by Kate Bedlow
“Yes, and Lord Farley likes her, and I like him. Richard has always been good to me, and I wish him happy.”
“You are in danger of becoming as much a matchmaker as your mama,” Gwennie said.
“Everybody is a matchmaker, so far as I can tell,” Georgiana said. “Even my brother has begun to drop hints it is time I settle on a husband. Do you know, I believe the best part of getting married will be no longer having to worry about getting married!”
“If I were you, I should choose Lord Somersea,” Lydia said. “That is, if you like him. He is handsome, rich, young—”
“He is three and thirty, as old as my brother!” Mr. Midwinter was but six and twenty, still older, but by only six years.
“Young enough,” Lydia said. “And he is a very good dancer.”
“And a good sport,” Gwennie added.
“He is certainly all those things.” But Georgiana would not commit to favoring him, not even to herself.
Not yet.
“I suppose my cousin, Mr. Collins, will also be there.” Lydia made a face. “At least I am sure he will be invited to the ball, and he never misses an opportunity to insinuate himself into a gathering that includes Mr. Darcy.”
“You are severe on your cousin,” Georgiana said. “I wish you would not allow him to upset you so.”
“I cannot forgive him for dispossessing me of my family home.”
“Despite it being the law and no act of his that made it so,” Gwennie said.
“I know! My feelings are irrational, but they are no less real. Growing up, every season at Longbourn bore witness to its enduring permanence. I never felt more secure than when at home, and now I have no home. Perhaps it is unfair to blame Mr. Collins for my tragedy, and yet to me he a constant reminder of my loss.”
“All the more reason for you to marry,” Georgiana said.
“I am in a bit of a pickle there.” Lydia smiled wistfully, and it broke Georgiana’s heart. “I could never love any gentleman who did not value my enjoyment of a good time—and yet that is just the sort of man who would be unfit to be anybody’s husband.”
Georgiana’s own maid, Gilliam, came in with the brandy and water, along with a simple repast of bread, cheese, fruit, and biscuits. Georgiana stopped her as she was leaving the room.
“Gilliam, I have been thinking. Would you like to be with your family at Christmas? You could leave on Friday and take my carriage directly to Pemberley instead of stopping at Hertfordshire.” If they were going to ask Richard to accompany them, they might as well travel in his carriage. “I can get by without you until the new year, I should think.”
“That is very kind of you, miss. I would like that very much.”
“Then it is settled. I shall write to Mrs. White to let her know you are to have a large basket of good things to take with you. And Gwennie, what is your pleasure?” Georgiana was careful to give both her lady’s maid and her companion periods of freedom throughout the year, holidays from always having to think first of another person’s needs. “Would you like to come to Hertfordshire with the gang or prefer a bit of quiet time here at Darcy House? Or perhaps you would rather return to Derbyshire with Gilliam?”
“Derbyshire, if you do not mind.”
“Not at all.” Georgiana was of the opinion that the one true light in Gwennie’s life was Pemberley’s library. “It will be Christmas at Pemberley for you, with as many novels as you like.”
“It sounds like heaven.”
“Very wise,” Lydia said. “I would never choose to holiday with the Bennets if they were not my own family. We can be quite obnoxious, I am sure. But Mama wishes to show off her ballroom and her fine relatives, and I will do my part to help her make Lady Lucas and all her other friends jealous. Having Miss Darcy of Pemberley as a house guest will be something to crow about.”
“Rather!” Georgiana laughed at the idea of herself as a prized guest. She always felt that she was a disappointment wherever she went, being too shy to bear conversation with strangers. However, this time she would be safe. It was her brother who would truly be on display. As Mrs. Bennet’s son-in-law, he could not avoid it.
They had all finished their brandy, and Lydia took up the decanter to fill their glasses. She caught Georgiana’s eye and nodded toward Mrs. Annesley, who had grown quiet, staring at the embroidery in her hands.
“Gwennie, dearest, what is it? Are you unwell?”
“It is our talk of Christmas, is it not?” Lydia said gently, refilling Mrs. Annesley’s glass. “I noticed last year the holiday seemed to bring you rather low.”
Gwennie looked up, her eyes bright. “I do not know why I cannot shake this melancholy. Captain Annesley died in summer, but it is Christmastime when I feel his loss most acutely. Not the loss of him, precisely, but of what might have been.”
“It must be very hard,” Georgiana said. “I cannot remember my mama. I was but six years old when she died. But I felt my papa’s loss very keenly for several years.”
“Some losses can be liberating. There, I have shocked you both,” Lydia said. “The truth is I did not love my papa as I should. I was always found wanting in his eyes, never up to the mark. Somewhere along the line, I decided the best defense against his constant ridicule was to never allow his opinion to matter. It was like not having a father, really. When he died I did not miss him, for I had long before banished him from my heart. To be honest, I have begun to forget what he looked like—though I can still hear his taunts. In his very small way, he was a cruel man.”
“It has been more than six years since I lost James.” Gwennie had finished half her second glass of brandy. “If I did not have a miniature of him, I doubt I would recall his face.”
“To lose a husband to war must be so hard,” Georgie said. “Were you very much in love?”
“Love? No. Not as one imagines. Our union was planned by our parents from when we were children, and when the time came neither of us had reason to disappoint them.”
The admission was surprising, as Georgiana had assumed Gwennie yet harbored deep grief over her husband’s death. To this day, she wore the purples of half mourning. And of course her widow’s cap.
“I did like him. He was kind to me, and gentle. Our wedding night was…”
Along with Lydia, Georgiana found herself leaning forward. No one ever spoke of the intimate side of married life, and she was infinitely curious to know more about it before crossing that Rubicon herself.
“Well, it was wonderful. I have never felt so vulnerable and yet so safe. It was one magical night. He left for the continent the next day, and I never saw him again.”
They were all quiet with their thoughts for a moment.
“Do you ever think to marry again?” Lydia surreptitiously topped up Gwennie’s brandy. Georgiana understood why she had been so useful to Cousin Richard.
Gwennie’s cheeks reddened. “I do not see how it is possible. I am four and twenty, you know. And I have no fortune.”
“We must find you a husband,” Georgiana said without thinking.
“La, yes. What a lark!” Lydia joined in. “And to that end, you must leave off your half mourning once and for all. No more drab purples and dark grays, dear Gwennie.”
“But…”
“Enough, I insist. It is nigh on seven years’ mourning for you, and none could ask more. Faith! For a one-night marriage, it could be construed as unseemly.”
Gwennie’s eyebrows knitted together, not in protest exactly, but with worry. Oh of course! Georgiana could slap herself. It was not that Gwennie did not desire new clothes but that she could not afford them.
“It is time you rejoined the living,” Lydia continued. “At the risk of sounding like my mama, we must find you a good husband. Georgie will not need a companion forever. And you say yourself you would like to be married again.”
“I would like to be kissed again.”
Georgiana caught her breath. Lydia and Gwennie were both staring at her. Had she said that out lou
d? Too much brandy…
“Again? Do tell!” Lydia’s eyes were alight. “Who have you kissed, Miss Darcy? Is it Lord Somersea? The rascal!”
“Lydia!” Gwennie seemed appalled, but then she giggled. They had all had perhaps too much to drink.
“It was Wickham,” Georgiana said quickly. She did not dare mention the other one. “You must have guessed, knowing my history with him.” These two knew her secret, that she had nearly gone to Gretna Green with the scoundrel.
“Ugh, Wickham. He was a terrible kisser, to that I can attest,” Lydia said. “I have had far better.”
“Lydia!” Gwennie said again, truly shocked this time.
“All in the line of duty, I assure you. For king and country, don’t you know. And nothing beyond kisses.” She laughed and refused to give names. “But Georgie, you poor thing. Surely George Wickham is not the only one. Why, if that were your sole experience of kisses, it would put you off the concept entirely.”
Georgiana grew warm, and not from the fire, though in her mind she was once again in that cold empty church, with Mr. Midwinter’s hand caressing her cheek. She could feel his soft and tender kiss.
“Why do you touch your lips like that—and smile like the cat who ate the cream?” Lydia said. “Whom do you remember so fondly?”
Chapter 6
That night in Berkeley Square—the Night of the Brandy—had been such a mistake. Talking about The Kiss had made it real again—though Georgiana had assured her concerned friends that Mr. Midwinter had been quite a gentleman about it.
And anyway, it does not signify. I am in no danger. Mr. Midwinter does not care for me in that way.
Lydia had looked doubtful.
But what if he tells? Gwennie had been truly agitated. This is my fault. I should never have let you be alone with a single gentleman.
Nonsense, Lydia had said. You are not required to follow Georgie around like a dog, especially when she is at home. And the vicar will not tell. His reputation would be equally ruined, and he needs his position.
They had all agreed this was true. Everything was under control.
Then this morning, and the tumble in the snow. Everything was not under control! Her repressed feelings came flooding back as strong as ever.
And Lizzy!
Now that she thought about it, Georgiana could not be sure her sister-in-law had not tripped her on purpose! Looking back to that day in the church when Lizzy had come upon them, she been surprised, yes, but not upset by what she had seen. And later she had encouraged Mr. Midwinter’s attentions.
But to no avail. He did not care for her. Georgiana had spent the past year convincing herself that she did not care for him.
But this morning, in that exceedingly compromising position, he had lingered, looking down on her longer than necessary, his face but inches away. For just a moment, it had felt as though he were going to kiss her, then he had trembled like a lover when he helped her to her feet.
“This band is certainly easier to put on than the usual contraption.” Her maid’s cheerful banter brought Georgiana back to the present. Gilliam was winding a length of pale blue silk through her tresses, as Lydia had prescribed.
For Twelfth Night, Georgiana was always Queen Elizabeth in the guise of Spenser’s faerie queen, her outfit based on the Rainbow portrait. But the morning after the Night of the Brandy, Lydia had announced that this year she would take charge of everyone’s outfits.
Georgiana had agreed—it had been the perfect way to encourage Gwennie’s coming out of half mourning—but now she was glad of Lydia’s direction for selfish reasons. This new outfit based on Fuseli’s painting had a simple fabric swatch for a headdress, and the gown was in the modern Greek style—no detestable panniers or stays. So comfortable.
“This costume is so much easier to wear,” Georgiana said. “Last year I had a headache before the first dance ended. I did not offer you my old costume for tonight, Gilliam, because it would not have been a kindness, but you are welcome to it if it can be of use.”
“Thank you, Miss Georgiana.”
It was one of the perks of being a lady’s maid. Georgiana and Lizzy often gave Gilliam and Morton their out-of-fashion gowns and things. The maids usually sold the items to Miss Beaumont, the dressmaker in Lambton, who then took everything apart and reused the fabrics in her own creations.
“Going forward, in choosing all my clothes, comfort will be my guide.”
“Not if Miss Lydia has any say.” Gilliam smiled. “I would wager that comfort is not her first object in these matters.”
“You are right! The highest fashion is her guiding star. My friend would be a female Beau Brummell if she could afford it. But as she cannot, she encourages me to buy all the latest fashions and takes vicarious pleasure in seeing me well dressed. I confess I find her guidance rather a relief.”
Gilliam raised an eyebrow. “Miss Bennet receives quite a few gowns by your gift. Not to mention the shoes and hats and fans.”
“My gratitude for her advice. She has the best eye of anyone I know. I would have given every penny spent this Season for her suggestion regarding this costume alone.”
“Georgiana, what do you think?”
The chamber door swung open, and Gwennie bounced in like an excited schoolgirl, despite her four and twenty years. She spun around and kicked out one leg to better display her breeches, copied from William Hamilton’s painting of Viola as Cesario.
“Do you like it?”
“I do, Gwennie. How daring you are!”
Lydia had insisted that dressing Gwennie as a woman disguised as a man was just the thing to give her an aura of mystique which gentlemen would find intriguing. Georgiana was not convinced that her companion wished to be mysterious, but she was glad now that she had held her tongue. The costume had seemed to banish any remnant of her state of bereavement.
“I was afraid the bright orange would not do with your red hair, but the green cap and braid trim bring all together very well. You have put away your mourning forever, I hope.”
Gwennie smiled brightly. “Thanks to you.”
Before leaving for Hertfordshire, on the morning after the circus, Georgiana had arranged for her favorite seamstress to come to Berkeley Square to take measurements (and Lydia’s instructions) for their costumes. Mrs. Swan had gone away very happy indeed, with additional orders to create a new wardrobe for Mrs. Annesley—a present from Miss Darcy—in addition to the rest of it. A few of Gwennie’s new articles had already arrived at Pemberley.
She examined herself in Georgiana’s cheval mirror. “Now that I have decided to dance again, I do hope the gentlemen will not be put off by my breeches.”
“Nothing to fear there, Gwennie. With your figure, nobody will mistake you for a gentleman.”
“After six years, it feels so strange to wear such color. This bright orange is like a baptism of fire.”
The door flew open again, and Lydia flitted into the room in her usual mad way. “La, I am dying to dance!”
She was met with stunned silence. Then…
“Zooks!” Georgiana caught her breath.
“You look—” Gwennie gasped. “You look as if you have on nothing at all!”
“And what have you done to your hair?”
Lydia laughed and pranced about, pretending to shoot invisible arrows at Georgie, Gwennie, and even Gilliam, from the small bow she carried. She had dressed as Cupid, with darling tiny wings on her back, a little bow festooned with net and paper roses, and a quiver of arrows slung over one shoulder. Her gown’s fabric was the thinnest pale pink gauze, the chemise beneath it the color of her skin.
But most shocking of all, her coiffure was not a wig. She had cropped her own hair severely close, and short dark curls clung to her head, making her eyes look huge. She must have done it this morning, when Georgiana and Lizzy and Mrs. Bennet were away from the house.
“If Lady Caroline Lamb can do it, why cannot I?”
“Your mama is going to
faint dead away when she sees you.” Georgiana’s heart swelled with admiration. She could never be so brave, but she could revel in Lydia’s daring! Gilliam had it all wrong. Lydia did not take advantage of their friendship; each drew benefits from the other, in different forms.
Having been targeted by Cupid’s bow, the maid must feel justified—and quite rightly—in venturing a comment. “I am sure Mrs. Darcy will have an altogether different opinion.”
None could disagree, not even Lydia. “Oh, yes. I will receive a severe lecture from that quarter, I am sure.” But she did not seem too worried.
Georgiana adored this about her friend—her fierce courage and eagerness to try new things without fear of other people’s opinions.
“The musicians are warming up. I crept out to listen from the mezzanine.” Lydia’s eyes were bright with excitement. “They sound divine, and there is such a crush in the ballroom.”
It was time to go down. Georgiana was not surprised when the door opened again and there was Fitzwilliam, come to collect her.
“Good Lord!” He duly expressed suitable shock over Lydia’s hair.
The ladies all laughed and teased him for being old-fashioned, then Gwennie and Lydia left for the ballroom and Georgiana sent Gilliam off to find Morton with wishes that she have fun at the ball.
“My dear, you grow lovelier every year,” Fitzwilliam said sincerely when they were alone. “I am so very proud to be your brother.”
He was so kind, and he had never held her folly with Wickham against her. She loved him so very much! She took his offered arm, and they descended the stairs as they had every year, even when their parents were alive.
“I think, brother, this will be the last year we enter the ballroom together. I have been selfish. It is Elizabeth’s right. She is Pemberley’s mistress. I have been a mere placeholder.”
“There is nothing about that description that fits you, Georgiana. And Elizabeth knows how you love Twelfth Night. She has no wish to take away your pleasure, I promise you.”
Twelfth Night was Georgiana’s favorite holiday, celebrated at home and attended by everybody she cared for. All her family would be here, including those from Matlock and Kent. This night and tomorrow’s Feast of the Epiphany were reminders that she and Fitzwilliam were not alone in the world. Indeed, they were less alone than they ever had been, for Elizabeth had brought an entire phalanx of new relatives into the fold, and Georgiana loved them all.
