Last chapter: Georgiana speaks to a now-lucid Miss Martin, and very thoroughly loses her temper. Later, Miss Martin begins to give birth, and Georgiana is sent downstairs to join her brother. He introduces a tenant who has agreed to take responsibility for the child, once born.

Chapter Fourteen

The child was called Marianne Edwards, courtesy of her hopelessly impractical parents. It was, Georgiana felt certain, the last decision they would make in their daughter's life. Fitzwilliam had already hired a wet-nurse and they scarcely saw the baby.

She found it almost disturbingly easy to dismiss all three from her thoughts. She sat in her brother's study, her nimble fingers working of their own accord, leaving her mind free. Far more interesting to her than any of her relations was her sister-in-law's peculiar behaviour.

At present, Elizabeth was dozing lightly on the sofa, thoroughly exhausted. She had driven herself ragged over the last fortnight, and for no particular reason. Both her husband and sister had protested, but since they had no desire to tax her further, they did not dare press further and instead watched her sharply. Mrs Darcy's strength had seemed unflagging, until — finally! — little Marianne was delivered to the Cahill farm and the doctor had declared that Miss Martin was beginning to recover from her ordeal.

Georgiana pondered. Elizabeth seemed neutral towards Milton and actively disliked Miss Martin — there was nothing there. Did she feel she had something to do with the pass their family had come to? Such an irrational conclusion did not seem at all like her. The only thing that Georgiana could think of was that Elizabeth was trying to prove something to someone. Fitzwilliam? Nonsense; his habitual sedateness might keep many from perceiving the depth of his esteem, but Elizabeth certainly could not be counted among them. The servants? Mrs Reynolds already liked her, and while Beeker retained some snobbish scruples, they had served to amuse his mistress more than anything else. The rest, according to Kate, approved of her in varying degrees (except the head cook, who felt Mrs Darcy's simple tastes unworthy of his vast skill).

Who else was there?

Well, Georgiana herself, but she dismissed that thought. It was just possible that Elizabeth cared about her opinion — despite her personal deficiencies, she was Fitzwilliam's sister and that counted for something — but not to this degree. Her brow furrowed as she watched her, but she was not really anxious. It was a good day; soon Milton and Miss Martin would be gone, Elizabeth was was finally sleeping, their Willoughby cousins intended to call that afternoon, and the room was quiet and serene, the silence disturbed only by Elizabeth's deep breathing and the steady, soothing scratching of Fitzwilliam's quill.

He was writing to Lord Ancaster; it was a small sort of revenge for the havoc Milton had wreaked, but both Darcys took a quiet, vindictive pleasure as Fitzwilliam told their uncle of the affair in minute detail, with a special emphasis on the things Milton would least like his father to know.

Fitzwilliam and Georgiana, by dint of much pushing and prodding, finally convinced Elizabeth to go to bed, since she was so obviously in no condition to receive callers. The Willoughbys arrived a few minutes later.

'Good afternoon,' Lord Courtland said cheerfully. Mr Willoughby's small daughter seemed hardly to know what to look at next, but finally fixed her wide-eyed gaze on Georgiana, creeping over to her after the obligatory greetings had been exchanged.

'Amy, do not bother Miss Darcy,' Mr Willoughby ordered.

'Oh, I do not mind,' Georgiana assured him. He smiled a little, but for all the expressiveness of his mobile face she could not see anything of his true thoughts. Somewhat perturbed, she turned back to Miss Willoughby. 'Welcome back to Pemberley,' she said gently. 'What do you think of Derbyshire?'

'It's very cold,' the child whispered. With a visible effort, she added, 'Your house is pretty, Miss Darcy.'

'Thank you. I am very fond of it.'

'I . . . it's so big,' she went on. 'Do you ever get lost?'

Georgiana kept herself from laughing. 'No. This is my home, I know it very well. But I have got lost at Aincourt.'

'I'm staying at Aincourt. It's big too, but not nearly so big as Pembury.' She chewed her lip, glancing over at Courtland and Dorothea. 'Combe Magna is friendlier though.'

'What is Combe Magna like?'

The girl instantly brightened. 'It's on a sort of hill — like here, but a smaller hill — and there are some trees, and some water, and it's warmer, and it's very pleasant . . .' Her voice trailed off. 'It's hard to describe,' she admitted.

'I understand,' said Georgiana. 'It is the same with Pemberley, at least for me.'

'Lord Courtland is nice,' Miss Willoughby said timidly. 'He doesn't have to let us stay at his house. And he doesn't treat me like I'm just a silly little girl.'

'He is sensible, at least,' Georgiana told her, smiling, 'since you are not silly at all.'

Miss Willoughby's mouth curled into a tentative smile. 'Do you like Lord Courtland, Miss Darcy?'

'Yes, of course,' Georgiana said, her eyes widening in surprise, 'he is one of my brother's closest friends, and a con — a cousin, as well.'

'A cousin? But Lord Courtland is my cousin,' Miss Willoughby declared.

'Exactly — ' Georgiana reached out and tucked a wayward strand of hair behind the girl's ear — 'that is how I am related to you, too.'

Miss Willoughby's entire face lightened. 'You're my cousin? But I thought . . .'

'It is very distant.'

'Oh.' She tilted her head to the side. 'It's better than nothing, though. Except for Lord Courtland and Lady Aldborough and Dorothea and Julia, and I hardly see them, it's just Papa and me, really. My mama died when I was a baby.'

'I am sorry — that is hard.' Georgiana paused. 'Julia? Who is that?'

'Some sort of cousin, I don't know really,' she said vaguely. 'I heard my papa say that they say she's ess — ex-cent — odd. Where's your mama?'

'She is dead.'

'Oh.' Miss Willoughby looked at the floor. 'I wish I had a brother, though Dorothea says they mostly just tease and torment their sisters . . . does your brother tease you?'

'No, indeed,' said Georgiana, trying not to laugh. 'He usually only teases people he dislikes — but then, it is a little different for us. Dorothea and Courtland are not so far apart . . .' Then she stopped. Thinking it over, the two were not at all close in age — there were some ten years between them. 'That is,' she corrected herself, 'Dorothea is several years older than I am and with their parents alive, Lord Courtland does not need to look after her so much.'

'I would like a brother like yours, then,' Miss Willoughby said. 'There's nobody to look after me but my papa, and I think he must be lonely.'

Georgiana cast Mr Willoughby a sceptical look. She knew a little of the man's reputation — enough that she could not suppose he was much plagued by loneliness, of all things. Then she turned her attention back to his daughter. The poor thing, motherless and with only a scandalous rake for a father — Georgiana wished she could do something for her.

As they prepared to go, promising to call later on, Miss Willoughby looked wistfully around, her fingers clinging to Georgiana's skirts before she obediently returned to her father's side.

'Thank you for your patience with my Amy, Miss Darcy,' Mr Willoughby said, smiling.

'You are welcome,' Georgiana replied, 'but it did not take much patience.' Gathering her courage, she added bravely, 'Your daughter is a charming girl, sir.'

Astonished dimples appeared in Miss Willoughby's cheeks as she flushed scarlet. Her father did not look at her, keeping his eyes on Georgiana as he said, 'You are very kind.'

'I think, Willoughby,' Fitzwilliam interjected, 'that my sister would rather you believe her sincere than kind.'

This was so exactly what Georgiana wished, but had not the nerve, to say, that she tilted her head up and smiled brightly at her brother. Sometimes he felt so distant, so much greater than she, almost more father than brother; but then, there were moments like this, when it was as if the gap between them had vanished, and they might have been children together again. No, she thought, eyes wide with epiphany, not children, never again — but now, I am not a child either —

She wondered if he missed that youthful camaraderie as much as she did. He had been so much older, but she remembered her tall brother spiriting her out of the house, his narrow boyish face alight with laughter as they threw snow at each other. There would be no more childish adventures, sneaking past their father's study, stealing pastries or riding on the horse that Mr Darcy insisted was much too big for her —

Then she thought of the ball, ducking into a crowd to escape an undesirable partner, and smiled. Perhaps not everything had changed.

It was not the most Christianlike impulse which led Georgiana to say, with the greatest sweetness, 'Cousin, there is someone here to see you.'

Milton stepped away from the bed where his mistress slept. Tiredly, he lifted his dark eyes, and repeated, 'Here? Georgy, there must be some mistake — you must have misunderstood.'

She smiled brightly. 'Oh, no — it is most assuredly not a mistake.' Georgiana paused, thinking something over. Before, when it was as if she owed him so much — well, that was one thing, but now — With all the dignity at her command, she said, 'Milton, before you go downstairs, could I please ask a favour?'

'Of course you may.' He looked at her directly, a shadow of the older cousin she had once admired and idolised.

'Please stop calling me "Georgy." Surely my Christian name is not so objectionable that you cannot bring yourself to use it. Everyone else does — is there something I do not understand?'

'Of course not. I am sorry, Georgiana,' he said instantly, 'I did not know you minded it, or I would not have . . .'

She looked down at her hands. 'I never felt I had the right to mind it, before.' Georgiana managed a weak smile. 'They will be waiting for you, cousin.'

She watched him go impassively. It crossed her mind that she might have given some sort of warning as to what awaited him.

Nonsense, she told herself. I do not owe him anything, and he does not deserve such consideration in any case. Not after this.

Almost immediately thereafter, Elizabeth fainted — the household was thrown into chaos — Georgiana sat and fretted. It proved to be 'nothing worse than exhaustion,' however, and she was given leave to join her sister while the doctor talked to Fitzwilliam. With a touch of trepidation, she rose and walked down the hall, to the mistress' chamber. She had only been there a few times in her life — the large empty room rather frightened her.

Georgiana hesitated before the door. However, if Elizabeth was still asleep, she did not want to wake her, so she did not knock, but instead opened the door and slipped into the room.

It had been evident on Christmas that Elizabeth spent a considerable amount of time in her husband's rooms, but nevertheless this one was clearly hers. There were clothes draped over chairs, brushes and creams and who knew what else scattered across a vanity, piles of letters that Georgiana resolutely refused to look at. It was not remotely frightening now.

Elizabeth appeared to be dozing, so Georgiana walked as softly as she could, and settled herself into a chair next to the bed.

''Giana?' Elizabeth asked sleepily.

'Yes, it is I,' Georgiana murmured. 'Fitzwilliam asked me to come and stay with you.'

Elizabeth blinked, then rubbed her eyes and sat up. Georgiana had never found her intimidating, for it was really impossible to be intimidated by a slender woman scarcely more than five feet tall, but right now she looked so delicate and small that even the usual admiring alarm seemed excessive.

'Is he . . . is something wrong?' Elizabeth asked, stifling a yawn.

Georgiana blinked. 'Elizabeth, you fainted.'

'I did?' She looked astonished. 'I do not remember that.'

'You have been too hard on yourself,' Georgiana told her, with the courage that comes of absolute conviction. 'We did not understand — they certainly do not deserve it — but you were already tired, we did not have the heart to burden you further. We had no idea that you were so exhausted, though, or we would have done something.' She paused. 'When did you last eat?— really eat, that is, not just pick at your food.'

Elizabeth screwed up her face like a child. 'Oh . . . I hardly remember. I have not been really hungry for three or four days.'

'It is no wonder you fainted, then. The doctor said nothing was wrong with you. We were all very glad to hear it — even Miss Martin seemed worried, a little.'

Elizabeth laughed, and swung her legs out.

'Oh no,' Georgiana said, placing a hand on her sister's arm. 'You should not leave your bed, the doctor said.'

'What?' She looked horrified.

'That is why I am here,' Georgiana went on doggedly, 'to make certain you obey the orders. Fitzwilliam said so.'

Elizabeth stared at her; then she flashed a quick sharp smile and settled back into her blankets. 'Very well,' she said. 'But you must tell me what has happened.'

Georgiana tried not to look too smug. 'Well . . . you have been unwell for a few days, and quite busy before that, so you might not know, but Fitzwilliam has been writing to Lord Ancaster. Since it was his throwing Milton out that resulted in his, Milton's, coming here and, well, inconveniencing everybody, my uncle decided it was his responsibility to sort it out. He arrived just a few minutes ago, and he wanted to talk to Milton immediately.'

'Oh?' Elizabeth plucked at her blanket. 'That must be an interesting conversation.'

Surely she could not be nervous? Georgiana knew that her family had had reservations about Fitzwilliam's choice, and their first welcome was far from warm, but Elizabeth had comported herself with poise and élan. And that was before — everything was different now. Georgiana bit her lip and said, 'Yes, I think so. He is very angry at Milton for coming here.'

Elizabeth looked startled. 'Is he? It is hard to picture him angry.'

'He does not raise his voice, of course,' Georgiana agreed, 'but he becomes very sharp. Not cruel, exactly — it is not that he means to cause pain, but when he loses his temper he can be unkind without realising it.' Like Fitzwilliam, she thought, then felt guilty for the traitorous thought.

'If anyone deserves it — ' Elizabeth cut herself off. 'That was not very charitable, was it?'

'He has received more than enough charity from us,' Georgiana muttered resentfully. Elizabeth's eyes widened, but she only said,

'I think we are in perfect agreement on that subject.' She paused. 'Why did Fitzwilliam write to Lord Ancaster?'

This was so near to what Georgiana actually wished to speak to her sister-in-law about that she tensed. Her fingernails dug into her hands hard enough to leave little half-moon-shaped marks on her palms. Anger had given her a sort of assurance, but now it had mostly drained away, and there was nothing left. It is for Fitzwilliam, she told herself. And this is Elizabeth. Just Elizabeth.

Cautiously, she began, 'Well — even once Miss Martin is recovered, they have nowhere to go, and Lord Ancaster does care a great deal about — about kinship. Milton is rather a disappointment to him, I think, but he is his son, and heir . . .'

Elizabeth gave her a shrewd look. 'And Fitzwilliam is not a disappointment.'

'N-no,' Georgiana admitted. 'That is why he is so angry — he knew what was happening, that is why he threw Milton out — but I do not think he thought that Milton might importune Fitzwilliam in such a way, especially now. You had not been married two months when he arrived. Lord Ancaster thinks that is terribly — ' she summoned up a faint smile — 'indecorous.'

Elizabeth laughed. 'That seems . . . very like your uncle.'

'Yes. Though, I do not think he would mind so much, if it were not . . .' Georgiana wet her lip. 'He is so very fond of Fitzwilliam, you see. My brother is a great favourite with Mother's family, but particularly with Lord Ancaster.'

'Fitzwilliam told me a little about that,' Elizabeth said. 'Before we were married — he said that the Earl had always favoured him.'

'He has,' Georgiana said urgently, 'ever since he was a little boy. You see, he was so very unhappy at home, and I think, from what I have heard, that a great deal of the time he was left to — to practically bring himself up. So when Lord Ancaster took him in, and he and Richard and Eleanor became such friends, I think it — it meant so much that he has never forgotten it.'

'So that is why . . .' Elizabeth's voice trailed off as her brows drew together. Georgiana waited. It was with a visible effort that her sister straightened and met her eyes. 'Fitzwilliam loves your family, doesn't he?'

Georgiana blinked at her.

'That is,' Elizabeth clarified, 'rather beyond the usual.'

'Yes,' said Georgiana earnestly, 'he is — he is very . . . constant. He almost never changes his mind about anyone or anything, and he used to nearly worship the ground my uncle walked on, Richard says — he says that Fitzwilliam was always copying him, when he was younger. When he was older . . .' She shrugged. 'I suppose there was no need any more.'

'I rather thought it was something like that.' Elizabeth looked at her window, seeming unusually quiet and contemplative.

Georgiana summoned whatever nerve she possessed, and said,'He does not understand, but you could make him — couldn't you?'

Elizabeth stared at her. 'Georgiana, whatever do you mean?'

'I know Lord Ancaster was very kind to him, but Fitzwilliam — he will not forget. He — I have watched him, and he — it is like he thinks there is a debt because of it, and he has to keep paying and paying and nothing will ever be enough.' She looked at her sister pleadingly. 'That is why he is always — well, you have seen how he is.'

'Georgiana, you know that your brother cannot love by halves.' Elizabeth smiled. 'I have, indeed, seen "how he is," but . . . I he is going to change, and in truth, I would not wish him to.'

'They use him,' Georgiana insisted. 'It is not fair!'

'Lord Milton uses him, yes. Lady Catherine — very probably. Perhaps even your grandmother, and likely Lady Diana. But the others — Lord Ancaster, and Colonel Fitzwilliam and his sister — ' she looked as if she had swallowed something bitter — 'they, I rather think, are a bit different. Certainly your uncle is, if he truly feels so angry at Milton's treatment of Fitzwilliam in this . . . affair.'

Somewhat mollified, Georgiana said, 'Yes, they are . . . well, it helps that he likes them better — and since he never asks for help — ' she could not help the vexation that crept into her voice — 'sometimes they interfere whether he wants them to or not.'

'I can imagine that very easily.'

Georgiana pressed on with nary a smile. 'But they do not stop the others. Richard says it is because he knows that Fitzwilliam likes being useful, but Fitzwilliam told me himself that they do not understand the difference between being useful and used.'

'That is quite possible. Georgiana, you need not worry too much about your brother. I will speak to him about — moderation, I give you my word; and I will do my best to stop the others from importuning him to such a degree.'

Georgiana gave a sigh of relief. 'Thank you so much. I know he is older and can take care of himself, but . . . I cannot help worrying. I have seen the way people take advantage of him, and — and he is my brother.'

'I understand,' Elizabeth assured her. 'It is quite natural — you forget that I, too, am a sister, and my own Jane . . .' She shook her head. 'She is a little like Fitzwilliam — not a great deal, but she is even-tempered and — intense, and she takes far too much upon herself.' Then she laughed, rather tiredly, and held out her hand. 'Shall we agree to protect Fitzwilliam from himself?'

'I will try.' Georgiana clasped the hand, which was shaking a bit. 'You are tired, Elizabeth; you should back to sleep.'

Elizabeth smiled wryly. 'I see that my husband is not the only one who needs — guidance. Thank you, Georgiana.' She laid her pale cheek against the pillow, and quickly drifted off once more.