Last chapter: Georgiana returns downstairs in time to hear Milton's explanation for his arrival, which the furious Darcy finds quite offensive. She discovers that Milton does not know of Ramsgate and so certainly did not tell Miss Martin of it -- she must be referring to something else. Georgiana also discovers that the anonymous young lady that had, according to Darcy, been attached to Wickham was, in fact, her sister-in-law Elizabeth. Suddenly Darcy seems to realise something, and hastily leaves for a walk outside. Georgiana and Elizabeth walk into the gallery; Elizabeth might know what Darcy thought of, but refuses to say, and they talk of the last Darcy love-match, that of Francis and Georgiana Elizabeth Darcy.

Chapter Twelve

After Elizabeth went upstairs to rest for a few hours, Georgiana found herself at something of a loss. Fitzwilliam had not yet returned; she fretted a little, for he must be getting quite cold — but of course he knew what he was doing. He would return when he needed to.

She could not seem to concentrate on anything; she tried playing her harp, reading her lessons, even reading Mrs Edgeworth's new novel, but to no avail. Her mind continued to leap from thought to thought — wondering what was happening, what she did not know about herself, but even more than that, the discovery that Elizabeth had been misled by Wickham.

Now she knew what Fitzwilliam had meant on Christmas Eve. If he had been in love with her by spring, but knew, somehow, that she was attached to Wickham — Georgiana shuddered at the thought. He had been a little different after returning from his visit at Lady Catherine's, quieter, even melancholy — and melancholy was very unlike Fitzwilliam. Once or twice he had been sharp with people (never Georgiana), until out of nowhere, it seemed, he had quarrelled fiercely with Milton. And sometimes, she thought, he seemed rather bewildered at his own behaviour. She, of course, saw all those little things that others would not, because she saw him so much more frequently than anybody, and though he was mostly just as he had always been with her, she knew he was unhappy and it made her miserable. She was sure it was her fault, that he must be angry and resentful of having such an ungrateful, spoilt sister — but now, now she knew it was not that at all.

Georgiana bit her lip. For a moment, she had felt a flicker of anger, that Elizabeth had believed Wickham over Fitzwilliam and made him unhappy — but she instantly knew it was unjust. She, after all, had done the same. And Fitzwilliam was not wrong about Elizabeth, he could not be. She was still the same person Georgiana had thought her. Merry, charming, clever, impulsive. A sort of wiser, more sensible, more thoughtful Cecily. What had he said? That she would have to ask Elizabeth herself about errors she had made?

Georgiana shuddered at the thought. She would quite gladly never hear That Man's name again, as long as she lived, though she knew it was impossible. And Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam — and Georgiana, too — they had all been so happy lately. She had felt as if the breaks and chasms in her family were finally healing over — and that was not just Elizabeth, but she was part of it. And that was worth having to acknowledge Wickham's existence occasionally.

A smile trembled on her lips as she walked. For a moment, she tried to look at the world around her as Elizabeth, or the Gardiners, must see it — not simply as home, but a grand, ancient house with all the centuries of Darcy footsteps echoing around her. She shivered. There was a sort of comforting weight in the knowledge that she stood where so many of her fathers and aunts had.

By now, she was back at the great portrait gallery, surrounded by the images of those people, along with the other art that the various masters of Pemberley had collected. Feeling quite daring, Georgiana ignored the masters and mistresses, but examined the others who had been, like she herself, mere daughters and sisters. There was Aunt Helen — she had married a French marquis, some incredibly distant cousin, and was killed with him before Georgiana was born. Then there was Lady Alston, with all her splendid laces and silks — another only daughter. Here was her great-grandaunt Bella — she had been the eldest of three sisters. Who had she married? Oh, the Blythes' heir — there were letters to her mother, Lady Isabella, congratulating her on Miss Darcy's fine match. Katherine Darcy, wearing the same shade of yellow that Elizabeth favoured, had snared a minor duke.

No, that was not the right word — she had not snared him, not pursued him at all. Georgiana frowned, studying Katherine's portrait. She did not remember exactly, but she and Fitzwilliam had once laughed together over one of Sir David's letters, in which he gleefully reported that his proud sister had brought her suitor down a few notches. She only consented to marry him because — no, she did not love him, but she and her family finally decided he was worthy of her, even if his ancestors had once been Scottish sheep farmers. She remembered asking Fitzwilliam in her childish voice, Were they happy? and he, looking pensive, said, In a manner of speaking. They had been friends rather than lovers, she later discovered, and as far as anyone knew quite content with each other's discreet infidelity.

Georgiana thought of them, the Miss Darcys that had gone before, staring down at her from their place on the wall. All had married well — all of them mistresses of grand estates and wives of powerful landowners. Some lived in quiet seclusion on their husbands' estates, some were socially influential ladies of the ton, some were gay and flighty, some sober and intellectual. Yet one and all, they had lived with the same expectations that Georgiana did now. Aunt Helen married reluctantly, Aunt Bella married a man who wrote to her, I love thee, sweetheart, and yearn for thee, more than heart may tell, Lady Alston did not care one way or another and married out of prudent inclination alone.

She smiled. Right now, the burden of being Miss Darcy of Pemberley was not a weight at all. Had not all the others managed to live with the expectations upon them? Surely among all these people, there was one young girl who felt just as nervous and insignificant as Georgiana did? After all, who said duty and inclination must oppose each other? Well, plenty of people, but who said they were right?

Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth would look after her, she thought. Fitzwilliam could frighten away the unworthy at thirty paces, and Elizabeth . . . well, she was Elizabeth. As long as Georgiana was with them, there was nothing to fear. Except dancing.

Georgiana laughed to herself, or perhaps at herself, then stopped when she heard the familiar sharp rap of boots against the floor.

'Fitzwilliam?' she cried, spinning around and hurrying towards him. He smiled at her; he seemed much less weary, though still quite grim.

'Georgiana.' He kissed her cheek. 'Where is Elizabeth?'

'Upstairs — she was tired.'

'Ah, I see.' He took her arm. 'What were you doing here?'

'Nothing in particular,' she said, leaning on him, 'just walking, and thinking.'

'Not about that woman's scurrilous accusation, I hope?'

'No,' she replied, startled. 'I was not thinking of that, at all — rather about family, and history, and being . . . myself.' She wet her lip, then gathered her courage, even as she felt the familiar dizziness and her heart pounding in her ears. 'Fitzwilliam, what is it? Do you know . . . do you know what she meant? Elizabeth said — she thought I might know, but then she thought of something but said she could not say until she talked to you.'

'Yes, I know.' He hesitated. 'Would you like Elizabeth to be here?'

To her surprise, she did, but she said, 'No — I mean, I do not think we should wake her up, but I want to know. What did I do, that she could think — '

'You? Nothing at all.' He stopped, turning to look around with a contemplative expression. A dead silence fell as brother and sister stood alone, surrounded by their ancestors. There are no more, she thought. Nobody else carried the name, except their great-uncle and -aunt, who might die any day; they were last of their line. She shivered.

'She was not really referring to you,' he said finally. 'She was referring to our family.'

She frowned. 'I — you mean that . . . I do not understand.'

He turned away, his eyes fixed on their mother's portrait. 'You do not remember Mother, and you certainly do not remember her death. You do not remember what Father was like before she died, and you do not remember what I was like. You were barely four years old. You had just learnt to say our names properly.' Georgiana swallowed. 'I am going to speak to you honestly, Georgiana, about our family.'

'What do you mean? Surely you have not been dishonest?'

'No; yet I have not told you the whole truth — and I do not regret it. But you are older now, and it does . . . I think it will help you to understand.'

She easily caught the strain in his voice, and reached out her hand to his. 'Fitzwilliam?'

'What we would call profligate was "indiscreet" for people then; Father was only remarkable for being so fundamentally good — warm-hearted, compassionate, with an easy, open temper, a great natural liking for other people, and many other fine qualities. Mother's disposition could not have been more different. She was obstinate, clever, headstrong, temperamental, and though she liked him she did not approve of him, and accepted his overtures primarily out of duty to her family. She was always proud of being a Fitzwilliam, but she was also never blind to the fact that they had not been completely respectable since — well, since they lost their fortune and regained it. She saw her marriage to my father as a chance to gain the old respect her family once garnered — which it was.'

'I thought they were — infatuated,' Georgiana said hesitatingly.

'He was. Yet he could not break her indifference and tired of it soon enough. They lived together, that was all, his interest quickly went elsewhere.' She caught her breath. 'Her pride made it even worse to bear; it was utterly degrading for her, and my father could never understand it, he could not understand what it was like for her — she, the favourite of every body in an unusually affectionate family, had no preparation for what was expected of her. In any case, one winter, when their only surviving child was eight, there was a terrible epidemic at Pemberley. Mother fell deeply ill, Alexandra died, and Father mistook her reserve for indifference.'

Georgiana flinched. Her brother said,

'A common enough mistake. You and I have both had that accusation leveled at us a few too many times to easily tolerate it. In any case, they quarrelled bitterly and often. Father turned more and more to business, to his responsibilities, the poor and the ill and others who depended upon his consideration. Mother— ' he sighed. 'Her misery at the time, I believe, was the worst she ever suffered. The forlorn state of a neglected woman often rouses that species of pity, which is so near akin, it easily slides into love. A man of feeling thinks not of seducing, he is himself seduced by the noblest emotions of his soul.'

Georgiana looked at him, a frisson of — not fear, but horror, running through her. 'Fitzwilliam, she did not — did she?'

'Yes,' he said shortly. 'She did.'

'Poor Mama,' she whispered. 'I never knew, I never guessed, nobody ever said — '

'It is not something one ought to speak to a child of. Mother — she was unhappy, and lonely, and, for all her pride, I do not think she held anyone in as much contempt as she did herself. And she desperately wanted children. I survived, none of the others did. So there was always a constant loss. She wanted a daughter. As for myself,— I — Mother's entanglement with Lord Stephen — '

'Lord Stephen? Lord Stephen Willoughby — Lord Courtland's uncle?'

'It was rather awkward for us.' Distantly, he added, 'they loved each other — it was quite dreadful.'

'Love should not be dreadful,' Georgiana said.

'No. It should not.' He took a deep breath. 'In any case, I was from a very early age — ' his eyes left hers as he searched for words. 'I was aware of much of what was — transpiring.' He returned his gaze to meet her own. 'I do not know if you, or anyone, can possibly comprehend what your — your mere existence meant to me.'

Georgiana flushed. 'You were just a little boy.'

'Yes — a sullen, lonely, often angry boy, at that,' he said flatly. 'You cannot understand, Georgiana, the difference after you were born. I loved Father but we were always quite distant, when we were not estranged altogether, while Mother was . . . there was nothing I could do for her, I was a powerless child.' He shook his head. 'I appointed myself your protector before you were born. I could do nothing for Mother, but you — I was one of the fussiest brothers who ever lived, I am sure. Especially after Mother died. I lived with Lady Catherine and my uncle, and I was furious at Father for separating us.'

A gentle smile curved her lips. 'I remember — I hardly saw you when I was small, you were there and then you were not. But you always wrote.'

'Yes. I promised I would.'

She stared at him quizzically. 'I do not remember that.'

'You were very small. Four or five. I had stayed at Pemberley for some months. You were — you followed me everywhere, like a duckling.'

She winced.

'I am sorry.'

'No. It must have been amusing.'

'Richard thought so.' He bit his lip. 'In any case, I rushed h— back to Houghton when our grandfather died. You hardly knew him, so you could not understand why I was leaving you again, and "so soon." I promised I would write every week that we were not together. Although I returned home not much later, it became a sort of tradition.'

'I always looked forward to your letters at school. I always knew they would come.' She looked down. 'But even then, I never knew — I thought — well, that you wrote more out of duty than affection.' Her voice suddenly seemed loud in the quiet room.

He laughed shortly. 'You know what I think about that, Georgiana; there is no disentangling duty and affection. For many years I thought of your coming out with horror. I was certain that any man with sense would see your worth and take you away from me.'

Georgiana stared at him. His cheeks were flushed. She knew he must be terribly embarrassed to speak so, though she did not doubt his honesty for a moment. 'Fitzwilliam, I— ' Something must be said, but she felt as if she had nothing to give in return. 'I never knew.' A dim memory came to her. 'I was angry at the family once,' she said. 'I do not remember why, except that they wanted something from you and you seemed so tired all the time. I asked Richard why they would not leave you alone and he laughed at me. He said you did not want that, that you liked being useful, like Aunt Catherine.'

He flinched, then straightened, his expression hardening. 'That is true enough, though sometimes they fail to draw a sharp enough distinction between being useful and being used.'

She blinked, her eyes widening. His voice gentled. 'That is, however, quite beside the point. This — do you see where we came from, you and I? And you particularly — '

Georgiana stood very still, and tightened her fingers around Fitzwilliam's. She felt as if, despite all the revelations, there was something more, something she was supposed to understand, but that he would not say. She turned her head to look at her father, at the man he had been. His easy smile, gentle features, even the curly hair and fashionable attire, they were all more like Wickham than she or her brother. How different were they, really, the father she had loved and the heartless man who had taken advantage of her? Was it honesty alone?

Yet amidst all of the differences, there were the sharp high cheekbones she saw in her brother's face and her own reflection, the tie to each other and to their line. She loosened her grip on his hand, and stepped closer, meeting Mr Darcy's bright gaze. She could remember the conversation of merely a few hours ago.

'It is odd, that you both should be so unlike the Darcys — but you have your father's eyes.'

'Yes . . . yes, we all do, except Fitzwilliam. Even Courtland . . .'

And then the glimmerings of understanding flashed into sudden comprehension. Georgiana flushed cold. 'Fitzwilliam,' she said shakily, 'was — was Lord Stephen, the man that Mother loved — when did they — how did their relationship end?'

Quite simply, he said, 'Mother died.'

'Did he resemble his nephew very much?' She pressed her hands against her abdomen. 'Fitzwilliam?'

'No. Only a little, around the eyes.' He reached out his hand to her shoulder. 'Georgiana — '

She spun to face him. 'Was he my father?' Her voice went sharp and high.

He was silent; then he said, 'Mr Darcy was your father. He acknowledged you, he brought you up — '

Her eyes burned, but her cheeks remained dry when she cried out, 'You brought me up, Fitzwilliam. Not F — not Mr Darcy.'

'He loved you, Georgiana,' Fitzwilliam said harshly. 'Just as Mother did, and I.'

'Did Lord Stephen?'

'Yes.'

She stared at the portrait. 'Please tell me, Fitzwilliam. Am I . . .' She swallowed a lump in her throat. How could she say it? Mr Darcy, his faults notwithstanding, had been the most affectionate, generous father in the world. He deserved a father's honour from her.

Fitzwilliam looked at her, met her eyes with his own. 'I do not know. Nobody ever knew, and nobody cared — the Willoughbys are the nearest in Father's line, you were a Darcy and a Fitzwilliam and my mother's daughter and that was all that mattered.'

Georgiana turned her head away, into her brother's shoulder, though she could not weep. After a moment, he stroked her smooth dark hair. She said in a muffled voice, 'I do not like Miss Martin.'