A Season Lost

by Sophie Turner

  Grieved, but confused, for she recalled there had been a baby, she asked where Commodore Stanton was. “Gone back to England,” replied Mr. Stanton. “He’ll be mighty disappointed in you, when you return.”

  With an anguished cry, she ran out to the outer courtyard, and found they were wrong, for there was Matthew, and he was holding out his hand to her. “My bravest, strongest, dearest girl,” he said, and she ran to him, asking where the baby was, but he merely laid that hand on her forehead.

  Georgiana gasped and opened her eyes, and found that Matthew was there, holding his hand to her forehead in the Caroline’s darkened sleeping cabin. He smiled, faintly, “You were a trifle agitated – I was afraid – but you do not feel feverish.”

  “Where is the baby? Matthew, where is the baby?”

  “Right here, right here in the cradle,” he soothed. “She is perfectly well.”

  “Can I see her?” she asked, tremulously.

  “Yes, of course,” he said, and lifted that bundle wrapped in fine muslin up to her, once again laying her on Georgiana’s chest. “Here, here is our little girl.”

  The child looked at her with soft, sleepy eyes – she had Matthew’s eyes, surely – and Georgiana sighed in reassurance, realising she was well enough rested now to feel truly happy over the presence of her daughter. “How long have I been asleep?”

  “About twelve hours, I believe. We woke you twice, to nurse her, but you have been out for the rest of that time.”

  Georgiana vaguely recalled something like nursing her child, but it seemed as much a dream as the one she had just awoke from.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked, looking at her with concern on his countenance.

  “Sore, and still very tired.”

  “I imagine you will be for some time. We will all look after her – you need only rest and nurse her. You had quite the ordeal, dearest, and I expect it will take you a long time to recover,” he said, then continued, in a thickened voice, “Georgiana, what I said to you in the great cabin, doubting your will, your strength – you understand I did not mean it. You understand why I did it, do you not?”

  She nodded. “You were trying to rally me – and you succeeded.”

  “I am glad you understand. You cannot know how difficult it was, to speak to you like that.”

  “You proved I was right, you know. This would have happened regardless of where I had the child, or who attended me. I did not know you would do that when it was required of you, but you proved I was right to stay with you.”

  “I am glad you did for so many reasons. If we had parted, I believe I would have gone mad with worry by now – even beyond what I have felt for the last few days. But now we are together, as we should be, and I promise I shall do everything in my power to look after my girls.” He reached out with one finger to touch the cheek of the child who was now nestled against her mother’s chest, seeming very pleased to be there.

  “Matthew, you’re not disappointed, are you, in her being a girl? Your title – ”

  “I care not what happens to my title, so please, let us have no more of that. I am pleased she is a girl. They are rare, you will recall, in my family. I intend to spoil her very thoroughly, and I believe her uncles and great-uncles shall do the same,” he said, smiling softly. “Should you like to name her Georgiana?”

  “Oh, Matthew, there is but one thing she can be named, and it is not Georgiana,” she said.

  He gazed at her, seeming perplexed, and then finally his face took on a certain shrewdness. “Caroline?” he asked.

  “Yes, Caroline,” Georgiana said, and kissed her daughter’s head.

  Chapter 32

  They had received no more letters from Georgiana, and Elizabeth was beginning to find her husband’s worry infectious. As March turned to April and Pemberley prepared for its spring planting, every day they hoped another of those thick packets would arrive, and every day passed without one.

  No longer could Elizabeth rightfully encourage Darcy towards optimism, and the difficulty of it was, they had many causes for optimism. An express had come from Lady Ellen in London, to say that Marguerite had given birth to a fine, healthy son, and both were doing very well; after the last news of childbirth to come from the Fitzwilliams, no-one could hear this news without a great deal of relief. Jane continued to improve, which could be told both in her own letters and during the Darcys’s visits to Clareborne; Mary continued to get on well with little Marianne; the Bennets had safely returned to Longbourn, the Ramseys to Bath.

  Darcy had lived for a very long time with only one sister as his nearest relation, though, and not even the addition of a wife and sons, nor his sister’s own marriage, could remove him from this closeness to Georgiana. Elizabeth had stopped holding dinners – her husband was clearly too distracted to attempt much conversation – and found that even such quiet meals as the Darcys had together seemed to be oppressed by the spectre of Georgiana.

  Elizabeth considered suggesting they go to Clareborne again – travel, at least, seemed to serve as a distraction – and then was seized with what seemed a better idea. She shared this, after hearing Darcy sigh yet again over his brandy in the drawing-room, brandy he seemed to be consuming a bit more copiously, these days.

  “My love, why do we not go to town?” she asked.

  “Town? This is a sudden idea – we will have missed much of the season.”

  “In truth, I care little about the season, but I was thinking that Lord Anglesey will be there, and perhaps he has heard more than we have.”

  “I do not know how he should. I cannot think that Matthew would write to him more often than Georgiana would write to us.”

  “True, but he has far more contacts in government – perhaps he knows more about what was planned for the embassy, or – I don’t know – something else, some other intelligence.” In truth, Elizabeth thought there were rather poor odds that Lord Anglesey would be able to do anything more than assuage their concerns with his greater familiarity over how naval mail worked, but even this could be helpful. And town in itself would serve as a much greater distraction, as well as putting them a few days closer to receipt of Georgiana’s letters, which she had always sent to their house in town, where they could be most easily redirected to wherever the Darcys happened to be at the time.

  “I suppose it would be worth a try, and I know you have not been there in some time.”

  “Ordinarily I should hardly care for that, but I do think it would be good to speak to him, and I would like to see Marguerite and the baby.”

  “What of James and George? Would you bring them with us, or leave them here at Pemberley?”

  “They must come with us, I think – they managed Wincham much better than I managed being parted from them when I was at Clareborne.”

  “Shall I write to have them prepare the house, then?” he asked, and Elizabeth thought she had been right, that if nothing else, the distraction of moving his family to London for some time would do him well.

  “Yes, please do. The Kellys are due to arrive tomorrow, so perhaps we might leave in a week or so?”

  He nodded, but then frowned and poured himself another brandy, and Elizabeth wondered if he feared what Lord Anglesey might say.

  She retired for bed that night hardly cheered by a last visit to the nursery, but found Sarah’s very nearly ebullient presence had better effect. Two waggonettes had been sent out to collect the Kellys from Holyhead, and Sarah had apparently spent much of her day calculating when they might arrive.

  At least, Elizabeth thought, one family would be reunited. Then she recalled Moll Kelly, but rather than mentioning Sarah’s sister, she instead asked how long it had been since Sarah had seen the rest of her family.

  “Well, ma’am, I was thirteen, when I came over, and I’m two and twenty now.”

  Elizabeth was not sure which made her more incredulous: that Sarah had not seen her family in nine years, or that she had come over at such an age. It was the latter
she spoke on, however.

  “I cannot imagine leaving your home and everything you know to come to another country at such an age, and more still, to do it alone.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t alone. I had an older cousin, who’d been working as a maid at Alverstone Hall. She came over with me, and we both found places at a house in London.”

  “I did not realise you had a cousin in London. I am sorry to have kept you from seeing her while I have stayed at Pemberley for so long.”

  “She’s not there now – she passed, when I was sixteen.”

  “Oh – I am very sorry to hear that,” Elizabeth said. It could not but have been a painful topic for Sarah, and although Elizabeth was curious as to what could have caused a young servant to die, it was not something she wished to pry from her maid. Seeking to return Sarah to better spirits, she added, “I am sure you must be looking forward to having your family so close.”

  “Yes, ma’am. It shall be mighty strange to be able to see them so often, with them living so near,” said Sarah, brightening again. “Sometimes it seems as though this all is a dream – a happy dream, of course.”

  “I can see how it must seem so,” said Elizabeth. “We should have sent you out to meet them at Holyhead. I wish I had thought of it then.”

  “Oh, ma’am, I would not wish to neglect my duties here, and a few more days does not make any great difference. John said he would take good care of them.”

  “Was it John, that went out?”

  “Yes, and Murray.”

  Murray’s name was a reminder of what Elizabeth had been endeavouring to avoid reminders of: the Stantons’ head coachman had now been working at Pemberley for longer than he had served his actual master and mistress. Still, Elizabeth smiled, and asked Sarah if she would like to travel over to the farm cottage before the expected hour of her family’s arrival, and this was very enthusiastically agreed to.

  Thus it was that Elizabeth and Sarah were waiting together in the parlour of the tiny cottage. The bailiff had kept it in good repair, but it was even more austere than Smith’s house had been, and Elizabeth wondered how such a large family should be able to fit, although Sarah seemed certain they would be very comfortable there. Elizabeth eyed in the corner the pianoforte that had once been in Smith’s parlour, and thought it must have been amongst those possessions he had sold. It would not have been needed at Rosings, which already housed several instruments, including the one at which Elizabeth had played very ill and delighted in vexing her now-husband. Smiling, she realised that man must have purchased this instrument for the cottage; amongst several others, Sarah had learned to play to aid in placating Bess Bingley, but she was the only one who kept diligently to her practise, and now she would be able to display this accomplishment when she visited her family. “Very well done, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth thought, then encouraged Sarah – who otherwise seemed as though she was going to pace the parlour in agitation – to go about some practise now.

  Elizabeth took up the book she was glad she had thought to bring, and Sarah played for an hour complete, then seated herself by the window, watching the drive in calmer spirits than she had shown before, but still with a look of eager anticipation on her countenance. Some two hours after they had expected them, this anticipation was rewarded with the appearance of two waggonettes in the drive, the first laden with some indeterminate number of Kellys, and the second the entirety of their possessions.

  Sarah, with merely an exclamation of, “oh!” was immediately rushing out to meet her family in the drive, waiting in the drizzle as the first waggonette came to a halt. Three young men in their late teens or early twenties climbed down first, followed by an older man and woman – presumably Sarah’s parents – and then several younger children. Elizabeth’s first impression of them was that they were very poor.

  Startled at this, she studied their thin, wiry bodies, their faded, much-repaired clothing, and compared it to the tenants of Pemberley’s other small farms, a comparison that left the Kellys much wanting. She wondered if they would be overstretching themselves even with two hundred acres. But then she was heartened to think that these two hundred acres were their chance at a better life, and if this chance was seized, the lot of the Kellys would improve.

  Wishing to greet them and then leave them to Sarah – they must have a great deal to become reacquainted over – she walked out to the drive. There, she found Sarah being embraced by them all in turn, before the likely Mrs. Kelly laid her hands on the maid’s shoulders and gave her a look of examination. It was an examination in which Sarah could only show to advantage – she was sparing in the perquisites she kept, but on this day had worn a printed muslin that had never been a favourite of Elizabeth’s, but became her very well. Mrs. Kelly seemed to agree, for she said, “Look at ye, child, by God, look at ye, dressed up like the quality. My li’l Sarah, all grown an’ maid to a great lady! I alwus knew ye’d do well, my girl, alwus knew you was the best of me chill’ren, an’ now what ye’ve done for us – ”

  Mrs. Kelly halted, seeing Elizabeth in the drive, and gave her a very deep curtsey, which was echoed by the entire family. Elizabeth had been amused at being thought a great lady, but now found this entirely too much, and she greeted them warmly, asking Sarah to introduce her family. Sarah did so, Bernard the only name Elizabeth recalled – he had been intended for service, in England, but Moll had taken the money for his passage and come over herself. The vast number of tenants and servants Elizabeth had to remember, however, had increased her capacity for learning names, and she felt she would have no difficulty in recalling those of the Kellys.

  It was Mr. Kelly who thanked her, saying, “Ma’am, we’re right grateful for this chance an’ I promise ye, we shan’t let ye down. We ne’er had such pa – pa – ”

  “Patronage,” supplied Sarah.

  “Right, pat-ron-age, as you and Mr. Darcy have shown us, an’ we’re that grateful.”

  “We are very glad to see you here, and you must let us know if there is anything you need as you establish yourselves here in England. The cottage is rather small, I fear, but it is in good repair, and you must let us know if there is anything that can be done to make it more comfortable.”

  “Small?” asked Mr. Kelly, gazing at the cottage. “Looks plenty large to me. A’course our Sarah might think it small, livin’ in the great house as she does, but ‘tis twice as big as what we known all our lives.”

  “I am glad to hear you like it, then,” said Elizabeth. “I presume Mr. Darcy and Mr. Richardson will be over within the course of the next day or two, to meet you and discuss the state of your fields.”

  “Thank ye, ma’am, we’ll be right glad to meet them,” said Mr. Kelly.

  Elizabeth nodded, and turned toward the carriage, where Powell awaited her.

  “I’ll be back for your dinner dress, ma’am,” Sarah called after her.

  “Oh, no, stay with your family for the evening,” said Elizabeth. “I already feel badly enough that I should be taking you from them so soon, when we go to London.”

  “Tis my duty, ma’am,” said Sarah.

  “Yes, ‘tis her duty,” said Bernard, and the entire Kelly family seemed in agreement.

  Chapter 33

  Georgiana, being young and of a generally healthy constitution, might have expected a rapid recovery from childbirth. Her particular ordeal, however, had taxed her severely, and when the Caroline arrived at the Cape more than a fortnight after little Caroline had entered the world, Georgiana was still spending most of each day resting in her cot. Although she had no nurse, she had many attendants towards whom she felt gratitude, for watching the baby during their defined shifts, and waking her mother whenever Caroline needed to nurse.

  Rebecca McClare proved very able in her duties, while Mrs. Travis’s voluntary assistance was generally useful, save her complete inability to change the baby when it was required. In this Matthew, strangely, proved the most adept, and when finally called upon to explain this aptitude, he had
shrugged and said it was easier than splicing rigging. This, perhaps, explained the difficulties everyone else experienced in attempting to remove the baby’s clouts, once Matthew had put them on.

  So it was that Georgiana awoke, the morning after the frigate’s arrival at Cape Town, to turn her head and see her husband reapplying their daughter’s calico in his peculiarly efficient fashion. She noticed by the sun that it was late in the morning, and therefore Caroline would likely wish to nurse not long after he was done.

  “How is she?” Georgiana asked, hoarsely.

  “She is very well, and I expect she shall be wanting her mama, soon,” Matthew said, turning towards her with a gentle smile. “How are you?”

  “I am still so tired – and sore,” Georgiana said, in frustration. “Elizabeth had twins, and she went down to the drawing-room the next evening, and I can still hardly walk.”

  “She had to bear two, I own, but neither of them was nearly of a size to compare with our Caroline, and she had a nurse who could assist in the feedings, so I think you should not compare yourself against her,” he said.

  “I understand what you are saying, but every time I wake, I hope that I shall feel better, and I hardly do.”

  “So long as you do not feel worse, I am glad. I told you it would take time, Georgiana. Do you recall how long it took me to heal, after the Polonais?”

  “Yes, but you were wounded, from bullets and swords.”

  “I had been through a battle, and so have you,” he said, simply.

  “What I went through was not a battle.”

  “Was it not? It seemed every bit as painful as mine,” he said, but made no further attempt to argue his case, instead laying the baby down in her cradle and helping his wife to rise and step down from her cot.

  She walked, sore and slow, over to a chair, and waited for him to bring her the baby so Caroline could nurse. This was the first part of what had become a somewhat settled morning routine in the little sleeping cabin: Caroline would suckle her fill, Matthew would call for his wife’s breakfast and Moll’s assistance, a great quantity of skillygalee and tea would be brought in and consumed, Georgiana would ease herself into a hip bath filled with warmed seawater for a time, and would then be changed into a new nightgown. Before having a child, Georgiana had disliked the notion of confinement, thinking it aligned with the word’s more general meaning – surely this was why Elizabeth had come down to the drawing-room so soon after giving birth. Now, however, she understood her confinement was entirely voluntary; she was not so much confined as too exhausted and too sore to leave the sleeping cabin.