Last chapter: Georgiana gets to know the Gardiners, discovers that Darcy has boasted of her to Mrs Gardiner, and commandeers the Gardiner children. They spend a little while looking at the family portraits, then go out and play in the snow.

Chapter Five

'Do not gobble it up in one night,' said Mrs Gardiner, with a reproachful look at her son. Georgiana smiled contentedly. All was illuminated by firelight, the holly and the ivy decorating the portraits, the drawings she had given Mrs Gardiner and Mrs Darcy, the faces alight with laughter or pleasure.

'Say thank you to Miss Darcy,' Mr Gardiner added.

The children chorused, 'Thank you, Miss Darcy!' Neddy nibbled at his sweetmeat.

'Not any more until morning, Neddy,' his mother said. Georgiana bit her lip and looked down. Her sister-in-law had given her folders of music she longed to play; a new Beethoven sonata she had never seen or heard before, and it would be the first music she would play for the first time on her pianoforte.

In her lap lay the greatest gift of the evening, which she did not dare wear but could not stop herself from reverently touching. It was beautiful, the most beautiful thing she owned — a priceless heirloom collar, fitted with dozens of garnets. It felt cold against the tips of her fingers, and every time the reddish pink flash caught her gaze, she could not help but stare at the jewels, and then look up at her brother with tears in her eyes.

'Should it not go to Elizabeth, brother?' Georgiana had whispered.

'I want you to have it,' he said, and hardly able to countenance her own daring, she had taken it out of his hand, fascinated by the sensation of the stones slipping through her fingers. 'It was Grandmother's — Lady Alexandra's — not Mother's. I thought it would suit you better than the other jewels.'

Georgiana looked at what now seemed hundreds of sparkling stones, then at her brother. He thought it suited her — that she was worthy of her grandmother's prettiest jewels. There were others more grand, but she did not like those, she would look ridiculous in them.

Trying not to cry, she said, 'It is so beautiful, Fitzwilliam . . . I shall feel so pretty in it. I do not have anything like it.'

Something about his face softened, and she could see that he had been — anxious? Had he thought she might not like it?

Men were very strange creatures. She was suddenly, unreasonably, so happy she could scarcely think. She flung her arms about his neck, as she had when she was a little girl, and kissed his cheek.

Still in a state of high euphoria, the party separated late that night, long after the children had been sent off to bed. Even the prospect of the ball could not affect her mood. She clutched the garnets in one hand and her music in the other, humming a little to herself.

'Georgiana? May I walk with you?'

She smiled tentatively. 'Of course, Fitzwilliam.'

For a few moments, brother and sister were silent. 'I — we have not had much opportunity to talk, with — everything,' he said.

'No,' she said, 'but the Gardiners are a delight.'

'Yes, they are.' He paused. 'You are happy, Georgiana?'

She lifted up her eyes, astonished. 'Yes, of course.'

'Of course?'

She tried to gather her thoughts. It was so much easier to express herself on paper! 'I was afraid,' she said slowly, 'that you and Elizabeth, that you would not . . . want me. That there might be school again, or, or — something.'

'Georgiana!' He sounded horrified.

'Or that Elizabeth would not like me, or would only endure me for your sake, or that I would just be a weight and a burden to you, a duty.'

'Georgiana, I . . .' He paused. 'It is difficult to say. Yet there are things that must be said. It is easier on paper.'

Laughter bubbled out of her throat. 'I was just thinking that!'

He laughed too, softly. 'Perhaps we are more alike than we know, you and I.' He paused. 'Georgiana, I want you to listen carefully to me. You are a duty — as are Elizabeth and any children we may have, the estates, the servants and tenants, our family connections.' She had only heard him speak so, with that quiet, intense note in his voice, on a very few occasions. She listened. 'People speak a good deal of nonsense about duty, as if any sort of moral obligation must be disagreeable, or that one only does one's duty because it is one's duty. Believe me when I say that that sort of thing is nonsense. I would be miserable without duty; and my duty to you has been my only consolation these many years,— and particularly this last year.'

She started. 'This year? But — how can you — after what happened — '

She heard him catch his breath. Then he said, in measured tones, 'We had better go to the library. I believe there is a discussion between us long overdue.'

As soon as they were comfortably seated before the fire, the two siblings began to speak.

'Fitzwilliam, I — '

'Georgiana, there are — '

They looked at one another and smiled, then laughed. Both gladly stretched their long legs a moment. 'You said there was something you wished to discuss with me?' she asked tentatively, holding the garnets against her for reassurance.

'Yes.' He took a slow, deep breath. 'It has come to my attention that — that there are some things — that it seems you have misapprehended my — ' He turned his head a little away, staring into the fire as he searched for words. 'You have misapprehended some of my opinions.'

She said nothing, not certain whether to be fearful or curious.

'I would ask that you listen very carefully to what I say, and do not dismiss it as reflecting anything other than my true opinion. Do you understand?'

'Yes.' The firelight flickered in the garnets, along the harsh clean lines of his face; he turned to look at her squarely. Georgiana's first impulse was to glance away, but instead she lifted her chin and met his gaze.

Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam, she thought, did not have the same eyes, after all. Fitzwilliam's were grey — dark, but not as dark as Mrs Darcy's — their mother's eyes, and Lord Ancaster's and Lady Catherine's, but not Mrs Darcy's. Georgiana felt anew the force of the connection between them, so often overlooked in her awe and respect and admiration.

'I am very proud of you,' he said, almost carelessly. 'You are admirable in every possible respect.'

She could not stop herself. 'Even after what I did?'

Her brother's face froze, and she just kept herself from recoiling at his expression. 'I am not angry at you,' he said after a moment. At her incredulous look, he added, 'I am, however, so angry at him that I can scarcely think.'

'I would — I would like to blame him,' she said, hardly noticing the garnets digging against her tight grip. 'But I cannot. I must take responsibility for my own part in it. I was so foolish, brother, I — '

'You were fifteen; he took advantage of your youth and innocence,' he said.

Georgiana gathered her courage and met his eyes. 'I was young, but I was not deficient, and I knew better, the whole while I knew, I knew it was wrong. I do not know how you can forgive such gross imprudence on my part.'

'If I am not mistaken, you did not believe I had.'

She shook her head.

'Georgiana.' He looked away, slowly exhaled, then returned his gaze to hers. 'Georgiana, very well. You were imprudent, not so much in attaching yourself to someone so far beneath you, but in consenting to an action you felt to be wrong.' She had always known it, had said so, but it hurt all the same; her eyes burned. 'You were fifteen years old. You trusted the judgment of your companion, you had no reason to distrust Mr Wickham, and the only reason you had any doubts was because of your own good sense and good principles.'

'I should have known better,' Georgiana repeated.

'You did know better.' She nearly wept at the fierce expression on his face, certain that somehow, at this late date, she had lost his good opinion forever. 'You knew better, you knew it was wrong, and that is why you were uneasy, that is why the influence of those you had placed your faith in failed — '

'It did not fail! I agreed to elope, I would have — '

'That is why,' he went on inexorably, 'you told me everything. You knew I would not approve, did not you? You knew I would forbid it? You knew that, at your age, I would forbid any marriage?'

She nodded, utterly miserable.

'And yet you told me. What did you think I would do?'

'I do not know, I did not know, I only knew you would take care of everything, and I could not bear to disappoint you, and that would be defying you and — ' Tears poured freely down her face, and she shook her head. 'I could not do it. Oh, how I wanted you there! But I did not dare write, or ask — I did not dare anything —' Blindly, she held out both hands to him. She heard him stand up, felt the strong grips of their fingers twisted together, and she buried her face against his shoulder, dropping one of his hands. 'I am sorry,' she gasped, through harsh, wracking sobs. 'Fitzwilliam, I am so sorry.'

'I never doubted your penitence, Georgiana.' He gently stroked her hair, as he had when she was a child running to him after a bad dream. 'And . . . and I am sorry, also, that I did not take better care of you.'

This extraordinary pronouncement jarred her out of her misery. 'I beg your pardon?'

'My dear Georgiana, you cannot think I did not feel it. I hired Mrs Younge, I failed to recognise her true character, I sent her to Ramsgate with you. I failed to tell you what Wickham was. I failed to warn you against fortune hunters.'

'No!' she cried. 'No, if anyone is not to blame, it is you. You are the only reason I am not in poor Lydia Bennet's situation right now.'

'Not I — you. I could have done nothing if you had not confided in me. Do you understand, Georgiana, that you do not owe your — your deliverance to Richard, or Kate, or me, or any other person, before yourself? And that is where the difference between the two of you lies. I tried to keep her from marrying him. It could have been arranged. She would not leave him. She did not want anyone's help. She cared nothing for her family, her friends, her reputation. You were befuddled and vulnerable, and far, far more innocent than Lydia Wickham ever was. I am not only your brother, Georgiana, I am your guardian, and it is there that I failed you. You would never have been in that situation had I taken adequate precautions.'

Georgiana was incredulous and horrified and obscurely comforted. She had thought he could not forgive her; she could not forgive herself, and he was so good, of course he would not understand the depth of her regret. Yet he did, more than anybody, for she could hear the self-disgust in his voice, as clearly as she felt it whenever she thought of that horrible summer. It seemed impossible, ridiculous, that he might blame himself for her folly, and yet he was Fitzwilliam, so stubborn and proud and . . . and so always right, what could she say?

After a short silence, she said, 'Did Mrs Wickham tell anyone? Before — before they went off together?'

'There were hints in letters to one of her sisters — Catherine. She left a note for the friend she was staying with.' His voice gentled. 'Georgiana, the similarities in situation between the two of you are all the more astonishing because two more dissimilar young ladies surely never existed. She did not wish anyone to know. She wanted to go off with him. She did not care sixpence for her family. She told me as much herself.'

Georgiana felt a rush of revulsion at the thought, the sort of feeling that shamed her and that she would never dream of mentioning aloud. Loyalty to her family had been first, before affection, before all other duties, for so long that the very idea of any sort of estrangement was abhorrent to her. How could anyone, a girl of her own age, Elizabeth's sister, simply not care? She had thought, that summer, that freedom from responsibility and obligation and deference would be — liberating, somehow. And yet, when she allowed herself to face the prospect of a future without the shackles of duty, she felt as if the very earth had crumbled beneath her feet.

'It was not your fault,' she said, more strongly, taking a step backwards and wiping her eyes. 'You did everything you could, and when I needed you, you were there, like a — a miracle. I did know you would not let the engagement persist.' She felt her eyes widen. 'I knew it, when I told you -- I just knew that you would know what to do. I trusted you.'

He stared at her keenly, then his face lightened. 'Then I am very glad I did something right, as that trust enabled us to avert this tragedy.'

'You do everything right. Sometimes I wonder how you can care for me — I do not doubt you, but . . .' She shrugged. 'I make so many mistakes. You and Elizabeth are so . . . decisive.'

'I assure you, Georgiana, my decisiveness has caused far more mistakes, and more grievous ones, than all your caution.'

She shook her head. Logically, of course, her brother must have made mistakes -- he was human, imperfect — but she had never seen them. 'And Elizabeth?' she enquired sadly. 'Surely she has never misjudged anyone like I did?'

Something, some emotion she could not identify, flashed across his face. Fitzwilliam turned his head away, biting his lip. 'You will must speak to her about that,' he said, after a pause. 'As for the . . . other, I cannot simply command you to forgive yourself, any more than you can do the same for me. However, you must understand that I do not blame you, and that I will never care for anyone as I do you.'

'But — you love Elizabeth as much, I am sure of it!'

'My feelings for her are not remotely fraternal,' he said dryly. 'She certainly does not feel for me what she does for Mrs Bingley. And you are my only sister, Georgiana, you have been — for a very long time, you were all that I had.'

'That is what you meant? When you said your duty to me was your consolation?'

'Yes. No matter how — difficult — anything was, you needed me. My duty to you kept my resolve firm. For many years, you and I have had only each other to depend upon. Nothing can ever wholly replace that, do you understand?'

Georgiana felt as if her head were stuffed, she had heard and discovered so much, most of which had never entered her mind before. She took a deep breath, something in her steadying, as if for the first time, she had something solid in herself to cling to. And the last bit of fear slipped away. She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. 'I understand,' she said, awash in contentment. 'Thank you, it is so . . . so . . .'

'Sometimes, my dear, there are no words.' He ruffled her hair, as he had when she was a child. 'Now, it is very late; you should go to sleep. It is Christmas tomorrow, or rather, today.'

'Good night, Fitzwilliam.'

'Good night, Georgiana.'