CHAPTER VIII

The short journey from Meryton to Mayfair allowed Georgiana little time to contemplate their change in plans. The Darcys had cut short their stay at Netherfield. Elizabeth seemed little concerned about disappointing her mother, though she had been quieter since telling her father. Georgiana guessed, rather than knew, her to be upset: her brother had held her hand and gently stroked it with his thumb the whole journey.

As soon as arrived they arrived in Darcy House, Mr. Lovat informed her brother that their uncle had sent a boy, requesting his presence his very earliest convenience. With a short apology to her and Elizabeth, he donned his coat again and left.

"Well, Georgiana," Elizabeth said as they watched the door close, "we might as well find us some tea."

They refreshed themselves and set to waiting in the warmer of the sitting rooms. She briefly considered asking Elizabeth how she was feeling after her mother's revelation – before thinking the better of it. Elizabeth might tell her the truth, and Georgiana was not sure she knew how to cope with that. Fortunately, her sister seemed minded to keep conversation light.

"I hope we're still able to join your aunt and uncle for the opera tonight," she began, pouring out their tea, "I was quite looking forward to it. I've never had chance to go before. What was it again?"

"Orfeo ed Euridice."

"That's right, Orpheus and Eurydice. I fancy a tragedy. Sometimes it's good to have something one can have a good weep to, isn't it. It's Italian, correct?"

She nodded. "And French."

"Oh. Both?" The unsure Elizabeth flashed to the surface. Then, just as quickly, she disappeared. The satirical one appeared. "Well, it is all Greek to me."

She forgot sometimes that Elizabeth had never had a governess. She was so clever, it seemed impossible that she should not have had one. In some ways Georgiana was glad; an Elizabeth with all the accomplishments a young woman was supposed to have would wholly terrifying.

Her brother was gone for the better part of an hour. He returned looking agitated. Elizabeth poured more tea, and began in her calmest, smoothest voice to ask after their relatives.

"How is your uncle? Are they both well? Are we still to go with them to Covent Garden tonight? Georgiana and I were just saying how much we are looking forward to it."

He took a sip of tea, his long legs stretched out from the armchair in a way that, in any other gentleman, may have looked undignified. Georgiana was beginning to fret that her own would grow just as long; they ached at night, and she never quite knew how to hold them. She hoped she was not about to become too tall. Lady Catherine had warned her about becoming too tall. Gentlemen did not want a wife who was taller than them – though she supposed she should not concern herself with that aunt's opinion anymore.

"Yes, we are still to go tonight," her brother said, placing down his cup. "Our cousins, the Kirkdales, are in town so will join us. Lady Matlock, in fact, is so well she has suggested a ball at the end of the week. She thought it would make sense to get all of the introductions out of the way at once."

"I suppose that sounds very sensible. I'm sure I can find something suitable to wear in time."

"On that point–" he paused, remembering her presence. "Georgiana, would you mind if Elizabeth and I spoke alone for a little while?"

The dismissal hurt, but she could not say no. Nodding, she stood and made for door, closing it till the latch almost caught – then stopped. This was not a thing that well-bred girls did. And yet–

From the other side, she could hear her brother begin again. "She suggested that you wear something tonight, and at the ball that, 'shows off your figure best'."

"She means the flatness of it?" Elizabeth replied with a hallow laugh. There was a tut of agreement. "This is not fair. This is not what people are supposed to wish when couples are newly wed."

"I know, dearest, but it will pass soon. Everyone will see that there is nothing to see, and it will be forgot."

Footsteps echoed down the hall. With a quick, quiet step back, she scurried to the music room to practice her Beethoven. She knew the notes so well, she did not have to think about them hard, allowing her mind time to ponder.

Georgiana could guess now what her aunt had written to make her brother cut her. Her own governess, Lady Matlock, Lady Catherine, all of her school mistresses: each had impressed on her the same message. Well-bred girls kept their knees together until their wedding night. Those who did not were not well-bred, and – if lucky, in having seduced an honourable man – found themselves swiftly at the alter. Such a weakness was more understandable in the common classes, who did not have the benefit of a proper education. But in a young lady, it was unforgivable.

Her fingers paused on the journey from C to E. The memory of sea air blowing in from an inn window stung her tongue. "Georgiana," her brother was squeezing her hands, ever so slightly too tight. "Georgiana, has he touched you?" Her face burnt with shame that he had even had to ask. No, she promised, no; they had been perfectly proper.

Her fingers began to dance to a melody of her own. For so long, she had been mortified that she had almost caused a scandal. Now, it seemed, her brother had saved her from scandal, just to be caught in one of his own.

That evening, she sat across from him and Elizabeth in the Darcy carriage, studying her sister. The maid had done a convincing job; under her shawl, Elizabeth's gown was pulled in so tight at the high waist, even through the long flow of fabric one could tell she had a light figure underneath. In a studied gesture, she held one hand in her lap, pressed against her flat stomach, leaving no room for doubt. The other was claimed by her husband, whose thumb was retracting its familiar path.

Georgiana expected to see the defiant Elizabeth that evening – but the enchantress turned up instead. She smiled and laughed and tried to cast her spell on everyone they met. Having watched her for two months, Georgiana knew her sister's smile was not quite as convincing that night, and her laugh did not ring with its usual tone. This was not the actress's finest performance, but it was credible, and enough that she stole everyone's attention. The eyes turned towards their group were not focused on Georgiana, or the Bad Thing she had done; she was invisible, and she was very pleased about it. Even her own family seemed to forget she was there. Taking their seats next to her in their uncle's box, her cousin's wife turned to Lord Kirkdale and whispered: "I thought you said she couldn't read."

"I said uneducated, not illiterate. Still, she's managed to completely wind up that old bag de Bourgh."

An odd convulsion swept over her. She cleared her throat, loudly, just as her brother did when he was deeply unimpressed.

"Oh, Georgiana!" The viscount jumped. "I didn't see you there. Why, haven't you grown handsome."

The orchestra struck up, her cousin turned back around. She wished, not for the first time, that his position could have been swapped with her cousin Fitzwilliam's.

Elizabeth wore her dresses tight for the full week after the opera, and the week after that, and the week after that. Whenever they were out during the day – (Georgiana's time with her and her brother was mostly limited to the day: of an evening, they would be out at events not suitable for a girl not yet presented to society) – she seemed to train her hands to rest above her midriff, flattening the front of her skirts. Georgiana often felt the familiar gaze of curious eyes – especially when her brother did not join them. She tried, once, to ask Elizabeth how she was feeling about the constant attention – but she must not have phrased the question very well: her sister simply assured her she was perfectly fine and said no more. With every passing day the witch of the winter seemed to fade; with the spring came a new Elizabeth, one who bore the slings and arrows of each lingering eye and ill-meant bard with seemingly endless patience. This one was saintly.

They were joined at the end of February by Mr., Mrs. and Miss Bingley. Caroline's inclusion came as a surprise. More surprising still was her reformed attitude towards Mrs. Darcy: she complimented her household, admired her taste, and laughed at her wit. On this point Elizabeth did confide in her; with Mrs. Hurst being so far along in the family way, Caroline needed entertainment and was savvy enough not to cut off Darcy's connections to other suitable gentlemen, just because she had not had her first choice. "Besides, Miss Bingley seems to know a thing or two about establishing oneself," she added cryptically. "I had not truly appreciated her skill on that front before."

Whilst she was warier of Caroline's friendship than she had been the previous summer, it was a relief to not be the only maid amongst married couples. The company seemed to lift Elizabeth's mood too; the lightness in her laugher returned, and with it the soft smiles of her brother. By the end of the second night a plan had been formed that each of the party would choose one activity a week, and that would form the basis of each day's entertainment, with Sunday reserved for rest.

The following week took them from Hyde Park to Greenwich to Richmond to the Tower and back to Greenwich. Finally, the time came for her day. Tired with walking and history (she would never say so, but both her brother and Elizabeth had been somewhat boring on this topic) she tentatively, and with the expectation of disappointing everyone, asked if they might go to the Exhibition? All pronounced this a grand idea and a plan was set for the afternoon.

It being a fine day, they decided to journey to the Spring Gardens, rather than Somerset House. This, it transpired, was a mistake. The collection was poor, but their group was more inclined to laugh then sulk at the quality, saving Georgiana from the guilt of an ill-chosen day. The highlight was a portrait of one Mrs. Quentin, by François Hüet Villiers, who everyone agreed was the very image of Mrs. Bingley – until Caroline noted that Mrs. Quentin was rumoured to be a mistress of the Prince Regent's. Her brother cleared his throat, loudly.

"Oh!" Miss Bingley caught herself. "Georgiana I – I completely forgot–"

"Let us go and look at some of the landscapes," Elizabeth interjected, sliding her arm through Georgiana's own and pulling her through to the next room. After a turn taken in companionable silence, they came to a stop in front of one of Mr. Turner's pieces. Elizabeth peered down at the inscription: "Buttermere Lake. How striking."

Georgiana hardly heard; she was too transfixed by the scene in front of her. A rainbow of light slashed through a dark, stormy landscape, illuminating the rugged mountains and the deep, murky waters of the lake. It was breathtaking.

"Sweet is the lore which nature brings," Elizabeth sighed. She looked down to her: the puzzlement must have been obvious on her face. Elizabeth clarified: "Wordsworth. 'The eye – it cannot choose but see; We cannot bid the ear be still; Our bodies feel, where'er they be, Against or with our will.' I am certainly not sorry I didn't get to the Lakes last summer, but I would like to try again soon. It looks so beautiful."

She nodded and repeated: "Sweet is the lore which nature brings." For once, the words made sense. Edging closer, she took in every brushstroke, every pigment of colour. The shapes of the scene before her filled her heart with warm familiarity. They were exquisite – and she understood them perfectly. There was a spirituality in those colours more divine than anything she had heard in a church. She saw them and felt complete. She saw them and felt seen.

"Excuse me, miss." Startled, she leapt and gasped – almost falling backwards into the young gentleman who had spoken. The sweet floral smell that accompanied her sister had vanished. Georgiana found herself alone. Only – she was not. "I am sorry," the gentleman said again, his accent a thick Welsh. "My sister was hoping to sketch this one and – well – she rather needs to be able to see it."

Face burning, Georgiana looked away from the Turner, and down to a young women sat behind her, a small paintbox and pages resting on a board across her lap. She could well have stepped out of picture, with her dark hair cascading over her pale, elvish features. She wanted to step back, to apologise for taking up so much room – she knew it, she had become ungainly – but her long legs were rooted to the spotted. She was trapped between the awesome painting and this fairy woman – and now she was taking too long to say anything again and–

"I can see why you would be so taken with it," the young artist said, her lilt softer than her brother's. "You can stand behind me if you'd like."

Curiosity moved her. She walked a few steps and looked down at the pages in the other woman's lap. They were very good, if not quite up to Mr. Turner's standard.

"Yours is brighter," she stuttered out the obvious.

"I think I am doing it as I hope to see the Lakes. I hear it never stops raining. We are travelling up later in the summer. Do you paint?"

"No." Then, realising this was not entirely true, she added, "I sketch. Pencils."

The other woman face beamed with a familiar light. Frantically, she wondered where her sister and brother were at? She should not be talking to strangers – even ones as enchanting as this fairy woman – who was now reaching into her reticule.

"Well, then, there." She produced two charcoal pencils and pulled an extra sheet of paper from under her drawing. "I should like to see how you do. Owen, will you go find Miss–"

"Darcy." She responded, though she knew she should not.

"Miss Darcy a chair and board please?" Pre-empting her brother's protest with an additional: "Please."

Georgiana watched in wonderment as this obviously older brother fell quickly into step at his younger sister's command. She really should leave–

"Miss Butler," she looked down again, to be greeted by an outstretched hand. "And my brother, when he is back, is Captain Butler."

She offered her own, cautiously. "Navy?"

"No, army. He is just back from Canada. That is why we are going to the Lakes. We have a lot to catch-up on."

"My cousin has recently left for Portugal."

"That must be a terrible worry."

Georgiana nodded. Captain Butler returned with a chair and sketching board. He was well featured too, if an inch shorter than herself.

Deciding it was better to wait where she had been left, she took the offered seat and pencils. Elizabeth would be back before too long, she was certain of it. And then she should use her magic and make a proper introduction to the Butlers. Perhaps they could even invite them for tea.

As her pencil touched the sheet, she found it was not the Turner she was copying, but the likeness of Miss Butler. Hers was an interesting face: small and delicate, but also angular and sharp. She was not beautiful like Mrs. Bingley; but she was striking. A mix of hard lines and feathersoft strokes. Looking at her clothes, Georgiana decided they must be of a similar age. Her new companion wore the attire of a girl not yet out – nor one particularly rich, though the paints and a garnet cross at her neck suggested her family was comfortable at the very least.

"That is exceptional." She jumped again. Looking up, she saw that Miss Butler was no longer focused on Turner, but on her own page. "Miss Darcy, why that is better than anything I have seen here all day!"

Looking down, she had to agree. Pride told her she had done a very good sketch; but her education told her it would be wrong to admit it. She blushed instead. "It is not quite finished. Yours is very good too."

"The colours are all wrong; I've gone too far the other way and now made it too dull. But Turner's will dull eventually too, that is what everyone says. There's something quite beautiful in that, isn't there? Art fading, like the nature it captures."

"Like the light."

"Yes!" Miss Butler grinned, light dancing in her eyes. Georgiana found herself matching her grin.

"Miss Darcy!" Miss Bingley's sudden emergence stole her smile. "There you are, I have looked all over – oh." Caroline stopped, looking expectantly at the other girl and the smartly dressed gentleman stood beside her. She stumbled over her introductions and noted how Caroline's face changed on the clarification that Mr. Butler was only an army captain.

"I've come to fetch you. We need to be leaving soon. Come on."

Georgiana did not appreciate her tone. "Where is Elizabeth, or my brother?"

"Oh, they are bickering over some such."

"Miss Darcy," she turned back to Miss Butler. In her hand was a scrap of paper. "Will you send it to me, please, once it is finished?"

Taking the scrap, she promised she would – if Miss Butler would send her her sketches of the Lakes in return; she would forward on her address. The other girl nodded. "I will look forward to your critiques."

She doubted she would ever criticise anything Miss Butler painted, but before she had chance to say that Miss Bingley's had claimed her arm and was walking her away; reminding her that Mr. Darcy's sister could keep far better company than a Welsh army captain and his sister.

AN: Thank you as ever to those who reviewed and followed since the last chapter; it really does help with the motivation to keep going. I struggled with this chapter and had to do a lot of mental editing of where the different parts should fall within the story – so I would be really grateful to hear views. If there are typos I will catch them on a later edit.

The further I get with this one, the more the difficult I am finding it to write and post as I go along. It turns out I quite like editing. I think we're about 2-3 chapters from the end of Volume One, so I won't leave you all hanging, but I might take a posting hiatus after that so I can really thrash out Vols. 2 and 3. (I also have the siren song of another story in my ear now, which I'm starting to plot out.)

Anyway, if you like it and don't mind it being a bit rough and ready let me know and I'll keep posting! Otherwise drop a follow so you can get the good stuff when I've properly worked it all out!

Historical note: You can view the Turner picture by searching 'Turner Buttermere Lake'.

Hardcore Jane fans may also have spotted that this is the exhibit she and her brother Henry visited in 1813. She wrote to Cassandra and about finding an exact likeness of Mrs. Bingley (which is thought to be the painting of Mrs. Quentin) but she had no such luck finding a likeness of Mrs. Darcy. (This story is one of the main reasons I like to set my P&P stories when it was re-drafted and published rather than first written.)