7. Chapter 7 The Brother
Chapter 7: The Brother
Tuesday, 26 May
Darcy House
Darcy
A mid the incoming correspondence on my salver, I found a message from Mr. Notley indicating he had completed his investigation, so I arranged for him to call at the house that evening.
Mr. Notley, a thin, blond man in his fourth decade, arrived on time, and Slade brought him to the study. The investigator accepted my offer of a brandy, so I poured two glasses.
He took the liquor from me and handed over a packet of papers. “This is your copy of my report.”
“Thank you.” I directed him to a chair, sat at my desk, and opened the packet. The first two pages consisted of Mr. Miles Wood’s current and prior addresses and a list of people who had been interviewed. “I see you found a Mr. Miles Wood in Bath who is the same age as me.”
“Yes.” He removed a small notebook from his coat pocket. “Based upon my investigation, I have concluded Mrs. Pike’s account is true—Mr. Miles Wood is your twin.”
I have a brother. A slight quake hindered my hand as I took in a mouthful of brandy. But how could Mr. Notley be certain? “Mrs. Pike appeared to be earnest in her account, yet no one else besides her deceased mother witnessed my brother’s birth. How do you know she spoke the truth?”
“I interviewed those familiar with the Wood family, and no one contradicted the facts she provided. Moreover, my first sight of Mr. Miles Wood eliminated any possible doubt. He bears physical similarities to you consistent with a close family connexion.”
So, my brother resembled me. I swallowed. “Would you…um…describe his appearance?”
“He is attractive in a unique way. In comparison to you, Mr. Wood is shorter and slighter in stature, and his hair is a lighter shade of brown. His facial resemblance to you, though, is unmistakable. The line of his jaw is like yours, as is the straight bridge of his nose and the shape of his mouth. His eyes, though”—Mr. Notley’s voice rose in pitch—“are quite noteworthy. The contrast in their colour drew my attention at my first glimpse of him. His right eye is dark brown, almost black, just like yours. The left one is a vivid shade of blue. Beyond that, they are large and expressive.”
I brushed my forefinger against my lips. Based upon the investigator’s animated description, I had a handsome and magnetic brother. “Did you speak to him?”
“No. I had been prepared to put forth a ruse to confront him if necessary, but my investigation uncovered sufficient information to complete my report, and my covert observation of him affirmed what I had learnt. Mr. Wood has lived in Bath since infancy and is a familiar figure among the town’s citizens. He is purported to be articulate, amiable, and intelligent. None of his neighbours or friends had aught but praise for him. My associates who questioned the servants at his home and at the cobbler’s shop established by Mr. Wood’s late, adoptive father obtained like results.”
“Has he been afforded an education?”
“He went to a small, respectable school for boys near the outskirts of Bath but never attended university. According to several sources, including the clerk at the circulating library, he is an avid reader who takes interest in a variety of subjects.”
Mr. Notley leafed to another page in the notebook. “The late Mr. Evan Wood succumbed to heart disease in 1808. Mrs. Wood had always been of a weak constitution, and she died a few months later. Mr. Miles Wood then moved to a boarding-house on Gay Street and has resided there ever since.”
“It must have been difficult for him to lose both of his adoptive parents so close together.”
“By all accounts, he was bereft for many months. He had learnt the cobbler trade from his father, and they had worked together at the shop on Pulteney Street. In 1810, Mr. Miles Wood began selling his paintings. He benefits from the patronage of Mrs. Dodge, a wealthy, elderly widow and respected resident of Bath. She has helped him obtain commissions from her friends and acquaintances for his work. Thus, he has enjoyed a moderate amount of success as an artist. Last year, he transferred ownership of the cobbler’s shop to his assistant. Now, he devotes his time to painting.”
“He is an artist.” I spoke under my breath. What would Papa have done if his son, even a second son, had declared his intention to earn a living as a painter? Without doubt, he would have voiced strong objections to the notion.
Mr. Notley turned the page in his notebook. “Mr. Wood has no unpaid debts. He does not patronise the local brothels or gambling halls, nor is he known to overindulge in alcohol. He attends training bouts at the fencing academy on Milsom Street three or four times each week and is often seen at the assembly rooms’ concerts and balls.”
He closed his notebook and slipped it back into his pocket. “Based upon my investigation, I can state with confidence Mr. Miles Wood is an honest, trustworthy, and honourable man.”
“That is fine news.” I could not have asked for a more thorough report. Still, anyone could be fooled, even him. I grasped for another question I might pose but produced nought. “Thank you for completing your work so quickly.”
“You are welcome.” Mr. Notley stood.
I rose as a new concern preoccupied me. “Are you certain no one who assisted in this investigation will reveal I have a brother?”
“Rest assured this information will remain secret unless you choose otherwise. The men I employed are trustworthy. Nevertheless, I gave them minimal information—none of them know the reason for the assignment or that you had hired me.”
“I appreciate that.”
Wednesday, 27 May
Gracechurch Street
Elizabeth
Fitzwilliam and I descended the front steps and took the path towards the park. Noah lagged at a discreet distance.
“It seems your sister has met her match.” Fitzwilliam glanced my way. “Mrs. Perry impressed me as a competent and tenacious lady.”
“You are correct. She began Lydia’s lessons soon after our arrival yesterday. My sister’s complaints continued throughout the evening. Today, she has progressed to glowering at us.” I had been braced for Lydia to insult or otherwise provoke Fitzwilliam today, but she demonstrated a modicum of restraint; she offered a sullen greeting and engaged him with a bare minimum of civility but thereafter remained quiet.
His subtle tug on my arm directed me to the path through the grove—a preferable route compared to the busy and dusty road. I had grown accustomed to walking arm in arm with him—so much so that solitary walks had lost their former allure. The sight of his taut attitude, though, gnawed at my contented mood. “Is anything amiss?”
Fitzwilliam shot a look back towards Noah. “I have news.” In a matter-of-fact style, he recounted information provided to him yesterday by the Bow Street investigator he had hired.
“This is wonderful! Now that any concern for Mr. Wood’s character has been eradicated, you may meet him.”
“Yes, the report is all I had hoped for.” He offered a weak smile.
“Are you having second thoughts?”
“Perhaps I am. Yet I have no rational reason to change my mind. I trust Mr. Notley, and he is certain of his conclusions.”
“Still, this is a momentous decision, and I do not wonder why you are hesitant.”
He flexed his head to view me. “Yes, once I allow him into our lives, there is no going back. Do you still think I ought to meet him?”
“Yes, I fancy you would regret not taking that step.”
He nodded. “You are correct.”
“Will you invite him to live with you and your sister?”
“Assuming nothing in his manner gives me pause and the family resemblance is as distinct as Mr. Notley described, then yes. I am postponing my visit to Rosings. First, I shall go to Bath.”
“Ah.” I continued forwards with diminished vivacity. Now he had an additional trip, and another reason to be apart from me. “When will you leave?”
“Later today. With luck, I shall meet with him tomorrow and return on Saturday afternoon or evening.”
“I shall miss you.”
“Not as much as I shall miss you.” His brown eyes flashed. “I shall write to you.”
“I should love that.” I bit my lower lip. Darn— Papa and his rules! “Oh, but we cannot write to each other.”
“Why not?” He frowned.
“My father specified we cannot correspond while our engagement is secret.”
“Oh, I see.”
“I am sorry.”
“You have no reason to apologise, and this is a minor inconvenience.”
I gave him a nod, though the restriction did not seem ‘minor’ in the least. Why had I not protested this decree? My arm tightened around his. “Although there is no reason to expect Mr. Wood is in any way dangerous, you will be careful, will you not?”
“Yes, I promise.” He stroked the back of my hand. “Would you mind calling upon my sister while I am gone?”
“I shall take pleasure in doing so. My aunt had wanted me to invite you both to dinner on Friday night. Shall I ask her to change the date to Sunday?”
“Yes, that would be agreeable.”
“Very well. Of course, if your brother—or rather cousin , as I must call him—returns to town with you, he is welcome too.”
He favoured me with a smile. “When Mrs. Gardiner extends the invitation, we shall be pleased to accept.”
Thursday, 28 May
Gay Street, Bath
Darcy
Seconds after my knock, a short, stout, grey-haired maid opened the door, and her bleary, brown eyes widened. “Can I ’elp you, sir?”
I handed her my card. “Mr. Darcy to see Mr. Wood.”
“Ah, yes, of course. Come in.” She stepped back and took my hat and coat. “Please wait in there.” She pointed at a set of chairs in a small room off the entryway. “I’ll let ’im know you’re ’ere.”
“Thank you.” I remained standing. A burst of fresh energy, tempered by apprehension, erased the fatigue from my travels that had plagued me moments earlier.
Brisk footsteps in the hall preceded Mr. Wood’s arrival. Even at a distance, the distinct appearance of his vari-coloured eyes drew my notice. He wore the attire of a tradesman: a dark-blue wool coat, brown breeches, and worn leather boots, all of low or average quality. As he drew closer, the familiar elements of his countenance stilled me. I had the sensation of viewing a tarnished looking-glass—or rather an embellished one; for Mr. Wood presented a handsomer, idealised version of my face.
He glanced at my card then directed his mismatched irises at me. “How do you do, Mr. Darcy. I am Mr. Miles Wood.” He bowed, and I returned the gesture.
“It is good to meet you, Mr. Wood.” A sudden fit of light-headedness induced me to shift my weight from one side to the other. As much as I had anticipated this moment, part of me had not accepted him as real. Yet there he stood, my brother, my twin .
“I take it you are interested in commissioning a painting. Have you seen my work?”
“I…no, I have not.”
Mr. Wood motioned to the wall on his right. “This is one of my landscapes, the Mendip Hills in Bristol.”
I stepped closer to study the picture. Mr. Wood had depicted the grassy field and the limestone on the cliff in painstaking detail. “This is excellent work.” I turned back to him. “But I am not here to hire you.”
“Oh, I had assumed…” He coughed. “How, then, may I help you?”
“Is there a place where we may speak in private?”
Mr. Wood stiffened, and it seemed he might demur. At last, he nodded. “Let us go to my room.” He led the way through an L-shaped passage and opened one of the doors, gesturing for me to enter.
Paintings filled the walls: landscapes, portraits, and still lifes. An easel, situated before the window, held a work in production: a pair of beagles romping in a meadow. “I am impressed. It seems you are skilled in portraying any subject.”
“I am glad you like them. I consider portraits to be my forte.” Mr. Wood indicated a painting to my left of an older couple: the woman sat upon a chair, and the man stood behind her.
For several moments, I perused the piece. He had portrayed the couple with enough authenticity that one could almost mistake them for reality. “I agree with you. This one is extraordinary.”
“Thank you. My late parents sat for this a few months before my father became ill.”
An image of Elizabeth came to mind. Could the glitter, liveliness, and intelligence reflected in her fine eyes be recreated on a flat piece of canvas?
Mr. Wood moved the sole chair in the room to face the bed. “Please have a seat.”
I took the proffered chair, and he lowered himself to the edge of the bed. “I have a revelation that is apt to shock you.” As I related the bizarre tale of Mr. Wood’s birth and kidnapping, he paled, and a ridge formed across his forehead. At the conclusion of my narrative, he grasped the bedpost and inclined against it. A weighty silence ensued.
He released a harsh breath. “Forgive me, but your account sounds too fantastic to be believed.”
“Yes, it does. However, I employed a well-respected Bow Street Runner who confirmed the relevant facts to the extent that is possible. And the resemblance between us is undeniable.”
“Upon my word, I…I see what you mean.” He inspected me as though noting our similarities for the first time. “So, if not for this demented midwife, I should have been raised as a Darcy, and we…ah…you and I should be…or rather are…brothers?”
“Yes, my mother gave birth to twins, first to me and then to you. No one other than the midwife and her young daughter ever saw you or knew a second baby existed.”
He threaded his fingers together. “Then…I am the son of a gentleman.”
“Yes. Our family home is Pemberley estate in Derbyshire.”
“I grew up believing the Woods had been my natural parents. But the year I turned eighteen, they told me a neighbour had brought me to them as an infant and my true mother had been a maid.” He shook his head. “This is all quite…incredible, although I do not doubt your word. And the more I look at you, the more convinced I am of our family connexion. I do not know how I failed to notice our similarities earlier.”
“Unlike me, you had no reason to look for a resemblance.”
“That is true.”
“Now that we have met, I hope we shall remain connected. I should like to know you better.”
“Yes, I should like that too.”
“I regret to tell you that my parents are deceased. My father succumbed to apoplexy five years ago. My mother has been gone for sixteen years now.”
He gave me a solemn nod. “How long will you stay in Bath?”
“I shall return to London tomorrow morning. I thought, if it suited you, you could accompany me and stay at my house.”
He gaped at me for several seconds. “Oh, that is a kind offer. I…ah…suppose I could sojourn in town for a week or two.”
I drew in a slow breath. To maintain a more distant association with this virtual stranger would be the cautious choice—but even after this brief meeting, I had no doubt of the correct one. “I had more in mind than a short visit. Your name and rightful place in our family was stolen from you. While the past cannot be altered, at least I can welcome you to your true family and improve your circumstances. You may reside at my home in London indefinitely. The invitation includes Pemberley estate as well, although my sister, Georgiana, and I shall remain in town for at least the next couple of months.”
“Oh, I see. That is exceedingly generous.” Mr. Wood cocked his head. “And you have a sister?”
“Yes, Georgiana is sixteen years old.”
His expression grew staid. “I have lived as a tradesman my entire life. If I accept your offer, my presence may become a hindrance to you. Your friends and acquaintances may refuse to associate with me.”
“Yet you are, in fact, a gentleman. One of my closest friends, Charles Bingley, is the son of a tradesman. His connexion to me allowed him to be accepted by most of my acquaintances.”
“I do not imagine that was easy.”
“It helps that Bingley is a likeable, well-mannered fellow, and you are no less so.”
“I appreciate the compliment.”
“Since the true details of your kidnapping are so grim, I do not want the story to become public. Instead, I should introduce you as a distant Darcy cousin.”
He nodded. “What if people want to know why my adoptive parents raised me?”
“No one has a right to demand such specifics. We shall say an estrangement between our ancestors kept us from associating sooner and nothing more. I shall write to my uncle Lord Matlock this evening and apprise him of the plan.” My sight lingered upon a spot of threadbare fabric on his coat sleeve. “I shall provide you with an income befitting your new station.”
A slight frown compressed his lips. “Do you intend to provide for me like a parent?”
“Like a brother, I should say.”
Mr. Wood’s hands gripped the arms of his chair. “My art pays for my expenses. This may not be the most respectable of professions, but I am not willing to give up painting.”
I curbed a sigh. It would be far easier for him to be accepted among my peers if he ceased accepting paid commissions. “I understand. You are not the first gentleman to work as an artist. I hope you will agree to use my tailor, though. I dare say as a Darcy cousin with a finer wardrobe, you will attract more clients.”
His bearing tensed. “You should know I have no intention of changing my name. My parents were admirable people, and I want to honour them.”
Words of protest came to mind, but I suppressed them—in his place, I should want to do the same. “That is your choice.”
“Who else knows the truth about me?”
“My sister, my two Fitzwilliam cousins, my uncle and aunt Lord and Lady Matlock, and my aunt Lady Catherine de Bourgh. My intended, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, also knows the facts”—my lips edged up as I uttered her name—“as do her aunt and uncle with whom she stays in town.”
He grinned. “You are engaged! That is wonderful, congratulations!”
“Thank you, but not quite yet. Miss Bennet and I have an understanding, but her father is rather singular. He has insisted our betrothment remain a secret for now.”
“I see.” Mr. Wood unclenched his hands, resting his palms upon his thighs. “Well, I am in anticipation of meeting Miss Bennet, your sister, and the rest of your family and friends.”
“They will be pleased to make your acquaintance.” I fought to maintain the appearance of ease. The notion of introducing him to Elizabeth caused my respiration to falter. Did he have to be so very good-looking?
Friday, 29 May
Newbury
Darcy
For the first hour of our journey, Mr. Wood and I spoke of our respective childhoods. He referred to his adoptive parents in affectionate terms. He had cultivated a love of books from the late Mr. Wood, who had been an avid reader.
We fell into an easy silence until I caught sight of Mr. Wood blenching while he stared out at the passing scenery. “Is anything troubling you?”
He stirred towards me, crossing his legs. “I was contemplating how my circumstances may have changed had you found me two years ago.” The tension in his lower jaw relaxed for a moment.
“Why is that?”
“One of the first commissions arranged by my benefactress, Mrs. Dodge, came from Mr. Hawkins, a wealthy gentleman spending the winter in Brighton with his family. He engaged me to paint portraits of his two young sons and his daughter, Miss Amelia Hawkins.” His tone softened as he uttered the lady’s name. “She captivated me upon my first glimpse of her. Miss Hawkins embodied a peculiar sort of beauty, both unique and timeless, and her admirable inner qualities enhanced her charm.”
His complexion coloured, and he averted his gaze. “Miss Hawkins spent several hours each day sitting for me whilst her companion ensured we maintained propriety. We discussed a myriad of topics—our likes and dislikes, our opinions of political matters, our hopes for the future. Her every utterance affirmed my initial affinity for her. After the first week, I confessed my sentiment for her, and to my amazement, she assured me that she returned my feelings. After I completed her portrait and proceeded to paint her two brothers, she and I took walks out of doors in company with her companion. We both believed the situation to be hopeless. Nevertheless, she urged me to ask Mr. Hawkins for her hand, and she promised to plead with him to consent.”
My chest drew taut. What gentleman of fortune and good standing would allow his daughter to wed a tradesman—much less one who had not yet accumulated a fortune?
“I am certain you can guess what followed. Mr. Hawkins ordered me from the house, forbidding me to ever meet his daughter again. He removed his family to town the next day. Several weeks later, I met a lady friend of Mrs. Hawkins’ who stayed a few days in Bath. She told me that Miss Hawkins had accepted an offer of marriage from Mr. Lovell, a landowner from Somersetshire.” Mr. Wood blinked and rubbed his eyes.
“I am grieved to hear this. I wish I had learnt of your existence many years ago.”
“Thank you. At any rate, we are together now. I am grateful to have you as my brother—even though I shall publicly acknowledge you as a distant cousin.”
“The feeling is mutual. Although we met less than four and twenty hours ago, I feel as though I have known you for far longer.”
“Yes, I feel the same way. This has been nothing short of remarkable.”
“Would you be comfortable if we called each other by our given names? It is a common practice for cousins.”
A grin enlivened his expression. “Yes, I should be honoured to call you Fitzwilliam.”
“Very well…Miles.” His name sailed trippingly off my tongue without a scintilla of awkwardness.
Sunday, 31 May
Gracechurch Street
Elizabeth
I sped up to reach my sister. “Lydia, wait, please.” I linked my arm with hers. “I should like a quick word with you.” She released an exaggerated sigh but allowed me to direct her into the nearest empty room.
She toyed with the paste topaz stone on her necklace. “Well, what do you wish to say?”
“I understand Mrs. Perry will allow you to spend the evening with us tonight. Please show her that she made the right decision by remaining on your best behaviour. After all, you will meet Mr. Darcy’s cousin, and you want to make a good impression.”
“I am not a dunderhead.” She assumed a rigid posture. “I can pretend to be a prim, proper, and dull lady in order to avoid having my dinner in the nursery.”
“You fail to appreciate how fortunate you are to benefit from Mrs. Perry’s wisdom. She has been devoting this time to you out of the goodness of her heart.”
“Oh pish! I wish she would direct her tiresome lectures to someone else. I ought to have stayed at home. If I had, I could be attending a party with the militia officers or playing lottery tickets with Kitty.”
“Come now, Mrs. Perry has told me that you are a bright student, and you are making progress on the pianoforte like a natural musician.”
She shrugged. “Well, I do not mind learning to read and play music as much as I should have expected, and I can tolerate the Italian lessons. But I hate algebra, and I shall go distracted if I cannot attend a ball or party soon.”
“One step at a time—first, you must get through this evening without major missteps.”
“Yes, yes, I know.” Lydia spun away from me and marched through the doorway.
An hour later, Fitzwilliam entered the drawing-room along with his sister and a brown-haired stranger. My heart fluttered, and I resisted the inclination to rush to my intended; rather, I hung back as my aunt and uncle made their greetings. Despite my curiosity, I spared the newcomer no more than a brief glance before my sight returned to Fitzwilliam. The past few days had crawled by. Nothing, not even the pleasant afternoon spent with Miss Darcy on Friday, could make up for his absence.
Fitzwilliam introduced his sister to Mrs. Perry. Whilst he presented Mr. Miles Wood to my aunt and Mrs. Perry, Miss Darcy made her way to Lydia and me, and we exchanged greetings.
Then Fitzwilliam led Mr. Wood towards me, and Miss Darcy moved aside to make room for them. Lydia, though, brushed past my shoulder, blocking me with her larger form. After a moment’s hesitation, Mr. Darcy raised his brows at her. “Good evening, Miss Lydia. Perhaps you would like to meet my cousin, Mr. Miles Wood.”
My sister moved closer, a bit too close, to Mr. Wood. She curtsied and offered her hand. “It is a great pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wood.” And then she froze, ogling Mr. Wood as though in a trance.
Oh dear, what a wretched beginning —Lydia could not even complete the introductions without mortifying me! To my right, Mrs. Perry looked on with a deepening frown.
Mr. Wood took Lydia’s hand and bowed. “The pleasure is mine, Miss Lydia.” He retracted his hand, but my sister failed to release her grip. With a second attempt, he freed himself from her hold.
My chin sank. What must Mr. Wood think of her? And I could not bear to peek in Fitzwilliam’s direction.
Aunt Gardiner went to Lydia and took her by the arm. “Pardon me, but I need a word with my niece.” My aunt forced Lydia to the other side of the room. Mrs. Perry hied towards them for an impromptu conference.
“Miss Bennet, it is a pleasure to see you again.”
Fitzwilliam’s melodious voice drew my gaze, and with his fervent expression before me, my chagrin lessened. “And I am very glad you are returned to London, Mr. Darcy.”
“May I present Mr. Miles Wood?”
I wrested my gaze from him and curtsied to the other man. “I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Wood.” For the first time, I gave Fitzwilliam’s ‘cousin’ a proper study. He presented a unique picture with his vari-coloured eyes. His well-formed features, so like those of Fitzwilliam, lent him a familiar, yet singular, attractiveness.
“I am delighted to meet you, Miss Bennet.” He bowed, beaming at me, and gave Fitzwilliam a quick look. “My cousin has praised you to the skies, which is impressive since I do not believe he is prone to exaggeration.”
“As a general rule, that is true.” I directed an arch glance to Fitzwilliam. “But if he has extolled my musical talent, you are bound for disappointment.” I shifted to include Miss Darcy in my field of vision. “I do not know if you have been fortunate enough to hear Miss Darcy perform, but she is a far superior player.”
“My sis—um…my cousin is indeed a gifted musician.” Mr. Wood’s complexion took on a crimson hue.
“Thank you, Miles.” Miss Darcy patted Mr. Wood’s arm.
Lydia reappeared beside me with Mrs. Perry and Aunt Gardiner nearby. My sister continued to watch Mr. Wood to the exclusion of everyone else. “Do you have a favourite song?” For the moment at least, she maintained a proper distance from her quarry.
“I am fond of many”—Mr. Wood set his gaze upon Lydia—“but a sentimental favourite is ‘Greensleeves’. My late mother had a lovely voice and often sang the tune.”
“That is an excellent choice. ‘Greensleeves’, is one of my favourites as well.” Lydia uttered the apparent falsehood with avidity; she had disparaged the song in the past.
At my aunt’s suggestion, we moved towards the furniture; she and Mrs. Perry guided Lydia to a seat between them on the sofa.
Fitzwilliam sat beside me on the settee. “Thank you for calling upon my sister on Friday.” He glanced at Miss Darcy, seated opposite us next to Mr. Wood.
“You need not thank me. We had a delightful time. I returned the final volumes of Corinne, or Italy as well as Mary Russell Mitford’s collection of poems, and your sister insisted upon giving me two more books to read.”
“You may take and keep as many as you wish.” Fitzwilliam’s generous statement inspired my smile to widen.
Mr. Wood inched nearer to me. “I have also read Madame de Sta?l’s novel. Did you enjoy the book?”
“Yes, I found the story both entertaining and poignant—an informative guide to Italy combined with a suitably tragic romance.”
“That is an apt description.” He glanced at Fitzwilliam. “My cousin’s house is elegant in every way, but I found the library to be the most impressive room.”
“I agree.”
To the right of me, Mrs. Perry whispered in my sister’s ear several times. Meanwhile, Lydia kept a close watch on Mr. Wood. She appeared to be smitten.
At one point, Lydia stood and took a step towards the vacant chair next to Mr. Wood, but a terse admonition from Mrs. Perry thwarted her, and she retook her former seat. My uncle returned home from his warehouse within fifteen minutes of the guests’ arrival.
At dinner, my aunt placed me between Mr. Darcy and my uncle. Throughout the meal, Lydia continued to incline forwards for glimpses of Mr. Wood, seated on the other side of Mrs. Perry.
After passing the basket of rolls to my uncle, I shifted closer to Fitzwilliam. “I apologise for Lydia’s behaviour tonight, and I hope Mr. Wood will not be discomfited by her. It is clear she is not ready for even a small dinner with friends.”
“Pray, do not be concerned. She will improve in time.” In an unobtrusive movement, he placed his hand atop mine for a moment, providing a tingling warmth.
With a muted sigh, I revelled in this bit of covert closeness even as I lamented its brevity. Despite my affection for those assembled around the table, I yearned for time alone with Fitzwilliam.
My sight flitted to Mr. Wood, who conversed with Mrs. Perry, and I swayed near Fitzwilliam again. “How has it been thus far to have your…cousin at home?”
“Having Miles with us has been better than I could have predicted. I felt an extraordinary sense of kinship with him from our first meeting.”
I grinned at him. “That is splendid. I am delighted to hear it.”
“Georgiana, as well, is already at ease in his company.”
“Yes, I noticed her comfortable manner with him.” I sent a fond look to Miss Darcy, seated across the table.
“Last night, I took Miles to my club and introduced him to a handful of the members. Since he is an artist, a few of my acquaintances may choose to dismiss him. So far, those who have met him seem disposed to like him.”
“He is quite personable, so he ought to be well received.”
“Yes, I agree.” He took a sip of wine. “I had informed Lord Matlock that Mr. Wood would accompany me to town. This morning, Lady Matlock sent me a note. She wants Miles and me to have dinner at their home on Tuesday evening. She provided an invitation for you and Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, which I intend to give them after dinner.”
So, the earl and countess wanted to meet Mr. Wood—and me . I gulped down my mouthful of potatoes with difficulty. “Thank you. I do not believe we have any other obligation for Tuesday.”
He smiled at me and tucked into his dinner.
The rest of the evening elapsed with no further mortifying transgressions by my sister, thanks to Mrs. Perry; she stuck near Lydia and made periodic asides to her.
Once the Darcys and Mr. Wood had departed, I followed Lydia upstairs and bade her to enter my room, where I confronted her. “How could you make a scene after I had specifically asked you to behave yourself?”
Her shoulders rounded. “Forgive me, Lizzy. I…I did not mean to embarrass you. Truly, I did not. I had every intention of showing Mrs. Perry that I could be polite.”
“Then explain yourself.”
She stared down at her feet. “Mr. Wood is so…unique and beautiful—his entrancing eyes, his smooth voice, and his genial presence. I could not help myself. I wanted to be close to him—as near as possible.”
“Mr. Wood is an attractive man, but that does not give you leave to thrust yourself within inches of him like a…a trollop!”
“Do not say that!” She raised her sight to me. “I have already been admonished by Mrs. Perry. She reminded me that gentlemen expect ladies to show decorum, and I have ruined my chance to make a good first impression with him.”
I took a measured breath. “It is evident you are unprepared to be in company. I fancy you have set back your chances of attending a ball or party for weeks.”
Her hands covered her face. “I know, but I must see him again. I think I love him.”
“That cannot be true—you do not know him well enough. This is an infatuation that will wane once you meet another handsome gentleman.”
She shook her head. “No, you are wrong. I have been infatuated before with Jason Lucas, Mr. Denny, and Mr. Wickham. But this is different—this feeling is so…powerful. Mr. Wood is the man I want to marry.”
I took her hand in mine. “That is not your decision. Gentlemen choose to whom they propose marriage. Besides, Mr. Wood is a great deal older than you. In all likelihood, he would prefer to wed a lady near his age.”
A tear dripped towards her cheek. “But…I do not believe any other lady could care for him the way I do.” She snuffled.
My arms slipped around her back. “Oh, Lydia. You are not being honest with yourself or with him. You do not even like ‘Greensleeves’.”
“I misjudged the song in the past. Upon reflection, it is not so bad.” She rested her head on my shoulder. “I wish I had been more like you. I could have learnt music, Italian, and even advanced mathematics years ago. You would have helped me. Maybe Papa would have too if I had asked him. I should be much further along in my studies if I had done so.” She sniffed. “Do you think Mr. Wood will fault me for beginning these lessons at my age?”
“I am certain he will not.”
Lydia stepped back and wiped a tear from beneath her eye. “I had better seek out Mrs. Perry and Aunt Gardiner. They deserve apologies from me. What should I say to them?”
“What matters most is to be sincere when you express your regret.”
She gave me a weak smile. “Thank you.”
“You are welcome.”