“Uses me?”
“You are not even out, and he parades you about town in hopes of marrying you to someone like Sheffield—with more money and reputation than sense or worth.”
Georgiana sighed. “Do not suppose I am insensible to Sheffield’s faults, or that I should wish to follow my cousin’s path to matrimony simply because I have allowed my uncle to purchase for me a new wardrobe and call me Ana—a name I rather like, I might add.”
He looked at her, hoping there might be some clue to understanding this new version of his sister hidden in her profile. And perhaps there was, for she wore a wry smile and kept her chin up in a way that suggested she knew her own mind.
“It is only natural,” he said, more to himself than to her, “that you should wish for some measure of independence. How you find it here, in London, with all the pressures and demands of society upon you, I do not know.”
“I am not a man of a marriageable age with a large fortune; I do not have society mothers running after me everywhere I turn.”
“No, but you are a lady of marriageable age with a large fortune, a notion I find more frightening, for it is the men, rather than their mamas, who will chase you.”
“Isabella spoke with more enthusiasm than truth when she said I had suitors. I have no one.”
She spoke these words with a sigh, and he was reminded of the forlorn girl he had known after Ramsgate. “You are still nursing a broken heart, Georgiana.” He squeezed her hand. “You must give yourself time.”
These words appeared to agitate, rather than calm, her. “To have a broken heart, one must have loved, and I am certain now that I never loved…” She stopped, looked about them—they were alone, aside from the few birds alighting from branch to branch overhead—and said quietly, “What I felt for Wickham was mere infatuation.”
He hesitated, confused by the disappointment in her voice. “Surely this realization is a positive one. I am glad you did not give your heart to a worthless man.”
“Yes, but that I should even have considered him…what does that say for my judgment, Fitzwilliam? How am I ever to trust my feelings again?”
He would have been heartened by this introspection, had she not sounded so desperate to know the answer to her own question.
“You asked if this is the life I want for myself,” Georgiana said, moving forward with a burst of energy that caused him to lengthen this stride to keep up. “I would be lying to you, brother, if I said I felt as you do about London. I love the bustle, the dinners, the concerts, the society of others. Oh, there are fools enough, but they amuse more than they annoy.”
“You are so much like our mother, Georgiana.”
“That is what Uncle Charles says, almost daily. I did not know, until I came here, how close they once were. You should see the letters she wrote to him from Pemberley; they must number in the hundreds.”
“Have you read them?” he asked, unable to stop himself. “Was she…was she as miserable at Pemberley as Lady Catherine and Lord Matlock claim?”
It was Georgiana’s turn to squeeze his hand. “She was not always unhappy. When she wrote of you, Fitzwilliam—and she wrote of you often—she expressed such pride and joy. But she did not find life at Pemberley easy, particularly in the dead of winter, when there were so few visitors and so few opportunities for escaping the confines of the house.”
He thought of Elizabeth and felt a pang. She had seemed to enjoy the month they had spent at Pemberley, but how would she feel after successive winters? Would she, too, long for the company of others? Having been raised in a large and boisterous family, she was too sociable not to require diversions other than reading and winter walks, and Darcy felt a cold certainty that his company would never be enough for her.
“Did she write often our father?” Darcy asked, hoping his voice sounded steadier to her ears than to his.
“No, not often. When she did write of him…”
“You need not hesitate for my sake, Georgiana,” he said, though in fact he wished they might change the topic altogether.
“She wrote of him with great admiration, but little…affection.”
When Darcy remained silent, Georgiana said, “I sometimes wonder if love can withstand the reality of married life. I have seen no marriage that I might truly call happy.”
She stopped, put a hand to her mouth, and said, “Oh, Fitzwilliam, forgive me! I did not mean to imply your marriage…I had quite forgotten for a moment that you were married! We have spent so much of our lives without a Mrs. Darcy that I did not stop to think…”
Her unintended candor caused him to laugh. “I am not offended. Indeed, I am relieved to hear you talk so; these are the kinds of conversations I remember and love best.”
She smiled. “Once, I asked Sophia if she and her brother had discussions about art and poetry and philosophy, and she looked at me as if I had grown a second head.”
“And yet, these are the people you admire?”
“Oh, for different reasons, of course, but yes, I admire them. May not I admire more than one type of person? Can I not want more than one kind of life for myself? Why can I not love London and Pemberley, my silly cousins and my serious brother?”
“I should be the very last person to tell you who you must and must not love.” He paused and added, “Even with Wickham, I hope that I did not order you how to feel—only how to act. Had Wickham shown a willingness to wait until you came of age, I would have honored his fidelity and patience with approval.”
“But you knew he would not wait. I sometimes think that is why I told you of our intended elopement—because I knew you would test him, and though I hoped he would succeed, I knew in my heart he would fail.” She managed a humorless laugh. “I only wish it were so easy to determine the strength of a man’s attachment before going so far as to promise marriage. How did you know, Fitzwilliam? How were you sure of your love for your wife—and hers for you?”
“I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the words, which laid the foundation. I recognized something the first night of our acquaintance—something so true and real that I wanted to discover whether it extended to all of her, or was just a product of the moment. Yet I would not have called it love at the start; I was in the middle before I knew it had begun.”
“Yes, I think I understand you!” cried Georgiana. “With George, I had thought myself in love immediately, with no basis for my feelings other than fancy. But with Ri…” Her voice trailed, and Darcy felt a moment’s fear.
“Georgiana? You were going to speak a name.”
She sighed and looked away. “You will think I am foolish. I think I am foolish, and I have no hopes of my affections being returned. He thinks of me as a child.”
Darcy closed his eyes for a long moment before saying, “Tell me you are not speaking of our cousin, Georgiana.”
“It is an impossible match. I know that.”
It was not an impossible match, which is precisely what troubled him. Though Richard was a good deal better than Wickham, Georgiana was far too young to marry anyone, certainly not an officer whose income failed to exceed his expenditures.
“Yet how could I not be cognizant of his worth?” She spoke with a tone far too wistful for his taste. “We have spent much time together this winter, and in him, I have seen that happy mix of amiability, sense, and compassion so absent in Wickham. When I heard Wickham had become an officer, I could not help but compare his actions with Richard’s. Could two men in the same profession be more different?”
“They both have a startling inability to support themselves,” Darcy bit out before he could stop himself.
“Oh, for shame, Fitzwilliam! You do not know Richard as I do. What he spends, he spends for others. Has he written you of his plans to found a veteran’s home? He is so solicitous of his fellow soldiers, even those of lower ranks.”
Aside from the fact that Darcy found Richard’s vision of post-military life missing some crucial information—such as how thi
s endeavor was to sustain itself, for there was no market for feeble horses or injured men—he did not like the faraway look in his sister’s eyes. He had seen it once before, in those few, painful moments at Ramsgate when she had told him that she loved Wickham and hoped to marry him.
“I only wish,” she continued, “our uncle understood how important this endeavor is to him.”
Darcy turned sharply toward her. “Has he been forwarding this match?”
“Uncle Charles?” Georgiana sighed. “He has higher hopes for Richard. I have not the manners and grace that so many young ladies in our circle possess.”
Darcy’s laugh was mirthless. “You mean that you will inherit no estate and bring with you no title.”
“No, I will not countenance such spite from you. Our uncle’s concern for family is noble, Fitzwilliam, even if it brings some pain to me. I do not believe Uncle Charles would forbid the match, though of course I have no reason to believe there ever will be a match between us. Richard likely would be happier with a more sophisticated woman.”
Darcy shook his head. “I cannot comprehend you, Georgiana. How is it that you wish to remain in London, pursuing a course of action that can have no happy outcome for you? Unless,” he said, coming to a sudden stop, “you believe, in spite of what you say, that Richard may still form an attachment with you and will marry you in spite of his father’s hopes for him.”
Georgiana blushed. “I love him, Fitzwilliam! I must try to make him see that I can be the wife he wants and needs.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Darcy exclaimed. He knew he ought to behave with more consideration, if for no other reason than it would do neither of them any good to cause a scene in the middle of Hyde Park. They had, unconsciously, turned back in the direction of Matlock House, and had reached a more populated area of the park. They still spoke quietly enough that they had not attracted the attention of others, but he knew by the sudden redness of his sister’s eyes and nose that she might soon succumb to tears.
“Georgiana, you must listen to me.”
She looked up at him, eyes bright and wide, and he thought to tell her of the letter he had received from Richard—how he had (even if only in jest) suggested marrying Anne for her dowry so that he might forward his philanthropic efforts. Truth was, Darcy had been seriously considering supporting Richard in his endeavors, supposing that his money might also allow him to provide some good advice on the more pragmatic matters of philanthropy. Yet now, he could not separate the goodness of Richard’s ideals from his involvement with his sister. He had no evidence, aside from Georgiana’s hints and hopes, that Richard had pursued his sister. Even if he had, it might be that Richard had come to admire Georgiana, just as she had come to admire him.
No matter; Darcy did not want his sister to make the same mistake twice—tricking herself into believing she had feelings for someone who had more interest in her money than her heart. Yet the words would not come; he could not bring himself to malign his cousin and crush his sister’s fledgling hope after she had finally begun to recover her spirit and strength.
“Your disapproval,” she said quietly, “need not be expressed. You must find me ridiculous, and doubt the strength my affections for Richard. After the debacle of this summer, I cannot blame you.”
“No, I do not doubt you,” he replied with a suppressed sigh. “I do not suppose the difficulty ever comes in falling in love, Georgiana. It comes in allowing those early sentiments to grow into something more substantial.”
“But I believe I could be happy with him—and he with me!”
“Then why do you speak of lacking the sophistication to capture his heart? Either he loves you as you are, Georgiana, or he does not love you as a husband ought to love his wife. He should require no fundamental alteration of your character to marry you.”
As his words sank in, Darcy halted. Had he not asked this of Elizabeth—even after claiming at Pemberley that he loved her as she was? Had he not made her undergo months of meaningless lessons in the ways of society and left her alone to face the sneering stupidity of his family? And for what purpose? So that she might convince them she was someone other than herself—that Elizabeth Darcy was so far removed from Elizabeth Bennet that his family might be willing to call her one of their own.
It mattered not that he had acted with the best of intentions. The simple truth was that he had been blind. He had believed that impressing his uncle had been the key to bringing Georgiana back to Pemberley, and yet the decision to return home had always been hers. Had Georgiana, of her own free will, made the choice to return to him—or not to have left in the first place—their uncle would have had no real power to stop her. Oh, he could have pressed suit, but likely would not have, not if Georgiana had objected strongly enough. The scandal would have been too great.
To his sister, he said only, “I should not have left her alone with them for so long.”
“Oh, you must not worry, Fitzwilliam. Uncle Charles and Aunt Susan will not be unkind to her.”
Perhaps it was her smile, or her glib tone, but he lost his patience. “Do you really suppose, when they have been so unkind as to cut her all Season, when they showed the discourtesy of making her wait for an interview half an hour beyond the time mentioned in the invitation, when they stared and sneered at her upon being introduced—do you truly suppose, Georgiana, they have shown any predisposition toward kindness?”
She blanched. “We were late because of Lady Havisham—”
“And if you were to meet the Duke of ______ at 2 o’clock, would Lady Havisham have delayed you?”
“That would have been completely different! We would not have called on Lady Havisham in the first place.” By the end of this statement, Georgiana seemed to realize the import of her own words and flushed. “Your pride is hurt, Fitzwilliam. I understand that they should have—that we all should have given you more consideration than we have, and yet you must understand—”
“Yes, I understand quite well, Georgiana. And perhaps there was a time when it would have been my pride that had been wounded by our family’s behavior. But today, I feel only for Elizabeth—not because she is my wife, not because she carries the Darcy name, but because she deserves to be treated as the equal of any member of our family. She may be the daughter of a unknown country gentleman, but she has more worth than all the dukes in England, as far as I am concerned.”
“Oh, Fitzwilliam, your love for her is touching, and yet, surely you can see how from our uncle’s perspective—”
“Yes, I can see from his perspective, because once, much to my chagrin, I thought as he did. But no more.” He began lengthening his stride. “We should return. Quickly.”
“Fitzwilliam, please! I can hardly keep up with you.”
He slowed his pace, but only just barely. “I made a grave mistake this afternoon. I should never have left her alone.”
“She made the choice to remain,” his sister reminded him in breathless tones. “She must have wanted to—”
“She wanted to do what she thought would be the best for me—and for you. For too long, I have allowed myself to believe I was acting in your best interests, but now I see that I do not understand your interests, Georgiana, and was only doing what I thought best for myself.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Fitzwilliam, do not be angry…”
“I am not angry.” He sighed. “Or if I am, I am angry with myself for not realizing sooner that the choice of where you live, whom you call guardian, whom you love—these have always been your choices, Georgiana, not mine.”
“Then do you not want me to return to Pemberley?”
“Pemberley is your home; you are always welcome there. But I will no longer subject Elizabeth to the whims of our uncle, or anyone else, in order to secure your happiness. That is your duty now, Georgiana.”
This statement caused his sister to stop, open her reticule, and make use of the handkerchief yet again. Darcy had to call on all his self control to stop
himself from tapping his foot with impatience. He looked toward Grosvenor Square, wishing he could see Matlock House from where they stood so that they might reach Elizabeth sooner.
When Georgiana gasped, he glanced at her, afraid she had succumbed to another round of tears.
“Richard!” she said, stashing her handkerchief and putting a trembling hand to her bonnet. She pulled free of his arm and took several quick steps forward. “Hello!”
Darcy turned back to see their cousin approaching from the opposite direction.
“Georgi!” Richard took her free hand and bowed over it. Darcy watched for some sign of attachment—a longing look or a lingering touch—but Richard held her hand no longer than was proper.
“And Fitz!” Richard turned to him with a smile. “I had not expected to see either of you strolling through Hyde Park! Where is Mrs. Darcy? I had believed you to be introducing her to my father today.”
“We decided to take the air,” Georgiana said. “Mrs. Darcy chose to remain with the family.”
“Then she is braver than most of my men!” He took Darcy’s hand and shook it. “It is good to see you.”
“And you,” Darcy returned, feeling for the first time since Ramsgate that he could say those words with some measure of truth.
“I was just on my way to pay a call on the family myself,” said Richard. “Shall we walk back together?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Georgiana, taking a quick step toward him.
Darcy was almost certain that Richard hesitated before offering Georgiana his arm.
She, however, took hold without a pause. “I wondered why you were not there when we returned from our morning calls. Aunt Susan mentioned business.”
Richard snorted. “Fact is, I was not invited. I suppose Father and Mother wanted to meet Mrs. Darcy without having me there to defend both of you. But I had heard enough talk of this fateful meeting to make note of it, and so I arranged to come, thinking you might want a friendly face in the room.”
This Disconcerting Happiness: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 33
