Chapter Fourteen #2
Elizabeth nodded. “Tell me more about your family. About your parents, about how you and your brother came to have such obvious devotion to one another.”
Georgiana required little prompting. She spoke of her parents with a mixture of love and loss that characterised those who had been too young when death claimed beloved family members.
Her mother had been beautiful and accomplished, renowned for her kindness and her skill at managing both household and social obligations.
Her father had been respected throughout Derbyshire for fair dealing and showing concern for those dependent upon him.
“They died within a year of each other,” she explained. “Fitzwilliam was just down from Cambridge and expecting years before assuming responsibility for the estate. Instead, he inherited everything. Pemberley, the guardianship of me, the management of considerable properties and investments.”
The picture she painted was one of duty accepted without complaint, of a young man shouldering burdens that would have crushed lesser characters.
“He never resented the responsibility?”
“Never. He arranged for my continued education and spent countless hours sitting with me when grief made everything unbearable. He could have sent me to distant relations, but instead, he made me his priority in ways I only fully appreciated years later.”
Elizabeth absorbed this, adding these details to her slowly forming understanding of the man she had married. “He sounds capable.”
“He is. But he can also be stubborn and occasionally thoughtless about how his decisions affect others. His pride sometimes prevents him from admitting error as quickly as he might. But these are small flaws in an otherwise exemplary character.
They spoke longer, conversation flowing easily between them. Georgiana asked about Elizabeth’s family, seeming delighted by tales of Longbourn’s daily life.
By the time they returned to the house, a clear friendship had taken root between them. Elizabeth felt better, buoyed by Georgiana’s indisputable acceptance and the fuller picture she now possessed of her husband’s character.
She was increasingly growing confident that their marriage was not the disaster she had feared.
The afternoon passed in more conventional pursuits.
Elizabeth attempted needlework without enthusiasm, producing crooked stitches that she eventually abandoned in favour of simply observing as Jane and Mary performed at the pianoforte with creditable skill.
Their playing was pleasant if not extraordinary, and Lady Matlock offered heartfelt compliments.
Mrs Bennet held court from her position in a corner of the drawing room, describing Hertfordshire society to anyone who would listen. Meanwhile. Lydia and Kitty whispered together in a corner, occasionally dissolving into giggles that drew reproving looks from Mrs Bennet.
As evening approached, the household assembled for dinner. Elizabeth noted three empty chairs with curiosity. Her husband’s, the Viscount’s, and Colonel Fitzwilliam’s. “Are we expecting the gentlemen to arrive late?”
“They have ventured to Snowhill village on some business or other,” Lord Matlock explained.
“I believe they intended to visit the bookshop and stop at the White Hart for refreshment. They may return quite late. You know how these excursions extend themselves once good conversation and decent ale enter the equation.”
Mrs Bennet’s interest was immediately piqued. “The White Hart? Is that a tavern? I do hope they return safely. The roads can be so treacherous after dark.”
“The village is barely twenty minutes’ ride,” Lady Matlock assured her. “And the road is well-maintained.”
Despite the absences of the gentlemen and Lady Catherine, conversation flowed more easily than it had the previous evening.
Elizabeth participated when addressed but found her attention wandering repeatedly to Darcy’s empty chair.
What business had taken him to the village?
And why did his absence create a hollow feeling beneath her ribs that had no business existing?
She barely tasted her food, consuming it in a practised manner as her mind circled questions that would not be answered until he returned.
After dinner, the ladies withdrew to the drawing room.
Georgiana claimed her for further discussion, leading her to a quieter corner where they might speak without interruption.
Their conversation ranged across topics both serious and trivial, such as books they had read and wished to read and places they hoped to see.
A short while later, more people began drifting in the direction of their chambers. Georgiana embraced Elizabeth before departing, extracting a promise that they would walk together again tomorrow if the weather permitted.
Elizabeth made her way upstairs, her steps slowing as she approached the chamber she shared with Fitzwilliam. She pushed open the door and paused on the threshold, taking in the space with fresh awareness.
She had registered the beauty of the room peripherally before but had been too anxious to truly appreciate it. Now, in the lamplight, she noted the quality of the furnishings. Cream walls complemented by silk hangings and a thick carpet that muffled footsteps.
But without Fitzwilliam’s presence, the space felt incomplete. Lonely, despite its comfort. It was as if the room were waiting, suspended, for its proper occupants to return and animate it with their presence.
She moved to the dressing room behind the lacquered screen, changing into her nightgown. She selected one of her prettier nightdresses, made of white cotton with delicate embroidery at the neckline, and left her hair loose about her shoulders rather than braiding it for sleep.
Georgiana’s words had further improved her image of Fitzwilliam as someone capable of devotion and putting others’ needs before his own comfort. And his defence of her that morning had been borne from an authentic conviction that she deserved respect and protection.
She would thank him for that and initiate the meaningful conversation. She would take the first step towards building the partnership they both needed for their marriage to bloom into a joyous union.
Resolved, Elizabeth sat in the chair near the fire. The flames crackled pleasantly, casting dancing shadows across the walls and ceiling.
The clock on the mantel marked time with steady precision. He would return soon, surely.
She waited, rehearsing words in her mind. Thank you for defending me before Lady Catherine. Thank you for making it clear that I matter to you.
The fire burned steadily. Elizabeth shifted position, her back beginning to protest the chair’s elegant but not entirely comfortable design.
Perhaps they had been delayed. She fought against drooping eyelids, determined to remain awake. This conversation mattered too much to postpone. She would wait however long necessary.
More time passed with no sound of arrival. Elizabeth’s eyes had grown heavy, her body relaxing into the chair’s embrace even as her mind insisted on remaining alert.
The fire burned lower. Exhaustion pulled at her with inexorable force and sleep crept over her in waves, pulling her under despite her desperate attempts at resistance.