Last chapter: Christmas! The children sing carols -- and when they go to Darcy's room, they find Elizabeth lying in his bed. Georgiana is invited to sit with the adults, and there is a discussion about women, education, and fortune-hunting. Georgiana is reassured that Elizabeth truly loves her brother.

Chapter Seven

Georgiana did not like dancing. She never had. She was always terrified of making mistakes, of course, but that was not the real reason for the instinctive recoil of revulsion. The real reason was that she did not like dancing.

The girls at school, of course, had thought such sentiments unwomanly, vulgar, indelicate. Yet she was a lady. There was no getting out of it, really. After all, Fitzwilliam danced — a little — sometimes — and he disliked it as much as she could do.

The weather had subsided enough that he resignedly consented to the entire Pemberley party attending the Twelfth Night ball. Elizabeth and her relations were delighted; Georgiana, as the days slowly passed, looked forward to the Ponsonbys' celebrations with increasing dread.

She distracted herself with the kitten, who grew healthier and vainer over the days after Christmas. He basked not only in her own attention, but that of the three eldest Gardiner children, the servants, her brother and sister-in-law, and anyone else who happened to pass by the basket where he spent most of his time. He also seemed very loyal to Georgiana, appearing whenever she was upset, and attacking anyone nearby.

'What are you calling it?' her brother asked one evening, after she had gone to his study to discuss the novel she was reading. This time, Mrs Darcy was with her relations; Georgiana was not certain whether she regretted her sister-in-law's absence or not. Her wit and brilliancy was generally delightful, but it could be exhausting too; after the vicissitudes of Georgiana's daily life, sometimes it was pleasant to feel only the quiet serenity that pervaded her companionship with her brother, without worrying about the alarm, bewilderment, and admiration that suffused her when she observed Mrs Darcy.

She met his quizzical expression, and was jolted back to the moment. 'Narcissus,' she said.

'How very appropriate,' he replied with a smile, and she returned it.

'I thought so. He is not the . . . sweetest natured animal . . . nor the humblest . . .'

'It is the nature of cats to be ill-tempered and conceited,' Fitzwilliam said, looking amused. 'Particularly, I daresay, Pemberley ones.'

'Elizabeth told me that you had a cat once,' she said, startled at her own daring. Her brother's childhood had, somehow, always been an unspoken subject at Pemberley. She had never known why, or really known anything beyond the vague impression of unhappiness. Not hers, she had been very happy until her father's last illness — but when she cast her mind back and tried to recall anything very early, she could not think of anything, except missing Fitzwilliam sometimes when he was away at university.

His expression turned as surprised as her own. 'I never mentioned her?'

Georgiana shook her head.

'She died when I was sixteen, though she had so many litters, I daresay some of her descendants are still around. Your Narcissus is probably one, we had hardly any mousers before I found her.'

'You found her? Like I did Narcissus?' Georgiana's lips curved as she met his eyes squarely.

'Very like. She . . .' He paused, and she knew that he was determining what to say and what not to. Wickham, she thought. 'She fell into the river when I was four. I swam in to save her, and she scratched my face.' He smiled reminiscently. 'She grew very attached to me after I rescued her, though I doubt if she cared for another human being.'

'Did she look like Narcissus?'

'No . . . well, she was very thin, very small, but she was grey, not black. I called her Alfred.'

Georgiana giggled. 'I am glad you had someone to look after you,' she said. His brows knitted slightly, then his expression cleared.

'Thank you, dear.' He hesitated a moment. 'There is a sketch of her, over on Elizabeth's table. She was looking at it.'

Georgiana walked over at his gesture, and smiled to herself. While Fitzwilliam's papers were perfectly orderly, Elizabeth's were scattered in messy piles. On the very top was a drawing of a creature that might have been a cat, a small ball of fluffy fur dwarfed by its enormous eyes and ears.

At the same time that she laughed at the sight of her brother's pet, she glanced down at the letter which slipped out when she picked up the picture. She just caught the signature — Lydia Wickham. Before she could think on it, she turned away and focused all of her attention on the small picture of the cat, on the image she instantly constructed of the solemn boy in her mother's portrait with this laughable creature—

Her mother's portrait! They had never told him. 'Oh! Fitzwilliam,' she cried. 'I only now remembered.'

'Remembered what, Georgiana?'

'The portrait — we found, that is, Elizabeth found Mother's, when we were in the chapel.'

'The chapel?' He frowned. 'Mother's portrait is not there — Lord Ancaster brought it from Houghton, shortly after the wedding.'

'No, not that one — another — '

'Another? Impossible, Father had them destr— ' He stopped, paling, and looking steadily ahead at some point over her shoulder. Then, with the sort of sudden, unexpected movement she had not often seen in him since they were both quite young, he sprang up. 'The chapel? The old one?'

'Yes — ' she eyed him — 'you are not angry?'

'Angry? I?' He laughed rather queerly. 'No, no, of course not. Come, you must show me where it is.'

The idea of Fitzwilliam requiring directions was so laughable that she could scarcely help an incredulous look from overtaking her face, but she nodded and obeyed.

'You are in it, too,' she said presently. 'It was just a few years before I was born, I think; you do not look twelve, but Mother is much older than the other.'

'I remember that,' he said, sounding almost breathless, like a child. The child in that portrait — she opened the door, and with quick long steps, they approached the painting. It had been partly re-covered, but by someone too short to do it properly. Georgiana easily pulled the sheet off.

For a moment, brother and sister gazed at the painting. Then Georgiana glanced back at Fitzwilliam. He was so different now! She could only see bare hints of the boy he had been amid the sharp angles of his face — the eyes, of course, and perhaps something of the mouth.

'Yes, this is the one,' he said. He reached out a hand, then dropped it again. The other paintings seemed to surround them like old ghosts; with as little warning as before, he spun and revealed, one after another, all the nearest portraits.

'Good God!' she cried.

An absent 'Georgiana' was her only reprimand. He seemed almost as shocked as she was. Five, six, seven — her mother's face looked out at them from eight different paintings. Three must have been taken when she was quite young — in the first, she looked only a year or two older than Georgiana was now. In the last of these, there was an infant in her arms, its head covered by tufts of fair hair.

'Fitzwilliam, who is that?'

'Alexandra.'

Georgiana took a fascinated step forward. The sister who had died before Fitzwilliam was even born — she had known, of course, but Alexandra had never been real to her. Just one like all the others who had died, some immediately after their births, some living to see several weeks, but all of them dead in the end.

Mr Darcy, Lady Anne, and Alexandra were all three in the next portrait. The latter, a tall, pretty girl of about six or seven, stood by her — their — father. Together, father and daughter looked happy, almost idyllically so — Lady Anne, dark and coldly sedate, seemed almost separate from them, and yet her expression had as much contentment to it as serenity.

By the next, everything had changed. Alexandra was gone; Mr Darcy was nearly as severe as his wife; there was a sort of defiant pride to Lady Anne's sombre face. She was much thinner, the elegant planes of her features harsh and fierce. Both were in black.

'That was about eight months before I was born,' Fitzwilliam said, startling her. 'It was only just after Alexandra died. Father insisted upon a portrait being taken; Mother never understood why. She said she wanted to forget it all.'

'I see,' Georgiana replied. These people were her parents? Her family? She almost felt that she did not like them very much. Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth are my family, she thought firmly, and smiled a little.

The sixth was yet again different. Mr Darcy seemed even more distressed; he was still in mourning. Lady Anne's grey gown was almost blue, and she looked almost exactly as she had in the painting with the infant Alexandra, except happier.

'That is you?' Georgiana asked, pointing at the child her mother held.

He only nodded, searching their parents' flat painted eyes, as if they contained the secrets of the universe. The next was the one Elizabeth had already discovered, and last —

'Is that me?'

Fitzwilliam took her arm. 'Yes.'

Lady Anne, even wearier and thinner than in the picture Elizabeth had discovered, held her last child in her arms. Georgiana stared at herself. She had been a plump, healthy girl, with wide dark eyes looking all around and plenty of dark hair. She was laughing while her mother smiled down at her. Fitzwilliam seemed taller and much thinner, his expression protective as he rested one hand on Lady Anne's shoulder.

'Where was Father?'

'I do not remember,' Fitzwilliam replied. 'He was often gone on matters of business.'

She took a step closer, pulling him with her. 'When — when did she die? I mean, how long after this?'

'This was in the autumn, about four months after your fourth birthday. She died in December, so — two months.'

'Oh!' Yes, her face was pale and waxen, her form far too light, but she seemed so happy. Georgiana blinked tears away. 'I wish I had known her. I can hardly remember her at all.'

'I often wished that for you,' he said. 'Men make very poor mothers.'

She laughed shakily. 'So do many women. You were much better at it than — oh — Lady Ancaster. She had scarcely anything to do with them — did she even teach them to read?'

He, too, laughed. 'I do not recall. Remember, I was the youngest, until you.—Certainly she makes a fine lady of leisure, and could not manage anything more.'

Georgiana looked up. 'I could not do it, Fitzwilliam. I could not be like her.'

'Of course you could not. I certainly hope I raised you better than that.'

Relieved, she smiled. 'Yes, you did.'

'Fitzwilliam? Georgiana?' Mrs Darcy's voice rang out in the musty room. 'Molly said I might find you here. Did you find — '

She stopped dead, her quick gaze flicking from painting to painting. 'Why — I thought — '

'Perhaps we might speak with Mrs Reynolds,' Fitzwilliam said calmly. 'Would you mind sending for her, dear?'

Within moments, the housekeeper had appeared, looking even frailer than usual. 'Mr Darcy, sir, is there . . .' she swallowed — 'something I can do for you?'

'I had thought that all the paintings of my mother were destroyed; I am quite certain my father ordered it done.'

'Yes, sir, my Jack, he was the one who . . .' At his expression, the words quickly tumbled out. 'Jack didn't mean any harm, sir. It was just that when your poor mother died, and your father told my Jack, he told him that all the paintings were to be destroyed,— well, he was so odd then, if you understand me, sir, Jack was sure he could not be quite well, and you and Miss Darcy were so young that we thought you couldn't understand what was happening and surely you would want them when you were older . . . and nobody ever came in here, especially Mr Darcy, so . . . well, for your mother's sake and yours and Miss Darcy's, we thought . . .'

'I see,' said Fitzwilliam. 'And why did not you inform me of this, after my father died?'

'Well, sir, we thought it through and . . . well, he was the master and we had disobeyed him, and if you thought us disobedient, you might . . .'

'Ah.' He studied her a moment, then smiled. 'I am very grateful, Mrs Reynolds. Please give your nephew my thanks.'

Mrs Reynolds blushed like a girl. 'Oh, sir . . .' She blinked rapidly at the floor, then turned her usual pragmatic self. 'That Jenny will be bothering Mess'r Renaud again. I had better . . .'

'Of course; you are dismissed.' When she was gone, the entire family turned, as one, to look at the portraits again.

'Why Fitzwilliam, is that you?' Mrs Darcy inquired, peering at one of them. 'What a pretty baby you were, my love.'

Fitzwilliam winced.

Georgiana walked alone, past the study where her brother, as often as not accompanied by his wife, spent so much of his time. He was not there, the children were asleep, and all of the adults were in the blue sitting room — she could just hear the mingled laughter of Elizabeth and the Gardiners.

The letter, Mrs Wickham's letter, sprang into her mind. The unacknowledged flame of curiosity surged up in her again. Fitzwilliam, he did not know that Mrs Darcy was corresponding with her sister — not that she oughtn't, but — well, he didn't approve of Mrs Wickham, did he? Yet Georgiana, knowing as she did how close she had been to becoming Mrs Wickham herself, she could not help feeling a sort of odd kinship with the other girl. And she had heard him say that Mrs Darcy and Mrs Wickham did not correspond.

It is my duty, to protect Fitzwilliam. Now that Wickham is his . . . our . . . brother, who knows what he might be planning? She firmly quelled the uprising of conscience and slipped into the study. Mrs Darcy's table was, if possible, even more chaotic than it had been the day before, but she found Mrs Wickham's letter easily enough. With a nervous, guilty look over her shoulder, she quickly read the brief, scrawling lines:

My dear Lizzy,

I wish you joy. If you love Mr Darcy half as well as I do my dear Wickham, you must be very happy. It is a great comfort to have you so rich, and when you have nothing else to do, I hope you will think of us. I am sure Wickham would like a place at court very much, and I do not think we shall have quite money enough to live upon without some help. Any place would do, of about three or four hundred a year; but however, do not speak to Mr Darcy about it, if you had rather not.

Georgiana stared at it, horrified. Then she heard footsteps and without thinking, pushed it away.

'Georgiana?'

She summoned up a smile when she set eyes on her brother, the last person in the world she wished to see at the moment. 'Good evening, sir,' she said nervously, her heart pounding in her ears, 'I was looking for the picture of Alfred, I wanted to draw Narcissus and couldn't get it quite right.'

He only said, 'You need only have asked, Georgiana; it is on my desk, on the third pile from the right. I shall give it to you later; we were wondering if you would care to join us.'

Overwhelmed with relief, she nodded eager assent, and leaned on his arm as they went to the drawing room, her mind racing.

What should she do?