The Road to Pemberley (36 page)

Finally, when the house had been searched a third time, it occurred to a timid upstairs maid to ask if anyone had surveyed the cellars. The staff in attendance for this profound utterance looked at one another, shrugging and shaking their heads. At once, Mrs. Nicholls herself led two footmen and the valets to the cellars.

On first glance, nothing appeared amiss. They entered the main cellar in silence and heard no cries for help. Then, waving their lamps here and there as they approached, a footman noted a long iron bar lying across the entry to the wine room, and wedged into a corner in such a way as to have the effect of blocking the closet door. The lock itself had the kitchen key protruding from it. The footman tugged to remove the bar and—being unsuccessful on the first attempt, as it was stuck fast—he passed his lamp to Grayson and used two hands to finally yank the bar free.

Thus were Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy finally emancipated from their incarceration. Mrs. Nicholls opened the wine closet door and peered cautiously inside to find two gentlemen seated at the table in the center. They looked a fright—hair tumbled about, their ascots long discarded, and their coats lying on the floor next to them—and the gentlemen themselves languished across the table, resting on their elbows. At the entry of the valets, Bingley and Darcy both raised their heads and smiled in a slow, languorous manner, which suggested they were only marginally alert. Grayson and Hodge stepped in straightaway then to assist in escorting the gentlemen to their chambers. During their slow progress up the stairs, the housekeeper managed, between the two men, to hear an account of how they had come to be found there.

Despite their having been found after three in the morning, and their consumption of a significant amount of Bingley's pinot noir inventory, neither Bingley nor Darcy found himself able to sleep long once he was restored to his rooms. Both rose early after only a few hours; and, following extended attentions from their valets—including a celebrated concoction of Grayson's, which served to restore each to himself somewhat—the gentlemen determined to travel to Longbourn at the earliest moment in person. They had been grateful to find that Mrs. Nicholls had at once dispatched a messenger in the middle of the night to the Bennet family with word of the circumstances of Mr. Bingley's disappearance and subsequent restoration in good health. She admitted, however, that so flustered had she been at the entire episode that she had quite forgotten to mention Mr. Darcy in the missive.

And so the gentlemen found themselves now on the path to the Bennet residence, prepared to offer apologies and assurances of continued goodwill. Bingley could not wait to be reunited with his Jane, while Darcy held his hands together to keep them still as he pondered his likely reception by another Bennet daughter.

“Bingley,” said Darcy as they approached the arched entry to the manor yard—having determined that he would speak with Miss Elizabeth Bennet this day, no matter the risk to his pride, and now wanting to take his mind from the less sanguine possible consequences of such discourse—“have you any recollection of how we passed the night?” His friend looked at him, and he clarified, “Surely, we must have done something—held some converse—during our detention; yet I confess myself unable to recall a single detail.” He looked to Bingley with a quizzical brow.

“Do you know, Darcy,” replied his friend after some concentration, “I have no idea!”

Georgiana's Voice

BY J. H. THOMPSON

Mr. Julius Pritchard is not the most well-known music master in the city of London, but every Tuesday, in a large and stylish townhouse in Portnam Square in London, he is hailed as the best. A servant of the Darcy family for twelve years, he knows the styles and preferences of his pupil well, and when he brings new pieces to be learned, it is always with the confidence that she will accept the challenge and, eventually, play the piece as it was meant to be played.

The girl is tall—quite too tall for her age—thin, and with sadly arranged brown hair. The room holds her one friend in the form of a well-used pianoforte, which she hammers at relentlessly. Poorly, too, for she is not paying attention to the music sheets. That girl is me—I am Georgiana Catherine Abigail Darcy.

I am waiting for Mr. Pritchard to arrive to deliver my lesson. This has always been the best part of my week, and I am especially eager to see him, as I have not had a proper lesson in more than three months. He believes that I no longer truly need his instruction, that my talent is natural and that as long as it is always nurtured in me, it will always exist. For my part, I at least believe that my love of music, if not my talent, is natural.

Mr. Pritchard has been my master since I first sat down at the keys. My only sibling, my brother Fitzwilliam, had chosen him for me after having had many complaints from my nurse that I would not stay out of the music room or away from the pianoforte. I was only four years old then; my mother had already passed away. With clarity I can recall the first time ever I played a piece right—some nursery song or other—and Fitzwilliam was there. My dear brother clapped and praised me and told me how well I had played. I really adore him; when I was a child I wanted to marry him.

When Mr. Pritchard comes in from the dreary London day I greet him fondly; he gives me one of those smiles that make me wish he were my grandfather. “Miss Darcy,” he says, fluttering papers about, “I am quite gratified that you are returned from Ramsgate. I trust your stay there was all you hoped?”

I smile sadly and take his hand. “It was not, in fact; but let us not talk of it. What have you brought me?”

“If you are in a somber mood, Miss Darcy, perhaps the selection I have brought today is more appropriate than I knew.” He smiles and flutters some music sheets in front of me. “Now, come and play.
You will enjoy the piece, I hope. But first, warm your fingers and play me something merry.”

I sit next to him, and play a Mozart piece which I have known for many years, which he likes. When it is over he claps and praises, and I smile, for his sentiments are truly felt. How much easier things would be, if only everyone were as open and honest as Mr. Pritchard!

He bids me to play my new piece. I read the notes, one by one, and then I play the whole piece through, hearing the tick of the pendulum, the deep timbre of the notes, the slow progression of the piece, but not the music. Mr. Pritchard tells me to play it again. He has moved to the chaise to sit back and listen. “Truly, you are paid for nothing,” I tease him.

“Play your lesson, Miss Darcy,” he says, and tries to sound stern. I smirk and turn back to the instrument. “And listen when you play—oh, you will like this piece.”

I play. The music is haunting—it is low and deliberate and each note rumbles in my stomach. I am carried away by the melody, melancholy rushing over and through me. Suddenly I am no longer in the music room, but away again—back in Ramsgate, where the ocean pounds the rocks and the air smells warm and salty; I am with him again—with the man who has, since I departed that place, haunted me with every step. I can feel his gentle hand upon my chin and his firm lips on mine; I can hear the tender words whispered in my ear. Silent tears roll down my cheeks.

I ought to be paying attention to the music sheets, but I cannot think and stumble several times. I cannot control the bent of my thoughts; they always turn toward him. I know he does not love me. In my head, I know. In my heart, though, I hope even still, for though I now understand that he never loved me as he professed to so passionately, I love him still. Oh...my heart aches for him.

The piece is over. Without looking up I ask who has written it, not hearing the answer. Mr. Pritchard touches my hand gently and leaves the house in Portnam Square.

I clearly remember the day my father died. I was not yet twelve years old, and on that morning I had risen with the determination to go outside and walk, as I had not been allowed to for several days. Fitzwilliam came to my chamber before I was quite ready, and I recall being angry with him for that. I could never forget the words he said—“Georgiana, Papa died in the night...”—words delivered in such a low, soft voice as I had never before heard from him. My heart broke.

I simply cried for an hour straight. My brother, you see, does not lie and does not exaggerate, so any information he delivers, no matter how shocking, must be taken at face value. There was no need to question, reason, or see for myself. My Papa was gone, and the only two Darcys left in the world were young, devastated, and quite alone.

It was then that Fitzwilliam developed that controlled facade that I hate so much. I know the very moment it first appeared—right before he delivered the news to me. For a while, I really believed him as indifferent on the inside as he appeared on the outside. Then I learned to read his eyes—windows to the soul, Mrs. Reynolds (our housekeeper at Pemberley and a very dear woman) once told me. It could not be more true in the case of my brother. His face could be absolutely blank and yet if one were intuitive enough, one could read Fitzwilliam's eyes.

He almost always wears that infernal mask, but I have learned how to tell when he is teasing me, when he is frustrated, when he is tired, and when he is pleased. Very occasionally, when it is only
the two of us together, I can get him to take it off—I can get him to open up and talk with me. These times are the only moments I truly spend with my brother. They are always very brief, but I cherish them with all my heart.

Tonight is one of those nights. The mask is definitely off, likely because he wishes to cheer me. He is just returned from Pemberley, and tomorrow he promises a visit from someone whom he says that I should like very much.

“Mrs. Priscilla Annesley is the widow, if you recall, of the late rector of Hunsford Parsonage. Our aunt disliked her greatly, so I am certain we shall find her a sensible woman. I have applied to her to visit, and if you like her, dear girl, you shall have a new companion.”

I long to observe that I do not want a companion, but a sister; or, better still, to have my brother always with me. But I know that neither is very likely. “She is a young woman, if memory serves,” I reply, looking into my tea. Then I look up, and with the expression on his face that begs for liveliness from me, I cannot help but oblige him a little. “Shall she try to charm you?”

He smirks. “As you well know, my dear sister, I am not easily charmed. And I do not think the widow of a clergyman would be quite suitable,” he says. My face falls, but my brother does not know why, and he asks.

“Who would be suitable?” I ask him. “Who is good enough for you?”

He looks away, uncomfortable.

“There is no one good enough for you, Fitzwilliam,” I say in absence of any reply from him, shaking my head and looking away. “What woman exists, among those who would be suitable, who does not fawn over you without having been acquainted with the fact of your fortune? And what man exists who will not hunt me for mine?”

He takes my chin in his hand. “These are questions too heavy for a girl your age,” he says, sadness descending into his eyes. And then, carefully, he adds, “There are those whom I trust—honorable young men, with integrity, who are artless.”