Chapter 4 #2
Darcy, already collecting his gloves and hat, stopped only long enough to bow. “My apologies, Miss Bingley. I must go to Town at once—a family matter leaves me no choice.” His words were brisk, yet not unkind, for in that moment even Miss Bingley’s regard seemed a distant concern.
Bingley, ever the conciliator, turned to the assembled guests.
“Mr. Darcy has been called away on urgent business, but I trust you will all make allowances for the unexpected.” He spoke with such genuine warmth that a murmur of sympathy ran through the crowd, and Sir William Lucas nodded with understanding.
The assembly, so recently filled with the music of conversation and laughter, grew hushed as Darcy strode from the room. The flicker of candlelight played along the polished floor as the doors closed behind him, leaving the guests to speculate in low voices about the nature of his summons.
Miss Bingley, vexed but quick to recover, drew herself up and surveyed the assembly with renewed hauteur.
“It cannot be helped,” she declared to Mrs. Hurst, “but I confess, these country diversions pale in comparison to the significance of Town. I do hope Mr. Darcy returns soon; his attentions have been singularly marked, and I have every expectation of his address. To be mistress of Pemberley”—she preened—“would be enviable indeed.”
* * *
“Beaton, are my aunt and uncle still receiving visitors? I have just this moment returned from Hertfordshire.”
“His lordship instructed me to expect you, Mr. Darcy. They are in the family parlour.” The butler took Darcy’s hat, coat and gloves before leading him to a private parlour at the rear of the house—a room reserved only for family and closest friends.
“Oh, Fitzwilliam, I’m so glad you’re here. Please, come sit beside me.” Lady Matlock patted the sofa, her eyes rimmed red from weeping. Darcy took the seat next to her, while across from them, the earl sat quietly, a snifter of brandy in his hand.
“Richard—any news?” Darcy asked.
“The physician is with him. His fever is dangerously high, likely from lead fragments still lodged in the wound. If not for the silk shirt he wore, he’d be dead already—none of the torn cloth entered the injury.”
Lady Matlock, unable to contain herself, began to cry again. “Please, Gerald, do not speak of death. It’s been four weeks since the siege—surely he’s recovering.”
Lord Matlock shook his head sadly. “We have to leave it in God’s hands, my dear. Richard has always been strong, and, true to his nature, he’s returned home to us now. All we can do is pray his time hasn’t come.”
“Has Milton returned from Scotland?” Darcy asked, referring to the Matlocks’ eldest son. Richard was the younger, the second son.
“I’ve sent an express, but I don’t expect him for at least a fortnight,” Lord Matlock replied.
“Darcy, perhaps you’ll stay the night? Your company is most welcome.
” He turned to his wife. “My dear, you should rest now. Darcy and I will remain in case the physician needs us—you’ll do Richard no good by falling ill yourself from lack of sleep. ”
Reluctantly, Lady Matlock retired, pausing to thank Darcy once again for coming so quickly.
The earl poured another brandy and sat back, staring into the swirling amber liquid.
“He was wounded at the siege of Ciudad Rodrigo. There was no reason for him to storm the breach—he was an exploring officer, not leading a battalion. But after Craufurd fell and Colborne of the 52nd took command, he volunteered to help in the assault. If he dies…” The earl’s voice wavered.
“If he dies, his mother will never forgive him. Nor will I.”
Darcy saw tears glistening in his uncle’s eyes, matching the sting in his own.
Richard was woven into the heart of the Fitzwilliam family, from which he himself took his forename—his absence would be keenly felt by them all.
Darcy nursed his brandy, the firelight flickering across his knitted brow.
He searched for words to comfort his uncle but found none that would not ring hollow.
“I received a note from General Wellesley,” said the Earl, after a time.
“He said Richard would not have remained behind, even if ordered. It is not in his nature. He was always reckless. Even as a boy, he would climb the tallest tree, swim the widest river—only to return, scraped and triumphant, certain that nothing could harm him.”
Darcy set down his glass. “He was beloved by those who knew him. They spoke with such regard that I could not help but feel proud to call him cousin.”
“Pride.” Lord Matlock’s voice cracked. “It is a dangerous thing, Darcy. Pride has brought many a Fitzwilliam to glory and to grief. I only hope it has not brought Richard to his end.”
* * *
Darcy passed the following two days at Matlock House in quiet vigil beside his cousin Richard, reading to him from the newspapers, which detailed the progress of the war, and from letters sent by friends who, in their concern, urged Richard’s speedy recovery.
The fever, though still fierce, did not worsen.
Believing the presence of family might do some good, Darcy resolved to fetch his sister, Georgiana, from school, as Richard shared the guardianship of her person and fortune.
As their carriage rumbled towards Matlock House, Georgiana, her brow knit with worry, broke the silence. “Is Cousin Richard so very ill?” she asked. “I scarcely dared enquire before, for I know my aunt and uncle wished to keep such news private, known only to his closest acquaintances.”
“He is very poorly,” Darcy replied gravely. “The fever is high, and he has but brief intervals of consciousness. It has been above a month since he received his wound. Provided the injury does not turn gangrenous, I hope he may recover, but we must trust it to Providence.”
At this, Georgiana’s composure deserted her and she wept openly. “Oh, William! I could not bear it if Richard were to die. It is all too unkind. The girls at school will only make sport of me more cruelly should such misfortune befall us.”
Darcy regarded her with a frown. “Who would dare mock you, Georgiana? You are the niece of an earl. Surely none could presume to disparage you.”
“B-but I have written to you about it,” she sobbed.
“It is a trial I scarcely understand—merely because you are so well established and our fortune is known. Only yesterday, Miss Cheetham—her father owns a cotton mill in Cheshire—stole my transcription of Mozart’s Non più andrai, the very one you gave me for my birthday. ”
“Did you recover it? What did the Mistress say? I have received but two letters from you, Georgiana. I supposed you too occupied with your lessons to write.” Yet Darcy confessed inwardly that he, too, had been remiss in his correspondence—had he truly given so little thought to her?
“No, William, I wrote every week, sometimes twice, but you are always so busy with the estate. I could not reproach you for your silence.”
Had the girls been stealing her letters? It seemed most likely. Darcy could not account for it. Surely this was an aberration—the seminary came so highly recommended.
“I have never thought to ask, but do you find any pleasure at the school? Miss Bingley spoke of it with great approval.”
Georgiana’s expression soured. “Miss Bingley! Oh, I ought not tell you—please, William, promise not to repeat this to the Mistress. Some of the maids remember Miss Bingley from her time there. They called her the dragon queen. The tales they tell! If she were still at the school, my life would be wretched, even worse than it is now.”
It was then Darcy realised, in abandoning Georgiana to the school, he had been the worst of brothers—not the best, as he had congratulated himself…
“I did not know,” he said. “Georgiana, I thought—I believed it the safest place. I see now I was mistaken.”
She looked up at him then, her eyes wet but resolute. “You could not have known. No one ever tells the truth about such places until it is far too late.”
Darcy took her hand. “Dearest, I treated you like a child, I failed to see that you have become a grown woman, certainly capable of deciding your own future. If you would like it, you can stay at Matlock House. Our aunt will be glad of your company, and perhaps she can persuade you, as she once did for me when Father passed, that courage in the face of adversity is the finest of all accomplishments.”
Georgiana managed a tremulous smile, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief. “I do long to see Aunt Alice. She always knows what to say when one is wretched. But—do you suppose Richard will know me, William, or will he be too ill?”
“I cannot promise, but I think your gentle voice may do more for him than the best physician. He has spoken your name even in delirium.”
The carriage slowed as they turned into the street outside Matlock House. Darcy helped his sister alight, noting how pale and thin she had grown during his absence.
Lady Matlock, her eyes dark-rimmed with fatigue, met them in the hall. “Georgiana, my dear, you are a balm to us all. Come to the fire. Darcy, the doctor has just left—there is no change, but he remains hopeful.”
* * *