I sit next to him, and play a Mozart piece which I have known for many years, which he likes. When it is over he claps and praises, and I smile, for his sentiments are truly felt. How much easier things would be, if only everyone were as open and honest as Mr. Pritchard!
He bids me to play my new piece. I read the notes, one by one, and then I play the whole piece through, hearing the tick of the pendulum, the deep timbre of the notes, the slow progression of the piece, but not the music. Mr. Pritchard tells me to play it again. He has moved to the chaise to sit back and listen. “Truly, you are paid for nothing,” I tease him.
“Play your lesson, Miss Darcy,” he says, and tries to sound stern. I smirk and turn back to the instrument. “And listen when you play—oh, you will like this piece.”
I play. The music is haunting—it is low and deliberate and each note rumbles in my stomach. I am carried away by the melody, melancholy rushing over and through me. Suddenly I am no longer in the music room, but away again—back in Ramsgate, where the ocean pounds the rocks and the air smells warm and salty; I am with him again—with the man who has, since I departed that place, haunted me with every step. I can feel his gentle hand upon my chin and his firm lips on mine; I can hear the tender words whispered in my ear. Silent tears roll down my cheeks.
I ought to be paying attention to the music sheets, but I cannot think and stumble several times. I cannot control the bent of my thoughts; they always turn toward him. I know he does not love me. In my head, I know. In my heart, though, I hope even still, for though I now understand that he never loved me as he professed to so passionately, I love him still. Oh...my heart aches for him.
The piece is over. Without looking up I ask who has written it, not hearing the answer. Mr. Pritchard touches my hand gently and leaves the house in Portnam Square.
I clearly remember the day my father died. I was not yet twelve years old, and on that morning I had risen with the determination to go outside and walk, as I had not been allowed to for several days. Fitzwilliam came to my chamber before I was quite ready, and I recall being angry with him for that. I could never forget the words he said—“Georgiana, Papa died in the night...”—words delivered in such a low, soft voice as I had never before heard from him. My heart broke.
I simply cried for an hour straight. My brother, you see, does not lie and does not exaggerate, so any information he delivers, no matter how shocking, must be taken at face value. There was no need to question, reason, or see for myself. My Papa was gone, and the only two Darcys left in the world were young, devastated, and quite alone.
It was then that Fitzwilliam developed that controlled facade that I hate so much. I know the very moment it first appeared—right before he delivered the news to me. For a while, I really believed him as indifferent on the inside as he appeared on the outside. Then I learned to read his eyes—windows to the soul, Mrs. Reynolds (our housekeeper at Pemberley and a very dear woman) once told me. It could not be more true in the case of my brother. His face could be absolutely blank and yet if one were intuitive enough, one could read Fitzwilliam’s eyes.
He almost always wears that infernal mask, but I have learned how to tell when he is teasing me, when he is frustrated, when he is tired, and when he is pleased. Very occasionally, when it is only the two of us together, I can get him to take it off—I can get him to open up and talk with me. These times are the only moments I truly spend with my brother. They are always very brief, but I cherish them with all my heart.
Tonight is one of those nights. The mask is definitely off, likely because he wishes to cheer me. He is just returned from Pemberley, and tomorrow he promises a visit from someone whom he says that I should like very much.
“Mrs. Priscilla Annesley is the widow, if you recall, of the late rector of Hunsford Parsonage. Our aunt disliked her greatly, so I am certain we shall find her a sensible woman. I have applied to her to visit, and if you like her, dear girl, you shall have a new companion.”
I long to observe that I do not want a companion, but a sister; or, better still, to have my brother always with me. But I know that neither is very likely. “She is a young woman, if memory serves,” I reply, looking into my tea. Then I look up, and with the expression on his face that begs for liveliness from me, I cannot help but oblige him a little. “Shall she try to charm you?”
He smirks. “As you well know, my dear sister, I am not easily charmed. And I do not think the widow of a clergyman would be quite suitable,” he says. My face falls, but my brother does not know why, and he asks.
“Who would be suitable?” I ask him. “Who is good enough for you?”
He looks away, uncomfortable.
“There is no one good enough for you, Fitzwilliam,” I say in absence of any reply from him, shaking my head and looking away. “What woman exists, among those who would be suitable, who does not fawn over you without having been acquainted with the fact of your fortune? And what man exists who will not hunt me for mine?”
He takes my chin in his hand. “These are questions too heavy for a girl your age,” he says, sadness descending into his eyes. And then, carefully, he adds, “There are those whom I trust—honorable young men, with integrity, who are artless.”
Knowing exactly of whom he speaks, I look away, not wanting to talk about Mr. Charles Bingley. At some point, I ought to marry and ease my brother of the burden of caring for me, and in the absence of a gentleman I might really esteem, Mr. Bingley is not an altogether bad option. Fitzwilliam wants Mr. Bingley to marry me; and though he is amiable enough, it is unlikely that Mr. Bingley would have me, despite the wishes of his awful sisters.
I wish that I could tell my brother this. I wish he would not hint at a marriage between his sister and his dearest friend. It is not because I do not like Mr. Bingley—he is kind and a good friend to my brother. It is, rather, that due to my knowing him most of my life, I do not think I could look upon him as anything but a brotherly figure. I am fortunate in that I am still young for marriage, despite what I may have thought some months ago. It will be another year at least before I am even out.
I dodge Fitzwilliam’s comment. “And what about for you?” I ask.
“Do not worry for me,” he replies. “A gentleman may stay unmarried far longer than a lady and still be considered eligible. I shall find someone, I am sure.”
I take a sip of my tea and decide a change of subject is in order. “Has Lady Catherine found a suitable replacement for Mr. Annesley?” I ask, referring to the late rector of the parsonage connected with our aunt’s estate.
“I believe Hunsford parsonage is again occupied, at last,” he replies, smiling—a sure sign that he is grateful for the new topic. “Though I must admit I am not looking forward to meeting the man. His noble patroness herself has described him to me as a bit of a sycophant.”
“That cannot be a good sign,” I agree as my head fills with the image of a tall, rail-thin, elderly gentleman scraping his elbows whilst he follows after my aunt, which is just the sort of person Lady Catherine likes to have about.
“I shall meet him soon,” continues my brother, reminding me of his unfortunate, but annual, invitation from Lady Catherine to spend Easter time visiting Rosings Park.
“Yes,” I say, grateful that my presence is not required. “Please be sure to send me a full report.”
“I am sure he cannot be so bad,” says my brother. “You might ask Mrs. Annesley about him; she must have shown him the parsonage and introduced him to the servants.”
“I beg you would forgive me if I should happen to forget,” I say in reply. “But when you meet him, you must be sure to tell him how curious I am about him, and invite him to write me.” My brother grins—a handsome sight. “I wish you would smile more often, Fitzwilliam.”
For a moment, he looks as if he wants to say something further. He does not. The mask goes up and he returns to his tea.
When Mrs. Annesley arrives the next day, I am summoned to the sitting room. From
the hallway a light, young voice can be heard mingling with my brother’s; I pause before going in.
“She tends to be very shy,” he is saying. This is not untrue, however much I wish it weren’t pointed out. “She had a very troublesome summer at Ramsgate, which has caused her to withdraw even more, but I hope you will be able to help cure her of that.”
I do not want her to hear the complete tale of my disgraceful summer, so quickly I pop my head round the corner to announce my presence.
I am a little astonished by what I see—Fitzwilliam is sitting rather closer to Mrs. Annesley than I would have imagined, and more surprising than anything, there is no mask. I smile at this, forgetting about Ramsgate or Mrs. Annesley’s worth—for, I reason, if my brother can converse so openly with her, surely she can have nothing lacking. She smiles at me with lovely dark blonde curls framing her face.
My brother makes the introduction and we take tea. During the course of the conversation I say very little, but my brother and Mrs. Annesley talk openly about a number of subjects, mostly relating to my studies and my family. Familiar with my aunt, she inquires after the most senior member of the Fitzwilliam family, my uncle the earl, mostly curious about whether I am required to visit.
“It is likely that they will not issue Georgiana any invitations until she is of age,” my brother informs her.
“Have you lately visited them, Miss Darcy?” asks Mrs. Annesley.
She directs the question at me particularly, with a quizzical look upon her kindly face. Fitzwilliam is looking at me the same way.
“I—I...have not, no,” I stutter, looking earnestly at the forgetme-nots on my teacup. I glance upward, fully expecting them to fall into conversation between them again. They do not. They are looking at me—kindly, but looking. “Um...But...but my brother shall be visiting my aunt. He goes to Rosings each year...at about the same time of year.”
“And will you take your sister, Mr. Darcy?” asks Mrs. Annesley, tilting her head toward him.
“I will visit my aunt with my cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam. We are always invited the week of Easter, for about three weeks.”
There is again a pause in the conversation that makes me uncomfortable. “I understand you have met the new rector at Hunsford,” I venture, looking up, but only a little.
Mrs. Annesley smiles. “Yes, I have. He is a peculiar creature, to be sure, but he suits Lady Catherine quite well. He is not yet married, but I am sure that will be rectified quickly, with your aunt’s assistance.”
My brother smiles. “She does love to be useful.” He takes a final sip of his tea and then sets the cup back down, addressing Mrs. Annesley again. “I am afraid I have some time scheduled with my solicitor, to discuss some business that I have been putting off longer than he would like. Georgiana, would you be so kind as to give Mrs. Annesley a tour of the house?”
“I would be delighted,” I reply with a smile, and stand to do it. Mrs. Annesley and Fitzwilliam exchange their parting pleasantries and we begin the tour with what is, in my opinion, the most important room in the house—the music room. By the time we are through, nearly an hour has passed and I am feeling quite comfortable with her. She leaves soon after.
Fitzwilliam and I dine together quietly, as we always do. He asks me a few questions about Mrs. Annesley, and between us it is determined that she is quite a suitable companion for me. He is left only to investigate her references. I wonder if this is necessary, as Lady Catherine has particularly recommended her and that lady would rather perish than be wrong, but I hold my tongue. My brother does not like to be questioned, and it will give him peace.
Within a few weeks, Mrs. Annesley and I have fallen into a nice routine. I practice every morning, and on Tuesdays Mr. Pritchard comes to instruct me; after he has gone, Mrs. Annesley tutors me. She has introduced some new subjects, so there is something to learn each day. She thinks my French is good, but it is not; she unrelentingly spends the first full hour of our lessons speaking nothing but French, no matter if we are studying history or geography. For five or six hours we study, and in between we part for dinner. She is serious about the lessons, which although sometimes vexing, is a grand departure from my former companion’s style. Her French was worse than mine.
One morning, about a month into Mrs. Annesley’s employment, I wake to find that my regular maid, Clara, is nowhere to be seen. Instead, Greta, one of the upper maids, is waiting for me. I have seen her a handful of times but have never spoken with her. Dressed in my nightgown and a robe, I greet her.
“Good morning, Greta.”
She smiles nervously and inclines her head, but says nothing.
“Can you tell me where Clara is this morning?”
She smiles and nods again, but still says nothing.
“Did Mrs. Edstrom send you?” I ask, referring to the housekeeper.
Once more, the smile and nod, but no words. She holds out some towels and a cake of soap.
She does not speak, apparently. I tilt my head and crease my brow and gesture to the dressing room where I bathe.
“Is my bath ready?”
She lifts the towels and soap in the air slightly; she must understand the word “bath.”
I smile, a little amused by the game. I pass her gently and walk into my dressing chamber. My bath is indeed ready, but it does not explain the mystery of my missing maid.
The quietest bath I have ever had commences, and afterward, Greta fights with my hair. It is incredible, unruly stuff—stick straight, thin, and mousy brown. No one has ever been able to arrange it well, except one of my cousin Anne’s maids, but she was as prickly as Anne herself. This morning, it is only pulled into a tight but simple bun, and there is little left to frame my face. When she is finished, I go down to join my brother at breakfast.
He seems a little agitated this morning, and begins speaking almost immediately. “I cannot stay long with you, as I have to meet with my solicitor and Mr. Albertson, who has come to town this morning,” he says. “However, you will be quite busy with Mrs. Annesley, selecting a new maid. Clara has left us this morning.”
“I noticed that,” I say under my breath. Louder, I ask, “Did she tell no one why she left?”
“Her mother fell ill a day or so ago,” he explains. “She left to tend her and does not expect to return.”
“I see.” The news is disappointing, for I liked Clara and would have liked to hear her reasons for leaving from her own mouth. “I hope all is well at Pemberley,” I offer to my brother. Mr. Albertson—a sticklike fellow without sons, or even a wife—is his steward, and almost never comes into London, which he hates. On the whole I have found him to be a disagreeable, fussy sort of man, but his character is of little significance to me, as I hardly ever see him, and when I do, he barely dips his head in acknowledgement.
“All is well,” he assures me. “I must settle some things with him before I go into Hertfordshire with Bingley in a few weeks.”
My face falls, even as I fight against it. My brother does not know that his presence in the house is what keeps my mind calm enough at night to sleep, somewhat unencumbered by dreams of Ramsgate. I did not know that he was going away, but I must learn to accept that we cannot always be in the same place.
“Bingley has taken a house there, which he may like to purchase. I promised that I would visit him, to help him assess it properly.”
I want to scream at this and observe that Mr. Bingley is fully capable of making his own decisions, if he would just stop consulting Fitzwilliam. This, you see, is another reason I do not want to marry Mr. Bingley—what woman would want her brother to monopolize her husband’s time?
My brother observes my somewhat crestfallen look and takes my hand. “I did not tell you,” he says. “I am sorry, Georgiana. I have already promised Bingley...I did not mean to neglect you.”
I turn my palm up and squeeze. “It is all right,” I say. “How long will you be gone?”
“About a month,” he replies. He looks worri
ed.
“Do not fret,” I say, patting his hand. “My time will be adequately occupied with Mrs. Annesley’s lessons, and with Mr. Pritchard.”
“And how fares Mr. Pritchard?” asks Fitzwilliam, taking a bite of his bread. “He is well, I hope.”
“Yes,” I reply, pausing to think on it. I have not taken any great notice of anyone since returning to London, but Mr. Pritchard has always been very special to me. “Though I confess I worry for him. His step is not quite as light as it used to be.”
“It is only age,” he says, and tries to make it sound comforting. “I am sure Mr. Pritchard has many more lessons to teach.”
I hope silently that he is right. “Where is Mr. Albertson?”
“He is waiting for me in my study,” says my brother, in no particular hurry to finish his breakfast.
“Has he eaten breakfast?” I ask, setting down my teacup. “Should we not invite him to join us?”
“He is not a guest, Georgiana, he is my steward. He will wait for me.”
“Of course,” I mutter into my eggs. Not much more is said during the meal, and soon enough he leaves to confer with Mr. Albertson while I go in search of Mrs. Annesley.
The next afternoon, I am occupied with her in the yellow drawing room, speaking with girls who might fill the position left vacant by Clara. Most are French girls, who speak lovely English, though there are a few English girls, who are all quite serious and never smile. These applicants were sent to us by Mrs. Annesley’s sister, who is the proprietor of an agency.
There are ten of them. After I listen to Mrs. Annesley speak to nine of them briefly, the tenth comes into the drawing room. I instantly like her. I do not know why, but I like her.
“My name is Michelle,” she says in a thick French accent. She is a lovely girl, about a year older than me, I think. Her hair is curly blonde and arranged neatly, and a genuine smile is upon her face.
The Road to Pemberley Page 24
