Miss Darcy's Companion: A Pride and Prejudice Variation (24 page)

“His mane would serve you better,” Darcy advised, and her wary eyes shot to the jet-black mass before turning to him, a picture of incredulous disapproval.

“Your horse would rightly object to having his hair pulled, and I am in too precarious a position to provoke him.”

“You need not be concerned in that regard. The mane is a great deal thicker and coarser than it looks, and he would not feel the pull as you or I would. I can vouch for that. Many a time I have seen horses submitting without protest to having strands upon strands pulled out when they were groomed. So you should have no fear about getting a firm hold.”

She followed his advice. With obvious reluctance and much hesitation but followed it regardless, Darcy noted, and he was glad to see her very rigid pose loosening by a fraction.

“Let me fit the stirrup for you,” he offered.

The small booted foot was soon found under the wet and muddy hem of her cloak, dress and petticoat. The intimacy of the quest sent his pulse racing, but he schooled himself into at least some semblance of decorum as he guided it without haste into the re-adjusted stirrup. Then he looked up and forced a smile.

“How are you faring up there?”

“Not as well as on the ground, I have to say. Besides, I cannot see how this is helping matters. Mr Wilkins is well ahead already.”

“We shall overtake him in no time.”

“Aye. I was afraid you would say that.”

The encouraging glance he cast her way as he took hold of the bridle had little effect, and even the faint glimmer of confidence it had inspired was instantly undone by his horse shaking his large head with a snort, as his bunched muscles rippled over his shoulder blades. Darcy tightened his grip on the leather straps and patted his strong neck before the noble beast, disconcerted by the unknown rider, could begin to think of bridling or stomping.

“There now, Ares, do not fuss. All is well.”

“Ares?” Elizabeth picked up on the dark, warlike undertones. “I hope this is a reflection on his coat and not his temper.”

“He will be as gentle as a lamb, I assure you.”

“Not a name I would have chosen for a lamb, the colour notwithstanding,” she breathlessly chuckled, clearly seeking to make light of her own discomfort.

But that changed as soon as Darcy urged Ares to walk. A tall horse was enough of a challenge even when standing still. A mass of moving muscle swaying her to and fro was a different matter, particularly when ill-equipped for riding side-saddle. The shape was all wrong – the width, the depth, the tilt. Were it not for the precarious foothold in the stirrup, she felt she would have slid off already. She did not dare shuffle up and risk falling backwards, but sitting thus perched was no way to travel any distance. Least of all five miles. Walking was by far the better option, and Elizabeth lost no time in telling him so.

“This would not do, Sir. I would much rather walk.”

And with that she took her foot out of the stirrup and, releasing the mane, she dismounted before Darcy could even begin to argue the point or at least turn around to catch her.

“Very well,” he sighed and patted Ares’s neck again, before exchanging the bridle for the stirrup, which he proceeded to restore to its full length. “There is another way.”

But Elizabeth shook her head with a mutinous crease between her brows that might have made him smile in other circumstances.

“No inducement would see me back up there,” she stubbornly retorted but, equally unyielding, he tentatively clarified.

“We could ride together. If you do not object.”

Her reply came without a moment’s hesitation, and it was brief and to the point.

“I do object, Sir.”

“And why is that?” Darcy asked, his eyes still on his employment.

“For a variety of reasons, which must be as plain to you as they are to me.”

This time he did stop to look at her.

“Are any of those reasons worth risking a chest cold, or worse?”

“They are nonetheless valid. And I come from sturdy stock.”

“That is as may be. But I am not willing to expose you,” Darcy declared flatly and returned to his task, timely suppressing an oath when the wet and muddy strap would not oblige and kept slipping from his fingers.

Still, the stirrup was eventually re-adjusted and Darcy spun to face her with a set to his jaw that warned he would brook no opposition. Before she could step back or protest, he had already lifted her off the ground and placed her in front of the saddle, then effortlessly swung himself behind her – to be met at close quarters with a fiery glare. She instantly nudged sideways in a prompt endeavour to dismount and would have wholly lost her balance, had he not steadied her with a firm grip around the waist, at which point the glare turned positively incandescent.

“I would thank you to unhand me, Mr Darcy,” she hissed through barely moving lips.

“And I would beg you to see reason,” he pleaded, his senses swimming with the sharp thrill of the near-embrace and his voice raw with the urgent need to capture those taut lips until they grew soft and acquiescent under his. His breath caught, but he found just enough of a lungful to argue the case further, “You must see that we would get back a great deal sooner.”

Seemingly she did see the wisdom of it, at least in sufficient measure to stop trying to extricate herself. She stilled with a deep sigh of resignation which, among other things, made Darcy feel duty-bound to ask:

“Would I be allowed to hold you?”

She made a strange little sound at that, half-chuckle and half-snort.

“A trifle tardy, your question, is it not?” And then she sighed again. “I suppose if you are to persist in this insane notion, it rather becomes a matter of necessity.”

“Thank you,” Darcy replied quietly. “Let us be on our way. But first…” He trailed off as he released her to reach back for the edge of his own cloak, only to freeze mid-motion when, finding herself unsupported without warning, her hands shot out instinctively, one to grasp at the mane and the other at his hip, sending another sharp thrill through him. Her eyes shot up to his as well, then she looked away as he began to haltingly supply an explanation.

“I thought another layer might be useful,” Darcy offered as he tugged at his cloak and tentatively draped it round her shoulders. “If you hold onto it, it might remain in place.”

She nodded, still without looking up, and she released the mane to do his bidding, while her other hand was disappointingly withdrawn and dropped into her lap. But he had already been granted permission to put his arm around her. Indeed, a matter of necessity, she had archly called it, then wordlessly confirmed it. So, with a wisp of a smile at the recollection, Darcy let his arm slide over her shoulders under the intimate shelter of his cloak covering them both, until it reached the right place – so achingly right – and wrapped around her waist, bringing her closer.

He felt her tense and heard her sharp intake of breath, which he took as an indication that he really should slacken his hold. Yet the decorous notion instantly crossed into the realm of impossibility when she glanced up at him again and the same breath was released, to wash over his face and send his senses reeling with its intoxicating sweetness.

He cleared his voice to fill the charged air with words, before he lost the last remaining vestiges of self-restraint.

“Are you at all comfortable?”

“I–… Yes… I am well,” came her choked half-whisper and she turned away, screened from him by the blasted hood.

Darcy knew full well that for the sake of his own enduring sanity he ought to be glad of it for now, yet he still sighed as he reached to gather the reins into his right hand. He urged Ares on with his heels, knees and a click of his tongue – only to find that, although she would not say a word, she gasped and tensed, awfully rigid with fresh panic.

It was not an option to bring her closer still, until she leaned against his chest, her head resting on his shoulder. Nor to soothingly stroke her and tell her he would never let her come to any harm. So instead he forbore to lead Ares into a canter and earnestly whispered:

“You are perfectly safe. Trust me. I will not let you fall.”

She did not glance at him this time.

She merely whispered back, “I know.”

* * * *

They soon overtook Wilkins, his Nellie and Mr Bradden’s gig. Darcy halted their progress only for long enough to offer an apology for leaving him behind, thank him for his efforts and undertake to send someone from the stables on the following day to see to Nellie’s injury.

Old Wilkins was quick to respond just as he ought, but wisely laggard to raise a brow at the young people’s chosen mode of transport, at least until Mr Darcy was well out of sight.

The prudent choice was not altogether necessary. Mr Darcy was past caring about Wilkins’s raised brow or anybody else’s, for that matter. Because Elizabeth was coming home with him. And, God willing, by the morrow he might find the right words to persuade her to stay and let him win her hand and her heart.

But that was for the morning.

For now, Ares was bringing them home apace. Rising and falling as one, with the even gait. Her anxious tension gone, or at least greatly softened. The warm weight of her legs draped over his knee. Her cherished form gathered to his chest.

The rain still fell in heavy folds slanting from behind them, over his back rather than hers, to drench his hair and send rivulets insidiously trickling behind his collar and dampening his shirt as well. Yet not even that had the power to chill him as he rode in the gathering dusk through sleepy Kympton back to Pemberley, his heart full to the brim with an overwhelming sense of peace. Of homecoming.

Were it not for the need to bring her back to warmth and safety, he might have wished this ride would last for some considerable time.

CHAPTER 21

Ever since she had received word from her brother about the findings in Kympton, Georgiana had not budged from the window overlooking the approach to the house. She waited, agonised and prayed as the minutes dragged, seeming like hours, and the half-hours as long as an age. Just as she had begun to fret over the settling dusk, coming early at that time of year and on such a horribly wet day, she was rewarded with the most welcome sight of her brother’s mount making fast tracks along the road, unmindful of what seemed to be a double burden.

She lingered at the window, keen to assure herself that the failing light had not misled her, and clasped her hands together in silent gratitude when it became quite clear it had not. As soon as the large stallion halted at the entrance her brother promptly dismounted, allowing Georgiana to perceive beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was not alone. A cloaked figure was perched before the saddle, and he reached to help her down – only to sweep her up into his arms again to carry her towards the house.

Georgiana’s concern was instantly rekindled. She gasped. Heavens, was Lizzy injured? Was she ill? She must be. Either one or the other or terribly weak – otherwise why would he be carrying her?

She peered out for a few moments longer and breathed a long sigh of relief. No, Lizzy did not seem to be in pain. If anything, she looked very much like her determined self as she spoke up to Fitzwilliam. Demanding something. Georgiana could not make out a single word but, judging by what followed, Lizzy must have requested that she be set down, for he did so with obvious reluctance. And, despite the fact that she could walk unaided, still kept a hand under her arm to support her up the stairs, to the entrance.

Without delay, Georgiana left her outpost and eagerly hastened down.

* * * *

The flurry had by now given way to calm, at least by comparison. Georgiana had greeted Elizabeth in the entrance hall with a warm embrace but, kindly and wisely, had not beset her with a dozen questions. Instead, she had earnestly entreated her friend to go up and change out of the dreadfully wet apparel, and Elizabeth had been all too glad to comply.

Even in the privacy of the small bedchamber Georgiana had not pressed her friend to talk about the hardships of the day, but warmly insisted she change for the night and nestle into bed. To ward off the cold. A proper night’s sleep would do a world of good. Unless she was hungry? Would she like a tray brought up from the kitchens? Or tea at least, to warm her up? No, she was not hungry. A tray need not be sent for. But tea would be most welcome.

By the time a maid came up with the steaming-hot brew, Elizabeth had changed into warm nightclothes and Georgiana had tenderly assisted with brushing her hair, drying it before the fire and plaiting it for the night. In a strange reversal of their ages and rapport, Georgiana then settled her friend under the bedcovers and watched over her with a maternal smile as tea was poured for both and duly drunk.

Despite Elizabeth’s insistence that she was well, Georgiana stayed for longer, to pull the quilts up, rearrange the pillows, stroke her friend’s hair and lean to kiss her feverish cheek, then found a slim volume of poems in the small bookcase and nestled in the chair by the fire to read aloud in a gentle cadence and low, tranquil tones.

Whether her efforts to soothe her friend’s spirits had borne fruit or not, she could not tell, but by the time Georgiana left the quiet chamber Elizabeth was fast asleep – or uncannily adept at feigning it.

A mildly surprising sight greeted her in the darkened corridor. Her brother was waiting for her, leaning against the panelling, arms crossed over his chest. She closed the door with caution, then approached him, sheltering the flame of her candle with one hand, only to note when she was near enough that he was still wearing the same clothes.

“Goodness, Brother,” she tenderly admonished. “You should have had a warm bath and changed into something dry. Have you been here the entire time?”

“Yes. Never mind that. How is she?”

“Asleep, I think.”

“But not ill or anything of the sort?”

Georgiana’s brow furrowed.

“She did seem a little feverish…”

He muttered an oath – and neglected to apologise – as he ran his fingers through his hair and promptly turned away, casting over his shoulder:

“Let me send for the doctor. I will return directly.”

“No, wait. I would not disturb her sleep. We can send for him in the morning, if need be.”

He stopped to rub his temples, then conceded her the point, at least in part.

“Aye. Or later tonight. Ask her maid to sit with her and send word at once if she is getting any worse.”

“I will sit with her myself. I would have stayed for longer now, but I thought you might be ready to go down for dinner.”

“God, no,” her brother impatiently retorted. “I am in no humour for it. A tray in my room would suffice. That is,” he remembered to civilly amend, “if you would not object. I ought to keep you company.”

“Not at all,” she warmly assured him. “I am not hungry either. I will send word to the kitchens. Pray go and rest. We would not want to tax poor Dr Althorpe with two patients,” she finished with a smile, only to see him nervously run his fingers through his hair again.

“Nor with one, either. Do go and sit with her, Georgiana, and leave someone in your place when you retire for the night. Tell them I must be informed if she is worse, regardless of the hour.”

With that, he excused himself and would have left to stride to his own quarters at the other end of the family wing, had she not softly called his name. He spun around.

“Yes, dearest?”

“You have not told me… How did it go?”

“Pardon?”

“Did you speak to her? Will she stay?”

A long sigh was her first answer.

“I have not,” he said at last. “There was no time to stop and talk. She was cold. It was raining. I will speak to her on the morrow and persuade her, God willing. She must stay!”

He suddenly ran his hands over his face and glanced at her, making her brows shoot up in mildly anxious wonder. Her dearest older brother – sometimes solemn, occasionally stern, yet at all times her tower of strength, perfectly confident and in absolute control – was now bearing a very strong resemblance to a conscious, tousle-haired youngster. And then, to her further disbelief, he called her by the name he had not used in upwards of eleven years. But that was nothing to what he had to say.
That
left her positively speechless.

“You might as well know, Georgy. I will ask her to marry me as soon as I stand a chance. I love her. I could not bear to see her go.”

The words fell between them in the silent corridor, and Georgiana still stood staring, until joy propelled her out of her stunned state and she rushed to drop her candlestick on the nearest flat surface and put her arms around her brother in a tight embrace. With a strained chuckle he returned it, just as tightly, and his words rumbled in her ear.

“I take it that you would like to have her as your sister.”

Georgiana drew back to beam into his face.

“More than I could say. Oh, do! Do ask her, Fitzwilliam! I so feared you would choose some daunting lady of the
ton
. If she were not asleep, I would scheme and entice her into my sitting room, so that you could ask her right away.”

Her boundless delight and energy brought a faint smile to his lips, but it did not have the strength to reach his eyes. His lips tightened in something which, to her tender glance, looked very much like pain.

“Too soon, sweetling, much as I would wish to. It would shock her dreadfully just now.” His voice trailed and he took a deep breath. “Goodness knows what I could possibly say to atone for today and persuade her to forgive me. But I must find a way to start afresh – win back her trust – win her heart. Somehow.”

Ensconced in her brother’s embrace, Georgiana smiled a pensive little smile as a great many things were suddenly made clearer. With that new insight, she found it a vast deal easier to justify, and thus forgive, his ghastly error. She dearly hoped that Elizabeth would, too. Burning jealousy was still a poor excuse, but a more comprehensible explanation than plain misjudgement and unwarranted mistrust. Especially as it had a way of blinding the very best of men when sparked by someone they reviled.

She stood on tiptoe to drop a kiss on her brother’s cheek.

“It seems you have a monumental task ahead of you to choose the very best of words, and I should leave you to it. I hope you have sufficient pens and paper. If not, I can send for more. A shame Richard is not here to advise you. He might have been able to coin a phrase or two and between the pair of you a tolerable declaration would have been put together. As it is you only have me to tell you what I would wish to hear in like circumstances, but I assume you would much rather not take dictation from your little sister, so… get to it.”

He gave a choked bark of laughter.

“The impudence! Where have you learnt your sauciness?”

She grinned and shrugged.

“Lizzy, of course. And with any luck you might get accustomed to it yet.”

She tenderly kissed his cheek again and finally released him to make his way towards his bedchamber and find those words that might help him win his heart’s desire, and thus fill her own heart with unmitigated joy.

* * * *

Georgiana paused before the door to Elizabeth’s bedchamber in a haze of thrilled anticipation. How wonderful life at Pemberley would be if her brother’s suit were to be successful! And it would be. It must. It simply must. She would help in any way she could. Tell Lizzy what a wonderful man he was – the sort who would move heaven and earth for those he loved. Tell her that he–

The whirl of plans and hopeful notions were disrupted when she spotted a young maid coming up the stairs. The girl bobbed a curtsy, then walked up to join her.

“Yes, Martha?”

“I were juss comin’ up wi’ this, Ma’am. A lad brought it from the stables, said they found it strapped to the Master’s saddle. I doubt ‘tis the Master’s. Thought it were Miss Bennet’s. But perchance ye’d know.”

Georgiana cast a glance at the wet and muddy canvas bag the girl was carrying.

“Aye, it must be Miss Bennet’s. But do not take it in just now, you might disturb her sleep. Bring it into my bedchamber. Whatever is in it must be dried. You can put the things up in my dressing room.”

They went into Georgiana’s bedchamber together, but the girl was reluctant to place the bag on any of the chairs.

“‘Tis bound to leave a stain, Miss Darcy. Let me bring a cloth or summat.”

“No need. You can leave it in the window seat, ‘tis easier to clean,” Georgiana suggested and the girl was prompt in doing as bid.

She opened the bag and gasped in dismay.

“What is it, Martha?” Georgiana turned back from the door.

“This beautiful dress, Miss. Looks to me ‘tis ruined.”

Georgiana came closer to glance at the garment the young maid had lifted from its confines and let it drop down to its full length. Sadly, the girl was in the right. The dress – the one she had ordered for Elizabeth at Christmas – was in a sorry state. The bag’s dye had seeped into it, leaving a host of indigo stains. They might come out with some skill and effort, but it was unlikely. She sighed. A shame, but there was little to be done about it.

“Pray go and hang it by the fire in my dressing room. We shall have to ask Mrs Reynolds if she knows of any admixture that might bring out the stains.”

With a nod, the girl took the dress into the adjoining room, leaving Georgiana to tentatively assess the rest of the contents for the expected damage.

She shook her head at the sight of Lizzy’s sketchbook. The cover was marked in indigo stains as well, and as for the charcoal sketches… The first was damp and stained, and it clung stubbornly onto the cover, so that it tore when Georgiana sought to prize it off. A great pity. How pretty it was too, a skilfully drawn view of Pemberley. And then another, from across the lake. Not so badly damaged, just some dark stains seeping in from the top corner. Martha should place the sketches carefully by the fire too, and perhaps they could be saved. Ah, this was lovely! A charcoal portrait of herself, that she could not remember sitting for. Maybe she had forgotten. Or maybe Lizzy had drawn it from memory. She set it aside, to find another sketch of Pemberley, and underneath it one that stopped her hand poised in the air. Her brother’s portrait. Faithfully done. A remarkable likeness.

And underneath another. And another. And another.

She lost count – not that she was really counting. There must have been over a dozen. All of Fitzwilliam, each and every one. In a chair, reading. In profile, standing by the window. The next one up close, looking straight at her out of the paper, a smile playing on his lips. And then several others, still up close, at slightly different angles. Fitzwilliam. Fitzwilliam. Fitzwilliam.

Georgiana stared. Then, with trembling hands, she began to gather all the detached pages and safely return them between the covers of the sketchbook, lest Martha return and catch sight of them. Then she clasped the sketchbook to her chest and allowed herself a smile, before hastening out of her room and along the corridor, all the way down to her brother’s chambers. And, for the first time in her life, she rushed in without pausing to knock.