CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE #2
The direct, empathetic question seemed to be the key Georgiana needed.
“It is a constant reminder,” she whispered, her eyes shimmering, “of the man I thought my brother was and the man I believed George to be. A difference I did not truly understand until it was too late.” She drew a ragged breath.
“It was only a few weeks after we had married that George began to tell me the truth of it all: the gambling debts, the indiscretions, the many betrayals. And I was not certain if he spoke from a place of guilt, or,” a flicker of her old, Darcy pride sparked in her eyes, “from a cruel need to taunt me for my foolishness.”
“I admire that you have forged a life with him. It could not have been easy,” said Elizabeth gently.
Georgiana looked at her, and to Elizabeth’s surprise, a defiant flush tinged her cheeks.
“It felt impossibly difficult at first,” she admitted, “When we left Scotland, we had nothing. Fitzwilliam had, quite rightly, refused my portion. George was in trouble again with his debts. The army was the only refuge left to him, the only place his creditors would not follow. So he enlisted. And he began to change. I think it was the first real responsibility he had ever had in his life. The discipline, the structure…he railed against it initially, of course, but his superiors saw his value. They found uses for his charm and his cunning. He was sent on difficult reconnaissance missions, tasks that required a man who could talk his way out of any situation, and he excelled. He took such pride in the commission he earned.”
The word “earned” struck Elizabeth hard.
She looked at Georgiana’s earnest face, and the painful magnanimity of Darcy’s act became breathtakingly clear.
He had not only purchased the commission that had given them consequence and something to live on, he had gifted Wickham the illusion of having earned it himself.
Georgiana, oblivious to her realisation, continued her heartfelt narrative. “So yes, it was difficult at first. How could it not have been? I thought I loved him, but he married me simply to hurt my brother.”
Her heart ached for the younger woman, but Georgiana said it without flinching.
“But in this past year, in the face of all this suffering, something has grown between us, something real. George is not the man Fitzwilliam believes him to be. Not anymore. I have seen a tenderness and courage in him. The responsibility of his rank has changed him. Being a husband has changed him.”
As Elizabeth listened, she felt some of her distrust, however reluctantly, giving way.
This was not the deluded infatuation she might have expected.
Georgiana spoke of a difficult partnership forged in hardship.
It was the testimony of a woman who had seen the truth of her husband’s character and still found something changed enough to be worthy of her loyalty.
“You showed faith in him when no one else did,” she said, “even when he showed you the worst of himself. When he had proven himself unworthy of anyone's trust, you chose to offer him yours all the same. It is a wonder your spirit withstood such a trial.”
A sadness settled over Georgiana. “The truth is, a part of me broke completely,” she whispered.
“I once had a gift for healing, but that ability fractured the moment I betrayed Fitzwilliam. All that remained was a shadow of what it had been.” She looked back at Elizabeth, her eyes brimming.
“I had to learn to bear pain as others do, without that solace. But what else was I to do? Surrender to bitterness? To self-loathing? Faith was the only choice that allowed for hope.”
Elizabeth’s heart clenched. “Oh Georgiana,” she said sympathetically.
Georgiana looked down. “But I know Fitzwilliam will never forgive George, and he will never forgive me for betraying him. I do regret the pain I caused him.”
The raw grief in her voice was undeniable.
Elizabeth squeezed her hand. She was surprised by a gentle warmth that emanated from the younger woman’s skin, a soothing pulse that seemed to blunt the sharpest edges of her own heartache.
“Georgiana, if you would only speak to him, then I believe he would forgive you.”
“Speak to him? Oh, Elizabeth, I could not. He despises me.”
“Your brother does not despise you. He has been wounded by you, and you by him. There is a difference.”
“No,” Georgiana said, shaking her head firmly, “Our father always said that once a good opinion is lost, it is lost forever. I know Fitzwilliam took that advice to heart.”
“He is capable of forgiveness. Believe me when I say I have given him every reason to be unforgiving, and yet he has done so.” She saw the flicker of surprise in Georgiana’s eyes and pressed on, her voice softening with empathy.
“And he loves you still, I am certain of it. The chasm between you is not so wide as you fear; it is only built of silence.”
Georgiana’s gaze dropped to her shaking hands. “But…he will not even meet my eyes. When we are in the same room, it is as if I am a ghost he is determined to ignore. How can I speak to him when he will not even acknowledge my presence?”
“I know it seems so,” Elizabeth said, “But do you truly believe it is hatred that makes him look away? Or is it pain?” She saw the question register on Georgiana’s face, a new and startling thought.
“He looks away, Georgiana, not because he does not see you, but because when he does, he sees everything he has lost. He sees the young girl he promised his father he would protect. He hides behind his anger because that is easier to bear.”
Wetness glimmered in Georgiana’s eyes.
“You are the only one who can offer him the forgiveness he needs — forgiveness for failing to protect you.”
A quiet sob escaped. Georgiana quickly pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling the sound, her eyes darting towards the men, but they remained absorbed in their maps and their argument and took no notice.
Then, slowly, she wiped the tear from her cheek with the back of her hand.
A new light blazed in her eyes. It was the Darcy resolve.
“I confess I am afraid,” Georgiana said, her tone still shaky. “But you are right. The silence is the worst.” She drew herself up, a small, yet significant straightening of her slender shoulders. “I will speak with him. Tonight.”
At last, the men pushed back from the table, the planning for the morrow concluded. A general, weary move was made to retire for the night. The small group rose, their steps echoing in the corridor as they made for the stairs.
Elizabeth paused at the foot of the staircase, turning to look back through the doorway to the parlour. Through the opening, she could see Georgiana, a solitary figure who had not yet risen with the others, but lingered huddled by the sputtering fire. They exchanged glances.
“Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth said, her voice carrying clearly in the quiet corridor, “Mrs Wickham looks pinched with the cold. That fire does little, and I am concerned she will relapse.” She met his eyes, a disarming innocence in her own.
“Fortunately I left my good woollen shawl on the settee there. Would you be so kind as to take it to her?”
Colonel Fitzwilliam, who had paused with them, immediately grasped the manoeuvre.
An appreciative smile touched his lips. “Such an excellent thought, Mrs Darcy. The girl does look frozen. Come, Wickham, let us not linger in the drafts.” With a non-negotiable hand on his arm, he began to shepherd a visibly confused Wickham up the stairs.
Darcy, however, stood frozen, his gaze fixed on Elizabeth. His displeasure was clearly written across his face.
Elizabeth knew that he saw the checkmate. To refuse such a simple, charitable request, to deny his shivering, barely recovered, sister a shawl his wife had offered, would be an act of pettiness. He was cornered, not by force, but by the rules of gentlemanly conduct.
He gave her a look. It was a look that communicated his resentment at having this confrontation forced upon him.
Then, with a stiff nod that was meant for her eyes alone, a silent promise of a later, more private reckoning, he turned back towards the parlour for her shawl. Each step was a reluctant concession.
She swiftly made her exit before he could make his.
In her chamber, Elizabeth found herself in a state of disquiet as the minutes stretched on.
The only sounds were the sputtering candle on her nightstand and the mournful sigh of the wind against the inn’s windowpanes.
Had she misjudged? Had she forced a confrontation that would only deepen the hurt?
Every creak of a floorboard from the corridor made her jump, her nerves stretched to their breaking point.
It felt like an eternity had passed when, at last, a soft knock sounded at the door.
Steeling herself, she opened it.
She could see immediately that he was changed. The formidable armour of his reserve, the stern planes of his face, seemed to have been laid aside. The ice was gone from his eyes, leaving only an open vulnerability.
Darcy said nothing, merely looked at her. Hesitantly, she closed the distance between them and raised her hands to rest lightly on his shoulders. She half expected him to stiffen, to pull back.
Instead, with a shuddering sigh that seemed to release a year of tightly held pain, he melted into her embrace.
His own powerful arms came around her, holding her not with passion, but with a desperate need.
He rested his cheek against her hair, his frame trembling as he surrendered to the simple comfort she offered.
They stood like that for a long time. He did not speak of what had passed between him and Georgiana, and Elizabeth did not ask. The peace that radiated from him was answer enough.
At last, he eased back, but his hands remained on her. A sound of self-deprecating amusement rumbled in his chest.