Chapter 27 #2
Elizabeth stirred, her hand tightening over his. “What shall we do now?” she murmured, her voice thick with fatigue.
“I do not know,” he said truthfully. “My mind is too clouded to think.”
She gave a small sound of agreement, half sigh, half whisper, and leaned against him once more. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her close.
The room was dim and the air in the room was warmer than usual. The steady rhythm of her breathing lulled him, and the heaviness in his eyes would not be denied.
At last, together, they drifted into sleep.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth awoke to the afternoon light pressing against the curtains. For a moment she could not recall where she was, only that the room felt still and unfamiliar. Then the sound of a knock at the door brought everything back—the night before, the news, the strange relief that had followed.
Mrs. Reynolds’s voice carried through the panel. “Mrs. Smith, ma’am—Mrs. Georgiana is awake.”
Elizabeth stirred, glancing toward Darcy. He was already watching her, his dark eyes heavy with fatigue but softened by something that looked very like peace.
“I have an idea,” she said quietly, pushing back the coverlet.
He smiled faintly. “I am grateful that you always have ideas, for I am often at a loss. An emergency upon an estate is simple enough. Matters of the heart, however, are an entirely different campaign.”
The warmth in his tone spread through her like sunlight. “Then it is well one of us has some experience,” she replied gently, rising to dress.
They went down together to the dining room, where lunch was being served.
The smell of tea and warm bread met them at the door.
Georgiana sat at the table, pale but composed, her hands folded in her lap.
Colonel Fitzwilliam was beside her, a cup of coffee in his hand.
Both looked up as Elizabeth and Darcy entered.
“Come, sit with us,” the colonel said, motioning to the empty chairs. “Now that your friend is here, Georgie-girl, there is something you should know. It may be unpleasant, but you deserve the truth.”
He hesitated, his eyes flickering to Elizabeth. She understood at once.
Elizabeth reached across the table and took Georgiana’s hand. “My dear, there has been an accident,” she said gently. “Your husband is dead.”
Georgiana blinked, her face blank for a moment. Then she looked to her cousin. “You did not—?”
“Good heavens, no!” Richard exclaimed, appalled. “It was not my doing.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “It was his own foolishness. He was drinking in Lambton last night and decided to ride home. His horse threw him.”
Silence followed. Georgiana’s gaze drifted to the window, unfocused, and then tears began to slide down her cheeks.
Darcy and Richard exchanged alarmed glances. “You cannot possibly be mourning him,” Richard said incredulously.
Georgiana only wept harder.
Elizabeth touched her shoulder. “Colonel, allow her a moment. Sometimes when women receive great news—whether happy or sad—tears are the first release. There must be so many emotions within her just now. Relief, perhaps, followed by guilt for feeling that relief. Guilt, too, that had she been a better wife, he might not have gone to the tavern at all. And now, uncertainty for the future. It is a great deal for one heart to contain.”
Richard studied his cousin for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “All of those feelings inside your little body, Georgie-girl? It is a wonder you do not burst.”
The absurdity of the remark drew a startled laugh from her, and soon all of them were smiling through the dampness of tears.
Elizabeth squeezed her hand. “None of this is your fault, my dear. Mr. Wickham made his own choices, and now he has paid their price. The question is what must happen next.”
Georgiana’s expression crumpled once more. “But what can I do now? My husband is gone, and I cannot own property. I shall fall under my uncle’s authority again, and now with a child. The child will inherit, but if my uncle petitions the court, he might take it from me. I have no power at all.”
Elizabeth took a deep breath. “Then it is fortunate that I have another idea.”
Both men turned toward her. Their gazes were attentive but wary, and her courage wavered for a moment. What if the colonel dismissed her suggestion outright? What if she made matters worse?
Still, she pressed on. “What if you had another husband, Georgiana?”
Georgiana blinked. “Another—?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said carefully. “A man you could trust. Someone who would care for you and for the child. Someone who would protect you.”
Georgiana’s brow furrowed. “But how could I know he was good? What if he proved just the same? I do not think I wish to marry again.”
Elizabeth met the colonel’s eyes deliberately. “But what if it were someone you already know? Someone whose honor is beyond question.”
Understanding dawned slowly on his face.
“Who?” Georgiana asked, still staring down at her hands.
“Me,” said Richard, and Georgiana’s head jerked up, startled.
He rose and came to stand beside her, then knelt so that he was level with her chair.
“I know I am older than you,” he said quietly, “and I have been your absent guardian more than your friend. It would not be a great love affair such as one reads of in novels, but I do care for you, and for Pemberley. I flatter myself that I am a moderately good catch.”
She gave a watery laugh through her tears. “But there is no money to rebuild Pemberley. We have scarcely enough now.”
“Your dowry was withheld,” he reminded her, “because my father and I would not consent to Wickham. That fortune remains untouched. My father will grant permission for this marriage, and when he does, your dowry can restore Pemberley and provide for you and the child.”
“And your career?”
He smiled faintly. “My injury on this last campaign prevents me from being able to return to the front. They will have to defeat the little emperor without me, whether we wed or not.”
Georgiana bit her lip, uncertain. He reached for her hand and held it gently.
“You need not decide now,” he said softly. “Think upon it as long as you like. But with the child so near, it might be wise to marry before your confinement. It would secure you, and him.”
She looked at him through her tears. “Could you love a child of his?” she whispered. “An absent father is better than an indifferent one—but I would not wish you to bear the burden.”
He reached up and brushed a tear from her cheek with his thumb. “Children are the product of how they are raised, not of their sires. Otherwise I would resemble my parents, and Heaven help me if that were so. No, Georgie-girl, I could love this child. Gladly.”
Her lip trembled. “You are very good, Cousin.”
He smiled at that. “Good enough, perhaps, to give your family back its name. I should like your children, and all of us, to take it again—the Darcy name. Lady Anne and George Darcy made Pemberley a place of warmth and love. It is time that name stood for that once more.”
Georgiana hesitated. “But will not your father be angry?”
Richard shook his head. “I will pacify him. If the child is a boy, he shall be called Fitzwilliam; if a girl, Anne Catherine, for our mothers—his sisters. That will soothe his pride.”
Tears welled again, though this time they were gentler. “Then yes,” she whispered. “I would be honored.”
He rose and gathered her carefully into his arms. She leaned against him, resting her head upon his shoulder, and for the first time since Elizabeth had met her, Georgiana’s face held peace.
Darcy pushed back his chair and stood. The motion drew Elizabeth’s attention; his face was composed, but there was something shadowed behind his eyes—something that looked very much like sorrow.
His gaze lingered for only a moment upon his sister before he inclined his head and murmured a quiet word of congratulations.
Elizabeth watched him go. The sound of his departing footsteps echoed softly in the corridor, and for a moment the room felt strangely still without him.
The colonel and Georgiana remained close together, speaking in low tones, their faces softened by the tender uncertainty of new understanding.
Mrs. Reynolds had discreetly slipped away, leaving them to the intimacy of the moment.
Elizabeth’s heart swelled with affection and relief, but also with a pang of sympathy for the man who had just left the room. Darcy’s love for his sister was deep, and his heart—already raw from all that had passed—must ache with a dozen conflicting feelings: pride, gratitude, loss.
She drew a quiet breath, steadied herself, and after offering one last smile to the pair at the table, slipped out into the passage to find him.