Chapter Twenty-five
It seems that trust is something that is built.
She did not forgive me, well, at least, she certainly never said that she forgave me, and perhaps if I asked her, even now, she would tell me that she still did not forgive me, even as her hand rests on her swelling belly, even as she is round with with our child.
It has been a year since we were married.
We are in London now, even though she is too heavy with child to socialize, and it might make better sense for us to retire to the country.
However, this is Georgiana’s second Season.
We were here for her last year and we shall be here again to make certain that she is ready to navigate it.
She lived with us all of last spring, attending balls and dancing with gentlemen, though none caught her fancy.
In the summer, Georgiana accompanied us to Pemberley.
I have liked having her close, and I think Georgiana likes it, too. I have taken pains to be more attentive, and though she has not said so, I think it has made all the difference.
I cannot say whether or not I was correct when I presumed that my wife could be rubbing Georgiana the wrong way, because they have gotten along quite well, I believe.
I think my sister was starved for anyone paying her mind, and she sought to please my aunt in the hopes of winning her favor.
Away from Lady Matlock’s influence, she seems to have no issues with Elizabeth.
Certainly, she has never again said my wife was loud.
Elizabeth, for her part, says that she has been used to living with four sisters for her entire life, so she is quite happy enough having a bit of girlish company in the house, and we have all gotten along quite well, I think.
Last winter and spring, we had quite the lively social calendar.
The invitations kept coming in, and we went here and there and everywhere, even to Vauxhall, though not with the Petersons.
If anyone thought my wife was improper, they certainly did not say so.
In fact, everyone seemed to enjoy her company, and she was well-received by simply everyone.
If my aunt, Lady Matlock, did not receive her well, I had to set her straight, but that only happened twice before Lady Matlock kept her opinions to herself.
Of course, my other aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, she was not one who would keep her opinions to herself. At first, she was very put out that I had not married her daughter Anne, as everyone had expected me to do, and she did not wish to speak to me at all, or to meet my new wife.
But then, after word must have reached her about how my wife was the toast of London, Lady Catherine was suddenly eager for us to visit, and she began sending letter after letter begging us to come and stay at Rosings.
It turned out that Elizabeth’s friend someone-or-other…
I keep forgetting her first name. She is Mrs. Collins now, bless the woman.
At any rate, she married Mr. Collins, who is the heir to Longbourn, and who would not deign to marry any of the Bennet girls because of the way everyone was gossiping about Elizabeth after we were trapped in the house together.
He is the rector there and lives quite nearby to Rosings.
And Mrs. Collins… the former Miss Lucas, I think, but her first name…
Collette, perhaps?
At any rate, she and Elizabeth had been close friends, so Elizabeth eventually agreed that we could go so that she could visit with Mrs. Collins, so we went.
It was miserable.
Lady Catherine is quite a lot to take even when she is not furious with you for not uniting with her daughter and pulling together both Rosings and Pemberley for your offspring to inherit, and all of that.
After that visit, it was back to Hertfordshire for the wedding of Mr. Bingley and Elizabeth’s sister Jane. Caroline Bingley was not in attendance, having stayed away at her sister’s London house due to some malady, or so she said. I was not at all displeased about not having to see her again.
Then we spent the fall and winter at Pemberley, and it was then that my wife informed me she was with child, and that was a feeling I cannot even describe.
I felt small and big at once. I felt terrified and expansive.
We waited a time before telling Georgiana, who was quite excited at the news, and I believe that brought my sister and wife even closer.
Of Mr. Wickham, we have heard little. He remains with the regiment, as I understand, and he was involved in some scandal in the spring, in Brighton.
He eloped with a girl, as I understand it, but then failed to actually marry her until some pressure was exerted upon him, and now he and his new Mrs. Wickham make their way together.
However, perhaps on the threat of being shot, he leaves me and anyone connected to me alone.
I hope it stays that way.
But I hardly think of that man anymore, and I certainly would never suspect that my wife cared for him.
Richard stayed away for a time, but not too long. I believed my wife when she said that she was only ever being friendly, in truth. I think that it becomes easy for men to construe friendliness as something it is not, and I think Richard’s desire was all one-sided.
I cannot fault him for it, however. How could I, when I desire her, too.
But there is no sting of jealousy or fear between us now.
Now, there is trust.
And I do not know if it could have been wrought with effort in a moment. I feel as if it was something that had to fill itself in, just a bit at a time, as we made our new lives together.
As the time passes, it becomes less and less important why I married this woman.
Was it because of overwhelming desire? Was it because I wished a scandal to overshadow my sister’s potential scandal? Was it to be honorable and to rescue her from ruin?
It matters not.
What matters is that she is mine now, and she is my perfect match. She is bright and full of gaiety when I am small and quiet. She is unafraid when I am hesitant. When I wish to fade into the periphery, she stands and takes the attention.
It is more than trust in many ways, it is feeling as if I have found someone who makes me better.
I do not know if I make her better in any way. Likely, I do not.
But she does get this soft look when her gaze alights on mine.
Not even the haze of desire anymore, not often, for the babe is large and she is tired and we are more than what we were before, more than two people desperate to have someone desire us.
We are secure in each other now, and we are bringing another person into the world, a little babe made of the both of us, and it is overwhelming to be part and parcel of the great vastness of the world in this way, to be part of the ageless cycles of new life.
It is too much to grasp, and it makes something quicken inside me, an ache, but a sweet one.
There is trust.
There is love.
And yes, perhaps I am trapped by her, perhaps I often feel ensnared and entangled, the two of us enmeshed with each other in such a way that we could not either of us become free. But if so, I should like to stay in this trap for the rest of my days. Never free me of it.
Now, we sit together in the dark winter evening of January, my arm around her, her head on my shoulder, my hand on her belly and her hand on it too.
She is reading, and I am supposed to be reading, but I find myself musing these sorts of thoughts and then snatching glances at her book from time to time.
“Are you trying to read my book, Fitzwilliam?” she says, laughing at me, because she is always laughing, she is the most merry of women.
“I am not,” I say. “I am reading my own.”
“That isn’t proper, you know, reading over my shoulder without permission. What if I did not wish you to see what it was?”
“Well, hiding such things from your husband couldn’t be proper,” I say.
“I, as you know, am rather the least proper woman of all the women you’ve ever met,” she says, snuggling in against me.
“Hang propriety,” I say, rubbing her belly.
She laughs again.
I kiss the top of her head and I hold tightly to her. This, here, in my grasp, this is everything and more.
~
I’m ever so pleased you’ve made it here, all the way to the end!
Thank you for reading my book.