Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
With a troubled spirit did Darcy return to Pemberley.
The week that he had been away at Haddon Court was amongst the most miserable of his life.
Callan’s affairs were in disarray, and an unsurprising number of creditors had emerged, like vermin from the gutter, to express their sympathies and to remind the Fitzwilliam family of the debts owed.
Some small condolence could be found in the way in which grief had united Lord Matlock with his remaining son.
Still reeling from the loss of his firstborn, Lord Matlock had taken to deferring to Fitzwilliam whenever a decision was to be made.
To his credit, Fitzwilliam shouldered this responsibility with a seriousness Darcy had never seen before.
Out of respect for his father’s anguish, he requested not to be referred to by his new title at present, stating that to do so would be a reminder of the son that had been lost. This gesture was just one of many noble deeds; there was no task too small that Fitzwilliam would not perform for his father, and by the tears glistening in the older man’s eyes, it was clear these little acts of kindness were gratefully received.
Upon their farewell, Darcy had asked whether his cousin intended to return to Pemberley, and Fitzwilliam had refused, citing his responsibilities to the earl as a reason to stay.
“And shall I tell Miss Bennet that you will call upon Pemberley soon?” Darcy had ventured.
Fitzwilliam’s reply had been as revealing as it was vague. “Please send her my fond wishes and explain that regretfully I do not know when I shall leave Haddon Court.”
Darcy dismounted his horse, unable to think of anything other than the grieving household he had left and how Miss Bennet might take the news that Fitzwilliam had no immediate plans to see her again.
Mr Talbot, Pemberley’s butler, opened the door to him and, when asked as to the location of Miss Darcy and her guests, informed Darcy that the young women were in the music room.
There was an unusual enthusiasm in the old servant’s demeanour. “Pardon my observation, sir, but you may wish to keep your arrival a surprise.”
Deciding to take the usually staid Mr Talbot’s unexpected advice, Darcy quietly made his way to the west wing, following the distant reverberations of a pianoforte.
Echoing waves of music throbbed along the corridors, growing louder as he approached their source.
Every hair on his arms stood on end. It was as though each note was sobbing, creating layers of emotion that reached into his very soul, transporting him heavenwards.
Reaching the music room, he did not dare knock, for it would mean interrupting this transcendent sound.
Silently, he opened the door and stepped inside, his breath hitching in his throat at what he saw.
On a chair on the far side of the room sat Miss Bennet, her face enraptured.
Tears streamed down her cheeks; her concentration was taken up entirely by the delicate figure lost at her instrument.
Georgiana. Darcy stared at his sister, who was swaying gracefully, her fingers running across the keys, her eyes closed.
He did not know the piece and guessed it was of her own invention—a physical embodiment of her spirit.
Darcy thought his heart might break at its magnificence.
He stood transfixed. The music softened to a delicate ebb, fading to nothing before Georgiana opened her eyes and looked up.
She stood quickly, her hands by her sides. “I-I did not hear you arrive.”
Darcy went to her at once. “I could not bear to interrupt. I have never heard anything like it.”
“Did it please you?”
His heart clenched at the anxious pucker of her forehead.
With sincerity, he answered, “I have never known any music so wondrous—and it is even more so when I can see the joy it brings you. I shall not ask how this came about, for I fear it to be a dream, one that I dared not believe might ever happen.”
Pink hues blossomed on his sister’s cheeks, and she glanced briefly in Miss Bennet’s direction. “Elizabeth said that I should create a piece known only to me—then I should not be afraid of it, for there will be no memories attached to it, and whatever I play is entirely my own.”
Not yet master of his own emotions, Darcy regarded Miss Bennet, who was holding her body very still. “There are no adequate words to express the depth of my gratitude,” he said hoarsely. “I simply cannot believe I am hearing my sister play again.”
Miss Bennet gave an embarrassed shrug. “All that you heard is Georgiana’s doing. I am merely an encouraging listener.”
This was so far from the truth that Darcy wanted to protest, but the words stuck in his throat. “Thank you,” he managed.
Miss Bennet rose from her chair and approached him. Softly, she enquired, “Have you just returned?”
“Yes.” Darcy wished he could say more, but the tender compassion in her expression caused his heart to race.
Miss Bennet addressed Georgiana. “I wonder whether we should take a pause from your music practice. I am in the mood for some refreshment. May I take the liberty of asking Mrs Reynolds to prepare some tea and a plate of bread and cold meats?”
This request, so respectfully made, was for Darcy’s benefit, saving him the trouble of organising a meal after his journey, and he said gratefully, “I should like that very much. You must allow me some time to change my clothes, and I shall meet you as soon as I can.”
“Do not rush.” She gazed up into his face. “You must be tired after all you have endured this past week.”
Her quiet sympathy was both a balm and a flame to Darcy’s fatigued soul.
After years of shouldering his responsibilities alone, when had anyone ever seen to his comfort?
Suddenly he remembered Fitzwilliam, grave and broken in his grief, and thought, with a stab of unexpected jealousy, of how Miss Bennet’s kindness could bring him relief in these dark times.
“I feel better now that I am here,” he replied honestly, realising that, for once, it was not Pemberley whose presence had eased his mind.
Several days after Mr Darcy’s return, Lady Acaster came into Elizabeth’s bedchamber with the suggestion that they go into Lambton. “All this sadness, my dearest, puts me in a mind to do some shopping. I wondered whether you would like to be of assistance and help me spend my money.”
Despite her light tone, Elizabeth was not indifferent to Lady Acaster’s mood.
Until their stay at Pemberley, she had Elizabeth’s company almost exclusively to herself.
Lonely people could be selfish with their companions, and Elizabeth was aware not to neglect her aunt.
She agreed readily to the plan, mindful that Georgiana would not wish to appear in public so soon after her cousin’s death.
After gaining her friend’s reassurances that she would not miss them too severely, Elizabeth set off with her aunt to the pretty little town, glad for a change of air.
They were not a mile into their journey when her aunt’s true intentions became known. “I am so glad to have this trip with you, for it feels as though we hardly spend any time together, and there is so much I wish to speak about.”
“Is there any particular topic of conversation that is especially pressing?”
Lady Acaster leant forwards. “I am desperate to know what your feelings are regarding Colonel Fitzwilliam. Now that his brother is gone, he will inherit everything. There will be many scheming mamas—”
“—or aunts.” Elizabeth shook her head in exasperation.
“There will be plenty of women eager to marry the heir to Haddon Court and the earldom. You should act quickly if you wish to secure him.”
“Aunt, the whole family is grieving.” Elizabeth choked back her anger. “I refuse to take advantage of a tragedy for my own gain. I will not behave any differently, nor will I act in any way that is not motivated by kindness or compassion.”
“My experience of the world is more extensive than yours. He is clearly very taken by you—I would hate for you to miss your chance.”
“What would you have me do? It is not as though I could write the man a letter, begging him to leave his distraught father to come and pay his compliments to me.”
“I could speak to Mr Darcy,” Lady Acaster countered. “He has his cousin’s ear, and he clearly approves of you—he even requested you stay at his sister’s side while he was away.”
The image of her aunt speaking of her schemes regarding the colonel to Mr Darcy caused bile to rise in Elizabeth’s throat. “No.”
“Why ever not? I would be the soul of discretion. A wedding can bring such joy! And think how delighted his sister would be.”
“You promised not to meddle!” Elizabeth tried desperately to sound calm, but her frustration spilt over into her words.
Lady Acaster’s memory appeared to be conveniently selective when it came to recalling specific conversations. “I do not understand your reluctance. It is a capital notion.”
Elizabeth fought to regain her equilibrium. “I am not comfortable with this plan. I cannot express myself more clearly.”
Lady Acaster modified her tone. “I thought you liked the colonel. One would think you might show some enthusiasm at my suggestion.”
“I could not bear it if Mr Darcy or his sister believed I had befriended them only to become more closely acquainted with their cousin.”
The older woman raised a brow. “So you consider Mr Darcy to be a friend? I thought at one point you did not much like him.”
The image of Mr Darcy’s face as he found his sister at the pianoforte flashed through Elizabeth’s mind.
It had been a private moment, one that she would never forget.
She had always known him to be handsome, but the profound love he felt for his sister radiated from him, rendering his appearance remarkable.
And when he thanked me! It was as though the world had stood still.
Certainly, she did not feel the same antagonism as before, but what was this feeling, if not friendship?
“My opinion of Mr Darcy has changed,” she replied tightly.
“I believe none of us are the same people we were five years ago.”
“No, indeed,” her aunt replied with a frown before pointedly moving the conversation on to whether Elizabeth still wished to buy pink or purple ribbon, or had she changed her mind about that also.
Lambton in the summer was a smelly, busy place, but Elizabeth did not mind, for it reminded her of market day in Meryton.
Mr Darcy had insisted that a footman escort them when they walked about the shops, and she was grateful for young Williamson’s strapping presence.
She and her aunt were objects of curiosity to the villagers.
Many of them knew who they were—word had obviously travelled that Pemberley was host to a rich lady and her niece, and there was a natural, respectful inquisitiveness to their questioning.
As soon as Elizabeth mentioned the name of her other aunt—Mrs Gardiner, who had once been Miss Shuttleworth of the Rectory—their faces lit up, and she was glad to be able to give news of her other beloved relative.
After buying far more than she needed to, Lady Acaster declared she was tired and wished to return.
They agreed to visit one final shop to buy some ink.
As they passed the threshold, a familiar figure caught Elizabeth’s eye.
It was Martha. This time, there was no Mr Darcy, nor was there any pressing appointment.
Grateful for her chance to ask after the former maid’s health, she approached the woman quietly.
Before she had a chance to speak, a flurry of movement caught her attention.
At Martha’s side was a boy who could be no older than five years of age.
He was pulling at her skirts, his face lifted to her. “I am hungry, Mama.”
“You may eat later, George,” came Martha’s soft reply.
The little boy looked behind her and straight at Elizabeth. “Who’s that?” he asked, pointing. Elizabeth’s heart caught in her throat—she had seen that face before. With his dark curls, blue eyes, and cleft chin, the child in front of her was the very image of George Wickham.
Martha turned to Elizabeth. “Sorry, miss, are we in your way? I am taking him home soon.”
“No— I— Take your time.” Pemberley’s former maid had not recognised her, and the moment had passed for Elizabeth to introduce herself. Martha turned back to the shopkeeper and continued about her business. After completing her purchases, she bid the man behind the counter a friendly goodbye.
“Have a pleasant day, Mrs Stopford,” the shopkeeper chuckled. “And be sure to keep young George out of trouble.”
Martha—Mrs Stopford—replied with a laugh, “As long as he is fed, all will be well.”
Holding the little boy’s hand, she nodded respectfully at Elizabeth before opening the door to the busy street beyond.
“Who was that?” Lady Acaster joined Elizabeth. “You look as though you have seen a ghost.”
Elizabeth thought about the last time she had seen George Wickham.
Martha’s surname was now Stopford, so they could not be married, but that boy was too like Mr Wickham not to be related.
Perhaps she is married to a relative of Mr Wickham’s, she considered, racking her brains as to whether she had ever heard of him having family in Lambton.
“They reminded me of someone from long ago,” she murmured, desperately wishing for her suspicion to be wrong.