The Road to Pemberley (39 page)

Ensuing letters from Netherfield are quite full of Miss Bennet. Fitzwilliam talks about the day on which the Misses Bennet leave Netherfield and how quiet the evenings become. He talks of meeting her at other homes in the neighborhood, and says that he watches her interact with young Lucases and older Philipses, and how much he enjoys talking with her when he does speak. And in one letter, I am struck by his saying, quite bluntly, “She is so expressive, and so full of life, with such striking eyes.” He gives no indication, however, that his sentiments are returned. When he speaks of their conversations, it occurs to me that they debate more than they discuss, so I wonder whether there is any tenderness of feeling for him on her side.

He does, apparently, pay her more attention than he has ever paid any woman, excepting perhaps Miss Bingley, but that can only be because she asks for such attention. In his most recent letter, he mentions that Mr. Bingley is not as satisfied with Netherfield as he had hoped to be, and that they will return to London as soon as matters there are settled.

He arrives sooner than expected. Within a few days of his return, we fall into that same, comfortable routine that we have both come to rely upon. I adore my brother and cherish every moment that can be spent with him. It does not really matter that neither of us is terribly inclined to speak.

My dreams of Ramsgate are becoming less frequent, but they still trouble me. I do not sleep well and am afraid that Mrs. Annesley notices my fatigue. The dreams are generally the same—my mind flashing back to moments when I was alone with him—with the beautiful, charming, and deceitful man who followed me there. The dreams feel so real that I wake up confused, and then feel my anger at him renewed.

One morning, after I have slept very, very little, I try to plead illness with Mrs. Annesley.

“You are not ill,” she says gently. “Miss Darcy, I know that you are not sleeping well. Is there not something that I can do to help you? Will you not tell me what is troubling you?”

I remember the day that she told me she hoped that I would talk with her if I ever felt like talking. There is not anything to tell her that my brother does not already know, so I take in a breath.

“If I were to tell you something in utter confidence,” I begin in a low voice, “would you keep it to yourself?”

“I will keep any secret you tell me, as long as it is not to your detriment.”

I sigh. Taking Mrs. Annesley's hand, I lead her to the settee and sit myself upon it. She sits next to me. “Let me first assure you that there is nothing that I am about to disclose to you about which my brother does not know every particular,” I say. Tears begin to well in my eyes; Mrs. Annesley squeezes my hand and readies her handkerchief. With a deep breath, I continue. “When my brother was a younger man—a boy, really—he had a good friend named George Wickham. He was the son of our father's steward, and our father was very fond of him. He supported him at school after his father's death—the elder Mr. Wickham died so very young, you see. My father had intended him for the church, and had left provisions in
his will for the living at Kympton to fall to him.” I pause and let a smile come over my face.

“Your father must have been a generous man,” says Mrs. Annesley in my silence. “I had wondered where your brother got his example.”

I nod. “My father was an excellent man. I wish I could have known him better. He had such faith in Mr. Wickham. My father, you see, lost both of his parents at an early age, just as Mr. Wickham did. I suppose that was why he was so fond of him.” My smile falters and I heave another sigh. “But his faith was misplaced. Mr. Wickham learned to enjoy gambling and whiskey, and other things a young lady is not supposed to know of, more than his studies. His relationship with my brother crumbled. Mr. Wickham asked him for money, and he asked him to lie.

“Fitzwilliam, of course, would have none of it and tried to encourage Mr. Wickham to be an honorable man. He did not succeed. Of all of this, of course, I was perfectly unaware.” I pause here, letting out a breath and looking around the room a little.

After a moment I breathe deeply again to steel myself for Mrs. Annesley's reaction, and then continue, determined not to stop until I am finished. “My companion, Mrs. Younge, whom my brother and I liked very much, suggested that we holiday in Ramsgate this summer. She did this knowing that my brother would not be able to accompany me—there is simply too much to be done at Pemberley during summer. But with his blessing, we set out.

“When I first met Mr. George Wickham at Ramsgate I was surprised—I recalled a young man who paid almost no attention to me as a child. I had always thought him handsome, and if I am at all honest with myself, I still do. I was quite surprised that he even approached me—but unbeknownst to me, he was there by design. I did not recall at that time, as he smiled charmingly at me, that he
had left Pemberley the same morning my father was discovered to have passed away. I did not know at that time, that upon leaving Derbyshire he left debts, knowing full well that my brother would discharge them. I did not recall that he did not write my brother at all, and though his relationship with my brother was quite thinly worn, Fitzwilliam was distressed by this. All I could see was that he was paying attention to me. It was not many days later that he told me that I was beautiful, and that I played the pianoforte more brilliantly than ever he had heard. A few days more and he was falling in love with me, until a fortnight after he first encountered me—quite unexpectedly, mind you—he declared himself and made the suggestion that, because he and Fitzwilliam were estranged, we should marry first and then seek consent. That way, Fitzwilliam could not help but give it. He would see that his sister was happy, and he and Mr. Wickham could renew their friendship.

“All the time he knew what he was doing—he knew what he wanted and it was not me. I trusted Mrs. Younge, and she deceived me. I was completely taken in by him, by her design and by his. But I ought to have known that none of it was true—nobody falls in love in two weeks' time, except in romance novels.”

I pause for a long time and examine my fingers. “I was thoughtless, and I hurt my brother,” I finish finally.

Mrs. Annesley squeezes my hand again. “What happened to stop you?” she asks.

“He came to Ramsgate. Fitzwilliam came to Ramsgate.”

“And did he confront Mr. Wickham?” she asks, her brow contracting.

“I told him what Mr. Wickham said to me,” I say, my eyes flooding with tears at the memory of my brother's expression. “I asked him for his blessing. He asked me if I loved Mr. Wickham.”

“And what did you say?”

“I said that I had very strong feelings for him, which I believed constituted love. He simply shook his head, kissed me, and sent me to my room. He wrote to Mr. Wickham; I do not know what he said. I expected some kind of response—a letter, a visit, anything. There was none. I have not seen him again.”

“And do you still have those feelings for Mr. Wickham?”

I look away. “They are waning.” I sigh and shake my head, thinking on it. “My brother, generously, never told me that I was not in love, nor did he ever attempt to direct my feelings in any other manner. He simply explained some things to me...the things that I mentioned earlier, and reminded me of the attractiveness of my fortune.” I sniffle a little and take the handkerchief from my sleeve to pat at my eyes. “I wish the whole thing had never happened. I dream of it every night—and sometimes, during the day, if someone mentions the sea...or falling in love. Or even fishing nets, sometimes—I do not know why.”

When I look up at Mrs. Annesley, there is only kindness in her eyes. “Miss Darcy, I think it is probably true that your brother has suffered because of this, but it may not be so much because of your actions. You are young; Mr. Wickham is not. His actions were calculating; yours were not. Consider that your brother and Mr. Wickham were friends as children. Do you not think that perhaps part of what your brother is experiencing is the pain of being betrayed by a friend?”

I smile sadly, truly never having considered this part of the matter. “I had not thought that, no.”

“Your brother adores you, my dear. He almost lost you, and I think he may be blaming himself for what he allowed to happen. He may feel that he left you unprotected. Do not take too much of the blame upon yourself.”

I smile and thank her, and though I do not know whether I believe them or not, I try to remember her words.

My brother is not a social man; he is shy, like his sister. He does not look forward to social invitations in general, especially when he is acquainted with only one or two guests, but he also tends to dread them when he is acquainted with everyone in the room. He seems, to most, to be rather taciturn. He is seen as uninterested in any manner of conversation and considering himself quite above all of them—which, in my opinion, he is. Truly, all that my brother lacks to be considered as good as a prince is a title, which he most definitely does not want.

I remember a time when my brother told me what he did want—before Papa died and before my governess was discharged. He used to be quite open with me, and there was one particular conversation I recall with some clarity. We were sitting in the servants' dining room on a cold and wet day in early March, eating cake. I do not remember where the cake came from or why it was baked, but I recall that it was a secret and I was not to tell my governess under any circumstances. It is likely that Fitzwilliam was behind the scheme.

As we sat quietly eating and whispering, he asked me, “Georgiana, what do you dream about?”

“At night?” I think is what I asked, probably giggling the whole time.

“At night, and during the day. What do you wish for?”

I started running through the list of things I wanted—mostly hair ribbons and dolls—and when I was through, I stuffed another bite of cake into my mouth and asked Fitzwilliam what he dreamed about.

He paused before he answered. “Sometimes I dream about Mama.”

It was the first time he had ever mentioned her to me, and I got very quiet and wide-eyed, and whispered, “What did she look like?”

He swallowed and put down his cake. “She had very dark hair,” he quietly said, looking away. “And she was tall.”

“Was she very pretty?”

“She was beautiful,” he whispered, smiling at me. “When I was a very little boy, Mama and Papa gave a ball at Pemberley. I was not allowed to go downstairs, but she came up just before it was time for me to go to sleep. When she walked into my bedroom, I thought an angel had descended from heaven.”

“Sometimes I wish I could see her,” I said, putting down my own cake. “Did she not sit for a portrait?”

He looked away suddenly, with what was, even to the eyes of an eight-year-old, obviously pain. “No,” he replied. “She did not.”

I took his curt reply to mean that he was not to be questioned about it further. My stomach then began to protest the richness of the cake and its delightful icing; I sat back and put my hand across my midriff with a sigh. After a brief moment, Fitzwilliam looked back at me and smiled a little.

“How about a bit of milk?”

I am thinking back on that day now, after so much has changed, while sitting on my chaise in my rooms in London after preparing for bed. I like the city a great deal, but I prefer Derbyshire and Pemberley, and I know that when my brother marries, we shall spend almost all of our time there. Unless, of course, the lady prefers the city.

I rise and go to the window to look out into the starless night. My thoughts turn again toward my brother, who has been in Rosings these two weeks. He does not discuss his personal matters with me, but I think on them every once in a while, even though I ought not to. Given his conservative nature and his dedication to his duty, I know he will marry. And I know, unless he is particularly struck as I thought he might have been with Miss Elizabeth Bennet, he will marry the type of young lady whom he is
supposed
to marry, rather than the particular lady whom he
wishes
to marry.

Putrid Anne and Caroline the Peacock are out of the question—he has assured me of that on more than one occasion. But I do wonder whom he will marry. I wish to be able to so much as tolerate my future sister-in-law, whomever that might be, but dearly hope that I could come to like her, or even love her, as my own sister. And perhaps there is a way that I can encourage him in his choice.