She forgave me,” Darcy replied simply.

  “Well, she would have to now, would she not?” Dy looked up at him briefly and then fell to a study of the book once more. “Religious as she is.”

  Darcy stiffened at his tone. What did he mean to imply? “I believe she truly forgave me,” he replied in hauteur, “and from her heart.”

  “I see.” Dy looked over at him, his eyebrow crooked in that infuriating way Darcy had known since university, indicating that he saw no such thing, or that the speaker’s words were a pile of rubbish. “Very comforting, that — choosing your truth. Makes life quite tolerable when lived on such terms, does it not? Well, at least for a bit.” He shrugged. “Until one brushes up against another’s truth whose f
ur does not lie in the same direction.”

  “A fine one you are to be lecturing on the nature of truth,” Darcy retorted, stung by his friend’s carelessly leveled skepticism.

  “I did read philosophy, old man!” Brougham protested mildly as he turned another page.

  “As did I.” Frustration gave way to anger. “But that is not my meaning, and well you know it! This charade of yours, this concealing of a first-rate mind behind the mask of a cork-brained rattle with more hair than wit, has grown exceedingly tiresome! What is the truth there, my fine friend?” Dy looked up from the page at his sharp tone, but his appreciative grin for his friend’s verbal thrust only angered Darcy further. “And last night at Monmouth’s! Posing as a servant, for God’s sake! Closing for innkeepers! And my door.” He suddenly remembered. “The lock! I may have been drunk, but I remember the lock!”

  “I had hoped you would have forgotten that.” Brougham shook his head. “Pity you did not!” He set the book aside and regarded him meditatively. “But I did promise you an explanation, and an explanation, of sorts, you shall have.” He held up a hand to forestall the expression of dissatisfaction that sprang to Darcy’s lips. “I owe it to you for more reasons than one, and for the sake of our friendship and future relations, I will tell you all that I am able.” He sighed, his face creasing in rueful lines. “It is a rather complicated affair, though, I warn you.”

  “I would not expect otherwise!” Darcy folded his arms and leaned against the edge of his desk. “You have been seven years at this game, man!” The thin line that was Brougham’s mouth plainly spoke his discomfort, causing Darcy to prompt, “By all means, proceed!”

  “It began in the middle of our last term at university.” Brougham turned away and strolled to the window to peer down into the street below. “We were competing for the Mathematics Prize; do you remember?”

  “Yes,” Darcy recalled. “I did not see you for days at a time during the preparation of our papers for the committee.”