Chapter 50
It was unusual to be shown into one’s own billiards room by one’s own servant. It was even more strange to see your own billiards table being appropriated for a game, with one’s estranged cousin casually holding out a cue.
“Is that an invitation to play?” Darcy asked warily, “Or should I duck?”
“Either way, Darcy, I intend to give you a thrashing. Which would you prefer?”
Darcy smiled crookedly and took the cue, “When did you get here?”
“Not long ago. One of the ladies showed me in.”
“That hardly narrows it down, Fitzwilliam.”
“I should say! I understand that there are seven women in this house, and only two men! Well, three men now, assuming you don’t kick me out.”
“I shall let you stay if you promise not to take advantage of that ratio.” Darcy replied drily. “Shall we play?”
As they began the game they made polite overtures to one another. The subjects of health, weather and fashion were quickly exhausted. After that, they moved onto more uneven ground.
Darcy was afraid of making a misstep. He was keen to resume his old friendship with his cousin or at least dispel some of the outright dislike that they had spat at each other in the last few years.
He spoke cautiously, making jokes instead of answering seriously, and did everything in his power to make Fitzwilliam feel welcomed.
It was a pitiable display; Darcy had not that ease of manner which allowed him to relax into a new role.
His instinct was to be forthright, not restrained.
He stumbled frequently over his words and fell into several speechless hesitations that did not go unnoticed.
In contrast, Fitzwilliam seemed remarkably self-assured. There were numerous difficult facts which he grasped with such casual ease that Darcy wondered if he somehow already knew them.
Georgiana’s condition, for example, ought to have been the first thing they discussed. It was very odd that Fitzwilliam did not enquire, and when the topic did move in that direction only asked questions about the last few days.
“Do you want to see Georgiana?” Darcy offered. For the first time, a frown crossed his cousin’s face.
“Not right now, Darcy. I am tired from the journey. I have not seen her since…”
Darcy nodded and lowered his eyes for the next shot. There was no need for either of them to say more.
He had sent for Fitzwilliam the day after Georgiana’s ‘accident’.
Darcy had waited until the doctor was sure that she would live.
He did not want Georgiana’s beloved cousin to rush to her side, only to see her suffer and fade.
By the time Fitzwilliam rushed to Pemberley the other side of the coin had made itself clear: Georgiana’s life had ended in all the ways they knew. The broken bird was all that remained.
In a drunken outburst that night, Darcy confessed that real death would have been a mercy.
Fitzwilliam blamed the bottle for that, and for many things which were said in the days which followed.
He knew that Darcy did not mean any of his wretched cries.
They were torn from his grieving soul, ripping a loving brother into shreds and screaming into a senseless sky.
Yes, Fitzwilliam blamed the bottle… at first.
He stayed for nearly a month, processing his own grief in small ways.
He spent endless hours holding Georgiana’s hand, even when his eyes were sliding shut with weariness.
She must never be alone, he entreated Mrs. Reynolds.
She must never think herself unloved. That was the lonely lie which had brought her to this awful fate. She must never, ever feel it again.
Fitzwilliam was recalled while his cousins were still in great need. By then his compassion for Darcy had turned into frustration. He could no longer blame the bottle. Darcy chose to drink from it! Nobody was forcing him to swallow.
The colonel had no option but to go. He knew that he was leaving his dear ward in the care of a drunk.
On the morning when Fitzwilliam left, Darcy came to see him off. It was the first time the man had set foot outside in weeks. He winced and shaded his bloodshot eyes from the dim light.
“Please…” Fitzwilliam tried through gritted teeth, “Please, Darcy, you must try.”
Darcy looked back with the jet-black eyes of a drowning man. He made no reply.
They parted in silence.
Mrs. Reynolds wrote to the regiment a few weeks later.
She thanked Fitzwilliam for all he had done and told him that she had taken it upon herself to ask Mr. Bingley for help.
An invitation had immediately come, asking Darcy to join the Bingley family in London.
Mrs. Reynolds admitted that she had urged her master to leave Georgiana and go.
Pemberley was a crypt, and Darcy was determined to rot in it.
For his own good, she insisted to Fitzwilliam, he had to leave.
Fitzwilliam agreed. He had read between the lines and knew exactly what Mrs. Reynolds was trying to say.
The horrible fear that he had felt growing with every passing day in Darcy’s company was one that she shared.
Where Georgiana had failed, Darcy would succeed.
He no longer valued his own life, and every day tried to escape it a little more.
One dark night, after he had made his way to the bottom of a bottle, the master of Pemberley would take up his paper knife and leave it forever.
Then Georgiana would truly be alone.
Mrs. Reynolds’ letter was the last communication Fitzwilliam had from Pemberley for a very long time.
He threw himself into his duties with absolute focus, refusing to torture himself by thinking of Darcy.
Had his superiors ordered him to go on leave then he would, but all they cared about was the extra responsibilities he eagerly undertook.
He did not want to know. He did not want to know.
The silence was broken in the winter by Darcy himself.
Without providing either context or an apology, he stated his news in a series of emotionless statements.
They were as follows: first, that he had stopped drinking and returned to Pemberley to set his affairs in order.
Second, that he had married a young lady in Meryton and brought her back to the estate as a companion to Georgiana.
Third, that under her care Georgiana was showing signs of improvement, even though the doctor was not optimistic as to a significant recovery.
Fitzwilliam was incensed. He replied at once and sent the letter without re-reading it. He had not Darcy’s obnoxious ability to write with the emotionless detachment of a stone wall. Rather, he wrote plainly.
First, he said, the assurance of sobriety was as naive as it was premature. He would not congratulate a fool on two minute’s grace after so many months of selfishness.
Second, he pointed out, he could send no good wishes to the new Mrs. Darcy, since the hasty marriage was yet another gesture of Darcy’s selfishness and disrespect for his own family. He might as well have eloped - a drunken, hasty marriage was just as scandalous!
Third, Fitzwilliam wrote, he was delighted to hear of Georgiana’s improving health. He could not help pointing out that if a stranger had made such a difference in a few short weeks, then a brother could have done far more in a wasted year.
An angry letter, indeed! Fitzwilliam regretted much of it, but by then it had already left his hands.
Darcy, understandably, did not reply. Silence resumed.
The sight of his cousin in Chesterfield was a shock.
Fitzwilliam could scarcely believe that the composed, healthy man he spotted was really Darcy.
He had assumed that he would forever be sallow, hunched and unkempt.
This man was none of those things. He was truly the master of Pemberley - at least, in appearance.
The lady on his arm was just as surprising.
It was not her considerable beauty which made Fitzwilliam stare, but something rather cruder.
He had assumed, from his knowledge of Darcy’s drunken proclivities and the unusually hasty wedding, that Mrs. Darcy would be in a certain…
condition. Fitzwilliam had imagined her as an opportunist, taking advantage of a drunken fool to get her hands on his fortune.
The woman at Darcy’s side did not look like a fortune hunter.
Her clothes were undeniably lovely, but they were understated instead of ostentatious.
She wore only simple jewels, even though she rightly had access to Lady Anne’s priceless collection.
Mrs. Darcy even fidgeted with her gown as if she was not accustomed to wearing such finery.
This was not the look of a woman who would throw away her chastity for money!
It was not her appearance, though, which convinced Fitzwilliam that he was wrong.
It was the look on Darcy’s face when he spoke to his wife and the gentle way that she smiled back.
They clearly adored each other - a rare sight, indeed, between any couples in the room.
Fitzwilliam was very familiar with Darcy’s pride and knew that if he had been coerced into the marriage in any way at all, he would not even look this woman in the eye.
Fitzwilliam found himself watching the Darcys all evening. He utterly neglected the beautifully buxom lady whom he had intended to spend the night seducing. Instead, he watched his cousin and his wife with blatant fascination.
Mrs. Darcy noticed him - he could see her glancing curiously at him as time passed - but his cousin was mercifully oblivious.
Fitzwilliam wondered if he had chosen an unremarkable coat for the ball, for he felt utterly invisible.
He could not even blame a bottle for Darcy’s blindness.
He was pleased to see his cousin wave away every drink the servants offered.
Finally, their eyes had met.
Fitzwilliam’s words shrivelled on his tongue. He could not speak, only glare and then flee.
The letter arrived the next day, addressed correctly in a stranger’s hand. It was short, humble, and charming.
So, Fitzwilliam replied to Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy with his very best wishes and ignored the clear suggestion that he speak to her husband.
It might have ended there, but Mrs. Darcy did not seem to be the sort of woman who would let things lie.
She was shockingly forthright, writing with the humorous blunt tone of a nursemaid threatening unruly children.
Yes, the cousins had disagreed. Yes, they were quite right to be upset. But that was over now, and they must move on. For the good of their families, their friendship and their dearest Georgiana, they must reconcile.
Mrs. Darcy was determined. After weeks of constant exchanges, where they entered into a teasing riposte which she always seemed to win, Fitzwilliam finally surrendered.
Now, looking at his cousin lining up a shot on the billiards table, Fitzwilliam’s nerve was failing. He wondered if he could still beat Darcy in a fight. The urge to box the man’s ears was even stronger than usual.
“You do not want to see Georgiana.” Darcy summarised wryly, “Well then. Will you say your piece now, Fitzwilliam, or is that something else that can wait until morning?”
“Do you have anything to say to me?”
“Perhaps. But I did not come to your house. You can go first.”
“How magnanimous.”
“Get on with it,” Darcy growled, “Or leave.”
Fitzwilliam pulled a face. Then, with both men refusing to give an inch, the most awkward reconciliation since Joseph’s eleven brothers came to Egypt began.