Last chapter: Milton and Miss Martin's child, a girl named Marianne, is sent off to the Cahills. Georgiana is more interested in the odd behavior of her sister, who ends up driving herself to exhaustion for no apparent reason. The Willoughbys arrive, including Mr Willoughby of Combe Magna, an ex-poor relation, and his young daughter Amy. Amy quickly takes to Georgiana, and Mr Willoughby is grateful for her patience with her. Elizabeth faints, and the doctor is sent for; he tells Darcy that there is nothing wrong, and she's only tired, and should stay in bed for a few days. Lord Ancaster arrives to deal with his wayward son, and Georgiana stands up to Milton, insisting that he stop using a nickname that she loathes. Georgiana is sent to keep the bedridden Elizabeth company, and she reveals her irritation with the Fitzwilliams, asking Elizabeth to help protect her brother.

Chapter Fifteen

Georgiana waited until Elizabeth was deeply asleep, nearly an hour later, then went downstairs once more. She longed to know what was happening in her brother's study, but when she passed by the room (attempting to look perfectly casual) all she could make out was an occasional loud protest from Milton, and a low murmur that was Lord Ancaster, or Fitzwilliam, or both. The doctor, apparently, had already left.

She gazed at the door, wondering if she would be caught if she pressed her ear against it.

Fitzwilliam would disapprove, she told herself sternly. Besides, it would be very unladylike. Only children and servants listened at doors, and she wasn't a child any more. Still, the temptation was intense, and more than once she threw a longing glance at the thick wood before setting her jaw and turning away. He would tell her, and Kate would probably know something — she had the most remarkable knack for picking up gossip. She took several determined steps towards the library.

There was a flash of red out of the corner of her eye; then a familiar voice called out, 'Is that you, Cat?'

Georgiana whirled around. 'Richard!' She picked up her skirts and ran towards her cousin, allowing him to embrace her as smiles wreathed her face. 'Why, nobody told me — I am so glad you are here.'

'Since I am not yet needed for the glory of Britain, I decided to join my father,' he said, taking her arm. 'He was determined to act immediately, and I daresay your brother — and sister — will be glad enough to see the end of Milton and Miss Martin.'

'Yes, indeed,' she replied fervently. 'Did — you know? What he intended, I mean?'

He shook his head. 'I am afraid not. If I had, I would have done something. Ella guessed, I think, since she sent a letter express the instant they were gone, but she did not feel the need to inform anybody else.'

'Miss Martin said she gave them some money. I think she felt sorry for — somebody.' Georgiana paused. 'Is she here?'

'No.' Richard laughed. 'She is playing Lady Bountiful, Cecily would say.'

'What would you say?'

He lifted his eyebrows. 'I? Well, if you are quite sure you would prefer the opinion of a hopelessly common soldier over a lady — '

'Well, she is still . . . Cecily. And of course I want your opinion — I asked for it, did I not?'

He laughed. 'Indeed. Well, in my opinion, it is a great pity my younger sister is not my elder brother. It is not the first time my father has trusted the care of our estates to her. She is hopelessly efficient, you know.'

'Yes,' Georgiana said. 'I know.' She tried to imagine Eleanor's and Milton's places exchanged, and couldn't suppress a giggle. 'Milton would not make a very good lady, though.'

'No — it is rather difficult to imagine.' He glanced around. 'Pemberley looks very much the same. I would not know there is a new mistress.'

'Elizabeth likes it as it is,' she said defensively. 'So do I — I am very glad she did not want to change things.'

'It speaks well of her taste, at least. I did not recognise the portrait of my aunt, though; the one next to your father in Darcy's study.'

Georgiana smiled. 'There were several in the chapel. Mrs Reynolds and her nephew saved them, but were afraid to tell anyone. Elizabeth found them when I took her there, but we forgot because of Narcissus so it was awhile before I remembered to tell them and he had them put up in places.'

'I see.—Narcissus?' He pushed open the door and they stepped out, the wind pulling at her hair and skirts.

'My cat — his mother died and he was starving when I found him under a bench.'

He chuckled at that. 'You are such a Darcy, Georgiana — always saving things, the lot of you.'

'Thank you,' she said, flushing with pleasure. 'Did m-my father, too?'

'Lord, yes.' His hearty laughter rang out across the courtyard. 'And his sister. You wouldn't remember her. She was more like Darcy — she'd rather take up causes than people, though she was friendly enough, when it suited her. I liked her.'

'Aunt Helen?' Georgiana thought of the pretty girl in the portrait. 'Did Fitzwilliam like her?'

Her cousin shrugged. 'He never knew her very well. He was just eight or nine when she died.'

'You are only a few years older.'

'It makes a difference, at that age. She married somebody else — some marquis — and went to France.'

'Somebody else?' Georgiana's eyes narrowed. 'Was everyone's life out of a novel, then?'

He managed a quick smile. 'Out of several, I should say. My father wanted to marry her.'

'Lord Ancaster?'

'He was Lord Milton then, but yes. Her family did not think he was quite good enough for them.'

'Why on earth not? Would they not be pleased to see their daughter as an earl's wife — a future earl's wife?'

'Earls are not created equal any more than gentlemen are, Cat. Your family has been wealthy and powerful for a very long time, and your grandparents were not about to let anyone forget it — certainly not upstarts like the Fitzwilliams.' His quick smile took away any bitterness that might have attached itself to the words.

'But . . .' She remembered her brother telling her about their parents' marriage, about how their father had been infatuated, while their mother married him for her family's sake. 'Fitzwilliam said that Mother married Father to be respectable, or something like that. I do not remember exactly, but I thought it was strange. The Fitzwilliams seem so much more . . . influential.'

'We actually use what influence we possess — but you will see what I mean, when you have your first Season. Everyone will be speaking of what Miss Darcy said and how Miss Darcy looked and what Miss Darcy wore.'

Georgiana paled.

'I daresay you will have many more suitors than Ella ever did,' he went on cheerfully. 'There are already some, I understand. Darcy tells me that Cardwell likes you a great deal.'

'Mr Cardwell?' She stared at him.

'Yes — Laura's brother. You can do better, though. He is a bit young to be thinking of marriage, too rash and heedless. Besides, then there would be Lady Cardwell for a mother-in-law. Of course, there is also the Lindsay boy, but his father wants him for Lady Dorothea . . .'

'Oh, please stop,' she said incoherently, turning her face away, into the wind.

'Georgiana,' he said, in a grave voice very unlike him, 'you are Miss Darcy of Pemberley. You cannot hide from yourself forever.' There was no trace of the usual twinkle in his eyes.

'But I am not . . .' His eyebrows went up, and she stared at the ground. 'I suppose I still am, at that. Richard, did you — did you know? You must have, I think . . .'

He tilted his head to the side. 'I beg your pardon?'

She managed to meet his eyes. 'Fitzwilliam told me about . . . about Mother, and Lord Stephen, because of something that Miss Martin said, and because he thought I was old enough to know — to know how things really were.'

'Oh, that.' He looked at her steadily. 'It must have been startling.'

'Yes, it was. But . . . it does not change anything, does it? Not really.'

'No,' said Richard. 'Not at all.' Then he gave her his usual quick grin, and held out his arm. 'Let us talk of happier matters, however. How do your brother and his wife get on?'

'He laughed twice in the first week,' she told him solemnly.

When Georgiana and her cousin returned to the house, the doors to the study were open, and they went in together.

'There you are, Richard,' said Lord Ancaster. 'Georgiana — you look very well.'

She flushed and mumbled a thank-you.

'Ah . . . my dear scapegrace brother,' Richard cried. 'How soon shall we have the pleasure of your company?'

Milton scowled and said nothing.

'Today,' Lord Ancaster said grimly. Georgiana started, her eyes wide. She knew how energetic Lord Ancaster could be, once he decided to do something, but . . . 'Fitzwilliam, I believe I may depend upon you to send . . . whatever her name is . . . with a servant, once the doctor believes she may travel safely?'

'Of course, uncle,' said Fitzwilliam, looking as if he were trying very hard not to smile. 'Now, if you will excuse me, I am going to look after my wife.'

He was at the door when Milton said, 'Darcy!'

Fitzwilliam halted; then, slowly turning, he replied in measured tones, 'Yes, Milton?'

'Will you . . .' He swallowed visibly. 'Will you please apologise to your wife for me? I am very sorry about her . . . indisposition.'

Several expressions flickered on Fitzwilliam's face before he settled back into his usual impassivity. 'I shall,' he said. 'Georgiana, would you care to join me?'

She eagerly leapt up and walked out of the room at his side, leaving the Fitzwilliams to themselves.

Lord Ancaster, Richard, and Milton left that very Friday; Miss Martin was gone by Tuesday.

Only then did Georgiana realise what an effect they'd had on the house. She felt that a burden had lifted, not only on her, but everyone. Fitzwilliam's sharp black humour vanished as if it had never been, the servants regained their usual cheer, and soon, Elizabeth's laughter could be heard downstairs. Generally it was focussed on Fitzwilliam and Georgiana, who could not help fussing over her, a little; by the Friday after the Fitzwilliams' departure, there was no hint that anything had ever been wrong, and the Darcy siblings rather reluctantly desisted.

It was a Saturday when Georgiana returned from the courtyard, where she liked to draw, and went looking for her brother and sister. She found them in the library, standing before a tall window with the early morning sunlight pouring in on them. Georgiana took a step towards them, then stopped, abruptly aware that she was intruding on an almost painfully private moment. Fitzwilliam held Elizabeth's hands in his, and was speaking to her in a low, urgent voice.

Georgiana bit back a smile and turned away, but a loud cry from Elizabeth had her wheeling around. Was she hurt? Had some new horror happened? Was she —

Elizabeth had flung herself into Fitzwilliam's arms, her hands locked behind his neck, in his hair, and her feet dangling some inches off the ground. She was covering his startled face in kisses; Georgiana once again decided to leave, and had actually gone several steps when her brother's voice rang out.

'Georgiana!'

Half-reluctant, half-curious, she took several cautious steps on her own. Elizabeth was now pressed tightly against his arm, her head on his shoulder, with a degree of happiness in her expression that Georgiana had never seen, not in her or anybody else. Fitzwilliam's harsh features had softened into a warm, gentle smile.

'I am sorry,' she said, 'only I heard — and I was worried — '

He waved her remorse away. 'No; we would have sent for you in any case. We . . .' He looked unaccountably nervous. 'We want to tell you something.'

She instantly sat down, preparing for the worst. What could make them so very happy, and yet have such weight as to make even Fitzwilliam anxious? School, she thought, her heart filling with dread. No - 'Y-yes?' She glanced from one to the other. They would not do that. They would not.

'Elizabeth and I,' said Fitzwilliam, his voice peculiarly tremulous, 'we are — that is, she — '

'Men are no good at this sort of thing,' Elizabeth interrupted. 'What your brother is trying to tell you, Georgiana, is that, in about eight months, you are going to be an aunt.'

'An aunt?' Then all the pieces fell together. Her mouth dropped open. 'You . . . you are going to have a child?'

They nodded.

'Oh!' There was no place for reserve at such a moment as this. Even as her eyes filled with tears, she rushed forward to kiss her brother and embrace her sister. 'Oh, I am so happy for you — and for me!— what must I do? Surely I can help, with something?'

'Well, there is nothing to concern yourself with, at present. Just try not to be too shocked at what I eat.'

'That is why you fainted? And why you put sugar in your broth yesterday?'

'Of course.' Elizabeth gave her husband a pointed look. 'I am not so frail as that.'

'The doctor says — '

'Oh, never mind the doctor.' Elizabeth smiled at her. 'I do expect to be very indulged, however!'

'Of course.' Georgiana exchanged a rather worried glance with Fitzwilliam. Clearly he, at least, was very much inclined to mind the doctor. Somewhat relieved, she said tactfully, 'I think you should be by yourselves right now . . . if you want me, I shall be practising my harp.' She hugged them both once more, and then, humming to herself, walked out.

The good news was duly announced, and congratulations flowed in. The Cardwells, Drummonds, Willoughbys, Trents — every body was delighted. Lady Allendale and Lady Caroline Villiers, Elizabeth's most particular friends, came to Pemberley — cried, smiled, kissed her — and fussed almost more than her husband and sister. As often as not, the three women invited Georgiana to join them, and sometimes, she did.

The Fitzwilliams, formerly rather cold and awkward around Elizabeth, paid overjoyed respects, sans Milton (who instead wrote a handsome letter). The ladies offered advice, the gentlemen luck, and the dowager cried. Richard and Courtland, the companions of Fitzwilliam's youth, called almost as often as Lady Allendale and Lady Caroline; Georgiana saw them at least once a week, and often more.

'Shall you like being an aunt, do you think?' Richard asked her, with an attempt at a guardianly look.

'Oh yes,' said Georgiana earnestly, 'I love children — my cousins, and the little Gardiners, and . . . and all of them, really.'

'I understand from Diana and Eleanor that you have quite the hand with them. Kate and John insist that my stories are not "half so good as Cousin Georgiana's." '

She flushed brilliantly.

It really seemed that her family's happiness could not be improved upon; then similar intelligence arrived from Mrs Bingley in Hertfordshire, and in early spring, the Gardiners asked Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth to stand godparents to their newborn daughter.

'Her name is Sarah Elizabeth,' said Elizabeth proudly, and her smile gentled as she caught Fitzwilliam's eye. 'I should love to see her.'

'We were to leave for town next month,' he said; 'I daresay we could move the date forward, and see your family on the way south.'

Elizabeth beamed, and, as quickly as that, it was decided -- to London they were to go.

End Part I