The Knights of Derbyshire

By DJ Clawson

This story continues the series that began with "A Bit of Advice." At this point, you really have to go read the others before trying to read this one. New characters abound. This is story 6.

I'm gonna knock my "twice a week or 10 comments, whichever comes first" policy up to 15 and see how that goes. You'll see why in later chapters.

Chapter 2 – Fashion in Kirkland

Charles Bingley the Second, being some one and forty years, was finding himself to be less an early riser than he used to be. Jane was already gone when he rose that winter morning. With nothing pressing on his schedule while his business partner was abroad, he yawned luxuriously and washed his face before thinking about preparing for the day. He was still toweling his face when he heard the scream.

With less alarm than he supposed he should have had, he put on his slippers and padded out of his chambers and down the corridor, still wearing his orange kurta. The source of the noise was a collection of women's shrieks, but all he saw in the actual corridor was his monkey. Bingley put his hands over his ears and looked at Monkey, who screamed at him, and he screamed back, "Monkey! Kinasi!" The animal obediently leapt up onto the railing and then his shoulder. "At least someone in this house listens to me," he mumbled, and with his ears still covered, peeked into his eldest daughter's chambers.

"Papa!" screamed not his oldest daughter but his youngest, as Eliza emerged, and curtseyed to her father. "Did we wake you?"

"Of course you woke me! You probably woke half the house! What in heaven's name is going on?"

"That is precisely what I want to know!" said his beloved Jane, appearing behind his daughter. She was about as angry as Jane Bingley was capable of getting, which was admittedly not that angry, but a frightening prospect nonetheless. "Georgiana! Do you want to explain yourself?"

"Papa, you can come in," came Georgiana Bingley's voice, completely even and not exhausted, so at least she hadn't been doing all the howling. There was no one indecent, and no one else in the room besides the three women (one still a girl) and a terrified maid.

Georgiana Bingley, now seven and ten, was sitting before her mirror, though she rose to curtsey to her father. A robe covered her bedclothes. The only thing missing was her long hair, which was for the most part on the floor beside her, the scissors still in her hand. "Papa," she said respectfully, as if nothing was amiss and she was not missing most of her long locks, normally so carefully braided and put up since she was sent out last spring.

Bingley paused, not quite sure what to say to a daughter with hair only slightly longer than a man's, as Monkey leapt off his shoulders and into her arms. At last he said, "It seems I am a bit behind on women's fashions."

"A bit!" Jane cried, clearly disturbed by the whole incident. "Georgiana, would you like to explain to your father what you refuse to explain to me?"

"I did explain it to you," Georgie said rather unapologetically. "I cut off my hair because I was sick of putting it up. I fail to see what's hard to understand about that."

"Well, normally – " Then realizing there was no need to tell Georgiana what was normal behavior for someone of her age and stature, as she knew it thoroughly and clearly had no plans to abide completely by those strictures, he broke off, and started laughing.

"Charles!" Jane said.

"I'm sorry but – well, look at her." He didn't like Jane's stare at him, but he could hardly hold himself back. "I think we should view it positively – she did stop short of cutting it all off."

"Papa!" Eliza said. "She looks like a boy!"

Georgiana sneered at her sister.

"Don't be ridiculous, Eliza. That's hardly a respectable haircut for a man. And in that area I do actually have some experience." He knew he was in the precarious position between his wife and daughter, but knew no way to traverse it. "Well, there's nothing we can do about it now. You can't glue it back on." He approached his eldest daughter. "I can have my man uhm, neaten up the sides a bit, I suppose. Oh, and you're grounded."

"Papa!"

"You can't possibly expect me to do otherwise." Nonetheless, the victory went to Georgiana, as no one could reverse what she'd done, and it would be very hard to find a wig that matched her own hair color. With a nervous glance to his wife, Bingley sighed and left the chambers to prepare for the rest of the day.

The Darcy breakfast table had undergone changes in the years, not so much in the wood itself but those present. Between Darcy at one end and Elizabeth at the other sat their two eldest children and their father. Geoffrey Darcy was officially of age to be at the table, and Anne, who was still a child, was old enough to sit beside them and begin learning proper table manners when there were no guests. Mr. Bennet was not considered a guest, having taken residency at Pemberley since the death of Mrs. Bennet and the closing of Longbourn. Occasionally he went to Kirkland, only three miles away, but he was a homebody to the most extreme and generally liked to sleep under the same roof every night, and Darcy was happy to accommodate his father-in-law. Missing were Sarah and Cassandra Darcy, still too young and taking their own meal in the nursery.

There was an absence, however subtle. "Am I not mistaken, Mr. Darcy, in thinking that I saw a visage of George Wickham last night when I feel asleep in the library?"

"You did," Darcy said. "He has just come from a long journey and if he is not yet awake, I honestly cannot say I blame him."

"Is he staying with us for Christmas?" Anne said. "What about Izzy? Is she coming, too?"

"That is yet to be settled," said Elizabeth. Nothing could in fact be settled until their guest rose, but it was likely that at least he would be staying through the New Year. "Geoffrey! What did we say about feeding Gawain at the table?"

"He's not at the table," Geoffrey said, returning the hand that had fed a strip of bacon to his hound to the table. "He's beneath it."

Mr. Bennet chuckled. "He has a point."

"Papa!" But Elizabeth could not get that angry with her father or strict with her son when her husband was not in the mood to be. Darcy clearly had other things on his mind, no doubt all involving Wickham, and he let the incident pass without notice.

At least until Gawain, denied further scraps from his master, came to his side, sniffing at the master of Pemberley's knee. "Don't come to me."

"But Papa," Anne said, "you feed him all the time when Geoffrey's at school!"

Now it was Geoffrey's turn to laugh triumphantly, though he had to muffle it with a stern look from his father. "You will learn, Anne, that sometimes your father does not always do the right thing and is given to moments of sentimentality after having lost his own dogs many years ago. Nonetheless, the general rule stands."

"You had dogs? What happened to them?"

"They died," he said. "Animals do not live as long as humans, for the most part."

"What about monkeys? How long to they live?"

"Too long," her father answered in the precise voice that made conversation – at least on that topic – cease.

When breakfast had passed and there was still no sign of George, Darcy ordered a tray brought up for his nephew. When it came back with only the coffee touched, he went himself to see George, only to find him coughing and sneezing over his wash bin. George attempted to apologize for his absence at breakfast, but Darcy hushed him and went back downstairs to call for a doctor, finding Elizabeth already awaiting him in his study. "He has a cold," he said. "Not all that surprising."

"I was going to write to Lydia," Elizabeth said, dismissing the servants, who closed the door behind them so the Darcys could have privacy, "but perhaps you should write to Mr. Bradley." She paced as he sat down and pulled out his ink and pen. "If George is sick, then you could inquire if his sister would like to visit him during his convalescence."

"I don't think Mrs. Bradley will much care for the idea."

"But at least now we have the excuse of illness. Not that I am much a fan of using illness strategically, I think George would be more settled if Isabel was within more capable hands."

They had the same thoughts on Elizabeth's sister and her handling of her own children; the nasty words did not need repeating. They had been spoken of enough last night. "She may not wish to leave her mother, and drive a further wedge in the family."

"Then only suggest it, and let her come to her own decision. Or maybe Mr. Bradley will have the good sense to make it for her." Elizabeth paused in her pacing. "Darcy, if it is too great a burden to ask that we house Isabel indefinitely – "

"If it comes to that," he said, "and I will try to see that it does not, it is not a burden. Besides, it would be unfair to extend the offer to George even if he'll leave for some University in the spring and not to his sister, who is younger and in even more need of guidance."

Elizabeth leaned over and kissed him. "You are too good to your family."

"You are complaining?" he said with his patented smirk. "Besides, I only must write Mr. Bradley. You must write Mrs. Bradley."

"And Jane! That should be done first. Or, after the doctor comes. How sick is he?"

"About as much as I would expect of a man who rode to Scotland, then to Town, then to Derbyshire without much break between stops. And in December. But he has no fever and I think he will manage. The doctor is just a precaution." He rose, and kissed her on the cheek. "We will manage. Somehow."

It was nearly an hour later that Geoffrey Darcy and Gawain appeared at the door to Kirkland. Normally the walk did not take him an hour, but the inch of snow on the ground and the frigid temperatures made travel a bit more difficult.

"Mr. Darcy!" said the doorman as he entered, and the servants rushed to attend to the flushed and sniffling young man.

"I have a letter for Mrs. Bingley," he explained to the doorman as his outer layers were removed. "Gawain, sit!" The dog obeyed so his paws could be wiped dry before he would proceed further into the house.

Mrs. Bingley quickly appeared. "Geoffrey! What are you doing out in the cold?"

He bowed. "Aunt Bingley." He handed her a letter. He did not have to explain who it was from. The Darcy seal and his mother's handwriting made it obvious enough. "Gawain needed a walk anyway. Everyone's getting a bit restless, being inside all the time."

"I know. What an awful winter to have, if December has been any indication," she said. "Is something wrong? Is everyone well?"

"Yes," he said, "except cousin George, who came in late last night and has a cold. It's all in the letter, I imagine."

She nodded. "Please sit down and catch your breath, Geoffrey. And you are welcome to stay as long as you please if there is nothing pressing at Pemberley. Charles is, I believe, in one of the drawing rooms."

He bowed to her again and she excused herself to read her letter. He found Charles easily enough – he was bickering (if one could consider it bickering) with his younger brother Edmund outside the library. Whatever it was, conversation ceased when Geoffrey approached. "Charles. Edmund."

Edmund nodded to his cousin and ran off, leaving him alone with Charles.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing," Charles Bingley the Third said with a sweet, completely unconvincing smile.

"What did she do?"

"You always assume the worst of Georgie."

"That's because I've known her all my life," he said with a smile. "So? Aside from George's arrival, this may be the most interesting thing to happen this week."

"George is here?"

"Yes, but don't try and change the subject. He came in last night."

"Well, if you want, she's in the drawing room." He gestured over his shoulder. "It should be obvious."

Even more intrigued, Geoffrey opened the double doors to the drawing room and the lone figure rose as her cousin and brother entered. Georgiana Bingley had been, in fact, drawing, or inking one of her pencil sketches into a more permanent medium. "Geoffrey."

He did not attempt to hide his pleasure at the amusing sight of Georgie, who looked decidedly different from when he had seen her at dinner three nights before. "Georgie."

"The barber did try to even it out," Charles interrupted, which earned a glare from Georgiana. "It was worse before is all I'm saying."

"You're not helping your case," Geoffrey said to Charles.

"Don't say anything, because I've heard every insult that possibly could have been imagined by the mind of my sister," Georgie said, and sat back down.

"I didn't say I didn't like it," Geoffrey said. "But if you want to change the subject, there is some news from Pemberley. George is staying with us for ... well, I don't know. An indeterminate amount of time."

"Really?"

"He came in late last night, we had a drink and some conversation, and he woke up with a terrible cold," he said, pacing the room, his eyes occasionally roaming to the wide windows. "Not surprising considering all the traveling he did."

"Am I going to hear it from you or do I wait to hear the censored version from Papa?" she said as Gawain came up to her. "Sorry, Gawain, but I've no food for you."

"There's little to censor, so I might as well, though I probably don't know the half of it," he said, and while still pacing, he related the story that a slightly inebriated George Wickham had told him last night, from his sister going out in the fall to his being thrown from the house in Town and his flight to Oxford and then Pemberley.

Georgie did not attempt to hide her disgust with her aunt, but she did not verbalize it so readily. "Izzy's out? She's five and ten! She's younger than Eliza!"

"Barely, but yes. George didn't say he approved of it. They did it while he was at Oxford."

"Which he's no longer at."

"Father says he'll either have to repeat the term or transfer to Cambridge."

"And Isabel's betrothed?" Charles asked.

Geoffrey shrugged. "I think my parents are going to invite her for Christmas, so she can spend it with her brother. Or at least visit him while he's laid up."

"What will Aunt Bradley think of that?"

He just shrugged again.

"If he's well enough for visitors, I'll come see him immediately," Charles said.

"Send him my regards." Georgiana couldn't visit him in his sickbed, even though they were cousins.

"I will."

"I suspect Aunt Bingley is going to take a carriage to Pemberley as soon as she finishes the letter I gave her from Mother. You might want to catch a ride with her," Geoffrey suggested. "Tell her I'll be along later."

Charles nodded and excused himself, leaving Georgiana and Geoffrey alone, aside from the servant in the corner. Georgie was absently scribbling at her current work, and he walked over to her and looked over her shoulder. "Isn't that the waterfall near Pemberley? The one with the shelter nearby?"

"Yes," she said. "I sketched it in November." She was inking the pencil lines now.

"So where's the surprise?"

She blew on the ink to dry it, and passed him the drawing. "Look very closely."

"Where am I looking?"

"G-d, Geoffrey, if you can't find it, no one will."

He was tempted to scold her for the insult, but instead focused on the unfinished work. Nothing jumped out at him immediately. The original work was done with a colored pencil. "The man behind the waterfall. In the little corner there." He pointed proudly to it.

"Don't smudge it."

He smiled and took another look. "He's tiny. I know one hand has a sword, but what's in the other hand?"

"If I tell you, it stays between us."

He handed the picture back. "Of course."

"The head of his vanquished enemy. He's holding it up by the hair."

He laughed. "Some people would call you rather morbid, you know."

"I do know. Trust me, I do know." It was the first smile he'd seen from her today. She had always smiled less easily than he did; odd because he was a Darcy and she was a Bingley, but his father always said he'd inherited his mother's countenance and it was for the best. "You really think it looks nice?" she said, clearly not referring to the picture.

"I'll ask for an explanation first before admitting to that."

"I got tired of putting it up. How ridiculous is that? You spend years growing out your hair to ridiculous lengths, only so you have to spend time in the morning putting it up so neatly and then checking all day to make sure everything's still in place. It's silly. If long hair is such a detestable sight for a lady – well, then I don't have long hair."

He laughed. "I suppose you're right. So what's the real reason?"

She turned away. "You know me too well."

"Perhaps."

"I was sick of putting it back together when it fell apart," she said. "Making myself look presentable when I returned from walking. And it was ruining my balance when it would just fall down."

"Still searching for the perfect balance?" It was a metaphysical concept to Georgiana, one she had been obsessed with for reasons he never fully understood, but was willing to take at face value. "I assume you haven't found it yet, because you're injured."

She retracted her left arm, which had a bump in the smooth glove from a bandage. "You know, you're the only one who noticed. And what are you doing, admiring a woman's gloves, anyway? Geoffrey Darcy, you are in danger of violating propriety."

"And I would speculate that you were in danger of violating propriety when you got it," he said.

"Don't be snide."

"I'm mocking. It's different from being snide."

She didn't answer, but she didn't contradict him. That was something.

"So I assume you are being properly disciplined for the horrible transgression of ... giving yourself a haircut?"

She rolled her eyes. "My parents? All they did was said I couldn't go outside until after New Years except on official outings. G-d, I couldn't imagine what Uncle Darcy would say."

Geoffrey tried to picture himself shaving his head and presenting himself to his father. "I don't want to imagine it. If it was me, I wouldn't be able to sit down for a week. Yes, you are definitely growing up in the right house."

"Speaking of right houses," Georgiana said, "do give George my regards. I don't know why Aunt Bradley would do this to him – "

"He did call her a – "

"I know!" she giggled. "Well, if he said he did, it must be true. George is terrible at lying. But besides that – "

"He has money," he said, his tone more subdued. "She wants it. And he has no obligation to give her anything significant, not while her husband's alive." He shook his head. "I've never seen a man more upset about having money than him. All right, Uncle Grégoire, but he's another matter entirely, and he's made his peace with it."

"Uncle Darcy will sort everything out," Georgie said. "That's what he does, doesn't he?"

Next Chapter ... The Matter with Mr. Collins