Matchmaking at Pemberley

by Carrie Mollenkopf

  “There are definitely two heartbeats in there. Strong and steady. Just keep up your present routine and the time will go by quickly. I expect the end of February or so for their arrival.”

  Eight weeks seemed so short a time, yet so long. Keeping rested was not as easy as it seemed, especially with the tension that remained throughout the household. Ever since Agnes and Gideon’s wedding, she had hardly seen Georgiana aside from mealtimes. Occasionally, Elizabeth spied her sitting alone in the gardens, but rarely did the young woman seek any company. Even Christmas had been solemn despite the glee expressed by young Fitz and Aurelia Darcy as they opened their gifts. The children hardly noticed that their aunt Georgiana insisted upon wearing drab clothing and refused presents of any sort.

  “I should prefer you make a charitable donation instead,” she had insisted.

  And now, the day had arrived for Miss Darcy to leave Pemberley with no set date of return. Feeling like she was sending a soldier off to war, Elizabeth brushed away a stray tear. It would not benefit anyone to have a show of emotion. She must support Georgiana’s decision no matter her feelings. Once, during Agnes’ wedding, Elizabeth caught Georgiana staring at Robbie Brackleburn. A slight wistfulness betrayed her, before attention was redirected to the bride and groom. If Georgiana still had feelings for him, then why was she running away?

  Finishing her toilet, Elizabeth went below to where Darcy was overseeing the loading of the one case of personal items his sister had been permitted to bring. One of the Pemberley carriages would take her to Lambton, of that much she had agreed, but was adamant about being unaccompanied.

  “Are you sure you won’t change your mind?” Darcy asked one last time.

  “No, I must learn to make my own way,” Georgiana said simply and gave each of them the briefest of embrace before being enclosed in the black coach that carried her away.

  Watching it go, Elizabeth felt that they had somehow failed her, but could not identify how. Only the movement of the children inside her gave happiness to the solemn occasion.

  Georgiana, in contrast, was a sea of anxiety that she had carefully kept hidden from her brother and Elizabeth. If they had known of her constant misgivings and self-doubt, they would have insisted that she remain. Shrouding herself in the garb of the convent, and hours of isolation had been protection against any potential attempt to sway her mind, but it had been difficult. Fortunately, the distance to Lambton was short and soon, she was inside the public coach, moving ever closer to St. Columba’s.

  *****

  As if he could hear the wheels of the carriage that carried her away, Robbie Brackleburn’s thoughts were focused on Georgiana. It had taken many days of contemplation, most spent cursing his own stubbornness before he found the courage to go to Pemberley. Ordering his horse saddled, he dressed in an effort to please, wearing the neckcloth Georgiana had given him years ago for his birthday. Fingering the fine silk, he felt all the more guilty for being the most stupid of men. Why had he ever asked her about her past? What difference did it make? He had done his share of foolish things while at university. It was a wonder that he had not been arrested for some of them. Looking up at the late morning sun through the clouds, it foretold inclement weather, but Pemberley could be reached by tea time if he hurried. It was with this happy thought that he cantered down the road, passing the public coach as it rumbled in the opposite direction. Instead of closing the distance between himself and the woman he loved, the space only grew as Miss Georgina Darcy was carried away.

  Hours later, with the mid-winter sun beginning to dim, Robbie Brackleburn turned his horse down the crushed stone drive of Pemberley. The house, always majestic as its reflection wavered in the lake before it, seemed to be laughing at him as he dismounted, but he ignored the feeling. Taking the stone steps by two, Robbie hand reached for the bell, just as Darcy himself opened the door.

  “If you are here to see my sister, it is too late. She left this morning.”

  “Then I shall go after her.”

  “Don’t be an idiot. It is nearly dark. Wait until morning and go with a fresh horse.”

  “But I must speak with her immediately. I have been a complete jackass.”

  “Agreed, but you will be of no use to her if you are dead. Besides, it may do Georgiana some good to see what she is giving up. She can be stubborn, but I believe the austerity of a convent will eventually wear her down.”

  Darcy had told himself this repeatedly in an effort to physically prevent his sister from leaving. She would never forgive him if he used force. Even if Robbie Brackleburn convinced her to leave, it had to be on her own terms.

  “Tomorrow then, at first light. I will go after her and bring her home.”

  ~THIRTY-FOUR~

  Despite his best intentions, Robbie Brackleburn did not keep his promise to ride after Georgiana. As winter often does, a snowstorm beginning in the late hours of the night and continuing well into the next day delayed his plans. It was not until nearly a week after his arrival at Pemberley that he was finally able to leave. By this time, Georgiana felt like she was settling into a routine. At first, the novelty of her situation was enough to keep her mind distracted, but as the days dragged by in dull monotony of prayers and chores, she realized her mistake. However, Georgiana was just as stubborn as her brother and would not ask for release until a minimum of six months had passed. Plucking at the grey woolen skirt of her habit Georgiana chuckled quietly as she contemplated the reaction of her brother if he could see her dressed as a nun. While she had not expected any special treatment, the realization that her time would be spent like any other novice nun was a bit startling.

  “I assumed you understood that when you requested to come here,” Sister Immaculata said gently after showing Georgiana to her Spartan cell of a chamber. It had contained a single narrow cot with a rough blanket and a small chest for personal items. There was absolutely no room for any sort of frivolities, nor was there a dressing table or mirror. Apart from a strait backed wooden chair, there was not a single additional stick of additional furniture. The tiny window, a beautifully shaped oval, inlaid with intricate stained glass depicting some unknown saint was the sole adornment. If not for its rainbow of light, Georgiana would have though herself in a prison.

  Pulling a plain carded box from under the bed, the old nun produced two gray dresses with matching aprons as well as two linen coifs. “These will be far more suitable than your present garb. It would not do for you to stand out from the others. The rest of the sisters are unaware of your family’s status and shall remain so. You will be referred to as “Sister George”, a novice like any other.”

  Georgiana had looked down at the gown she had chosen to travel. It had been her plainest, and to her thinking, quite severe, but the clothing that awaited her resembled burlap sacking. Imagining that she would be asked to eventually don a hair shirt, the instinct to refuse was intense, but she had come too far to turn back so soon. Swallowing her surprise, she nodded with a small smile.

  “Very good then. I shall leave you to change and get adjusted. Someone will come to fetch you before afternoon prayers and provide a tour. Please don’t wander off alone. The halls here are much like a rabbit’s warren. I should not want you to become lost.”

  That had been ten days ago. Now, the regular tolling of bells made sense as she went through the movements every day. Up at five, prayers, silent breakfast, milking and feeding cows, scrubbing pots and floors, more prayers…. Comforting sameness had allowed her much opportunity to be grateful for her life at Pemberley and appreciative of all the work the army of servants performed daily. Her once smooth hands now bore the cracks and peeling of strong soap, but the soreness in her limbs had begun to subside. Mealtimes, once an opportunity for conversation and companionship, were accompanied by prayer when speaking was permitted. Most of the resident nuns had taken vows years ago, forgoing marriage and family for God. Aside from herself, the only other novice was a very beautiful young woman called Siste
r Beatrice. As if realizing their need for friendship, Sister Immaculata paired the two daily, giving opportunity for speech outside of prayer. Having been at St. Columba’s for some months, it was nearing the time for her to take first vows, and she eagerly discussed it with Georgiana.

  “Eventually, when it is your time, I hope you are as happy as I. When I think of my life before… so empty and without purpose…”

  Beatrice never elaborated on her previous home. It was a subject of which not to be spoken, but Georgiana sensed it was similar to her own. Something about the other woman’s speech and manners suggested gentility. Had she escaped a similar fate? Was a life of deprivation devoted to God the only alternative to marriage? Sighing at the prospect, Georgiana constantly reflected on her life. While she admired the nuns greatly, it was easy to see that it was not an option. Staying, with the possibility of taking vows would be a lie. Why must marriage be the only other choice? Especially when she could not trust her heart? Now, as she sat in silence, listening to the droning of yet another hour-long prayer session, it seemed as if that same heart hurt all the more. It was only when the great bell that orchestrated their movements began ringing repeatedly that Georgiana woke from her reverie. This was no ordinary chime, signaling the end of tedium, it was a call to arms. As the bell’s tolling echoed its final bellow, the flustered form of Sister Mary Maude ran flapping madly into the chapel. As the sentry to St. Columba’s Sister Mary Maude was more of an Army Sargent than nun, despite her traditional garb. Standing more than six feet in height, and weighing over fifteen stone she was intimidating when simply standing still guarding the gated portal. In action, the woman was terrifying.

  “Sisters! My apologies, but there has been a terrible accident. All hands are needed to do Gods work immediately,” she squawked before turning and exiting as quickly as she came.

  As a bastion of calm, Sister Immaculata remained seated and raised her eyes heavenward before crossing her self to end her prayers and provide direction to her charges.

  “You all know your places. Sister Beatrice and Sister George, come with me.”

  With eyes wide, the two young women followed as the Mother Superior led them in the opposite direction of whatever calamity had presented outside the walls of St. Columba. Were they not to assist? Surely more hands would be beneficial? Tempted to ask, Georgiana raised the two first fingers of her right hand to request permission to speak, but was denied.

  “No sister, novices are not to venture outside the convent for any reason. You two will go to the kitchens and assist Sister Ursula. Do not leave until I send word. Is that understood?”

  Nodding their acceptance and not daring to defy, Georgiana did as bid, but being excluded from the first semblance of excitement was frustrating. Poverty and charity were easy, but obedience was proving to be a difficult thing. The assigned chores in the laundry and kitchens had made deception easier. After only a day, she had worn her own undergarments to prevent the blisters that had formed from wearing the rough clothes, repeatedly washing the same items. The food, often the same for successive meals, was starchy and bland and served in the smallest of portions. Physical labor had created an unusually voracious appetite, forcing the smuggling of bread and butter into her cell. Fortunately, the voluminous habit hid just about anything.

  ~THIRTY-FIVE~

  Lord Robert Brackleburn, armed only with the determination of a man in love, set out from Pemberley as soon as the weather permitted. Great heaps of snow piled the sides of the rutted roadways. The mud, several inches deep, made for a slow progress as his horse plodded heavily towards St. Columba’s.

  “At this rate, I shall not arrive before spring time. By then the good sisters may have worked their wiles on Georgiana,” he said aloud as he patted encouragement to his mount. Despite attempts to place some levity on the situation, grey skies threatened more inclement conditions. On the best of terms, with fresh horses, a carriage could make the distance in one day, but this was midwinter and nothing could be left to chance. Perhaps he was a fool on a fool’s errand, but his days cooped up at Pemberley had only furthered his resolve. The Darcys had done little to sway his judgement either way, doing their best to remain impartial, but it was obvious that they did not approve of Georgiana’s decision.

  “I do wish she would have seen reason and remained home. Elizabeth needs her, especially now.” Darcy said with the merest hint of anger.

  Elizabeth Darcy did not contradict this truth, her burgeoning abdomen and dark circles under the eyes betrayed her smiles of hospitality. Servants did not replace family, but now was not the time for her to be selfish. Georgiana needed to find herself before she could be of use to anyone. The poor girl simply did not believe she had a place in the world of her own. Elizbeth had felt the same, even after her marriage. It was not for some time that Pemberley felt like her own home, a place where she need not be on best behavior or fear censure for desiring to make changes to accommodate personal wishes. Robbie had been on the verge of offering that freedom, within the bonds of marriage. Elizabeth refused to believe that Georgiana did not love Robbie, on the contrary, she loved him too much. So much so, that she would not risk his unhappiness, therefore sacrificing her own.

  “Oh, I am quite fine, a bit tired, but soon I shall be back to normal. And I plan to write to my sisters, inviting them to stay during my confinement. You only need to convince Georgiana of your affections.”

  “And so, I shall… as soon as this snow lets up. If I were a superstitious man, I would think the gods were plotting against me.”

  That had been days ago. Now, he was more than half way to his destination. There were no more roadside inns for the rest of the way, having passed the town of Darlington he had changed horses for the rest of the journey. St. Columba’s was only another five miles or so. If his luck held, he would make it there before nightfall. Surely the nuns would offer him shelter? Didn’t most abbeys have accommodations for visitors? As Robbie pondered a warm fire and hot food next to his love, he paid no attention to the sound of a twig snap in the woods behind him. It was not until the riders were upon him that he realized the danger he was in.

  “Ho there! What have we here?” the first rider shouted through his heavily muffled face.

  A thick woolen scarf all but obscured the man’s features, leaving only dark eyes and a red tipped nose exposed to the cold as he maneuvered his horse to block the roadway.

  “I think we found ourselves a rich man in need of our assistance,” the second, equally disguised rider replied from behind. The very recognizable sound of a pistol cocking to fire echoed loudly in his ears.

  Tired, and cursing himself for his carelessness, Robbie wished he had not packed his own pistol away in a saddlebag. Out of reach, he had no weapons save for what he hoped was superior intelligence.

  “What is it that you want? I have nothing of value beyond a few pounds, you are welcome to it,” he offered and slowly withdrew a small leather purse from his pocket.

  “Oh, we shall take it, and much more.”

  “But I have nothing else…and I will be missed. Someone will be looking for me should I not arrive at my destination.”

  “So, you’re a liar too… there ain’t nothing between here and that old convent, unless one of them nuns is your woman,” the first man countered, laughing at his own joke.

  “Enough playing, get down from that horse and give us your boots and coat. They’ll fetch a pretty price,” came the order from behind as his attacker move alongside and pointed the barrel of his pistol at his Robbie’s chest.

  With a considerable distance remaining to the convent, it would be death to walk without proper clothes. The only option was to chance a surprise escape. Still holding the purse filled with coin, Robbie swung his fisted hand upwards, striking the arm of the bandit beside him. The force of the blow knocked the pistol from the man’s grasp. At the same time, he dug his heels furiously into the sides of his mount, sending the horse galloping forward through the drifte
d roadway. The flight to freedom sent his heart pounding as icy wind impaired his vision, but he rode on blindly in an attempt to put as much space between himself and the attackers. Time seemed to crawl, yet fly as the pounding of his horses’ hooves crunched on the frozen road, but despite the beast’s willingness, the horse was not accustomed to such exercise and soon winded, slowing to a walk before suddenly collapsing. The abruptness of fall was softened by the deep snow, but did little to provide comfort as the bandits, now recovered, stood over their prey.

  “Now you’ll get what’s commin’ to ye,” snapped the man whom he had struck. The pistol, primed and ready, brushed Robbie’s nose. He could feel the metal barrel and smell the residue of gunpowder.

  “Don’t shoot him, it will make too much noise, and I ain’t’ no murderer. We already got his money,” His accomplice ordered as he scanned the countryside. A few cottages dotted the landscape, most were too far to see the roadway. Only St. Columba’s stood sentinel in the distance, but the sound of gunshot carried a long way.

  “Just leave him here to freeze. It will look like his horse gave up and stranded him. Everyone knows the gentry can’t take the weather.”

  “Have it your way, but I still want his boots and coat.”

  “Take them an let’s go.”

  “Not before I get my own licks in.”

  Robbie had only a moment to realize he had once again escaped certain death, but the relief was fleeting as a meaty fist cuffed the side of his head, sending him into darkness.

  It was only hours later, with a pounding head and bereft of his outer clothing, that Robert Brackleburn realized that dying out in the elements slowly might be worse than being shot. The sun had set and snow was falling heavily by the tie he woke, It had only been the warm carcass of the dead horse that had saved him from freeing to death. But that small blessing was growing colder by the minute. If he was to survive, he needed to make it to St. Columba’s. Squinting through half-frozen lids, he cold barely make out the lights of the old fortress from its vantage point atop a rise. It appeared quite close, but that was a trick of the mind. There were nearly three miles to walk, barefoot in the snow.