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CHAPTER IX

The sting of Caroline's rebuke outlasted her stay. In middle of March, just as Wellington was marching his army into Spain, she mustered an offence of her own. After several evenings spent befriending a Miss Norton, in an unsubtle manoeuvre to gain access to that lady's brother, she declared she was going to stay with her new friend – who was far more fun than all these married couples anyway. Neither Elizabeth nor Mrs. Bingley tried too hard to convince her otherwise.

Caroline's departure was followed by a sadder event. Mrs. Bennet wrote to her eldest, pleading with her to return to Netherfield: Mrs. Wickham had returned to her parent's home for her laying in and Mrs. Bennet's nerves were not up to the task alone. In one of her invisible moments, Georgiana overheard Elizabeth begging her sister to stay – but she could not. And so, their six returned to three. The quieter house suited her. In the evenings she sketched, in the afternoons she played, and, of a morning ,she would sit – twirling her ripped kerchief between her fingers, all silent anticipation – as her brother read the dispatches from The Times. She dared to hope her cousin would be home before the year's end.

Between Elizabeth's desire to spend as much time as she could with Mrs. Bingley before she left, and her obvious sadness once she was gone, Georgiana had not told her about her new friend. She worried Miss Bingley was right. Her family was always so particular about who she was allowed to associate with. The one time she had been free to associate outside her circle – well, the Bad Thing had happened. She told herself Miss Butler had not meant what she had said. No one would correspond without a formal introduction. And they certainly would not swap drawings. It was probably a joke that she was not clever enough to understand. That did not stop her pencil from sketching the strange, sharp pixyish lines of her face over and over again.

She was putting the finishing touches to an upturned nose one evening when someone knocked on her door. Flipping her page over, she called out 'enter' and Elizabeth walked in. She was wearing her favourite yellow dress, still tight around the waist. Something about her face seemed odd. It took Georgiana a moment to realise: she was tired. She announced as much as she came to sit by her on the bed.

"I must confess, I would much rather stay here with you tonight. I don't think I've got another play in me."

"What is it?"

She cocked an eyebrow. "Henry V. The Theatre Royal has apparently decided subtly is unpatriotic. What are you sketching?"

"The Lakes," she lied.

Elizabeth looked at her, unsure for a moment, then it passed. "Jane thinks Lydia will have her baby in the next fortnight. She'll be pleased to beat Charlotte – Mrs. Collins. She does like being first to things."

Not sure of what to say, Georgiana instead took her hand and squeezed it. Elizabeth smiled. "Will you do me one of the views from Pemberley please? I'm a bit homesick."

She promised her she would, and with a quick hug, her sister left. Pulling out crayons and a fresh sheet, Georgiana cast her mind back, trying to picture a happy childhood scene – then stopped. George had ruined them all. A quick touch to the torn fabric on her nightstand made her determined to try again. This time, she thought back to the summer; the new piano from her brother; his promise that she would finally meet the Miss Elizabeth Bennet; sunlight over the long lake the day after they had eaten cream and scones. Her crayon stroked the page, and she began.

The clock on her mantlepiece had already chimed eleven when she finished. Even with the candles, her eyes stung. The finer details would have to wait for the morning light.

Somewhere downstairs a door slammed. Muffled cries echoed up from below. Heavy, hurried footsteps clattered through the hall. Curious, Georgiana slowly slid down from her bed and tip-toed to the door. She opened it, just a crack, in time to see their housekeeper, Mrs. Purkiss, running down the corridor. The sight was so strange, she swung the door fully open and stepped out to look again. Mrs. Purkiss was gone. There was nothing in the corridor but silence.

New steps rang out behind her. Spinning round, she saw a maid carrying a bowl and jug of water. With a quick, awkward curtsy, the girl rushed past her and up the next flight of stairs. Why was she not taking the servants passage?

"Miss Darcy?" She spun around again. Mr. Lovat appeared, concern etched into his old face. "I think it probably better if you go back to your rooms for tonight Miss."

She nodded without words. There was a question on her lips, but she did not know exactly what. Turning, she walked back into own bedchamber, and shut the door.

She stood there for several hours, straining her ears at every sound. Every footfall on the staircase; each muffled voice in the rooms above. Even through the thick floors and walls she recognised the baritone of her brother. There were other men's voices too. At one point she heard someone with a higher pitch. Perhaps Elizabeth?

A knock rang out from her door. Stepping back, she put one hand to the handle, the other to the scrap of fabric in her pocket, and pulled. Lady Matlock stood on the other side, her face pinched.

"Georgiana," she stepped in and closed the door shut behind her. Then – nothing. She waited and waited while her aunt stood collecting her thoughts. Something pulled inside her; stress, tiredness, fear – anger.

"What has happened?" She asked, the edge of a demand in her tone. Her aunt looked at her, as if seeing her for first time.

"Elizabeth is unwell – she will be fine," she added quickly, "but she will need a few days bedrest. It would be best if you stayed with us during that time. Your uncle will send a coach in the morning and–"

"No." She saw her own amazement reflected in her aunt's face. "No. If Elizabeth is unwell, I want to stay with her. I should."

Lady Matlock sighed, bringing her hand to her head. "You Fitzwilliams are all too stubborn for your own good. Fine, Georgiana, if you wish to stay you may make that case to your brother in the morning. Then I will see you tomorrow for lunch at noon."

With that, she turned and left.

Georgiana fell back onto her bed. Thoughts whirled through her head like a chaotic symphony. Never in her life did she expect to disobey her aunt or uncle: to go against their wishes. Where had she found the willpower?

A shaking hand brushed against the scattered sheets of paper on her bed. She considered them for a moment, then pushed them away. With one deep, steadying breath, she stood and walked out of her room and up the stairs. As she reached the top, she saw Elizabeth's maid gently closing the door to her mistress's room. Calling out to her in her newfound voice, she demanded to know what had happened? Jumping, the young woman turned to her, startled. "Mademoiselle Darcy," she began – but then the door opened again and out stepped her brother and an older gentleman she did not recognise. Both surprised to see her.

"Georgiana?" Her brother asked. "What are you still doing up?"

"My aunt said Elizabeth is unwell?"

"She is fine, just in need of rest." He never lied. So why did she not believe him?

Beside him the older gentleman was reaching into his case. He pulled out a little brown bottle. "Perhaps Miss Darcy would also benefit from a draft?"

He handed it to her, then turned to brother and promised to add the extra dose to the bill when he returned in the morning. Her brother nodded, in the way she did, when people expected words from her, but she had none. Somewhere in the action though, he found some; enough to offer to show the doctor out and instruct her back to her rooms. The door the Elizabeth's room was firmly shut. She had no way in. Curtsying her agreement, she went back down to own room, took one look at the little bottle – and put it on the side table. She would not need it. This all had to be a strange dream. If she closed her eyes, then perhaps she would wake up.

The world outside was still dark when she did wake up. A maid had been in to tend her fire. The small blaze meant it must have been at least six o'clock. Standing, she found her dressing down, pulled it on and went downstairs, determined to confirm that the evening had all been a peculiar dream.

Only, it was not. It was real. She knew that as soon as she entered the breakfast room. In the candle and fire light her brother was sat at the table, also in his dressing gown, looking more tired than she could ever recall. Fragile even. Something in his coffee cup was holding all his attention.

Concerned, and a little frightened, she cleared her throat. His head shot up. Then, he did the unexpected. He smiled. Not the stupid grin; this was the soft one. Her one.

"Our mother used to do that, whenever she was angry, which granted was rare, but it was how one knew."

He rarely spoke of their mother, at least, in front of her. Unsure of what to say, she stood perfectly still, like one would around a wounded, wild animal, scared of disturbing it. Behind his eyes, she could see him composing words.

"You're starting to look like her, a lot. She would have been very proud of you." The emphasis confused her. He looked down to the table again. She saw now that was a square of paper there. "Lady Matlock informs me that you are unwilling to be moved."

He looked back up to her, something new in his eyes. It was not disappointment. It may have even been - encouragement? She shook her head.

His brow furrowed; the first look gone, replaced by a new, hard, devastating one. "Our aunt is right, you can't stay. There are certain things you are too young to–"

"Please." She stuttered. He kept his gaze on her; steady and impenetrable. And just like that, she was back in Ramsgate again: a confession on her lips. Tears stung her eyes. Her hand grasped for the piece of fabric that she had stupidly left upstairs. But she had not done anything wrong. Elizabeth said she had never done anything wrong. "If Lizzy is unwell I should like to stay with her. I should like to help–"

"It is not so simple as that–"

"And I am not so simple as to not be trusted." The words came out of her with force. Across the table, her brother blinked. Wordless again, just for a moment.

"Of course not Georgiana. This is not a matter of trust. It is–" he struggled for the word. "Decorum. Perhaps if our mother had survived but–"

"Was it a – a–" This time words failed her.

Still, he seemed to understand. Slowly, he nodded, then looked away.

She was always hurting him: she had done from her very first breath. He deserved better than her. "I'll go. But can I say goodbye first, please?"

"Of course," he replied, tonelessly.

She thought back to when they had first married; her hope for a niece or nephew; how mean she had been about Elizabeth then.

"I am sorry."

He looked to her, incredulous. "Georgiana, whatever for?"

She could not answer: there was too much.

Elizabeth's maid came to find her just before lunch, and informed her that Mrs. Darcy was awake, if she wished to see her. She rushed to gather up her evening's work, and then headed for her sister's room. Edging the door open, she called out a soft: "Lizzy?"

"Georgiana?" The surprised reply called out from the bed. With quick steps, she crossed the room, and came to sit on her sister's bedside. Elizabeth looked even more tired than her brother. "I – I didn't think you would still be here."

She reached out of her hand and stared at it. It really was very small compared to her own. How did she play so easily, with such little fingers? She was so little and light. How did she fill up so much space in a room?

Her sister squeezed her hand. She looked back up to her. There was still light shining in her eyes, but it was softer somehow. More like moonlight. She needed to say something.

"I am sorry for your – your –"

"Loss?" Elizabeth finished. A rueful smile pulled at her mouth. "It seems strange to miss something you didn't even know you had. I thought you were off to stay with the Matlocks?"

"I am – but – well – I wanted, here." she remembered her purpose, and unrolled her evening's work, the view from the window in the yellow sitting room. The day she had watched secretly eat a whole scone in one bite. The days she had fallen under her spell.

Elizabeth took the offered paper. "Beautiful, as always." She announced.

"Did it hurt?"

Why did she ask that? She should not have asked that. That was not a thing that well-bred girls would ask. The words were out of her before she even realised she had them–

"Yes. Far more so than my monthlies." Elizabeth's eyes were still on her picture, but her voice sounded far away.

"Mine never do." She whispered. One should not talk about monthlies. One should not talk about–

"It happened to my mother a few times after Lydia. She thinks me and Jane don't know but, well, she's never been subtle. I'll recover, especially once we're home. It's just - it would have been nice, to be good at something." Something in her voice cracked. "I may not be accomplished or connected or educated or titled or any of it, but if I could have done this one thing – none of that would matter. If I had just–"

She broke. And with no more thought that breathing, Georgiana pulled her into a tight embrace, and held her as she shook. It was what sisters did.

Elizabeth soon cried herself back to sleep. With a new sense of purpose, Georgiana carefully laid her picture to one side, and set off to find her brother. She knew just where he would be. With her cousin's kerchief wound around her fingers, she pushed the door to the library open and announced: "You must go and tell Lizzy she has not done anything wrong."

Startled, he leapt up from the armchair he had been sat in. His eyes were still heavy, and clothes ever so slightly askew. If she had not known better, she may have thought he had been sleeping.

"What do you mean?" He sounded confused.

"I think – I think she will blame herself. I think she thinks she has done a bad thing."

Blinking, he replied. "Did she tell you this?"

"No, but – I know." She stared at him. Held his gaze. She did know: she was not sure how, but she was certain. Because people always blamed themselves when Bad Things happened. Even when they should not.

"But," he stuttered, "it's not her fault."

Here was another man who looked like her brother, but could not be. This one looked as if he might cry. Did men cry? She was not sure. But this one might.

With quick steps, she marched forwards, took his hands and held them in her own. Her thumb made small circles in the dent on his palm.

After what felt like hours, but may have only been seconds, her brother returned to her. He cleared his throat. "You don't have to go."

Her gaze shot up to his. "I don't?"

He shook his head. "But I'll need your help getting us ready to return to Pemberley. We've all had quite enough of town. Can you arrange with Mrs. Purkiss and write to Mrs. Reynolds while Elizabeth rests?"

"Yes," she nodded. "Yes, yes."

It was wrong, in such circumstances, to feel pride – but she did. She had asserted herself, and he was not angry or disappointed. Quite the opposite. She was trusted to help, and so she would. Miss Darcy mustered the family's return to Pemberley, for as soon as the mistress was well enough. Hers was not the same way as Elizabeth's: her voice did not ring, she could not navigate delicate suggestions. Instead, she thought of her cousin and watched her brother, and found her voice came easier when it carried with it the hint of a command. She had them organised by the end of the week.

Fussing as he handed her into the carriage, Elizabeth made a fine show of reminding her husband that she was not made of china. For all her willpower though, she was asleep before they passed into Middlesex. Tucked under his arm, Georgiana again thought just how very small she was. Just a wisp, not a witch.

From gazing down at his wife, her brother caught her staring. He gave her a soft smile, the first she had seen all week.

"Thank you, Georgiana," he whispered.

Settling back, she began to drift off herself. Despite all upset of the last week, she felt an immense sense of ease. She was returning home, with her brother and sister – her cousin's token in her hand – and now everything would be better.

End of Vol. One

AN: This was a difficult chapter to write, so thank you all for your patience. This brings us to the end of the first part of Georgiana's story. She will be back with more, but I want to get a fair chunk of Vol. Two written before I post. I've found posting as I go doesn't work for me. I'm also starting a 'what if' that I've been wanting to write for years. So if you don't see any updates for a while, don't worry - I am writing; I just want it to be as good as possible before posting.

Thank you to everyone who has read, followed, faved and reviewed so far. It is lovely to read how much people have taken to this Georgiana. I'm hopeful she will be back in 2022 for you.

Content warning: Themes of miscarriage and pregnancy loss.