Chapter 21 #2
Upstairs, in the mistress’s chambers, Elizabeth lay alone.
Worse—she lay connected to that vile wretch, sleeping only a thin door away.
What if the liquor does not dull his… appetite?
Darcy pressed his fists to his knees.
He considered it—rising, creeping upstairs, and settling just outside Georgiana’s chamber door to listen for trouble. He could do it. He should do it.
But the maids had been whispering. He had heard the rumor passed between servants’ lips with giggles and wide eyes.
“Is it even his child?”
“Did you hear what he said?”
“Maybe it belongs to one of the footmen.”
The blood drained from Darcy’s face at the thought.
If Wickham found him loitering near Georgiana’s door… if he were accused, if Elizabeth were shamed, if Georgiana were further endangered…
He swallowed hard and bowed his head.
No. He must stay away. No matter how much it pained him.
He lay down on the narrow mattress, staring up at the ceiling. The walls creaked. Wind whispered under the eaves. Somewhere a shutter banged loose. And through it all, he listened.
Listened for a cry, a footstep, a scream. If he heard one, he would do whatever was required.
And if Wickham so much as looked at Elizabeth or Georgiana the wrong way—servant or not—he would not be held responsible for what came next.
But no sound came.
At last, near dawn, he drifted into a fitful sleep—his dreams dark and heavy with helplessness. Elizabeth reaching for him, but he could not move. Wickham laughing. Georgiana weeping. Flames consuming the halls of Pemberley as he pounded on doors that would not open.
And still, he slept.
Alone.
∞∞∞
The first day passed slowly, like wading through thick, invisible fog.
Though the fire burned warmly in the hearth of the mistress’s chamber, neither Georgiana nor Elizabeth could quite relax.
Every sound in the corridor—every footstep, creak, or muffled voice—made them flinch.
Wickham’s drunken shouting earlier that morning had not been repeated, but the memory of it lingered like the scent of cheap port.
Georgiana sat on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped tightly around her knees, while Elizabeth tried to summon calm for them both.
“We need distraction,” she declared after several minutes of fraught silence.
Georgiana glanced at her with dull eyes. “From what? My life?”
“From the noise of your thoughts,” Elizabeth said firmly. “So here is what we shall do. I will tell you every ridiculous story I can remember from my childhood until you either laugh or tell me to be quiet.”
And so she did.
She began with tales of Lydia—falling into a pigpen at age five, insisting she could make gooseberry jam with onions, and once stealing a pair of Lady Lucas’s shoes because they sparkled. Then came Mary’s failed attempt at writing poetry and Kitty’s tantrum over a bonnet that blew into a pond.
Georgiana smiled faintly at the first tale, then chuckled a little by the third, even though she had heard some of them before.
It was not much, but it was a start.
Mrs. Reynolds came in shortly thereafter, her arms full of distractions: books, sewing, and a small tea tray. “Try to keep your minds occupied,” she said softly, casting a wary glance toward the locked adjoining door to the master’s chambers. “And your ears alert. I will bring supper later.”
The hours passed slowly. Elizabeth read aloud while Georgiana worked at mending a small linen gown they had salvaged from the attic—one that had once belonged to Georgiana herself, now destined for the child she carried.
When night fell, the tension returned in full.
Elizabeth moved the chair from the vanity to sit before the connecting door, placing a heavy folio of music atop it for good measure. If Wickham tried to enter in the night, the racket would surely wake them both.
They lay side by side under the bedclothes, both still clothed in case they needed to flee, Elizabeth with her eyes fixed on the dimly glowing embers. Georgiana stared at the ceiling.
“Do you think he will come in?” the girl asked softly.
“I do not know,” Elizabeth replied truthfully. “But I do not think he will tonight. He was well into his bottle when last we heard him.”
Indeed, not long after, Wickham’s unmistakable snores reverberated through the connecting wall. It was crude and vulgar—but oddly comforting. At least while he slept, they were safe.
Georgiana turned toward Elizabeth. “I am glad you are here.”
Elizabeth reached across the narrow space and gave her hand a squeeze. “So am I.”
And at last, they both slept.
∞∞∞
It was midmorning the following day, when the fire in the drawing room finally began to chase away the chill. Mrs. Reynolds knocked softly and slipped inside, holding out a sealed envelope on a salver.
“For Mrs. Wickham,” she said with a respectful nod before quickly exiting.
Georgiana blinked in surprise, her embroidery needle halting mid-stitch. “For me?”
Elizabeth leaned over curiously. Georgiana’s hand trembled slightly as she reached for the thick envelope. She stared at the family crest impressed in wax, then at the familiar, sprawling handwriting.
“It is from Colonel Fitzwilliam,” she whispered. Her hands began to shake even more.
“Your cousin?” Elizabeth asked gently.
Georgiana nodded, eyes suddenly bright with tears. “I— I have not heard from Richard since before—since before I married. I thought…” She swallowed. “He must be so ashamed of me; he could not even bear to write.”
Elizabeth’s heart clenched. “Open it,” she said softly. “Read what he says.”
With trembling fingers, Georgiana broke the seal and unfolded the thick paper. Her eyes moved rapidly across the page, and after only a few lines, her hand flew to her mouth. Her shoulders began to shake, and the letter dropped into her lap as tears spilled freely down her cheeks.
Elizabeth reached for her hand. “What is it?”
Georgiana could not speak for a moment, only shook her head and handed her the letter. Elizabeth took it gently and scanned the words.
My dearest Georgiana,
I scarcely know how to begin this letter. I sit here with pen in hand, surrounded by the warmth of our family home, and yet I feel as though I am writing to someone I failed most grievously.
I have only just returned to England. My last assignment took me far afield—to a place where post is unreliable, and the world even more so.
I did not know. I did not know, Georgie, that you had left Matlock, that you had married, that you had been abandoned, and—God above—that you are now with child.
Word of your condition has spread beyond Lambton to even here at Matlock.
Forgive me. Not for what I did, but for what I could not do. For not being here. For not protecting you, as I swore I always would.
I should have been at your side. I should have been there to knock Wickham’s teeth in and drag you back home myself.
Instead, I return to hear my baby cousin’s life has been turned inside out while I played soldier in some foreign field.
You are not alone, Georgiana. I know that is little comfort now—but I mean it with every part of me. You still have family. You still have me. I will come to you as soon as I am able. If you will have me, I will do whatever I can to set things right—or at least better than they are now.
I am at Matlock recovering from my wounds, so I am only a few hours’ ride away. As soon as I can comfortably make the journey, I intend to call on you. If your husband is also at Pemberley, be assured that I will be having words with him about his treatment of you.
I love you, dear girl. I always have.
Yours devotedly,
Richard
Elizabeth blinked back tears as she finished reading. When she looked up, Georgiana was quietly weeping again—but this time with relief.
“I thought he hated me,” she whispered. “I thought he was so disappointed in me, that he could not even bring himself to write. That he had washed his hands of me entirely.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “He loves you. He was not silent out of judgment, Georgiana. He was silent because he did not know.”
Georgiana sniffled and clutched the letter to her chest. “I thought I had no one.”
“But you do,” Elizabeth said gently. “You have more people supporting you than you realize. You have Colonel Fitzwilliam. You have Mrs. Reynolds. You have me and my husband.”
A small, broken laugh escaped the girl. “I do not deserve any of you.”
Elizabeth gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “None of us deserve the people who love us. That is what makes it a gift.”
Georgiana looked at her, blinking rapidly through tears. “May I write him back? At once?”
“Of course, my dear! You hardly need my permission. Remember, you are mistress of Pemberley.”
And as Georgiana rose and hurried to find pen and paper, her cheeks still streaked with tears but her posture straighter than it had been in days, Elizabeth offered up a silent prayer of thanks.
Hope, once a fragile ember, now burned a little brighter.