CHAPTER 56 #2
Fitzwilliam looked down at the sealed packet. “Then he must be prepared for more than a single journey. My father may not be at Pemberley.”
“We should ensure he has money enough for delay,” Elizabeth said. “Posting, inns, fresh horses if needed.”
“And clear instructions not to return merely because my father is from home. He must learn where my father has gone, and either wait for him or follow him as the case requires.”
“Then he must also write back to us if he is detained.”
“Yes. And he must surrender the packet to no one else. No steward, no servant, no family friend, no person claiming to act for my father.”
Elizabeth’s mouth tightened. “Especially no person claiming to act for him.”
“That,” Fitzwilliam said, “may be the most necessary part of the instruction.”
Elizabeth rang for Mrs. Albright.
The housekeeper came almost at once. If she had wondered at the number of bells one alarmed evening could require, she gave no sign of it. A house which had belonged to Mrs. Marwood did not waste astonishment where obedience would do.
“Mrs. Albright,” Elizabeth said, “we require Willis to travel north tonight.”
“To Pemberley, madam?”
“Yes. He is to carry a sealed packet for Mr. George Darcy. It must be placed in Mr. Darcy’s own hand, and in no one else’s. If Mr. Darcy is from home, Willis is not to leave the packet behind him. He is to learn where Mr. Darcy may be found, and either wait or follow as necessary.”
Mrs. Albright received this as if such journeys were ordered every Thursday.
“Yes, madam.”
“He must have money enough for posting, inns, fresh horses, and delay. If he cannot find Mr. Darcy, or if he is detained, he is to write immediately to Portman Square.”
Fitzwilliam added, “He should carry my written instructions separately. If there is difficulty at Pemberley, he may show enough to explain that he waits upon my father personally, but no more.”
“Very good, sir.”
“He must leave tonight,” Elizabeth said.
“I shall see it done, madam.”
When Mrs. Albright had gone, Fitzwilliam drew two more sheets toward him.
“Richard,” he said. “And my uncle Edward. If any report reaches them that Georgiana has disappeared from Darcy House, I will not have them alarmed into asking the wrong people.”
“Nor should Mrs. Younge’s version be the first one they hear,” Elizabeth said.
His pen paused. “If she has not already begun one.”
“Then we had better be quicker.”
Those letters were brief. Colonel Fitzwilliam was told that Georgiana was safe at Portman Square with her brother and Mrs. Darcy, and that any report of her absence from Darcy House was not to alarm him into public inquiry.
Uncle Edward received a plainer account, with enough of Mr. Wickham’s pressure and Mrs. Younge’s part in it to make the danger clear, and enough warning to prepare him should any legal or family claim be made before Mr. George Darcy could be reached.
Neither letter was read aloud. They were not appeals; they were precautions.
By the time the last was sealed, the house had entered that late-evening state in which servants moved softly but more quickly, fires were made up, doors were checked, and ordinary hours submitted to necessity.
Somewhere below, Willis was being roused from whatever expectation of sleep he had held and converted, by Mrs. Albright, into a messenger of consequence.
Elizabeth went to the window. The rain had lessened, but had not stopped. Portman Square shone black beneath the lamps.
“She cannot be left alone in worry,” she said.
Fitzwilliam looked up from the packet. “Georgiana?”
“Not for a day, and certainly not for several. If your father is not at Pemberley, or if he delays, she will have nothing to do but imagine every possible consequence of having come here.”
“She is safe here.”
“Yes. But safety is not always company.”
He came to stand beside her.
Elizabeth watched the faint movement of rain across the glass.
“Nor can she safely go out while Mrs. Younge and Mr. Wickham are somewhere in London and very likely eager to discover what has become of her. If she must remain within doors, she must not be made to feel she has exchanged one confinement for another.”
“No,” he said quietly.
“She needs company. Young company.”
Fitzwilliam was silent for a moment. “Mary?”
“Mary is engaged with her music and her own improvement, and I will not distract her. Besides, Mary would mean well and terrify Georgiana before breakfast with a schedule of useful occupations.”
His mouth moved despite himself.
“Lydia,” Elizabeth continued, “is very busy being improved by my aunt Gardiner, and I would not interrupt so delicate an operation. Also, Lydia is not untroublesome company.”
“A moderate description,” said Mrs. Doddridge from the doorway.
Elizabeth turned. “Were you listening?”
“No, madam. I had only just returned.”
There was no offence in her manner, and no curiosity; only the steady composure of a woman who knew when she was wanted.
“Then you may as well come in. We are deciding whether Kitty may be of service.”
Mrs. Doddridge entered and took the chair Elizabeth indicated. “Miss Kitty has a gentle temper when she is not led by stronger spirits.”
“She does,” said Elizabeth. “She can draw, chatter, admire ribbons, and sit beside another girl without arranging her conscience. At present, those are excellent qualifications.”
Fitzwilliam looked toward the ceiling, as if he could see Georgiana through the floorboards. “You think she will help?”