The Road to Pemberley (44 page)

He turns away again. After a moment, he turns back, and without looking at me, removes the black covering from our mother's portraits.

I am stunned. Absolutely stunned—I cannot think for several moments. I understand now. I understand why my father always spoke highly of Fitzwilliam, only to decline to visit him at school. I understand why he wrote such long letters, with every intention of assisting Fitzwilliam in whatever he asked for, but relegated himself to London during the summers. Oh, I understand—for here before me, immortalized on canvas, is my mother, and there is not one feature of hers that she did not give to my brother in birth. Fitzwilliam's beauty is merely a copy of hers. My father could not bear to look at Fitzwilliam—at his own son.

“And it was not only this,” he says, gesturing severely at the portraits, trying desperately to control his voice. “Every mannerism... every tilt of my head or gesture of my hand reminded him of her. Now I ask you, Georgiana, what young boy would not be angry at a father who refused to look upon him, as though he were hideous?”

His voice becomes choked at the last; I silently stroke his arm and wish I knew what to say. Faster than I realize, connections are being made in my head. My father could not stand to look at his
own son, but his steward's was a fine replacement for the affection that he missed, for he could look at a Wickham and not see his wife—a wife whose death he blamed on himself, for she died in childbirth, which was a circumstance he brought upon her.

“Why did he not hate
me
?” I ask. “If she died giving me life, then why did he not despise me?”

He takes a breath and turns, smiling a little at me. “Nobody can hate such a tiny little thing as a baby,” he says softly. “Especially a little baby girl with golden curls, such as you had. He fell in love with you from the moment he laid eyes on you.”

My eyes fill with tears as I look again upon my mother. “How can you bear all of this, Fitzwilliam?” I ask him. “He fell in love with me, as you put it, at the same time he resolved on never looking at you, his son and heir. It is not just.” My voice breaks and I look away for a moment. “It is not reasonable.”

He is quiet for a moment before he answers me. “Many things in life are unfair, my dear,” he replies. “I was angry with Father my whole life for this reason, and I never truly got to know him. Now he is gone and I have not the chance.”

“You may regret the anger, but it is not unfounded. I never understood, until now.”

“There is more that I regret,” he continues softly. “I regret ever having hidden these away. Not for my own sake, for I recall Mother's face with clarity in my mind, but for yours, Georgiana. You might have known your mother all this time, and because of me, you have not.” There is that heaviness in his voice which is a clear indication of the self-reproach he is unfortunately good at.

“You take too much upon yourself,” I say quickly. “Truly, my dear brother. You are not to be blamed for every little thing that goes ever slightly amiss in my life. I know you think you could have protected me from Wickham, but you were misled about Mrs. Younge's character,
and I should have known better than to arrange to run away with him. And these portraits...” I pause, turning to them. “I am just grateful to have them now.”

Fitzwilliam embraces me. “My dear sister,” he whispers into my hair. “Whatever would I do without you?”

“You would be thirty thousand pounds richer with a less heavy heart,” I reply in all seriousness.

My brother pulls away and solemnly takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Georgiana, that is not true. You mean so much to me...I do not know how to tell you how much.”

There is a rather unexpected rap on the wall at the far end of the gallery. We both look up, but my brother is not surprised at it.

“Yes?” he addresses the footman, patiently.

“The carriage is ready, sir, and your horse is ‘round front.”

“Thank you, Davis.” He nods and walks away.

“Carriage?” I demand impatiently. “Where are you going?”

He hesitates before he answers. “I am going to join Bingley at Netherfield. I have some rather important personal business with him.” He pauses again and swallows. “It concerns a young lady he is exceedingly fond of.”

My heart plummets into my stomach and my face turns white. Before I think what is about to come out of my mouth, my lips move. “Oh, for Heaven's sake—not
me
, I hope?”

He smiles and lays his hand against my cheek. “Georgiana, I am sorry. Mr. Bingley is fond of you, but he is in love with the lady of whom I speak. There are some things about her that I said to him, which I ought not to have, and some things I did not say, which I ought to have. I must set things right. It is quite likely that he will be engaged within the month—within a
week
, if I know Bingley.”

I let out a breath. “Oh...I am pleased for Mr. Bingley,” I say, but really more relieved for myself.

He shakes his head and takes my hands in his. “I presumed too much when I matched Bingley with you,” he says. “It was only in my own head, I know, but my desire to see you settled safely within my reach interfered with my good judgment. For that I must apologize, and do what I am able to do for my friend.”

My face shines with a smile; I am so very proud of him. “How long must you be gone?”

“I do not know,” he replies. “I should think not longer than a week, but that should depend upon Bingley. Then I will be on to London.”

“Perhaps Mrs. Annesley and I could come to London in a few days, in case you decide you rather enjoy London too much to come home?” I ask, hoping he will agree. I hate to be away from him now.

He smiles. “Yes, I think that shall do nicely. You can make the arrangements to travel with your companion, and write to let Mrs. Edstrom know to expect the pair of you.”

I smile and kiss his cheek gleefully, until a thought occurs to me. “Fitzwilliam,” I say slowly, “do you expect to see Miss Elizabeth Bennet while you are in Hertfordshire?”

His face turns somber. “Yes, I do,” he replies quietly. “The lady that I spoke of, who Bingley is in love with, is Miss Elizabeth's elder sister, Miss Jane Bennet.”

“Will you send her my best wishes, and invite her to write to me, if she will?”

My brother lays his hand in mine and smiles a little. “If Miss Elizabeth and I get the chance to speak, yes, I will.” He swallows and continues, in that pessimistic way he has, by saying, “Keep in mind, however, that I do not expect that Miss Elizabeth and I will have the opportunity to speak privately, or that she will speak to me at all.” I just shake my head and kiss his cheek. He promised, so he will do it.

After a whirlwind of preparation with Mrs. Annesley and Michelle, we arrive in London on Wednesday and expect my brother on the following morning. He arrives in relatively good spirits and though he has some business to conduct with his solicitor and a handful of calls to return, he and I are able to spend much of the day together.

That afternoon, on a search for a boring letter from Putrid Anne which I have misplaced, I take myself into the front drawing room. I am not paying much attention to anything but surfaces and the placement of the items upon them, so I am startled to find a young man standing next to the fireplace. I jump and cover my mouth, and then begin to apologize profusely.

The young gentleman holds up a hand to reassure me. “I beg your pardon, Madam,” he says. “I am sorry to startle you. I am waiting for Mr. Darcy.”

“I am here,” comes my brother's voice from the entrance to the room, and with a happy look on his face he strides swiftly over to the young man and holds out his hand.

The man takes it, smiling as well. “It is good to see you, Darcy.”

“And you, Henry,” replies my brother, shaking his hand firmly. “You look well.”

“I am well; thank you.”

My brother looks to me with a smile. “Miss Georgiana Darcy, this is Mr. Henry Beresford. Henry, this is my sister, Miss Darcy.”

I used to think that my brother was the most beautiful man that I had ever seen, but oh...how wrong I was. Mr. Henry Beresford has the most clear green eyes I have ever seen, and as they focus on me, he smiles and they turn joyful. I am so stunned that I have quite forgot on what purpose I came into the sitting room. As I go
through the motions of my curtsey, I almost cannot bear to take my eyes off of his.

“I am pleased to meet you, Miss Darcy,” he says. “I have heard much about you over the years.”

My brother goes on to explain that Mr. Beresford is an old friend of his, and while he and my brother have written very faithfully they have not had a chance to meet in several years.

Fitzwilliam then invites Mr. Beresford into the library and we part. He is gone by the time my lessons with Mrs. Annesley are all complete. I am disappointed, but take the opportunity to question my brother about his friend with the bright green eyes as we take our tea.

“Tell me more about Mr. Beresford. Where is he from?” I demand.

Fitzwilliam smirks and sips tea. “He is from Northhamptonshire, where his family has lived for several generations.”

“And have they an estate?” I ask. “Has he any brothers or sisters?”

“They have a vast estate,” he replies, “possibly as large as Pemberley. And he has two brothers.”

“And how long have you been acquainted with him, my dear brother?”

Fitzwilliam chuckles a little. “I met him several years ago in London, where his father introduced us. His father and ours were great friends.”

“They were?”

“Yes. Is it such a shocking thing to know that our father had friends?”

I smile at his remark. “No. It is only that I do not remember any of them.” I fall quiet for a while, wanting to ask more but too embarrassed to do so. Fitzwilliam watches me as I look idly around the room.

“The elder Mr. Beresford is still living. It is very likely that you shall meet him one day...perhaps he will have a tale or two to tell about our father.”

I look at him shyly. “I would like that.” Then I sniffle, for no reason, and look around the room some more. I catch my brother shaking his head.

“What is the matter, Fitzwilliam?” I ask in all sincerity.

“Georgiana...” He pauses and looks thoughtful for a moment. “Please understand, dear girl...your upbringing has been something I would not have let another do for anything, and I am not going to let you go so easily. I will not give
any
man my consent—I would not even have given it to
Bingley
—until you are eighteen.”

I want to laugh at him but dare not. “What has effected such a statement from you, sir?”

He smirks. “Let me say only that in the library, Mr. Beresford was quite as curious about my sister as she now is about him.”

My cheeks turn bright red. “He is not married, then?”

Fitzwilliam sighs. “No, he is not.” He then adds quickly, “But I beg you to be careful, Georgiana...I do not want to see you hurt again.”

My heart fills and I smile at him as my eyes glisten. “With your guidance, Fitzwilliam, I shall be well. I promise.” He smiles at me, and out of the corner of my eye, I finally see the item for which I have been searching. I jump up, kiss Fitzwilliam's cheek, and twirl out of the room, waving Putrid Anne's boring letter.

In the late afternoon on that Saturday, we receive a most unexpected caller—my esteemed aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh.

“Georgiana,” she says, before the poor butler has the chance to announce her, “you will leave your brother and me to speak privately.”

I gaze at her. Her entire face is red and puffy and there is a sharp gleam in her eye which I do not like—she is
furious
. I am too stunned to move and would prefer to stay and hear what she has to accuse my brother of.