Chapter 45
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
The Georgiana who returned was a far different Georgiana than he had sent to Kent.
Her time at Rosings had been pleasant enough.
Lady Catherine, although tending to be overbearing and officious with a never-ending stream of commentary and advice, had good intentions.
Her daughter had been absent for almost a year, and she was pleased to devote herself to restoring her niece’s good character.
She had done so surprisingly judiciously and with the assistance of Mrs Collins who, having a sister in her teens, understood the sensibilities of a young girl.
Georgiana felt her errors keenly and was appalled by what her introduction of George Wickham into their lives had ultimately wrought.
She believed her brother must despise her, and she was sure Elizabeth hoped never to see her face again.
As such, she was timid and respectful, speaking and eating little in her first days back in her brother’s home.
A week after her return, Darcy went to her in the music room.
“Georgiana, I am glad you are home.”
“Thank you, Brother.”
He sat next to her and took her hand in his.
“I have spoken harshly to you on this subject. I was angry and wished for someone to be held accountable, but I do realise the truth would have become known at some time. In some manner, you might have done us a bit of a favour by bringing it to light before there were children or other further complications.”
“Do you truly think this was inevitable?”
“I do,” he acknowledged. “What man would not wish to reclaim his wife and family? I would in a trice. If there was anything that could bring her back to me, I would not hesitate.”
Taking advantage of his uncharacteristically talkative mood, Georgiana asked, “Is there anything to be done to that end?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head. “Only a divorce, I suppose, and Lord Courtenay does not want that.” He sighed. “He loves her, and she loves him.”
“She loves you,” Georgiana told him quietly.
“She does,” he agreed. “Unfortunately, it does her no good. She cannot leave him. Her heart was always divided, but legally, she is his. It will be a reality I shall know myself one day. I shall have to marry another, knowing I love Elizabeth.”
“That sounds very bleak.”
He shrugged. “It is my duty. I must produce an heir. I had my solicitor examine the entail to see whether your son might inherit, but alas, it must be mine.”
“Will you seek to marry again soon?”
“I will not.” Darcy spoke definitively, disgust rising in him. “Someday, but not soon, I assure you.”
It was reminiscent of the previous February when Darcy had first learnt of Elizabeth’s identity as Lady Courtenay. The opera house was filled to overflowing with nearly everyone who had a claim to be there.
Colonel Fitzwilliam was resolute in attending with him even though the rest of the family had gone to Matlock. Although the gossip was neither unkind nor had a poor reflection on the Fitzwilliams, the infamy coupled with seeing their nephew’s sorrow was a bit much to bear, so they left town.
Darcy was early and made his way quickly to his box, Fitzwilliam remaining close behind.
The Courtenays would be in their box directly across from his.
He and his cousin sat silently, watching the opera house buzz with gossip and anticipation of seeing Lord and Lady Courtenay.
He was also the object of much attention.
He saw their glances and even some pointing in his direction, but he did not care.
When at last they entered, he almost cried with the relief of beholding her.
She looked beautiful but pale; she surely had not been sleeping well.
She wore a necklace he had not seen before, something elaborate and expensive looking.
A recent gift, he supposed, from her husband.
He watched enviously as Lord Courtenay removed the wrap from his wife’s shoulders and handed it to a waiting manservant while saying something in her ear. She smiled at him a bit wanly.
They sat, and Elizabeth did not hazard so much as a glance in his direction. She stared resolutely at the empty stage, an audience of one, for nearly all others in the place looked at her, at Courtenay, and at Darcy.
The opening aria brought no change to matters.
Everyone murmured and whispered as Elizabeth watched the stage and Darcy watched Elizabeth.
Courtenay was kind to her, he observed. He spoke to her, held her hand, and even kissed her hand once.
She looked at him gratefully when he did and said something that made him smile.
Darcy was surprised to find he was not more pained by seeing Courtenay’s affection for Elizabeth or hers for him. He wanted her to be happy and to feel loved. He would never wish it otherwise.
He did not remove his eyes from her for a moment and would have refrained from blinking if he could have managed it. Fitzwilliam spoke to him on occasion, but Darcy was too lost to acknowledge him.
It happened in the second act, at about the midpoint. Elizabeth must have lost her determination, and her eyes moved from the stage to Darcy. Their eyes met across the crowd.
Time ceased to pass, and the sounds of the crowd died away as he found himself within her thrall.
Did he breathe? He knew not, but he believed it likely that his body had suspended its physical needs so that his spirit might commune with hers.
He knew her thoughts and hoped she understood his: he loved her so dearly and so deeply and could never love another. In her look, she told him the same.
The right corner of his lips lifted a fraction of an inch, and that appeared to recall her to her situation. She jerked her gaze back to the stage and then allowed it to drift down to her lap as she appeared to struggle with her emotion.
Courtenay had been insensible to the whole exchange but noticed his wife’s downcast eyes.
He leant in to speak to her, and she responded.
Moments later, Courtenay went to the entry to the box, summoning Elizabeth’s wrap.
He assisted her in placing it over her shoulders and then offered his arm as they departed.
When they had gone, Darcy heaved a great sigh that mixed relief with disappointment and sorrow.
“Do you want to leave?” Fitzwilliam whispered. Darcy nodded.
They went to the front of the house to call for Darcy’s carriage, just in time to see the Courtenay carriage pull away. Darcy stared at the empty street where it had travelled until Fitzwilliam’s hand on his arm meant his own carriage had arrived.
“Do you know what you need?” Fitzwilliam asked, as they later sat in Darcy’s study, glasses of port in hand.
Darcy responded by raising his eyebrows.
“Pemberley, just you and me. We shall go for wild rides over the worst terrain we can find, and when we tire of that, we shall take out the guns and shoot anything that moves. We shall fence, play billiards and card games, and we shall drink brandy by the gallon. It will be splendid.”
“It sounds horrid,” Darcy replied, but he appreciated that his cousin sought to cheer him. “It is amusing, really, these suggestions you have all made to me.”
“What suggestions?”
He smiled faintly. “Well, Bingley wrote to beg me to return to Derbyshire, insisting the best thing would be to return myself to the marriage mart immediately. He already has a lady in mind. Saye recommended at least a month spent setting ourselves upon the town in whatever ribaldry engages us: routs, brawls, and naturally, as many brothels as possible.”
“Not something you wish to hear from a newly married man.”
“No,” Darcy smiled ruefully. “Evidently, the bloom has gone off that rose rather hastily.”
Fitzwilliam winced but was not entirely surprised. “None of our grand plans will suit you. We are worried about you. Your heart is broken in a way that is cruel and unjust. It is as if she has died but with the added pain of seeing her live and love another.”
“Something in me requires anguish,” Darcy remarked as he swirled the liquid in his glass. “I derive no pleasure from it, but it is all that is left to me. The pain tells me our love was real. I am afraid when the pain is gone, I might wonder whether our love ever existed.”
“You do not yet wish to go on,”
“I know I must.” He shrugged. “I simply cannot. Everything she touched in me was changed for the better, and I am afraid that, without her, it will all go back to the way it was.”
“Your life was not so trying before her.”
“No, of course not,” he agreed quickly. “I am a blessed man in many, many ways, and I cannot bemoan my lot, but I was a better man with her. My life was not only good but splendid and marvellous. It now seems stale and colourless.”
Fitzwilliam sighed, bemused. “You know I shall do anything you require. I see your misery, but I have no notion what to do for you.”