18. Chapter Eighteen #3
He closed the door, though not fully. Propriety remained a tyrant even among siblings.
For a moment he said nothing.
Georgiana clasped her hands in front of her. Now that the danger had passed, her courage had begun leaking away, and she felt absurdly close to tears.
Fitzwilliam crossed to the mantel, then faced her before reaching it. “I am proud of you.”
That was all.
The words struck too near.
Georgiana sat abruptly because standing had become difficult.
Fitzwilliam came to the chair opposite hers. “Forgive me. I did not mean to distress you.”
“You have not.” She pressed her fingers together in her lap. “I am merely… I do not know what I am.”
“Understandable.”
That made her smile despite herself. “Is it?”
“Very. I have spent years not knowing what I am until several hours after the fact.”
She stared at him.
Then he added, “Do not tell Bingley.”
A surprised laugh broke through her tears before they could fall.
Fitzwilliam sat back, relief passing over his face and gone again. “I should have prevented her from presuming upon you long before now.”
“You could not know all of it.”
“I knew enough.”
Georgiana shook her head. “No. You knew what I permitted you to see. I did not know how to object. Sometimes I did not even know I wished to object until Lydia said something dreadful and true.”
“Miss Lydia has a gift for that.”
“She does.” Georgiana twisted one ribbon end around her finger, then forced herself to release it. “I do not wish Miss Bingley to remain at Pemberley indefinitely.”
Fitzwilliam’s face became very still.
The old panic rose. She had said too much. She had been ungrateful. Miss Bingley was Bingley’s sister, a guest, a lady who had known them for years. One did not speak so plainly of guests in one’s brother’s house.
Except it was her house too.
A little.
Enough.
Fitzwilliam leaned forward, resting his forearms upon his knees. “Thank you for telling me.”
“You are not angry?”
“No.”
“She is your friend.”
“She is Bingley’s sister,” he said. “That has allowed more intimacy than was wise.”
Georgiana looked down at her hands. “I used to think she must know best. She spoke with such certainty.”
“Certainty and wisdom are not the same.”
“No.” Georgiana breathed out slowly. “Lydia is certain of many things.”
“She is occasionally correct.”
“That is what makes her dangerous.”
Fitzwilliam’s mouth twitched, but he restrained it for her sake. “What do you wish?”
The question startled her.
“What do I wish?”
“Yes.”
No one had asked it so directly in quite that way. Or if they had, Georgiana had answered with what seemed easiest. What would inconvenience no one. What would keep rooms pleasant.
She drifted toward the window. Outside, the lawn sloped toward the trees. Somewhere beyond the glass Lydia’s voice rang out, followed by Horace barking with equal enthusiasm.
“I wish her visit to end soon,” Georgiana said. “Without cruelty. Without a quarrel if it can be accomplished. But soon.”
Fitzwilliam nodded.
That was all. No lecture or hesitation. No reminder of obligation—just acceptance.
“I shall see it done,” he said.
Georgiana’s throat ached and she tried to swallow. “Thank you.”
“And Georgiana?”
She faced him again.
His eyes held hers with an intensity that made her sit straighter.
“You need never earn peace in your own home by surrendering your comfort.”
The words were too much. Too large. Too kind. She could not answer them properly, so she gave an inadequate little nod and looked down until she could trust her face again.
A commotion erupted in the corridor.
“Miss Darcy!” Lydia called through the half-open door. “Horace has stolen Mr. Hurst’s slipper, and I require moral support.”
Fitzwilliam closed his eyes.
Georgiana covered her mouth.
The timing was outrageous and perfect.
“Coming,” she choked out.
Fitzwilliam stood and opened the door wider. Lydia stood outside with one slipper in hand and Horace behind her, looking profoundly pleased with himself.
“I rescued it,” Lydia announced. “Mostly.”
Fitzwilliam examined the slipper. “Mostly?”
“The heel is compromised.”
From behind them, Mr. Hurst’s voice came faintly down the corridor. “Where is my other shoe?”
Lydia thrust the slipper toward Georgiana. “You see? Urgency.”
Georgiana took it because Lydia clearly expected her to, then dissolved into helpless amusement.
Fitzwilliam stepped aside, one hand against the doorframe, and watched her go with an expression she was no longer afraid to understand.
Pride.
Love.
A little disbelief, perhaps, at the family Pemberley had somehow become overrun with.
Georgiana followed Lydia down the corridor, slipper in hand, laughter still trembling in her chest. Miss Bingley might remain a few days longer. The house might still hold difficult conversations, awkward meals, and more attempts at control.
But Georgiana had said no.
And when Lydia seized her arm and whispered, “You were splendid, you know,” Georgiana did not correct her.
She held the ruined slipper higher, gathered what dignity she could, and proceeded toward Mr. Hurst’s rescue.