The Road to Pemberley

by Marsha Altman

  Mrs. Annesley squeezes my hand again. “What happened to stop you?” she asks.

  “He came to Ramsgate. Fitzwilliam came to Ramsgate.”

  “And did he confront Mr. Wickham?” she asks, her brow contracting.

  “I told him what Mr. Wickham said to me,” I say, my eyes flooding with tears at the memory of my brother’s expression. “I asked him for his blessing. He asked me if I loved Mr. Wickham.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I said that I had very strong feelings for him, which I believed constituted love. He simply shook his head, kissed me, and sent me to my room. He wrote to Mr. Wickham; I do not know what he said. I expected some kind of response—a letter, a visit, anything. There was none. I have not seen him again.”

  “And do you still have those feelings for Mr. Wickham?”

  I look away. “They are waning.” I sigh and shake my head, thinking on it. “My brother, generously, never told me that I was not in love, nor did he ever attempt to direct my feelings in any other manner. He simply explained some things to me...the things that I mentioned earlier, and reminded me of the attractiveness of my fortune.” I sniffle a little and take the handkerchief from my sleeve to pat at my eyes. “I wish the whole thing had never happened. I dream of it every night—and sometimes, during the day, if someone mentions the sea...or falling in love. Or even fishing nets, sometimes—I do not know why.”

  When I look up at Mrs. Annesley, there is only kindness in her eyes. “Miss Darcy, I think it is probably true that your brother has suffered because of this, but it may not be so much because of your actions. You are young; Mr. Wickham is not. His actions were calculating; yours were not. Consider that your brother and Mr. Wickham were friends as children. Do you not think that perhaps part of what your brother is experiencing is the pain of being betrayed by a friend?”

  I smile sadly, truly never having considered this part of the matter. “I had not thought that, no.”

  “Your brother adores you, my dear. He almost lost you, and I think he may be blaming himself for what he allowed to happen. He may feel that he left you unprotected. Do not take too much of the blame upon yourself.”

  I smile and thank her, and though I do not know whether I believe them or not, I try to remember her words.

  My dear Georgiana,

  I hope that you are well. I have arrived safely this morning in Kent at Rosings Park. Our aunt sends you her best wishes; Anne snarled at me. I assumed she meant it as a welcome.

  The next handful of weeks, I expect, shall be rather dull. There is not much to do at Rosings Park, as you recall—there is no one to play or sing, as you do, and only Fitzwilliam and I visiting. At least, however, I shall not be forced into society, as I was in Hertfordshire.

  My brother is not a social man; he is shy, like his sister. He does not look forward to social invitations in general, especially when he is acquainted with only one or two guests, but he also tends to dread them when he is acquainted with everyone in the room. He seems, to most, to be rather taciturn. He is seen as uninterested in any manner of conversation and considering himself quite above all of them—which, in my opinion, he is. Truly, all that my brother lacks to be considered as good as a prince is a title, which he most definitely does not want.

  I remember a time when my brother told me what he did want—before Papa died and before my governess was discharged. He used to be quite open with me, and there was one particular conversation I recall with some clarity. We were sitting in the servants’ dining room on a cold and wet day in early March, eating cake. I do not remember where the cake came from or why it was baked, but I recall that it was a secret and I was not to tell my governess under any circumstances. It is likely that Fitzwilliam was behind the scheme.

  As we sat quietly eating and whispering, he asked me, “Georgiana, what do you dream about?”

  “At night?” I think is what I asked, probably giggling the whole time.

  “At night, and during the day. What do you wish for?”

  I started running through the list of things I wanted—mostly hair ribbons and dolls—and when I was through, I stuffed another bite of cake into my mouth and asked Fitzwilliam what he dreamed about.

  He paused before he answered. “Sometimes I dream about Mama.”

  It was the first time he had ever mentioned her to me, and I got very quiet and wide-eyed, and whispered, “What did she look like?”

  He swallowed and put down his cake. “She had very dark hair,” he quietly said, looking away. “And she was tall.”

  “Was she very pretty?”

  “She was beautiful,” he whispered, smiling at me. “When I was a very little boy, Mama and Papa gave a ball at Pemberley. I was not allowed to go downstairs, but she came up just before it was time for me to go to sleep. When she walked into my bedroom, I thought an angel had descended from heaven.”

  “Sometimes I wish I could see her,” I said, putting down my own cake. “Did she not sit for a portrait?”

  He looked away suddenly, with what was, even to the eyes of an eight-year-old, obviously pain. “No,” he replied. “She did not.”

  I took his curt reply to mean that he was not to be questioned about it further. My stomach then began to protest the richness of the cake and its delightful icing; I sat back and put my hand across my midriff with a sigh. After a brief moment, Fitzwilliam looked back at me and smiled a little.

  “How about a bit of milk?”

  I am thinking back on that day now, after so much has changed, while sitting on my chaise in my rooms in London after preparing for bed. I like the city a great deal, but I prefer Derbyshire and Pemberley, and I know that when my brother marries, we shall spend almost all of our time there. Unless, of course, the lady prefers the city.

  I rise and go to the window to look out into the starless night. My thoughts turn again toward my brother, who has been in Rosings these two weeks. He does not discuss his personal matters with me, but I think on them every once in a while, even though I ought not to. Given his conservative nature and his dedication to his duty, I know he will marry. And I know, unless he is particularly struck as I thought he might have been with Miss Elizabeth Bennet, he will marry the type of young lady whom he is supposed to marry, rather than the particular lady whom he wishes to marry.

  Putrid Anne and Caroline the Peacock are out of the question—he has assured me of that on more than one occasion. But I do wonder whom he will marry. I wish to be able to so much as tolerate my future sister-in-law, whomever that might be, but dearly hope that I could come to like her, or even love her, as my own sister. And perhaps there is a way that I can encourage him in his choice.

  I turn to the writing desk and ink my pen.

  My dear Brother,

  I hope you are well and enjoying yourself at Rosings. Please convey my love to my dearest cousin the colonel, if you would, and please tell him that I would very much like to see him if he is able to visit us.

  Now I must come to the purpose of my letter. I have a concern, my dearest Brother, that I sincerely hope you will take to heart.

  It concerns you, Fitzwilliam. You have said that I should not be thinking about marriage at such an age, but I know you must be, and I confess I have been thinking on yours. I know you will not marry our cousin Anne—I know she has never liked you, and you have never liked her. You have also said repeatedly that you have no interest in Caroline Bingley—for which I could never thank you enough. I do not know what other ladies have caught your fancy—with the exception of the apparently formidable Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Hertfordshire, whom you will likely never see again—but I do not want you to be unhappy in your marriage.

  I have been witness to a few marriages, but those handful have been marriages of prudence—marriages in which families benefit, financially or socially, but where the principal parties are not matched well. I give you the earl and his wife, for example, who, I am sure, have never said a kind word to each other in the unnatur
ally long span of their lives together. I would not be entirely surprised to know that our aunt does not spend a moment in her husband’s company except, at meals and social gatherings.

  I know that it is not for me to worry about your life, that you are quite capable of handling your own private affairs. But Fitzwilliam, I have always loved and admired you and that kind of life is not the kind of life that I would want for you. And so I beg you, for your own sake, to marry a woman whom you truly do admire, and one who admires you in return. I want you to be happy with yourself and with your wife, and I know that you are capable of looking beyond the surface to the person behind the silk and feathers. Our family does not want for anything except another loving member, and so I hope that you will not look for what you do not need in your wife.

  Now, I am tired, and I am sure I have quite overstepped my boundaries, so I shall go to bed. I will expect to see you in about five days at the house in Portnam Square. Please travel safely.

  Your loving sister,

  Georgiana

  The following Friday, when Fitzwilliam arrives, he is very distant. He takes his tea alone in his study, and stays there for several hours.

  At supper, he will not speak with me beyond a few curt sentences. Afterward, we sit in the music room, and he is still as silent as stone. When I ask him what is wrong, he gives me a peculiar look.

  “I received your letter, before I left Rosings.”

  I do not like the sharp tone of his voice at all, and my heart immediately plummets to my stomach. “You did?”

  “Yes,” he says, looking away. Then he looks back and says quickly, “Georgiana, I know you are still very young, but I do wonder what gets into your head sometimes.”

  This comment catches me a little off-guard. The letter that I wrote to him, I felt, was perhaps not thought out very well, but it was sincerely meant, and Fitzwilliam has always encouraged me to speak with him about what does, in fact, get into my head. I am saved from having to reply, however, as Fitzwilliam begins a rant.

  “As it happens,” he says as he stands, looking out the window and folding his hands behind him, “Miss Elizabeth Bennet is a particular friend of Mr. Collins’s new wife—you do know who Mr. Collins is, Georgiana?”

  I lift an eyebrow at his back and wonder where this line of questioning is headed. “Yes—the rector at Hunsford,” I say, tentatively, wondering what the only woman who, to my knowledge, has ever caught my brother’s fancy has to do with his irritability.

  “Miss Bennet is visiting Mrs. Collins, and on a few occasions, the Collinses, and their guests, came to dinner, while Fitzwilliam and I were at Rosings. I spoke with her several times.”

  Still without a hint as to what the problem is, and what I have to do with it, I reply, “And how is Miss Bennet?”

  He stuns me into silence by replying, “I have made an offer of marriage to Miss Bennet, and have been turned down quite soundly.”

  It was clear to me that, from the first time he ever saw her, he liked her, but this is quite unexpected. Now I am wondering what has gotten into his head. And what got into her head to make her refuse him?

  “Your encouragement in this whole affair was really quite unnecessary, you know,” he continues, turning around. “Your letter to me was received the day before this cursed event took place. I cannot say that if I had not received it, I would not have made the offer, but it certainly did play a role, Georgiana.”

  It takes me a moment to figure it out, but I think I am offended by this comment. “I played a part in your proposal?” I ask, bringing my hand to my chest. “What part?”

  “Your letter,” he snaps at me. “The one you wrote to me, which I received not three days ago. Surely you remember writing it? You encouraged me to propose to Miss Bennet.”

  “Fitzwilliam, I did not know that Miss Bennet was even in the same county as you. I assumed that after you left Netherfield, you would never see her again. I do recall writing the letter, but I did not specifically request that you marry her.”

  “But you knew that I admired Miss Bennet, and you encouraged me to, and I quote, ‘marry a woman whom I truly do admire.’ You went on for a page about how you did not want to see me unhappy in my marriage.”

  “But you never gave me any indication that she liked you in return,” I say, my dander up. “You said that she consistently sparred with you. Why would I assume that she liked you if she always quarreled with you?”

  My brother looks at me sideways. It is true I never argue with him, but for Heaven’s sake. I had nothing to do with this.

  “Did you assume that she liked you?” I ask him. “Did you assume that she would accept your proposal because of your consequence in the world?” He says nothing, so I assume that he did, which angers me. I rise and stomp my foot. “Why would you do such a thing?”

  It is clear that he is embarrassed, and he turns his face away. “Georgiana—” he begins, but I stop him.

  “Do you truly not realize how taciturn you seem to strangers? Do you not realize that no one you know ever offers a contrary opinion to yours because you intimidate them? Fitzwilliam, you told me that Miss Bennet refused your offer to dance with her—why on earth would she accept an offer of marriage?”

  “Georgiana—”

  His face has softened a little, but I have not. “What I asked of you,” I say, in an even tone, “was that you marry where affection was mutual. Meaning, of course, Fitzwilliam, that she liked you as well. And in any case, no woman of good sense would ever accept a man whose main form of communication was silent stares.”

  When his eyes widen, I know that I have gone too far. Rather than apologize, however, I only look at him while my heart slows to its normal rate.

  “Georgiana...”

  I wait for him to continue in that dark voice, but he does not. I blink, finally. It pains me to know that I have hurt my brother, but there is nothing that I have said that is untrue, and I can have nothing more now to say. “Good night, Fitzwilliam.”

  I manage to make it to the sanctity of my rooms before I collapse on the bed and burst into tears. Michelle is upon me in less than a minute, asking what is wrong, and ignores me when I dismiss her.

  “S’il vous plait, Miss Darcy, allow me to help you. You cannot get yourself out of your clothing.”

  She is trying to be helpful, but all I want is to be alone. “I will do very well myself, thank you!”

  Michelle snorts and mumbles some French words that I am fairly certain translate to “silly English girl.” Then, from under the pillow in which I have buried my head, I hear her sigh. “Please. Miss Darcy. I do not mean to be rude, madam, but I do not intend to leave you as you are.”

  Tossing the pillow off, I rise to stand in front of her, scowling and tearful with my arms crossed. “Michelle, I am giving you an order!”

  “I would happily comply if I thought you could reach all of your buttons and untie the knot I have put in your corset laces.”

  She is not defensive as I would be in her place, but infuriatingly confident, her hands folded respectfully and her brow arched. I let out a huff. “If it will get rid of you faster!”

  The ghost of a smirk touches her lips as I turn around to let her do her job. Later, when she has left me tucked safely into my bed, I am grateful for her dedication, because she is right—I would not have known where to begin undressing myself.

  Mr. Wickham makes no appearance during what little sleep I have—my angry brother takes his place. I do not emerge from my room the next day and Fitzwilliam does not come to inquire after my health. For many days, we avoid each other entirely. I throw myself into my lessons instead.

  Mrs. Annesley has, in the past, encouraged me to venture into the library when I am looking for something to do. Saturday afternoon is quiet and rainy; I take her advice and head there, hopeful that I will not encounter my brother.

  The library is an imposing thing; all high walls and dark oak. The first thing that one notices upon entering the library
is the smell of leather which permeates the air. There must be a thousand books here, arranged perfectly and dusted neatly. The room is handsome, but authoritative and stern—a bit like its chief occupant. I peek inside to make sure no one is there before I enter into it. Quietly I run my hand down the volumes upon the shelf closest to me and pick out the one on which my fingers stop. It falls open and there is a loose page inside.

  The paper is folded and yellowed and the ink is thick; it has bled through. Curious, I replace the book it was resting in and open the note.

  Dear Father,

  Today is my birthday and you spent the whole day with me.

  I enjoyed the picnic with you and Mama, and I enjoyed riding with you in the park.

  I know you are very busy, so today was special.

  I shall always remember it.

  Yours,

  Fitzwilliam

  Tears blur my vision. I have intruded on something very private and personal and while I am not sorry to have come upon it, I am sorry for the offense of reading it. When I reach up for the book it was hidden in, my hand rests on my brother’s.

  “Oh!” I exclaim, startled. “I did not see you.”

  “May I have that note, please?” he asks, turning up his palm. His voice is emotionless and his face is stone. I cannot look into his eyes; he must be angry with me.

  “I am sorry,” I say, my voice choked. My face turns red as I refold the note, place it in his hand, and turn to leave the library. I hear my name as I reach the door and stop.

  My brother approaches me. “Where did you find this?”

  I still cannot bear to look at him. I bite my lip to try to stop my tears and look at the books instead. It is a moment before I can answer him; my throat is constricted and I want to run and hide. “In a book on the shelf.”

  He pauses, and then, to my surprise, gently asks, “Can you show me which book, Georgiana?”

  I still cannot look at him, so I move to the shelf upon which I found the book and remove it. I hand it to him, still looking down.