Beginning, Section III

Chapter Thirteen

Posted on Wednesday, 14 February 2007

After so much excitement, Georgiana was fully prepared to crawl into her bed and sleep for ten hours. Fitzwilliam walked with her to the great staircase before returning to his estate duties.

Her steps were heavy and her lids drooping as she slowly made her way to her chamber. However, halfway down the hall, she heard muffled sobs. Georgiana stopped, staring at the door from which the sounds emerged. It was Miss Martin's room, and for a moment, she was very much inclined to leave her to her distress. After all, she'd had no compunctions about distressing Georgiana, had she?

However, her better instincts prevailed, and she sighed, paying the other woman the courtesy of knocking before she opened the door and stepped in.

Miss Martin was lying in exactly the same position as when Georgiana had last seen her -- on her side, one arm curled around her belly. Her face was pressed into a pillow, the other hand clutching at it.

‘I beg your pardon,' Georgiana said, approaching the bed tentatively. ‘Is there something we can do for you?'

Miss Martin slowly turned her head, staring at her uncomprehendingly. ‘Who are you?'

Georgiana frowned. ‘Do you not remember? Do you even know where you are?'

‘I . . . remember? Remember what?' With a groan, she sat up, wrapping the blankets around herself. ‘Edward was angry about something -- oh! that awful man, he shouted at him. There were so many people. Are you one of them?'

‘I have not the slightest idea what you are speaking of,' Georgiana told her firmly, and added in the same unequivocal tone, ‘I am Miss Darcy.'

Miss Martin's eyes widened. ‘Oh! Then we must be at Pemberley. Edward said he might have to come, though he did not want . . . but I do not remember coming here.'

With another sigh, Georgiana pulled a chair over to the woman's bedside, and sat down on it. ‘You have been very ill,' she explained. ‘My brother sent for a doctor earlier; I think you must be getting better.'

‘I know I was ill,' Miss Martin said impatiently, ‘that is why we had to . . . did the doctor say anything about the child?'

‘I did not talk to him, I do not know. You shall have to ask Mrs Darcy.'

‘How long have I been here?'

‘About three hours.'

Miss Martin looked around, plucking at the coverlet. ‘This is very comfortable,' she said presently. ‘It is kind of your brother to allow us to stay. Edward says they do not even get on well, but that he is more liberal than he seems.'

Georgiana took a moment to sort out the pronouns, then said stiffly, ‘My brother has a reputation for generosity, and they got on perfectly well for many years.'

‘You are one of them, then. Edward's people.' She studied Georgiana's face. ‘You look something like her.'

‘Her?'

‘The woman that was there. She gave him -- us -- some money and told him to forget his pride. His sister or cousin, I think. There seemed a great many cousins.'

‘You must mean Eleanor,' said Georgiana. ‘She is Milton's sister.'

‘I see.' She shut her eyes. ‘How long will we be here?'

‘I hardly know. As long as my brother allows.'

‘He is very much lord of the manor, then?'

Georgiana pressed her lips together. ‘Naturally. This is his estate.'

‘Was he angry? Edward said he would be.'

‘Yes, very. He does not care to be taken advantage of.'

Miss Martin smiled tiredly. ‘Edward said he enjoyed being useful.'

‘There is a difference between being useful and being used,' Georgiana told her, remembering her brother's words. After a moment, she softened. ‘But I do not think my brother will force you out -- for the child's sake, at least.'

The other's eyes widened. ‘The child? What does your brother care about it?'

‘It is the only thing my brother cares about. Milton has trespassed upon his generosity too many times for him to feel any duty to him, but your child is our own flesh and blood. You are very fortunate that Milton is your protector.' A sharp note crept into her voice. ‘Not every rebellious heir has such a loyal family.'

‘At least your brother seems to be. Please extend my gratitude, and apologies, when you talk to him.' She winced, shifting herself slightly.

After a pause, Georgiana said, ‘I shall.' A wave of tiredness swept over her, even as Miss Martin laid a protective hand over her belly.

‘Where is he?'

‘My brother? Downstairs.'

‘No . . .' her voice grew vague again. ‘Edward. I need . . . we have to speak about . . . something must be done.'

‘He is asleep.'

‘Did your brother say anything about . . . arrangements? For the child?' She drew her breath in sharply.

Georgiana stared at her, then said in a cold, proud voice, ‘I am sure my brother wishes your child well, as we all do, but that, madam, is not his responsibility. Please excuse me.' Her step was firm and decisive as she walked out, shutting the door with a sharp click.

She was far too angry to sleep, as she had intended. Georgiana paced around her room, her long fingers clenching and unclenching. Somehow Miss Martin civil and at least somewhat gentler was so much more infuriating than the cruel Miss Martin of the morning. Lord of the manor indeed! Georgiana was sure she had not meant it in the legal sense. How dare she come here and judge him? She was nobody, without even virtue to recommend her. And then! They had the insufferable gall to come here, expecting Fitzwilliam to grant them sanctuary until the child was born, simply because Milton did not have the sense or restraint to live within his income, and then that woman expected him to arrange for her child's situation as well?

The worst part was, Georgiana thought grimly, he probably would. Oh, he would write to Lord Ancaster -- perhaps he already had -- but of course they would leave the actual business up to Fitzwilliam, didn't they always? She perfectly understood why he had been so sharp with Milton earlier -- he had been too gentle, too fair by half, he should have . . . oh! if only he could have abandoned them to their own devices. But all the things that made him Fitzwilliam, that made her love him so much, and made her so unutterably furious at her cousin, made it equally impossible that he should do so. He was critical and sometimes spoke harshly, but there was really not a whit of malice in his character. Nor in Elizabeth's; perhaps that was why they liked each other so much, and, at least now, generally agreed on so many things.

Narcissus, curled up on her chair, opened one eye and mewed. Georgiana scooped him up into her arms and seized command of the chair, leaning her head against the wall as she tried to regain control of her temper. Her hand trembled as she stroked the kitten's silky black fur. She was not often angry, she was not often distressed, but in the past year everything in her world had changed. She loved Elizabeth but she had been so -- so conflicted over that, and even though that was over, now there was . . . this. And she was like Fitzwilliam; she was almost never angry, but when she was, it tended to be very -- thorough. Her head ached.

Narcissus laid his head affectionately on her hand and purred. Georgiana could not help smiling, her temper dying down to a mere simmer easily set aside. ‘You are very good for me,' she told him softly. No animal had personality quite like a cat.

For the first time since leaving Fitzwilliam, she allowed her mind to drift to what he had told her, her hand shaking again. Memories of her father, warm, sunny, affectionate, flashed through her thoughts.

He was a good man. She had always known it, but somehow the revelation of his flaws made her understand how very good he had been. What sort of man accepted another man's child into his home and his heart as Mr Darcy had? There had been no hint, nothing, ever, that she was anything less than his daughter. She wished he were here -- not as she had wished before, with wistful affection, but because she had been so young when he died, she had never talked with him, and now there were so many things she wanted to know. Fitzwilliam was, after all, only twelve years older than she was. There were a things a boy of eleven would not have seen and would not have heard.

She thought of Lady Aldborough. My aunt? She was much nicer than Lady Catherine, after all, and more interesting than Lady Ancaster -- and more alive than Aunt Helen. She imagined them all; the man who was nothing more than a name and a pair of eyes, who had loved her mother. Were there letters? Journals? Anything? The wife he'd despised, their one child. Idly, Georgiana wondered what had happened to the other girl, his acknowledged daughter, but felt only the mild interest in a distant relation she had never known. The younger brother, now himself Lord Aldborough, and Lady Aldborough, Courtland and Dorothea. And then there were the others, Lady Anne, Mr Darcy, Aunt Helen, Fitzwilliam.

She had known that Courtland must have been at Pemberley often, like Richard was, but she never truly thought of it. What odd circumstances for a friendship like theirs to form -- Lady Anne's son, and nephew, and her lover's heir. Had they all known, the three boys running about Pemberley, Courtland with his horses and Fitzwilliam his books and Richard embroiling the others in scrapes? What about Eleanor, was she there too? Did she know?

Yes, of course; everybody knew, and that was why Milton knew, knew enough to tell Miss Martin something. Lord Ancaster and Lady Anne had been so close, and their families -- she was sure everybody knew, except perhaps Lady Catherine and Anne. That was something to be grateful for. Georgiana was sure that everybody would have been subject to Lady Catherine's multifarious opinions on the subject, if she'd had the slightest inkling, and Anne would think whatever Lady Catherine did.

It did not really matter, she decided, deliberately steadying her fingers. She was a Darcy and a Fitzwilliam either way, and her father and brother had made her completely one of them, Miss Darcy of Pemberley.

She wondered if Fitzwilliam would lose his temper with Milton again, and rather hoped so.

Georgiana woke to the sound of most un-Pemberley-like chaos. Looking out her window, she could see that it was very late, and only snatched up a robe before hurrying down the hall, searching for an explanation.

‘Georgiana!' Mrs Darcy exclaimed, looking most uncharacteristically discomposed. ‘What are you -- oh, never mind. You should go downstairs, to Fitzwilliam, until it is over.'

‘Until what -- ' But it was too late, her sister had already vanished into one of the rooms -- Miss Martin's. Well, no surprise that the disorder should come from there. A scream pierced the air, and Georgiana jumped, then took Elizabeth's advice.

She poked her head in the library, but it was empty. However, when she paused at his study, she could hear the measured cadences of his voice, and also a rougher one accompanying it, though she could not make out the words of either. She opened the door.

‘Fitzwilliam? Elizabeth told me to . . .' She blinked at the incongruous sight that met her eyes -- her brother, despite the hour his usual impeccably formal self, shaking hands with a homely farmer.

‘Ah, Georgiana,' the former said, with perfect aplomb. ‘This is Mr Cahill. Cahill, my sister Miss Darcy.'

The farmer was eyeing her curiously, but at the sound of her name started and bowed awkwardly. ‘'Tis an honour, miss,' he mumbled.

Georgiana instantly pulled on her most gracious demeanour. ‘Thank you, Mr Cahill. Yours is the farm next to the Browns', is it not?'

He looked astounded. ‘Why, yes, ma'am, it is.'

She was suddenly grateful for Fitzwilliam's long, rambling letters. She clearly remembered his irritable account of the constant quarrels between the Browns and Cahills, and that he had ultimately decided in the latter's favour. Georgiana exerted herself insofar as to shake hands with him, rather overwhelming the poor man.

‘Georgiana, Mr Cahill has been kind enough to do us a favour,' Fitzwilliam said, gesturing for them both to sit down, as if they were the most ordinary of guests, rather than a dishevelled tenant and Miss Darcy with her hair down. ‘He had expected to take in his half sister's child, but both mother and daughter died before arriving here.'

‘Oh! I am very sorry, Mr Cahill,' she said, looking at him compassionately, even as her mind leapt ahead to possibilities.

‘Thank you, miss,' he replied, eyes fixed on the floor.

‘Since nobody is actually familiar with his sister, Mr Cahill has agreed to harbour the child in his home, in exchange for a small annuity to provide for its care.' He said nothing further, though Georgiana knew how very much more complex the arrangements must be. Later, after Mr Cahill had gone to talk to Mrs Reynolds' nephew, apparently some connection of his, she turned to her brother and said, holding out her hands,

‘How can you be so good and live?'

He turned a vivid shade of scarlet. ‘Georgiana . . .'

‘I knew you would arrange everything, unworthy as they are. They have no right to expect it, but of course you would do everything yourself. You always do.' She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek.

‘It was not for them, Georgiana, I would not have . . . I do not know what I have done,' he corrected, with his usual fastidiousness, ‘but this -- this is for that child. It deserves better than those two, and Mr Cahill is a good man. He is close enough that we will be able to watch over it somewhat, yet not so much as to create bitterness.'

‘Sometimes, Fitzwilliam, I really think you would do anything for your own blood. If circumstances were changed, do you think the others would do half as much for you?'

He looked at her gravely. ‘Not Milton, certainly -- but, yes, I think my uncle would, and Eleanor, as far as she could. You forget, Georgiana, how different it was when I was young.'

‘You are young, Fitzwilliam.'

‘A child, then. You were not even alive -- I assure you, they earned my devotion. I would have been very miserable indeed without them.'

She thought of the picture he had painted earlier, and the literal picture she had seen. He had described himself as lonely, sullen, and angry. If that was at all true -- though of course he was too harsh with himself, he always was about his little imperfections -- she supposed the earl's kindness and Richard and Eleanor's friendship must have meant a great deal. When she asked, once, why Milton and Fitzwilliam did not get along as everyone said they once had, Eleanor blamed it all on Milton's folly -- but Richard said . . . what had been said?

‘Your partiality makes you unjust,' he said, with unusual gravity. ‘Eleanor, you know it is not so unreasonable as that.'

‘Oh!' cried Eleanor, ‘oh, of course he has his reasons -- there are always reasons, inadequate and petty though they may be.'

‘What do you mean?' Georgiana piped up; she was more at ease with her family then. ‘How could anyone have reasons for disliking Fitzwilliam -- at least, anyone who truly knows him?'

‘Jealousy,' Richard said simply. ‘I wager that if my father liked him less, Milton would like him more; but my father's uncommon attachment to him has grown and Milton's jealousy with it. His is not a temper which easily bears the sort of preference that is often given your brother.'

Eleanor said nothing, but her disdainful sniff spoke louder than words.

‘Well, that is silly,' said Georgiana. ‘It is not as if Fitzwilliam can help being so good, or my uncle can help loving him so much.'

‘Just so,' Richard told her, laughing. ‘What a sensible girl you are, Cat. Now, I am done with gloomy talk. Were you not going to show me that clever pony of yours?'

Miss Martin was very wrong, Georgiana decided. Knowing how she had come to be did not make her any more sympathetic towards them; but she felt a sudden sharp compassion for her brother. If she were truly Lady Anne and Lord Aldborough's love-child (what a trite phrase that was!), at least she knew that she had come from something infinitely happier than her brother, the product of such wretched bitterness. The genuine, if reserved, affection of the Fitzwilliams, and especially of Lord Ancaster, must have meant everything to him; she hoped that Elizabeth could teach him that some debts did not have to be paid forever. She hoped the child deserved everything that was being done for it, and somewhat vindictively, she hoped Milton and Miss Martin went on to live the rest of their selfish lives in petty, ignomimous, insignificant sin.

Chapter Fourteen

Posted on Thursday April 19, 2007

The child was called Marianne Edwards, courtesy of her hopelessly impractical parents. It was, Georgiana felt certain, the last decision they would make in their daughter's life. Fitzwilliam had already hired a wet-nurse and they scarcely saw the baby.

She found it almost disturbingly easy to dismiss all three from her thoughts. She sat in her brother's study, her nimble fingers working of their own accord, leaving her mind free. Far more interesting to her than any of her relations was her sister-in-law's peculiar behaviour.

At present, Elizabeth was dozing lightly on the sofa, thoroughly exhausted. She had driven herself ragged over the last fortnight, and for no particular reason. Both her husband and sister had protested, but since they had no desire to tax her further, they did not dare press further and instead watched her sharply. Mrs Darcy's strength had seemed unflagging, until -- finally! -- little Marianne was delivered to the Cahill farm and the doctor had declared that Miss Martin was beginning to recover from her ordeal.

Georgiana pondered. Elizabeth seemed neutral towards Milton and actively disliked Miss Martin -- there was nothing there. Did she feel she had something to do with the pass their family had come to? Such an irrational conclusion didn't seem at all like her. The only thing that Georgiana could think of was that Elizabeth was trying to prove something to someone. Fitzwilliam? Nonsense; his habitual sedateness might keep many from perceiving the depth of his esteem, but Elizabeth certainly could not be counted among them. The servants? Mrs Reynolds already liked her, and while Beeker retained some snobbish scruples, they had served to amuse his mistress more than anything else. The rest, according to Kate, approved of her in varying degrees (except the head cook, who felt Mrs Darcy's simple tastes unworthy of his skill).

Who else was there?

Well, Georgiana herself, but she dismissed that thought. It was just possible that Elizabeth cared about her opinion -- despite her personal deficiencies, she was Fitzwilliam's sister and that counted for something -- but not to this degree. Her brow furrowed as she watched her, but she was not really anxious. It was a good day; soon Milton and Miss Martin would be gone, Elizabeth was finally sleeping, their Willoughby cousins intended to call that afternoon, and the room was quiet and serene, the silence disturbed only by Elizabeth's deep breathing and the steady, soothing scratching of Fitzwilliam's quill.

He was writing to Lord Ancaster; it was a small sort of revenge for the havoc Milton had wreaked, but both Darcys took a quiet, vindictive pleasure as Fitzwilliam told their uncle of the affair in minute detail, with a special emphasis on the things Milton would least like his father to know.

Fitzwilliam and Georgiana, by dint of much pushing and prodding, finally convinced Elizabeth to go to bed, since she was so obviously in no condition to receive callers. The Willoughbys arrived a few minutes later.

‘Good afternoon,' Lord Courtland said cheerfully. Mr Willoughby's small daughter seemed hardly to know what to look at next, but finally fixed her wide-eyed gaze on Georgiana, creeping over to her after the obligatory greetings had been exchanged.

‘Amy, do not bother Miss Darcy,' Mr Willoughby ordered.

‘Oh, I do not mind,' Georgiana assured him. He smiled a little, but for all the expressiveness of his mobile face she could not see anything of his true thoughts. Somewhat perturbed, she turned back to Miss Willoughby. ‘Welcome back to Pemberley,' she said gently. ‘What do you think of Derbyshire?'

‘It's very cold,' the child whispered. With a visible effort, she added, ‘Your house is pretty, Miss Darcy.'

‘Thank you. I am very fond of it.'

‘I . . . it's so big,' she went on. ‘Do you ever get lost?'

Georgiana kept herself from laughing. ‘No. This is my home, I know it very well. But I have gotten lost at Aincourt.'

‘I'm staying at Aincourt. It's big too, but not nearly so big as Pembury.' She chewed her lip, glancing over at Courtland and Dorothea. ‘Combe Magna is friendlier though.'

‘What is Combe Magna like?'

The girl instantly brightened. ‘It's on a sort of hill -- like here, but a smaller hill -- and there are some trees, and some water, and it's warmer, and it's very pleasant . . .' Her voice trailed off. ‘It's hard to describe,' she admitted.

‘I understand,' said Georgiana. ‘It is the same with Pemberley, at least for me.'

‘Lord Courtland is nice,' Miss Willoughby said timidly. ‘He doesn't have to let us stay at his house. And he doesn't treat me like I'm just a silly little girl.'

‘He is sensible, at least,' Georgiana told her, smiling, ‘since you are not silly at all.'

Miss Willoughby's mouth curled into a tentative smile. ‘Do you like Lord Courtland, Miss Darcy?'

‘Yes, of course,' Georgiana said, her eyes widening in surprise, ‘he is one of my brother's closest friends, and a con-- a cousin, as well.'

‘A cousin? But Lord Courtland is my cousin,' Miss Willoughby declared.

‘Exactly-- ' Georgiana reached out and tucked a wayward strand of hair behind the girl's ear -- ‘that is how I am related to you, too.'

Miss Willoughby's entire face brightened. ‘You're my cousin? But I thought . . .'

‘It is very distant.'

‘Oh.' She tilted her head to the side. ‘It's better than nothing, though. Except for Lord Courtland and Lady Aldborough and Dorothea and Julia, and I hardly see them, it's just papa and me, really. My mama died when I was a baby.'

‘I am sorry -- that is hard.' Georgiana paused. ‘Julia? Who is that?'

‘Some sort of cousin, I don't know really,' she said vaguely. ‘I heard my papa say that they say she's ess -- ex-cent -- odd. Where's your mama?'

‘She is dead.'

‘Oh.' Miss Willoughby looked at the floor. ‘I wish I had a brother, though Dorothea says they mostly just tease and torment their sisters . . . does your brother tease you?'

‘No, indeed,' said Georgiana, trying not to laugh. ‘He usually only teases people he dislikes -- but then, it is a little different for us. Dorothea and Courtland are not so far apart . . .' Then she stopped. Thinking it over, the two were not at all close in age -- there was some ten years between them. ‘That is,' she corrected herself, ‘Dorothea is several years older than I am and with their parents alive, Lord Courtland does not need to look after her so much.'

‘I would like a brother like yours, then,' Miss Willoughby said. ‘There's nobody to look after me but my papa, and I think he must be lonely.'

Georgiana cast Mr Willoughby a sceptical look. She knew a little of the man's reputation -- enough that she could not suppose he was much plagued by loneliness, of all things. Then she turned her attention back to his daughter. The poor thing, motherless and with only a scandalous rake for a father -- Georgiana wished she could do something for her.

As they prepared to go, promising to call later on, Miss Willoughby looked wistfully around, her fingers clinging to Georgiana's skirts before she obediently returned to her father's side.

‘Thank you for your patience with my Amy, Miss Darcy,' Mr Willoughby said, smiling.

‘You are welcome,' Georgiana replied, ‘but it did not take much patience.' Gathering her courage, she added bravely, ‘Your daughter is a charming girl, sir.'

Astonished dimples appeared in Miss Willoughby's cheeks as she flushed scarlet. Her father did not look at her, keeping his eyes on Georgiana as he said, ‘You are very kind.'

‘I think, Willoughby,' Fitzwilliam interjected, ‘that my sister would rather you believe her sincere than kind.'

This was so exactly what Georgiana wished, but had not the nerve, to say, that she tilted her head up and smiled brightly at her brother. Sometimes he felt so distant, so much greater than she, almost more father than brother; but then, there were moments like this, when it was as if the gap between them had vanished, and they might have been children together again. No, she thought, eyes wide with epiphany, not children, never again -- but now, I am not a child either --

She wondered if he missed that youthful camaraderie as much as she did. He had been so much older, but she remembered her tall brother spiriting her out of the house, his narrow boyish face alight with laughter as they threw snow at each other. There would be no more childish adventures, sneaking past their father's study, stealing pastries or riding on the horse that Mr Darcy insisted was much too big for her --

Then she thought of the ball, ducking into a crowd to escape an undesirable partner, and smiled. Perhaps not everything had changed.

It was not the most Christianlike impulse that led Georgiana to say, with the greatest sweetness, ‘Cousin, there is someone here to see you.'

Milton stepped away from the bed where his mistress slept. Tiredly, he lifted his dark eyes, and repeated, ‘Here? Georgy, there must be some mistake -- you must have misunderstood.'

She smiled brightly. ‘Oh, no -- it is most assuredly not a mistake.' Georgiana paused, thinking something over. Before, when it was as if she owed him so much -- well, that was one thing, but now -- With all the dignity at her command, she said, ‘Milton, before you go downstairs, could I please ask a favour?'

‘Of course you may.' He looked at her directly, a shadow of the older cousin she had once admired and idolised.

‘Please stop calling me "Georgy." Surely my Christian name is not so objectionable that you cannot bring yourself to use it. Everyone else does -- is there something I do not understand?'

‘Of course not. I am sorry, Georgiana,' he said instantly, ‘I did not know you minded it, or I would not have . . .'

She looked down at her hands. ‘I never felt I had the right to mind it, before.' Georgiana managed a weak smile. ‘They will be waiting for you, cousin.'

She watched him go impassively. It crossed her mind that she might have given some sort of warning as to what awaited him.

Nonsense, she told herself. I do not owe him anything, and he does not deserve such consideration in any case. Not after this.

With a touch of trepidation, she rose and walked down the hall, to the mistress' chamber. She had only been there a few times in her life -- the large empty room rather frightened her.

Georgiana hesitated before the door. However, if Elizabeth was asleep, she did not want to wake her, so she did not knock, but instead opened the door and slipped into the room.

It had been evident on Christmas that Elizabeth spent a considerable amount of time in her husband's rooms, but nevertheless this one was clearly hers. There were clothes draped over chairs, brushes and creams and who knew what else scattered across a vanity, piles of letters that Georgiana resolutely refused to look at. It was not remotely frightening now.

Elizabeth appeared to be dozing, so Georgiana walked as softly as she could, and settled herself into a chair next to the bed.

‘'Giana?' Elizabeth asked sleepily.

‘Yes, it is I,' Georgiana murmured. ‘Fitzwilliam asked me to come and stay with you.'

Elizabeth blinked, then rubbed her eyes and sat up. Georgiana had never found her intimidating, for it was really impossible to be intimidated by a slender woman scarcely more than five feet tall, but right now she looked so delicate and small that even the usual admiring alarm seemed excessive.

‘Is he . . . is something wrong?' Elizabeth asked, stifling a yawn.

Georgiana blinked. ‘Elizabeth, you fainted.'

‘I did?' She looked astonished. ‘I do not remember that.'

‘You have been too hard on yourself,' Georgiana told her, with the courage that comes of absolute conviction. ‘We did not understand -- they certainly do not deserve it -- but you were already tired, we did not have the heart to burden you further. We had no idea that you were so exhausted, though, or we would have done something.' She paused. ‘When did you last eat?-- really eat, that is, not just pick at your food.'

Elizabeth screwed up her face like a child. ‘Oh . . . I hardly remember. I have not been really hungry for three or four days.'

‘It is no wonder you fainted, then. The doctor said nothing was wrong with you. We were all very glad to hear it-- even Miss Martin seemed worried, a little.'

Elizabeth laughed, and swung her legs out.

‘Oh no,' Georgiana said, placing a hand on her sister's arm. ‘You should not leave your bed, the doctor said.'

‘What?' She looked horrified.

‘That is why I am here,' Georgiana went on doggedly, ‘to make certain you obey the orders. Fitzwilliam said so.'

Elizabeth stared at her; then she flashed a quick sharp smile and settled back into her blankets. ‘Very well,' she said. ‘But you must tell me what has happened.'

Georgiana tried not to look too smug. ‘Well . . . you have been unwell for a few days, and quite busy before that, so you might not know, but Fitzwilliam has been writing to Lord Ancaster. Since it was his throwing Milton out that resulted in his, Milton's, coming here and, well, inconveniencing everybody, my uncle decided it was his responsibility to sort it out. He arrived just a few minutes ago, and he wanted to talk to Milton immediately.'

‘Oh?' Elizabeth plucked at her blanket. ‘That must be an interesting conversation.'

Surely she could not be nervous? Georgiana knew that her family had, before the wedding, had reservations about Fitzwilliam's choice, and their first welcome was far from warm, but Elizabeth had comported herself with poise and élan. And that was before -- everything was different now that she was Mrs Darcy. Georgiana bit her lip and said, ‘Yes, I think so. He is very angry at Milton for coming here.'

Elizabeth looked startled. ‘Is he? It is hard to picture him angry.'

‘He does not raise his voice, of course,' Georgiana agreed, ‘but he becomes very sharp. Not cruel, exactly -- it is not that he means to cause pain, but when he loses his temper he can be unkind without realising it.' Like Fitzwilliam, she thought, then felt guilty for the traitorous thought.

‘If anyone deserves it -- ' Elizabeth cut herself off. ‘That was not very charitable, was it?'

‘He has received more than enough charity from us,' Georgiana muttered resentfully. Elizabeth's eyes widened, but she only said,

‘I think we are in perfect agreement on that subject.' She paused. ‘Why did Fitzwilliam write to Lord Ancaster?'

This was so near to what Georgiana actually wished to speak to her sister-in-law about that she tensed. Her fingernails dug into her hands hard enough to leave little half-moon-shaped marks on her palms. Anger had given her a sort of assurance, but now it had mostly drained away, and there was nothing left. It is for Fitzwilliam, she told herself. And this is Elizabeth. Just Elizabeth.

Cautiously, she began, ‘Well -- even once Miss Martin is recovered, they have nowhere to go, and Lord Ancaster does care a great deal about -- about kinship. Milton is rather a disappointment to him, I think, but he is his son, and heir . . .'

Elizabeth gave her a shrewd look. ‘And Fitzwilliam is not a disappointment.'

‘N-no,' Georgiana admitted. ‘That is why he is so angry -- he knew what was happening, that is why he threw Milton out -- but I do not think he thought that Milton might importune Fitzwilliam in such a way, especially now. You had not been married two months when he arrived. Lord Ancaster thinks that is terribly -- ' she summoned up a faint smile -- ‘indecorous.'

Elizabeth laughed. ‘That seems . . . very like your uncle.'

‘Yes. Though, I do not think he would mind so much, if it were not . . .' Georgiana wet her lip. ‘He is so very fond of Fitzwilliam, you see. My brother is a great favourite with Mother's family, but particularly with Lord Ancaster.'

‘Fitzwilliam told me a little about that,' Elizabeth said. ‘Before we were married -- he said that the Earl had always favoured him.'

‘He has,' Georgiana said urgently, ‘ever since he was a little boy. You see, he was so very unhappy at home, and I think, from what I have heard, that a great deal of the time he was left to -- to practically bring himself up. So when Lord Ancaster took him in, and he and Richard and Eleanor became such friends, I think it -- it meant so much that he has never forgotten it.'

‘So that is why . . .' Elizabeth's voice trailed off as her brows drew together. Georgiana waited. It was with a visible effort that her sister straightened and met her eyes. ‘Fitzwilliam loves your family, doesn't he?'

Georgiana blinked at her.

‘That is,' Elizabeth clarified, ‘his affection for them is -- rather out of the common way.'

‘Yes,' said Georgiana earnestly, ‘he is -- he is very . . . constant. He almost never changes his mind about anyone or anything, and he used to nearly worship the ground my uncle walked on, Richard says -- he says that Fitzwilliam was always copying him, when he was younger. When he was older . . .' She shrugged. ‘I suppose there was no need any more.'

‘I rather thought it was something like that.' Elizabeth looked at her window, seeming unusually quiet and contemplative.

Georgiana summoned whatever nerve she possessed, and said,‘He does not understand, but you could make him -- couldn't you?'

Elizabeth stared at her. ‘Georgiana, whatever do you mean?'

‘I know Lord Ancaster was very kind to him, but Fitzwilliam -- he will not forget. He -- I have watched him, and he -- it is like he thinks there is a debt because of it, and he has to keep paying and paying and nothing will ever be enough.' She looked at her sister pleadingly. ‘That is why he is always -- well, you have seen how he is.'

‘Georgiana, you know that your brother cannot love by halves.' Elizabeth smiled. ‘I have, indeed, seen "how he is," but . . . I rather doubt that he is going to change.'

‘They use him,' Georgiana insisted. ‘It is not fair!'

‘Lord Milton uses him, yes. Lady Catherine -- very probably. Perhaps even your grandmother, and certainly Lady Diana. But the others -- Lord Ancaster, and Colonel Fitzwilliam, and Lady Eleanor -- ' she looked as if she had swallowed something bitter -- ‘they, I rather think, are a bit different. Certainly your uncle, if he truly is so angry at Milton's treatment of Fitzwilliam in this . . . affair.'

Somewhat mollified, Georgiana said, ‘Yes, they are . . . well, it helps that he likes them better -- and since he never asks for help -- ' she could not help the vexation that crept into her voice -- ‘sometimes they interfere whether he wants them to or not.'

‘I can imagine that very easily.'

Georgiana pressed on with nary a smile. ‘But they do not stop the others. Richard says it is because he knows that Fitzwilliam likes being useful, but Fitzwilliam told me himself that they do not understand the difference between being useful and used.'

‘That is quite possible. Georgiana, you need not worry too much about your brother. I will speak to him about -- moderation, I give you my word; and I will do my best to stop the others from importuning him to such a degree.'

Georgiana gave a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you so much. I know he is older and can take care of himself, but . . . I cannot help worrying. I have seen the way people take advantage of him, and -- and he is my brother.'

‘I understand,' Elizabeth assured her. ‘It is quite natural -- you forget that I, too, am a sister, and my own Jane . . .' She shook her head. ‘She is a little like Fitzwilliam -- not a great deal, but she is even-tempered and -- intense, and she takes far too much upon herself.' Then she laughed, rather tiredly, and held out her hand. ‘Shall we agree to protect Fitzwilliam from himself?'

‘I will try.' Georgiana clasped the hand, which was shaking a bit. ‘You are tired, Elizabeth; you should back to sleep.'

Elizabeth smiled wryly. ‘I see that my husband is not the only one who needs -- guidance. Thank you, Georgiana.' She laid her pale cheek against the pillow, and quickly drifted off once more.

Chapter Fifteen

Posted on Saturday, 9 February 2008

Georgiana waited until Elizabeth was deeply asleep, nearly an hour later, then went downstairs once more. She longed to know what was happening in her brother's study, but when she passed by the room (attempting to look perfectly casual) all she could make out was an occasional loud protest from Milton, and a low murmur that was Lord Ancaster, or Fitzwilliam, or both. The doctor, apparently, had already left.

She gazed at the door, wondering if she would be caught if she pressed her ear against it.

Fitzwilliam would disapprove, she told herself sternly. Besides, it would be very unladylike. Only children and servants listened at doors, and she wasn't a child any more. Still, the temptation was intense, and more than once she threw a longing glance at the thick wood before setting her jaw and turning away. He would tell her, and Kate would probably know something --- she had the most remarkable knack for picking up gossip. She took several determined steps towards the library.

There was a flash of red out of the corner of her eye; then a familiar voice called out, ‘Is that you, Cat?'

Georgiana whirled around. ‘Richard!' She picked up her skirts and ran towards her cousin, allowing him to embrace her as smiles wreathed her face. ‘Why, nobody told me --- I am so glad you are here.'

‘Since I am not yet needed for the glory of Britain, I decided to join my father,' he said, taking her arm. ‘He was determined to act immediately, and I daresay your brother --- and sister --- will be glad enough to see the end of Milton and Miss Martin.'

‘Yes, indeed,' she replied fervently. ‘Did --- you know? What he intended, I mean?'

He shook his head. ‘I am afraid not. If I had, I would have done something. Ella guessed, I think, since she sent a letter express the instant they were gone, but she did not feel the need to inform anybody else.'

‘Miss Martin said she gave them some money. I think she felt sorry for --- somebody.' Georgiana paused. ‘Is she here?'

‘No.' Richard laughed. ‘She is playing Lady Bountiful, Cecily would say.'

‘What would you say?'

He lifted his eyebrows. ‘I? Well, if you are quite sure you would prefer the opinion of a hopelessly common soldier over a lady --- '

‘Well, she is still . . . Cecily. And of course I want your opinion --- I asked for it, did I not?'

He laughed. ‘Indeed. Well, in my opinion, it is a great pity my younger sister is not my elder brother. It is not the first time my father has trusted the care of our estates to her. She is hopelessly efficient, you know.'

‘Yes,' Georgiana said. ‘I know.' She tried to imagine Eleanor's and Milton's places exchanged, and couldn't suppress a giggle. ‘Milton would not make a very good lady, though.'

‘No --- it is rather difficult to imagine.' He glanced around. ‘Pemberley looks very much the same. I would not know there is a new mistress.'

‘Elizabeth likes it as it is,' she said defensively. ‘So do I --- I am very glad she did not want to change things.'

‘It speaks well of her taste, at least. I did not recognise the portrait of my aunt, though; the one next to your father in Darcy's study.'

Georgiana smiled. ‘There were several in the chapel. Mrs Reynolds and her nephew saved them, but were afraid to tell anyone. Elizabeth found them when I took her there, but we forgot because of Narcissus so it was awhile before I remembered to tell them and he had them put up in places.'

‘I see.---Narcissus?' He pushed open the door and they stepped out, the wind pulling at her hair and skirts.

‘My cat --- his mother died and he was starving when I found him under a bench.'

He chuckled at that. ‘You are such a Darcy, Georgiana --- always saving things, the lot of you.'

‘Thank you,' she said, flushing with pleasure. ‘Did m-my father, too?'

‘Lord, yes.' His hearty laughter rang out across the courtyard. ‘And his sister. You wouldn't remember her. She was more like Darcy --- she'd rather take up causes than people, though she was friendly enough, when it suited her. I liked her.'

‘Aunt Helen?' Georgiana thought of the pretty girl in the portrait. ‘Did Fitzwilliam like her?'

Her cousin shrugged. ‘He never knew her very well. He was just eight or nine when she died.'

‘You are only a few years older.'

‘It makes a difference, at that age. She married somebody else --- some marquis --- and went to France.'

‘Somebody else?' Georgiana's eyes narrowed. ‘Was everyone's life out of a novel, then?'

He managed a quick smile. ‘Out of several, I should say. My father wanted to marry her.'

‘Lord Ancaster?'

‘He was Lord Milton then, but yes. Her family did not think he was quite good enough for them.'

‘Why on earth not? Would they not be pleased to see their daughter as an earl's wife --- a future earl's wife?'

‘Earls are not created equal any more than gentlemen are, Cat. Your family has been wealthy and powerful for a very long time, and your grandparents were not about to let anyone forget it --- certainly not upstarts like the Fitzwilliams.' His quick smile took away any bitterness that might have attached itself to the words.

‘But . . .' She remembered her brother telling her about their parents' marriage, about how their father had been infatuated, while their mother married him for her family's sake. ‘Fitzwilliam said that Mother married Father to be respectable, or something like that. I do not remember exactly, but I thought it was strange. The Fitzwilliams seem so much more . . . influential.'

‘We actually use what influence we possess --- but you will see what I mean, when you have your first Season. Everyone will be speaking of what Miss Darcy said and how Miss Darcy looked and what Miss Darcy wore.'

Georgiana paled.

‘I daresay you will have many more suitors than Ella ever did,' he went on cheerfully. ‘There are already some, I understand. Darcy tells me that Cardwell likes you a great deal.'

‘Mr Cardwell?' She stared at him.

‘Yes --- Laura's brother. You can do better, though. He is a bit young to be thinking of marriage, too rash and heedless. Besides, then there would be Lady Cardwell for a mother-in-law. Of course, there is also the Lindsay boy, but his father wants him for Lady Dorothea . . .'

‘Oh, please stop,' she said incoherently, turning her face away, into the wind.

‘Georgiana,' he said, in a grave voice very unlike him, ‘you are Miss Darcy of Pemberley. You cannot hide from yourself forever.' There was no trace of the usual twinkle in his eyes.

‘But I am not . . .' His eyebrows went up, and she stared at the ground. ‘I suppose I still am, at that. Richard, did you --- did you know? You must have, I think . . .'

He tilted his head to the side. ‘I beg your pardon?'

She managed to meet his eyes. ‘Fitzwilliam told me about . . . about Mother, and Lord Stephen, because of something that Miss Martin said, and because he thought I was old enough to know --- to know how things really were.'

‘Oh, that.' He looked at her steadily. ‘It must have been startling.'

‘Yes, it was. But . . . it does not change anything, does it? Not really.'

‘No,' said Richard. ‘Not at all.' Then he gave her his usual quick grin, and held out his arm. ‘Let us talk of happier matters, however. How do your brother and his wife get on?'

‘He laughed twice in the first week,' she told him solemnly.

When Georgiana and her cousin returned to the house, the doors to the study were open, and they went in together.

‘There you are, Richard,' said Lord Ancaster. ‘Georgiana --- you look very well.'

She flushed and mumbled a thank-you.

‘Ah . . . my dear scapegrace brother,' Richard cried. ‘How soon shall we have the pleasure of your company?'

Milton scowled and said nothing.

‘Today,' Lord Ancaster said grimly. Georgiana started, her eyes wide. She knew how energetic Lord Ancaster could be, once he decided to do something, but . . . ‘Fitzwilliam, I believe I may depend upon you to send . . . whatever her name is . . . with a servant, once the doctor believes she may travel safely?'

‘Of course, uncle,' said Fitzwilliam, looking as if he were trying very hard not to smile. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I am going to look after my wife.'

He was at the door when Milton said, ‘Darcy!'

Fitzwilliam halted; then, slowly turning, he replied in measured tones, ‘Yes, Milton?'

‘Will you . . .' He swallowed visibly. ‘Will you please apologise to your wife for me? I am very sorry about her . . . indisposition.'

Several expressions flickered on Fitzwilliam's face before he settled back into his usual impassivity. ‘I shall,' he said. ‘Georgiana, would you care to join me?'

She eagerly leapt up and walked out of the room at his side, leaving the Fitzwilliams to themselves.

Lord Ancaster, Richard, and Milton left that very Friday; Miss Martin was gone by Tuesday.

Only then did Georgiana realise what an effect they'd had on the house. She felt that a burden had lifted, not only on her, but everyone. Fitzwilliam's sharp black humour vanished as if it had never been, the servants regained their usual cheer, and soon, Elizabeth's laughter could be heard downstairs. Generally it was focussed on Fitzwilliam and Georgiana, who could not help fussing over her, a little; by the Friday after the Fitzwilliams' departure, there was no hint that anything had ever been wrong, and the Darcy siblings rather reluctantly desisted.

It was a Saturday when Georgiana returned from the courtyard, where she liked to draw, and went looking for her brother and sister. She found them in the library, standing before a tall window with the early morning sunlight pouring in on them. Georgiana took a step towards them, then stopped, abruptly aware that she was intruding on an almost painfully private moment. Fitzwilliam held Elizabeth's hands in his, and was speaking to her in a low, urgent voice.

Georgiana bit back a smile and turned away, but a loud cry from Elizabeth had her wheeling around. Was she hurt? Had some new horror happened? Was she ---

Elizabeth had flung herself into Fitzwilliam's arms, her hands locked behind his neck, in his hair, and her feet dangling some inches off the ground. She was covering his startled face in kisses; Georgiana once again decided to leave, and had actually gone several steps when her brother's voice rang out.

‘Georgiana!'

Half-reluctant, half-curious, she took several cautious steps on her own. Elizabeth was now pressed tightly against his arm, her head on his shoulder, with a degree of happiness in her expression that Georgiana had never seen, not in her or anybody else. Fitzwilliam's harsh features had softened into a warm, gentle smile.

‘I am sorry,' she said, ‘only I heard --- and I was worried --- '

He waved her remorse away. ‘No; we would have sent for you in any case. We . . .' He looked unaccountably nervous. ‘We want to tell you something.'

She instantly sat down, preparing for the worst. What could make them so very happy, and yet have such weight as to make even Fitzwilliam anxious? School, she thought, her heart filling with dread. No - ‘Y-yes?' She glanced from one to the other. They would not do that. They would not.

‘Elizabeth and I,' said Fitzwilliam, his voice peculiarly tremulous, ‘we are --- that is, she --- '

‘Men are no good at this sort of thing,' Elizabeth interrupted. ‘What your brother is trying to tell you, Georgiana, is that, in about eight months, you are going to be an aunt.'

‘An aunt?' Then all the pieces fell together. Her mouth dropped open. ‘You . . . you are going to have a child?'

They nodded.

‘Oh!' There was no place for reserve at such a moment as this. Even as her eyes filled with tears, she rushed forward to kiss her brother and embrace her sister. ‘Oh, I am so happy for you --- and for me!--- what must I do? Surely I can help, with something?'

‘Well, there is nothing to concern yourself with, at present. Just try not to be too shocked at what I eat.'

‘That is why you fainted? And why you put sugar in your broth yesterday?'

‘Of course.' Elizabeth gave her husband a pointed look. ‘I am not so frail as that.'

‘The doctor says --- '

‘Oh, never mind the doctor.' Elizabeth smiled at her. ‘I do expect to be very indulged, however!'

‘Of course.' Georgiana exchanged a rather worried glance with Fitzwilliam. Clearly he, at least, was very much inclined to mind the doctor. Somewhat relieved, she said tactfully, ‘I think you should be by yourselves right now . . . if you want me, I shall be practising my harp.' She hugged them both once more, and then, humming to herself, walked out.

The good news was duly announced, and congratulations flowed in. The Cardwells, Drummonds, Willoughbys, Trents --- every body was delighted. Lady Allendale and Lady Caroline Villiers, Elizabeth's most particular friends, came to Pemberley --- cried, smiled, kissed her --- and fussed almost more than her husband and sister. As often as not, the three women invited Georgiana to join them, and sometimes, she did.

The Fitzwilliams, formerly rather cold and awkward around Elizabeth, paid overjoyed respects, sans Milton (who instead wrote a handsome letter). The ladies offered advice, the gentlemen luck, and the dowager cried. Richard and Courtland, the companions of Fitzwilliam's youth, called almost as often as Lady Allendale and Lady Caroline; Georgiana saw them at least once a week, and often more.

‘Shall you like being an aunt, do you think?' Richard asked her, with an attempt at a guardianly look.

‘Oh yes,' said Georgiana earnestly, ‘I love children --- my cousins, and the little Gardiners, and . . . and all of them, really.'

‘I understand from Diana and Eleanor that you have quite the hand with them. Kate and John insist that my stories are not "half so good as Cousin Georgiana's." '

She flushed brilliantly.

It really seemed that her family's happiness could not be improved upon; then similar intelligence arrived from Mrs Bingley in Hertfordshire, and in early spring, the Gardiners asked Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth to stand godparents to their newborn daughter.

‘Her name is Sarah Elizabeth,' said Elizabeth proudly, and her smile gentled as she caught Fitzwilliam's eye. ‘I should love to see her.'

‘We were to stay to town next month,' he said; ‘I daresay we could move the date forward, and see your family on the way south.'

Elizabeth beamed, and, as quickly as that, it was decided -- to London they were to go.

Chapter One

Posted on Tuesday, 12 February 2008

Letter 1: Cecilia Fitzwilliam to Georgiana Darcy

Rosings, Kent

Dear Georgiana,

I am delighted to hear that you are coming to town. Perhaps, if I am very persuasive, I shall be able to see you --- but I doubt it. I have been foisted off on Lady Catherine, and she still flies into a fury at the slightest mention of the name ‘Darcy.' I suppose she thinks it all a great affront to her daughter, who does not care sixpence about it, or about anything except her health.

Poor Mrs Jenkinson, and poor me. I know I should be grateful for Lady Catherine's determination to do her duty by me, but must she be so tiresome about it? Almost every day is exactly like the one before, a long round of calls, practising the pianoforte, and being graciously condescended to. Sundays, if you can believe it, are still worse, for we must go and listen to her ladyship's pet clergyman, Mr Collins. I suppose he must be my own age, but he is the sort of man who was old by seventeen. He is quite the most ridiculous person I have ever met --- conceited beyond measure, and yet so obsequious, so deferential to us all! Were it not for his poor wife, I should hardly be able to keep from laughing in his face. I know it would be unkind, and vulgar too (nothing, according to Lady Catherine, is quite so vulgar as laughter), but so it is. You will understand, when you meet him.

I understand that your new sister is his cousin? For your sake, I hope there is not the slightest family resemblance. I daresay not. James tells me that she is pretty, well-bred, and very clever --- exactly the opposite of Mr Collins, and exactly the sort of girl your brother would marry. For all the family's complaints, I expect they are very happy together, especially now.

Georgiana, I know you must be dreading the prospect of even an abbreviated season, and even with the comfort of your brother and sister. You simply must refuse to take it very seriously, everything is much more enjoyable then. I only wish I were with you; we could visit all the shops, and I would make you laugh at the young men.

I know I do not deserve it, I am such a dilatory correspondent myself, but I beg of you, please write me one of your long newsy letters, I care not how crossed and blotted it is. My sole dependence is on correspondence, I am not even permitted to read novels. There, do I not make a pitiable figure in your imagination? Please say you will write faithfully.

C F

Letter 2: Georgiana Darcy to Cecilia Fitzwilliam

Netherfield, Hertfordshire

My dear Cecily,

I am so dreadfully sorry to hear that you are unhappy. Lady Catherine must be very strict indeed, and I do pity you, from the bottom of my heart. I promise that I will write as often as I may. Would you like some music? I could send you some, if you would like, and I am sure my uncle would frank it.

At present, Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth and I are at Mr Bingley's estate, which is very fine and very ugly, everyone except Mrs Bingley says so. Mrs Bingley, I am sure, has never said or thought an unkind thing in her life. When Mr B first talked of her as a perfect angel, I hardly knew where to look, but it is so. She and E are immensely fond of each other, and of course Mr B is one of my brother's dearest friends.

I have finally met E's family. Her father, Mr Bennet, reminds me a bit of Fitzwilliam, but smiles less and frightens me more. Mrs Bennet means well, I am sure, while the two girls at home, Miss Mary and Miss Catherine, are quite unlike Elizabeth, and each other. The former reads and quotes from a great many improving books, and plays the pianoforte loudly; Miss Catherine is much friendlier and easier to talk to, and I do like her, of course, but I never know what to say when people ask how much the lace on my gown cost. E also has another aunt and uncle, Mr and Mrs Phillips, her mother's sister and brother-in-law. I think they must be frightened of F, like Mrs Bennet, for they never talk when he is in the room.

When I am not with F&E, I spend most of my time with Mrs Bingley, who often asks me to sit with her. I think that she is a little lonely; though she knows everyone here, she does not seem to be close to anyone except Mr Bingley and E. Her mother comes nearly every day but that is not the same.

You will remember Miss Bingley, Mr Bingley's sister --- the one who was always so fond of Fitzwilliam and me? She is here, too, though I am not certain she is happy about it, and as effusive as ever. I do wonder why she insists on taking the second or third volumes of what one of us is reading, though; I cannot help but feel it provoking, and besides, they must make very little sense without the first. She is soon to be leaving, as well, for she is going with the Hursts, her brother and sister, to Bath. Elizabeth would like to see it, but I do not think we are leaving town until June.

I am sure this is all very dull, but that is all there is to talk of. If there is anything else I can do to help, you need only ask.

I remain your affectionate cousin,

Georgiana Darcy

Letter 3: Cecilia Fitzwilliam to Georgiana Darcy

Rosings, Kent

Georgiana, you are truly a pearl among cousins. Thank you so very much for your letter. I was not bored at all; indeed, receiving it was by far the most interesting thing that has happened to me since I arrived.

Mrs Darcy's people sound rather dreadful, I am afraid, except your Mrs Bingley. No wonder they two are so fond of each other! Then again, I daresay that sort of thing is easier to bear from your own.

As for Miss Bingley --- my dear Georgiana, everyone from Scarborough to Dover knows that the ambition of her life is to marry high, and for years that has meant your brother. I never saw a woman more assiduously court a gentleman's attention, and with so little success! I try not to listen to what Lady Catherine says, but in this respect I must agree with her. That sort of behaviour in a lady is more than undignified, it is preposterous, and your brother could not have been less encouraging had he slapped her across the face. I suppose she is sensible enough to realise that her interests are far better served by remaining on civil terms with your sister than by quarrelling with her, though do keep her away from Mrs D's dinner. She might decide to garnish it with arsenic.

You must be in town by now, so I expect to hear all about it in your next letter!

Adieu, avec toute mon affection,

Cecily

Letter 4: Georgiana Darcy to Cecilia Fitzwilliam

Darcy House, London

Dear Cecily,

I am back in the house in town, in my own rooms with my own little establishment. It is all very familiar and comfortable, far more than I expected. My old pianoforte sounds as beautiful as ever, no matter how badly I play. Elizabeth sometimes practises as well, and she is a far greater pleasure to listen to, though nobody would ever say so.

We had our first callers today, but everybody was so eager to see Elizabeth that they hardly glanced at me. It was such a great relief. In her place, I would have been terrified out of my wits, but not she; nothing frightens her. Still, people did talk to me, and several gentlemen stared me quite of countenance; I am glad to sit here in the peace and quiet, with no sounds but the scratching of our pens.

I have grown another two inches, so Fitzwilliam convinced Elizabeth to take me around to some shops, and to buy whatever she liked for herself, as well. She was more prudent than that, of course, and she sent him off to amuse himself, but we both ordered some lovely gowns. We found him surrounded by piles of books, with dust on his face and in his hair. I wish you could have seen the look on Elizabeth's face, Cecily, as if Fitzwilliam reading were the most fascinating thing in the world. It was far more romantic than any declaration. If I may someday find someone who loves me half as much as Elizabeth loves my brother, I shall consider myself very lucky indeed.

Then she laughed at him and brushed the dirt off his face. They are that darling together, though I am sure they would very indignantly deny it. Neither of them are very sentimental, and mostly they just talk, and nobody else can understand above a word in three.

Dear Cecily, I so wish you could come and see us. I am certain that you and Elizabeth would love each other dearly, in some ways she reminds me a great deal of you. If only Lady Catherine were not so recalcitrant! Well, then she would not be herself at all, I daresay. Do tell me if anything diverting happens; I shall hope so for your sake.

G D

Letter Five: Cecilia Fitzwilliam to Georgiana Darcy

Rosings, Kent

Dearest Georgiana, you must send me your hopes more often! No sooner had I received your letter than we heard of Mr Collins' indisposition. It is nothing too severe --- even I would take no pleasure in that --- a mere cold, but it has affected his throat to such a degree that, to the sorrow of us all, he can scarcely speak. Fortunately Lady Catherine's hearing is quite acute, or she would miss his whispered compliments.

The consequence of this is that he is no condition to give sermons, and must rely on his curate, Mr Hammond, to do so for him. Mr H is infinitely preferable; he talks sensibly and briefly and gives no compliments. Lady Catherine, of course, is most seriously displeased --- though truly, when is she not? She has determined that the curate's deficiencies come from his solitary existence, with no wife, no sister, no patroness to offer much-needed counsel. Yet she is unwilling to suffer the degradation of noticing him herself. About three days ago, she discovered the solution to this most pressing dilemma. As a poor cousin, I am not too high to serve as Lady Catherine's emissary to a mere curate, and yet, with precious Fitzwilliam blood flowing in my veins, still worthy of the office. So I am regularly sent with a servant or two, bearing Lady Catherine's wishes to the curate and therefore the parish, making everyone very happy.

Though the curate is quite handsome, my greatest pleasure is in being outside, away from that stultifying house, from Lady Catherine and Miss de Bourgh's constant litany of commands, with the sun shining and the wind blowing. I must look a fright, but I do not care. It is so amusing, too; the first time I explained my errand, poor Mr Hammond plainly wanted to laugh but did not dare before Lady Catherine's own cousin. Now we smile every time I come with a new piece of her ladyship's advice --- he has a charming smile, and it is such a pleasure to see and talk with someone young and lively and sensible.

Oh dear, I have talked of myself the whole time. You must forgive me, I am only so much happier than I have been. Let me say that you are the best musician of any of us, and Mrs Darcy must be a prodigy indeed if she can surpass you on your own instrument. Your brother and sister sound very darling indeed, and all the more so for not being indelicate about it. I imagine they are frightfully clever and talk about books and philosophy and that sort of thing all day long. I should feel very silly, but you are sensible and I hope as content as is possible for a girl so beautiful that young men cannot help staring. It is a tragedy, but I am certain that you are enduring it with admirable fortitude.

Forgive me my impertinence, Georgiana, I cannot help myself and even my grand cousin cannot cure me of it. If you wish I shall write of nothing more than the weather and extracts from sermons.

C F