Chapter Four #2
He stopped abruptly, flushed a fiery red, and with no more than a perfunctory bow, he took himself off to his mother’s side in the main room.
“Oh dear.” Elizabeth pressed her lips together hard to prevent her from calling Hugh any of the uncomplimentary names coming to mind. What a chucklehead he was!
And what a ninny she was, returning to Pemberley that day after spending a fortnight’s recuperation in her mother’s house.
Had she been less eager to escape the noise and flurry of her two youngest sisters, she must have chosen better.
Remarkably careless of her, to be so heedless of the momentous happenings expected that day.
She sighed, and started another favourite piece.
“Yes, indeed.” George settled a hip against the pianoforte, one less expensively clad than Hugh’s, perhaps, but he wore his clothes with as much style as he could manage.
He added, delicately, lowering his voice to ensure their conversation could carry on under cover of the music, “It was a mistake to allow Hugh to be treated as though he were the heir. I do understand it, given Fitzwilliam’s— Mr Darcy’s long absences abroad with the Colonial Office.
He was not here to take his rightful place and I suppose it was natural for Hugh to slip into it. ”
“You do not treat Hugh so.”
“No, but my influence is limited. I am a second cousin, with no authority. Hugh has been too much petted and, I am sorry to say, is a little spoilt as a result.”
Spoilt, and headstrong, and impatient of restraint.
Elizabeth could not deny it, fond as she was of Hugh.
And she was. When he was not acting the chucklehead, he was kind, amusing and generous.
He was his mother’s joy, the apple of her eye, and Elizabeth had no doubt Aunt Darcy shared Hugh’s sentiment that his elder brother’s travels around the less civilised portions of the world might well have put a period to his existence and left Hugh’s way clear.
Aunt Darcy, however, had more wisdom than to show it.
It did not do to discuss such things freely. Time to turn the conversation. “You must know Mr Darcy well.”
“His employment abroad has made frequent meetings impossible, though we were great friends as boys. We correspond occasionally on matters to do with the estate.”
“He wrote often to his father, who would read the letters aloud. Some were quite exciting. A description of a journey by elephant had the whole family poring over an atlas to determine exactly where the younger Mr Darcy was.”
Perhaps father and son had not been too much estranged.
Perhaps it had been circumstances, and not ill-feeling, that kept them apart.
Who could tell, when one of the party was now with the Lord and the other was what her father, who had loved mathematical conundrums almost as much as architects’ drawings, would have called an unknown quantity?
“I remember. Georgiana could not be brought to understand how difficult the roads are there, or that elephants are as common there as coaches are here.” George smiled.
“He has written twice since he arrived in London last month, and has taken a close interest in Pemberley’s doings.
He shows an excellent understanding of estate matters.
I was pleased he approves how well Pemberley does. I hope it continues.”
Of course he did. George had to make his own way in the world, and relied upon his income as Pemberley’s land agent to support both himself and his father. He needed to retain his position.
“I hope you continue to enjoy his confidence, George. You deserve no less.” Another breath of cool air wafted across the back of her neck, and she could blame that for her fingers faltering on the pianoforte keys.
“I shall be polite and respectful when he arrives, of course, and not presume on our old acquaintance. He is my employer, after all.” Something—a touch of bitterness?—underlay George’s tone.
Elizabeth understood only too well. He stood in relation to the family much as she did: a second cousin, reduced in circumstances, dependent upon the Darcys’ patronage and generosity.
Some days she, too, felt a tinge of bitterness.
Longbourn had been a fifth of Pemberley’s size and worth, but it had meant independence for her family and an assurance of their place in the world.
Now she had neither. Dispossessed for almost four years, how did she not buckle under an obligation weighing heavier than one of the suits of armour decorating the hall leading to the gun room?
A frisson of discomfort had her shivering again. Pemberley had been a refuge since Papa’s death, but that night she was out of place. She and George were both out of place. This reunion should have been for the family only. It did not need witnesses.
“Lizzy!”
Elizabeth glanced up at her aunt’s call, smiled, nodded at George, and went to join the company gathered around the fire. George followed more slowly.
“Hugh tells me you are feeling the cold so far from the fire.” Aunt Darcy drew Elizabeth into the seat beside her and took both her hands.
“He is right. You do look chilled and your hands are icy. Your dress is thin for such a dreary day.” She released one of Elizabeth’s hands to gesture towards her own dress of black silk; she wore the deepest mourning still, despite allowing the rest of the family to progress to the greys, purples and mauves of half-mourning.
“I have nothing suitable, I fear, and nor would it fit well, but perhaps we could have found something of Georgiana’s that would be warmer and fit you better. ”
“I thank you, Aunt, but I suspect Georgiana’s dresses will be too youthful on me.”
Aunt Darcy smiled. “Well, when we are only family, that sort of thing is of no real consequence.”
Georgiana nodded eagerly. She looked the schoolgirl she was in her unadorned, though expensive, dress.
She was a dear child, but Elizabeth could only imagine how obvious her own poverty would be if she appeared in a dress clearly meant for a girl five years her junior.
An instant of resentment prickled at her, sharper than dressmakers’ pins stabbing into her skin.
“I do not wish you to be ill again,” Aunt Darcy went on.
“Your mother would rightly blame me. Besides”—the hand still holding hers tightened its grip, and her tone was warm—“you are dear to us and we were frightened for you, Lizzie. This year…” She stopped and sighed. “I could not bear another loss.”
“I am quite well, I assure you, though I cannot yet walk so far and fast as I used to do.”
Aunt Darcy’s black lace cap was a triumph of the milliner’s art.
When she shook her head, the jet bugle beads adorning it danced in the light, giving it a jolly air at odds with the sombre colour.
She laid her free hand against Elizabeth’s face in a brief, butterfly’s touch.
“All in good time! We are just grateful you are well and back with us again.”
“We are, indeed,” Hugh said, roughly. “Though you still look so small and delicate, I swear I could cover your entire face with the palm of my hand. A breath would blow you off your feet.”
“In other words, I am haggard, and an antidote, and not in best looks. Thank you, Hugh.”
While Hugh spluttered, George rolled his eyes. “Hugh will one day learn to express his concern in such a way as not to offend the ladies. You remain very pretty, Lizzy, and do not doubt it.”
Aunt Darcy smiled. “A little too thin, but that will remedy with time.”
Elizabeth chuckled, and let the discussion of her health lapse. Far more important matters needed resolution. “Aunt, is it a convenient day for my returning to Pemberley, with Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy expected this evening? Should I retire? I am not family to him.”
“You are family to us. No, Lizzy. I want you with me.” Aunt Darcy pressed her hand again and released her hold.
“I know whom I would sooner have,” grumbled Hugh from his chair at the fireside. “It is past six. I pray Fitzwilliam does not intend to impose Town hours upon Pemberley, Mamma. That would be insupportable.”
Aunt Darcy had returned to her needlework, and did not take her gaze from her deft fingers, though she turned slightly to slant the linen in its frame towards the windows to catch more light.
“I am sure he would not wish to inconvenience the family in such trivial ways. Depend upon it, there is some delay upon the road.”
Elizabeth glanced at the windows where the raindrops dashed themselves against the glass. “Ill weather for it.”
“Should I send grooms down the Buxton road?” George, too, looked towards the world beyond the house. “The rain has been heavy for days, and the last I heard, the streams are running high and fast. The road at Smalldale may have been washed out.”
“It would not be the first time.” Hugh twisted in his chair to stare out the windowpanes. “Perhaps—”
A hubbub of voices in the Great Hall brought Hugh to a sudden silence.
The footman outside partly opened the drawing-room door, enough for them to hear clearly a calm, deep voice saying to the butler, “But of course, you are Reynolds, are you not? Is your wife still housekeeper? Excellent. Can you see to Mr Reid’s comfort, please?
He is to be quartered near the senior staff. ”
An indistinguishable murmur from Reynolds.
“Excellent. Thank you, Reynolds. Where is the family?”
Aunt Darcy slipped her needle into the linen and laid the embroidery frame on a side table with unhurried care.
Georgiana gave out a squeak, then flushed at the glance her mother gave her, and straightened up in her chair.
Hugh, though, settled lower into his and hunched his shoulders, staring into the fire rather than betray any interest in the doings beyond the drawing room.
The rest rose to their feet and turned towards the door.
The footman opened it wide. The stiff-faced young man of the gallery portrait stood on the threshold, well dressed, with a black band around his upper arm to signify mourning.
He was taller and broader than his portrait suggested, youthful seriousness having given way to the stern mien of a man who had seen and done much.
His face bore a resemblance both to Hugh’s and his late father’s in shape and features, particularly in the depth of their dark blue eyes, but in his case was very much browned by hot suns.
Unmistakably a Darcy, albeit one damp about the edges.
Hugh rose slowly. George hesitated, looking between Aunt Darcy and Hugh for a sign that either or both would greet their errant son and brother. Both were silent and grave. But the man in the doorway strode into the room with all the confidence of ownership.
“George Wickham! Good Lord, it has been an age.”
He held out his hand, and, hesitating no longer, George came forward and took it.
“Welcome home at last,” George said.
His gaze shifting to his stepmother and her family, Fitzwilliam Darcy curved his mouth into the thinnest of smiles, and bowed.