Last chapter: Georgiana goes down the gallery and thinks about being Miss Darcy, but when her brother returns, discovers the possibility that Mr Darcy was not her father at all, but rather Lord Stephen Willoughby, uncle of her brother's friend-cum-distant cousin Lord Courtland. To her family, however, this is a matter of little significance, and particularly to her brother, who tells her rather more of growing up at Pemberley with his adversarial parents, and how much she, unknowingly, changed that.

Chapter Thirteen

After so much excitement, Georgiana was fully prepared to crawl into her bed and sleep for ten hours; Fitzwilliam walked with her to the great staircase before returning to his estate duties. As she slowly made her way to her chamber, her steps were heavy and her lids drooping.

However, halfway down the hall, she heard muffled sobs. Georgiana stopped, staring at the door from which the sounds emerged. It was Miss Martin's room, and for a moment, she was very much inclined to leave her to her distress. After all, she'd had no compunctions about distressing Georgiana, had she?

Nevertheless, her better instincts prevailed, and she sighed, paying the other woman the courtesy of knocking before she opened the door and stepped in.

Miss Martin was lying in exactly the same position as when Georgiana had last seen her — on her side, one arm curled around her belly. Her face was pressed into a pillow, the other hand clutching at it.

'I beg your pardon,' Georgiana said, approaching the bed tentatively. 'Is there something we can do for you?'

Miss Martin slowly turned her head, staring at her uncomprehendingly. 'Who are you?'

Georgiana frowned. 'Do you not remember? Do you even know where you are?'

'I . . . remember? Remember what?' With a groan, she sat up, wrapping the blankets around herself. 'Edward was angry about something — oh! that awful man, he shouted at him. There were so many people. Are you one of them?'

'I have not the slightest idea what you are speaking of,' Georgiana told her firmly, and added in the same unequivocal tone, 'I am Miss Darcy.'

Miss Martin's eyes widened. 'Oh! Then we must be at Pemberley. Edward said he might have to come, though he did not want . . . but I do not remember coming here.'

With another sigh, Georgiana pulled a chair over to the woman's bedside, and sat down on it. 'You have been very ill,' she explained. 'My brother sent for a doctor earlier; I think you must be getting better.'

'I know I was ill,' Miss Martin said impatiently, 'that is why we had to . . . did the doctor say anything about the child?'

'I did not talk to him, I do not know. You shall have to ask Mrs Darcy.'

'How long have I been here?'

'About three hours.'

Miss Martin looked around, plucking at the coverlet. 'This is very comfortable,' she said presently. 'It is kind of your brother to allow us to stay. Edward says they do not even get on well, but that he is more liberal than he seems.'

Georgiana took a moment to sort out the pronouns, then said stiffly, 'My brother has a reputation for generosity, and they got on perfectly well for many years.'

'You are one of them, then. Edward's people.' She studied Georgiana's face. 'You look something like her.'

'Her?'

'The woman that was there. She gave him — us — some money and told him to forget his pride. His sister or cousin, I think. There seemed a great many cousins.'

'You must mean Eleanor,' said Georgiana. 'She is Milt — Edward's sister.'

'I see.' She shut her eyes. 'How long will we be here?'

'I hardly know. As long as my brother allows.'

'He is very much lord of the manor, then?'

Georgiana pressed her lips together. 'Naturally. This is his home.'

'Was he angry? Edward said he would be.'

'Yes, very. He does not care to be taken advantage of.'

Miss Martin smiled tiredly. 'Edward said he enjoyed being useful.'

'There is a difference between being useful and being used,' Georgiana told her, remembering her brother's words. After a moment, she softened. 'But I do not think my brother will force you out — for the child's sake, at least.'

The other's eyes widened. 'The child? What does your brother care about it?'

'It is the only thing my brother cares about. Milton has trespassed upon his generosity too many times for him to feel any duty to him, but your child is our own flesh and blood. You are very fortunate that Milton is your protector.' A sharp note crept into her voice. 'Not every rebellious heir has such a loyal family.'

'At least your brother seems to be. Please extend my gratitude, and apologies, when you talk to him.' She winced, shifting herself slightly.

After a pause, Georgiana said, 'I shall.' A wave of tiredness swept over her, even as Miss Martin laid a protective hand over her belly.

'Where is he?'

'My brother? Downstairs.'

'No . . .' her voice grew vague again. 'Edward. I need . . . we have to speak about . . . something must be done.'

'He is asleep.'

'Did your brother say anything about . . . arrangements? For the child?' She drew her breath in sharply.

Georgiana stared at her, then said in a cold, proud voice, 'I am sure my brother wishes your child well, as we all do, but that, madam, is not his responsibility. Please excuse me.' Her step was firm and decisive as she walked out, shutting the door with a sharp click.

She was far too angry to sleep, as she had intended. Georgiana paced around her room, her long fingers clenching and unclenching. Somehow Miss Martin civil and at least somewhat gentler was so much more infuriating than the cruel Miss Martin of the morning. Lord of the manor indeed! How dare she judge him? She was nobody, without even virtue to recommend her. And then! They had the insufferable gall to come here, expecting Fitzwilliam to grant them sanctuary until the child was born, simply because Milton did not have the sense or restraint to live within his income, and then that woman expected him to arrange for her child's situation as well?

The worst part was, Georgiana thought grimly, he probably would. Oh, he would write to Lord Ancaster — perhaps he already had — but of course they would leave the actual difficulties up to Fitzwilliam, did not they always? She perfectly understood why he had been so sharp with Milton earlier — he had been too gentle, too fair by half, he should have . . . oh! if only he could have abandoned them to their own devices. But all the things that made him Fitzwilliam, that made her love him so much, and made her so unutterably furious at her cousin, made it equally impossible that he should do so. He was critical and sometimes spoke harshly, but there was really not a whit of malice in his character. Nor in Elizabeth's; perhaps that was why they liked each other so much, and, at least now, generally agreed on so many things.

Narcissus, curled up on her chair, opened one eye and mewed. Georgiana scooped him up into her arms and seized command of the chair, leaning her head against the wall as she tried to regain control of her temper. Her hand trembled as she stroked the kitten's silky black fur. She was not often angry, she was not often distressed, but in the past year everything in her world had changed. She loved Elizabeth but she had been so — so conflicted over that, and even though that was over, now there was . . . this. And she was like Fitzwilliam; she was almost never angry, but when she was, it tended to be very — thorough. Her head ached.

Narcissus laid his head affectionately on her hand and purred. Georgiana could not help smiling, her temper dying down to a mere simmer easily set aside. 'You are very good for me,' she told him softly. No animal had personality quite like a cat.

For the first time since leaving Fitzwilliam, she allowed her mind to drift to what he had told her, her hand shaking again. Memories of her father, warm, sunny, affectionate, flashed through her thoughts.

He was a good man. She had always known it, but somehow the revelation of his flaws made her understand how very good he had been. What sort of man accepted another man's child into his home and his heart as Mr Darcy had? There had been no hint, nothing, ever, that she was anything less than his daughter. She wished he were here — not as she had wished before, with wistful affection, but because she had been so young when he died, she had never talked with him, and now there were so many things she wanted to know. Fitzwilliam was, after all, only twelve years older than she was. There were a things a boy of eleven would not have seen and would not have heard.

She imagined them all; the man who was nothing more than a name and a pair of green eyes, who had loved her mother. Were there letters? Journals? Anything? She pictured the elder brother, now himself Lord Aldborough — her uncle? — his children Courtland and Dorothea. And then there were the others, Lady Anne, Mr Darcy, Aunt Helen, Fitzwilliam.

She had known that Courtland must have been at Pemberley often, like Richard was, but she never truly thought of it. What odd circumstances for a friendship like theirs to form — Lady Anne's son, and her nephew, and her paramour's heir. Had they all known, the three boys running about Pemberley, Courtland with his horses and Fitzwilliam his books and Richard embroiling the others in scrapes? What about Eleanor, was she there too? Did she know?

Yes, of course; everybody knew, and that was why Milton knew, knew enough to tell Miss Martin something. Lord Ancaster and Lady Anne had been so close, and their families — she was sure everybody knew, except perhaps Lady Catherine and Anne. That was something to be grateful for. Georgiana was sure that everybody would have been subject to Lady Catherine's multifarious opinions on the subject, if she'd had the slightest inkling, and Anne would think whatever Lady Catherine did.

It did not really matter, she decided, deliberately steadying her fingers. She was a Darcy and a Fitzwilliam either way, and her father and brother had made her completely one of them, Miss Darcy of Pemberley.

She wondered if Fitzwilliam would lose his temper with Milton again, and rather hoped so.

Georgiana woke to the sound of most un-Pemberley-like chaos. Looking out her window, she could see that it was very late, and only snatched up a robe before hurrying down the hall, searching for an explanation.

'Georgiana!' Mrs Darcy exclaimed, looking most uncharacteristically discomposed. 'What are you — oh, never mind. You should go downstairs, to Fitzwilliam, until it is over.'

'Until what — ' But it was too late, her sister had already vanished into one of the rooms — Miss Martin's. Well, no surprise that the disorder should come from there. A scream pierced the air, and Georgiana jumped, then took Elizabeth's advice.

She poked her head in the library, but it was empty. However, when she paused at his study, she could hear the measured cadences of his voice, and also a rougher one accompanying it, though she could not make out the words of either. She opened the door.

'Fitzwilliam? Elizabeth told me to . . .' She blinked at the incongruous sight that met her eyes — her brother, despite the hour his usual impeccably formal self, shaking hands with a homely farmer.

'Ah, Georgiana,' the former said, with perfect aplomb. 'This is Mr Cahill. Cahill, my sister Miss Darcy.'

The farmer was eyeing her curiously, but at the sound of her name started and bowed awkwardly. ''Tis an honour, miss,' he mumbled.

Georgiana instantly pulled on her most gracious demeanour, hiding the anxiety that swept over her at the sight of a stranger. 'Thank you, Mr Cahill. Yours is the farm next to the Browns', is it not?'

He looked astounded. 'Why, yes, ma'am, it is.'

She was suddenly grateful for Fitzwilliam's long, rambling letters. She clearly remembered his irritable account of the constant quarrels between the Browns and Cahills, and that he had ultimately decided in the latter's favour. Georgiana exerted herself insofar as to shake hands with him, rather overwhelming the poor man.

'Georgiana, Mr Cahill has been kind enough to do us a favour,' Fitzwilliam said, gesturing for them both to sit down, as if they were the most ordinary of guests, rather than a dishevelled tenant and Miss Darcy with her hair down. 'He had expected to take in his half-sister's child, but both mother and daughter died before arriving here.'

'Oh! I am very sorry, Mr Cahill,' she said, looking at him compassionately, even as her mind leapt ahead to possibilities.

'Thank you, miss,' he replied, eyes fixed on the floor.

'Since nobody is actually familiar with his sister, Mr Cahill has agreed to harbour the child in his home, in exchange for a small annuity to provide for its care.' He said nothing further, though Georgiana knew how very much more complex the arrangements must be. Later, after Mr Cahill had gone to talk to Mrs Reynolds' nephew, apparently some connection of his, she turned to her brother and said, holding out her hands,

'How can you be so good and live?'

He turned a vivid shade of scarlet. 'Georgiana . . .'

'I knew you would arrange everything, unworthy as they are. They have no right to expect it, but of course you would do everything yourself. You always do.' She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek.

'It was not for them, Georgiana, I would not have . . . I do not know what I have done,' he corrected, with his usual fastidiousness, 'but this — this is for that child. It deserves better than those two, and Mr Cahill is a good man. He is close enough that we will be able to watch over it somewhat, yet not so much as to create bitterness.'

'Sometimes, Fitzwilliam, I really think you would do anything for your own blood. If circumstances were changed, do you think the others would do half as much for you?'

He looked at her gravely. 'Not Milton, certainly — but, yes, I think my uncle would, and Eleanor, as far as she could. You forget, Georgiana, how different it was when I was young.'

'You are young, Fitzwilliam, until you are thirty.'

'A child, then. You were not even alive — I assure you, they earned my devotion. I would have been very miserable indeed without them.'

She thought of the picture he had painted earlier, and the literal picture she had seen. He had described himself as lonely, sullen, and angry. If that was at all true — though of course he was too harsh with himself, he always was about his little imperfections — she supposed the earl's kindness and Richard and Eleanor's friendship must have meant a great deal. When she asked, once, why Milton and Fitzwilliam did not get along as everyone said they once had, Eleanor blamed it all on Milton's folly — but Richard said . . . what had been said?

'Your partiality makes you unjust,' he said, with unusual gravity. 'Eleanor, you know it is not so unreasonable as that.'

'Oh!' cried Eleanor, 'oh, of course he has his reasons — there are always reasons, inadequate and petty though they may be.'

'What do you mean?' Georgiana piped up; she was more at ease with her family then. 'How could anyone have reasons for disliking Fitzwilliam — at least, anyone who truly knows him?'

'Jealousy,' Richard said simply. 'I wager that if my father liked him less, Milton would like him more; but my father's attachment to him has grown and Milton's jealousy with it. He does not easily bear the sort of preference that is often given your brother.'

Eleanor said nothing, but her disdainful sniff spoke louder than words.

'Well, that is silly,' said Georgiana. 'It is not as if Fitzwilliam can help being so good, or my uncle can help loving him so much.'

'Just so,' Richard told her, laughing. 'What a sensible girl you are, Cat. Now, I am done with gloomy talk. Were you not going to show me that clever pony of yours?'

Miss Martin was very wrong, Georgiana decided. Knowing how she had come to be did not make her any more sympathetic towards them; but she felt a sudden sharp compassion for her brother. If she were truly Lady Anne and Lord Stephen's love-child (what a trite phrase that was!), at least she knew that she had come from something infinitely happier than her brother, the product of such wretched bitterness. The genuine, if reserved, affection of the Fitzwilliams, and especially of Lord Ancaster, must have meant everything to him; she hoped that Elizabeth could teach him that some debts did not have to be paid forever. She hoped the child deserved everything that was being done for it, and somewhat vindictively, she hoped Milton and Miss Martin went on to live the rest of their selfish lives in petty, ignomimous, insignificant sin.