Chapter 19 #2
She waited until the girl finally looked up, her eyes red-rimmed and vulnerable.
“You needed to be loved,” Elizabeth continued softly. “And when no one around you who was willing to fill that need—to fill your heart, your soul, your sense of worth—of course you believed someone who did.”
She exhaled slowly. “People are like buckets, Mrs. Wickham. We all need to be filled—with kindness, respect, love. If no one teaches us how to fill our own, or how to protect it… someone else will come along and pour in whatever they like. Even poison.”
Georgiana swallowed hard, her lip quivering.
“You are not ruined. You are wounded. But wounds can heal.”
Elizabeth gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “So no, I do not despise you. I think you are very brave.”
A long silence followed. Elizabeth could see the thoughts behind the girl’s eyes—the shame, the fear, the desperate hope that perhaps, just perhaps, she might not be cast out entirely.
But then a knock came at the door, and Elizabeth glanced at the clock.
“I must go,” she said gently. “Mrs. Reynolds will be waiting.”
Georgiana gave the faintest nod, her eyes fixed on the folded napkin in her lap.
Elizabeth stood and crossed to the door—but just before she left, she paused and looked back. “You are not alone anymore, Mrs. Wickham.”
There was a brief silence. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, the girl said, “Could you… could you call me Georgiana?”
Elizabeth blinked. Her heart twisted at the tentative hope in the girl’s voice. Smiling sadly, Elizabeth replied, “I am afraid Mrs. Reynolds would not approve.”
Seeing the girl’s face fall, she added, “But I believe I might safely be able to call you Mrs. Georgiana.”
The girl’s eyes lifted, wide and bright, and she nodded vigorously. “Please. I do not wish to hear my husband’s name.”
“Very well, Mrs. Georgiana. I shall see you in two hours in the drawing room.”
Elizabeth dipped a curtsy, then left the room with brisk steps—her heart full, her mind racing.
She took a hasty meal in the kitchen, then set to work, polishing a hallway mirror and sweeping the upstairs landings.
Once her morning duties were complete, she splashed cold water on her face, straightened her apron, and returned to the drawing room.
She found Georgiana already seated in her usual chair near the fire, a folded shawl draped neatly in her lap. The girl looked up as Elizabeth entered—no smile, but no fear either. That was progress enough.
“I have been thinking,” Georgiana said, her tone hesitant but curious. “You spoke this morning of… of learning to fill one’s own bucket. How does one do that?”
Elizabeth’s brow lifted, pleasantly surprised. “There are many ways. Little things, mostly.”
She sat down across from her. “For some, it is sewing—something useful or beautiful. You could mend linens or embroider a handkerchief.”
Georgiana looked thoughtful.
“Or music,” Elizabeth added. “You might play the pianoforte or arrange a tea tray just as you like it. You might even design a table or practice a new language—anything that brings order or joy to your day.”
Georgiana’s lips parted slightly. “French? Or Italian?”
“I am not fluent,” Elizabeth said with a soft smile, “but I know enough to muddle through.”
Georgiana looked toward the window, her expression quietly alight.
“I like that idea. Of filling the day with… small things. Things that are mine.”
Elizabeth nodded. “That is the best place to begin.”
Georgiana turned back to her, her gaze steadier than it had been in days. “Then let us begin. Today.”
The days that followed brought a quiet but steady transformation.
As Georgiana found small ways to fill her hours—sorting linens, reviewing old piano sheets, even threading a few careful stitches into a baby’s cap—her shoulders gradually lost some of their tension.
The hollowness in her voice softened. Her gaze no longer fell to the floor quite so often.
And yet, the silence that settled after their morning chats still clung to Elizabeth’s thoughts. There was so much Georgiana did not know. So much no one had prepared her for.
One chilly afternoon, as they sat in the drawing room and the fire snapped softly in the hearth, Elizabeth reached across the workbasket and gently asked, “Have you made many things for the baby yet?”
Georgiana looked up in surprise. “Made?”
“Clothes. Blankets. Perhaps a bonnet or a gown?”
The younger woman blinked. “I… no. I have no idea what is needed. Or how to begin.”
Elizabeth gave her a warm smile. “Then that is the perfect place to start. A few small things, perhaps. Sewing is like writing love into fabric. It gives you time to think… to hope.”
Georgiana glanced down at her lap, fingers twisting the edge of her shawl. “But I do not have anything. No patterns. No cloth. Not even old things to rework. And this is not London—there are no shops nearby. Not that I could pay for anything, even if there were. And my jewels…”
She stopped abruptly. Her lips pressed into a thin line.
Elizabeth said nothing for a moment, then reached for a length of thread. “In my family’s home, we kept things in the attic. Old gowns of my mother’s. Toys we outgrew. Furniture that was unfashionable, but still strong and sound. I wonder… might Pemberley have something like that?”
Georgiana’s brow furrowed. “I do not know. I never thought to ask.”
“Mrs. Reynolds might,” Elizabeth said. “She has been here a long time. She may remember what was put away.”
With sudden purpose, Georgiana reached for the bell. A moment later, Mrs. Reynolds entered the room, her expression alert.
“You rang, ma’am?”
Elizabeth nearly smiled at the address—Georgiana still seemed surprised by it.
“Yes,” Georgiana said softly. “Do you know if there is anything stored in the attic? Any clothing? From when my mother was alive?”
Mrs. Reynolds blinked. “The attic?”
She stepped farther into the room and looked from Georgiana to Elizabeth, her expression unreadable. Then her eyes widened.
“I quite forgot,” she murmured. “It has been more than fifteen years. After your mother passed, the master had so many things removed—furniture, baby clothes, even her favorite books. He said he could not bear to see them. I suppose he locked them away, and I never thought of it again.”
Georgiana’s hands curled into the folds of her gown.
“Could we… see them?” she asked tentatively.
“Not today,” Mrs. Reynolds said gently. “The light is going already. But if you wish, I shall have the attic opened tomorrow.”
Georgiana nodded, and Elizabeth saw something flicker in her eyes that had not been there before.
Hope.
“I think I shall go lie down,” she said softly, rising to her feet.
“Would you like help?” Elizabeth offered, rising as well.
Georgiana shook her head. “No… thank you. I am all right.”
She left the room, her step slow but unshaken.
Elizabeth lingered only a moment longer before slipping out a side door in search of Mrs. Reynolds. She found the older woman in the main hall, consulting a list of repairs with one of the housemaids.
“Mrs. Reynolds?” she asked softly.
The housekeeper turned at once. “Yes, Beth?”
Elizabeth hesitated, then lowered her voice. “Forgive me, but… I wondered. Is there a midwife nearby? Someone trustworthy?”
Mrs. Reynolds’s expression sobered. “You think she is near her time? She is still so small.
“I do not know. I do not believe even she knows how far along she is,” Elizabeth admitted.
“But from what she has described—and what I have observed—I should guess she is five months gone. I expect she will feel the quickening soon. I think it would be wise to have someone examine her, to make sure everything is progressing as it should.”
The housekeeper sighed. “Aye, that sounds about right. I can send word to town—though Lambton is not what it once was.”
“If not a midwife, then perhaps a parson’s wife nearby?” Elizabeth asked hopefully. “Someone with knowledge, even if informal?”
Mrs. Reynolds’s mouth pinched into a tight line. “Not likely. The living at Kympton was given by the Earl to the son of a crony. The young man never comes near the place, and there is no money to hire a curate. The parsonage stands empty.”
Elizabeth stared. “But… what do people do? For worship? For guidance?”
“They do without.” Mrs. Reynolds looked tired. “There are no Sunday services. No regular marriages. No baptisms.”
Elizabeth’s voice sharpened with concern. “Then what about Georgiana? What about her churching?”
“I had not thought that far ahead,” the older woman admitted. “Perhaps we can pay a rector from a neighboring parish, but it will cost more than we have to spare.”
Elizabeth frowned. “It is disheartening to think that men of the cloth have grown so—so transactional.”
Mrs. Reynolds gave a bitter chuckle. “The world has changed, Beth. Or perhaps it has only settled into what it always was, beneath the surface.”
She grew quiet then, gazing up the staircase toward the west wing.
“It used to be different here. When the old mistress was alive. There was music. Light. Care.” Her voice turned wistful. “But after she passed, and there was no son to inherit… the master gave up. Slowly. Quietly. Until there was nothing left.”
Elizabeth followed her gaze, her throat tightening.
Then she reached out and gently touched the woman’s arm.
“There may be nothing left,” she said softly. “But there is something now. Someone. And soon there will be two.”
Mrs. Reynolds did not reply.
But she gave a faint nod.