The Road to Pemberley (43 page)

She is lost to her family.

He will not marry Miss Lydia Bennet.

I could have been lost to mine—despite what my brother might say, had I married Wickham I would eventually have figured out that he did not love me, and only wanted my fortune. I am enough ashamed of what I almost did; had I actually eloped, I would never have been able to face my brother again.

I eye the bottle and am tempted to drink of it myself. Instead I shake my head. “She will now never see her parents and four sisters again. Oh...poor Miss Bennet.” My words are but a whisper, but my brother hears them.

Fitzwilliam, astonishingly, belches and then sighs. “I do hope, dear sister, that the poor Miss Bennet to whom you are referring is Miss
Elizabeth
Bennet, because while Wickham is a complete rake and I would like to throttle him for what he has done, Miss
Lydia
is not exactly...bright.”

This declaration disquiets me and I sit back against the wall. Is this what my brother thinks of me—that because I fell for Wickham's charms and deceitful ways, that I am similarly obtuse?

“Which makes it all the more shameful!” he declares, starting his rant again. “He
knows
she does not realize he will not marry her.” He sighs and drinks again, letting the wine dribble down his chin before wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. “The man could charm the scales off a bloody snake.”

It is an interesting thing, hearing my brother talk in clichés. And curses. Belching, with wine dribbling down his chin. I look him over, and for perhaps the first time in my life, I see him not as my older brother, deserving of respect and deference; a young man born not just to wealth but to tremendous responsibility, forced upon him before he was ready. Before me instead I see a sulking little boy who has not gotten his way, and I want to giggle before I recall what the cursing and wine is all about.

“Fitzwilliam, all is not lost. You do not know that Miss Bennet would never have you.”

“No,” he dismisses me, “she will not. I have had a hand in ruining her family; what woman would not hate such a man?”

“You do not deserve hate,” I say sharply. “Wickham does. And how on Earth could you have prevented this? You did not know he would do this.”

“But if I had not felt it beneath me to explain the rift between Mr. Wickham and myself, none of this would have happened. None of it, Georgiana, none at all. For God's sake, I might even be married already.”

I laugh a little. “Oh...my, brother, what a dramatic streak you have got,” I tease. He ignores me. “What would you have done—would you have exposed your entire past, and mine, to all of Meryton? No one should have to do such a thing. This is not your fault.
And let me be the first to assure you, being a young lady myself, and knowing what it is to be deceived by the man, that Miss Elizabeth Bennet is at this moment likely blaming
herself
for what has happened. She also knew what he was, Fitzwilliam....” I sigh and look earnestly into my brother's tortured eyes. “And neither of you are to blame. It is Mr. Wickham and Lydia Bennet's doing.”

“She
did
blame herself,” he says quietly, and shakes his head. “But she is not to blame. I am.” I start again to protest, but sobriety has suddenly overtaken Fitzwilliam and he stands. “And so I will have to do something about it.” He picks up his wine bottle and begins down the hall, striding confidently as though nary a drop of alcohol had touched his lips.

I rise to follow after him. I have to walk quickly to keep up with his long, purposeful stride. “What are you going to do?”

He slows to a stop. “I must find him. I have no doubt that Mr. Bennet and Mr. Gardiner are intelligent and resourceful, but they will not know where to look. I am the only one who can find him, and find him I must.” He puts his free hand on my shoulder. “Georgiana, I will have to go to London early tomorrow. Mr. Bingley will not want to stay long and will encourage his sisters to return to Grosvenor Street in a few days. I will write to you every day and will return as soon as I possibly can.”

I kiss his cheek before I turn back to my chamber. “You must do one more thing.”

“And what may I do for you, dear sister?”

“You must hope.”

He pauses a moment, looking me in the eyes. Purpose has returned to his, but that is not what I want to see.

“I will if I find reason to.”

It is all I can ask for. I smile and enjoy an embrace from my brother before turning in.

In the morning I am left with the unenviable task of making my brother's excuses and playing hostess to the Bingleys and Hursts. Mrs. Annesley tells me not to fret over it. “It is good practice,” she says. “You will one day find yourself hostess to less gracious visitors.” Mr. Bingley and Mr. Hurst are well able to entertain themselves; one out of courtesy for me, the other out of habit. It is the Bingley sisters that have me flustered, since I am certain that at some point I shall be questioned about my brother's reasons for returning to London so hastily. When the time comes, however, I find happily that a general explanation of business satisfies and bores them into changing the subject.

The next day, the Bingleys and Hursts depart Pemberley, no doubt at Miss Bingley's urging. My brother's first letter arrives the day after. He says only that he has arrived, that he has been rather occupied with his task and that he is hopeful that Wickham can be located. I wish that I could write to Miss Bennet and ask how she is faring; to reassure her that my brother's regard is steadfast, but I did not have the opportunity to ask her before she left Derbyshire.

The weeks pass slowly, and I receive a letter at least every Wednesday from Fitzwilliam. He does not mention his quest at all and in his words there is a tone of distance. I can almost see him as he writes them to me, with the mask in full force.

Mrs. Annesley's lessons provide much-needed routine and purpose for these long days. She seems to think my French is improving and she wants to teach me German. I hope she allows me to concentrate on one language at a time. I have barely mastered English, after all.

Five weeks after my brother suddenly departed Pemberley, I receive a letter to lift my heart.

That would, indeed, be welcome. Fitzwilliam continues the letter by telling me all about Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's children, and how kind that couple was to him during his search. When I am finished with the letter I tuck it away and prepare the house to receive him in the next day or so.

When he arrives, he is somber and quiet. He does not talk much and he spends several days almost exclusively with Mr. Albertson. We spend every morning at least together and many afternoons walking in the park; I play and sing for him every evening, but weeks pass before we have meaningful conversation.

“Georgiana,” he says, hesitantly, as we have our breakfast some three weeks after his return from London, “may I ask...does it trouble you?” His shoulders are tense and there is gravity in his look; he fidgets with his butter knife.

“Does what trouble me?”

“Wickham's marriage. You...you at one time had some very strong feelings for him.”

I look into my teacup. “I do think on it sometimes,” I confess, “but beyond wondering how Miss Elizabeth Bennet is faring, it does not trouble me.”

“It does not?” he asks. My assurances seem to have lifted some weight from his shoulders.

“No,” I say quietly. I take a breath to steel myself and then continue. “If I still believed Mr. Wickham loved me, or that I loved Mr. Wickham, I am sure it would bother me. I...I am still angry at him.” I look my brother in the eyes and can see what Mrs. Annesley sees... the pain of a betrayed friend. “For what he did to you as well as for what he did to me. But I shall ever be grateful to you, Fitzwilliam, for making me see what he truly is.”

I want, desperately, for my brother to embrace me, but I know he will not.

Instead he draws a mighty breath and informs me, “I have taken every precaution to ensure that Mr. Wickham will not importune our family any longer. I may not say it very often, Georgiana, but I do adore you and I would be heartbroken if I ever lost you.”

Tears fill my eyes as I exhale. “I love you, my dear brother.” Proud of both of us, and knowing he will want to collect himself, I rise, kiss his head, and leave the breakfast room.

The following afternoon when we gather for tea, Fitzwilliam is quiet and I amuse myself by watching a pair of rabbits play just beyond the window. Mrs. Reynolds enters the room and quietly addresses my brother. She leaves quickly, and then he approaches me.

“Georgiana,” he says, while taking my hand gently in his, “I have a confession to make.”

I set down my teacup. This statement was not lightly made. I prepare myself for some shocking news. “What is it?” I ask.

“When you were a little girl, you asked if our mother had not sat for a portrait. I said that she had not. It was not true.”

This, I am shocked at. Not so much that there should be a portrait of my mother, but that my brother should have lied about it, and that he should remember my asking so long ago. “It was not?”

“No,” he says solemnly, shaking his head. “Though I did not know it at the time, I have known it for a number of years. I am sorry, Georgiana.”

“Then there is a portrait of my mother? May I not see it?”

Fitzwilliam smirks a little. “Yes,” he says, and tucks my hand into his arm. We leave the sitting room, bound for the gallery. He explains himself as we walk. “There are two. She sat for one when she was sixteen, and another shortly after her marriage to our father. When she died, he requested that the first, which hung in Matlock, be sent to him. He was very, very angry...he was bent on destroying them both.” In the gallery we stop before two portraits draped in black. “No one knows who put them away, but Mrs. Reynolds found them after his death and asked if I would not like them to be hung. I did not even look at them—I was too upset. I told her to put them away...but I remembered them a few days ago.”

“Why were you both so very angry with her?” I ask. This does not seem rational at all.

“I was not angry with her,” he tells me, but his voice is sharp with the emotion. “Our father was. His anger I cannot vouch for, nor can I say when it ebbed. He sent me to school but a day after she was laid to rest and I did not see him for two full years.”

“You were angry at him.” I am starting to understand some things—dare I think one of these could be my brother?

He is quiet, staring at the shrouded portraits. Oh, and there it is—that strong, controlled facade. I hate it when this happens.

I clutch his arm. “Please,” I beg him. “Please tell me what you are thinking.” He turns his head, and for a moment, he will not look at me. “Fitzwilliam, please.”

He turns back to me, and the mask is gone. Sorrow fills his eyes. “Yes, I was very angry with him. It was not her fault that she died... it is not my fault...”