Georgiana and Darcy, an excerpt from Seasons of Waiting

Have I mentioned that I love Austen Variations’ monthly themes (brainchild of the amazing Joana Starnes)? This month’s theme is “Under May’s Changing Skies.” Looking up at the bright blue ether now, I am so happy to welcome the changing skies of late spring to New England! (We’ve had some very gray days around here this winter.)

Lately, I’ve been challenging myself to write short stories based on the monthly themes, if only to tease myself out of my doldrums when I’m stuck on my never-ending novel. But this month, I’m really trying to push forward on the book that shall not be named — and I’m getting ready to move. Between packing, writing, and other commitments, I found myself short on time.

So I looked back through my old files to see if I had written anything that took place during the month of May. Here’s a scene from my 2018 novel Seasons of Waiting.

It’s a book I’m told is quite dark and angsty. Rereading portions of it, I can see the relevance of those adjectives. Honestly, though, I was so very happy while writing Seasons of Waiting.

Usually, writing is a struggle for me. But with this book — I don’t know, I just loved imagining all of these characters in different situations.  Also, that critical voice in my head — usually so loud — was strangely quiet while writing this book. (Maybe it needed to be a little louder, I can hear certain critics say! And that’s a valid point: this is by no means a perfect book.)

In any case, below you’ll find an excerpt from one of the early chapters of that novel. In case you don’t know anything about Seasons of Waiting, here’s the blurb:

Autumn, 1812: Certain his second proposal will be rejected, Darcy does not return to Hertfordshire–or to Elizabeth Bennet.

Spring, 1837: When his nephew falls in love with her niece, Darcy and Elizabeth are bound to meet again.
How many steps does it take to find a way back to the person you have always loved?

 

Here’s some context for this scene:

• For many years, Darcy was married to his cousin Anne de Bourgh. She, however, died in 1832. They did not have children.
• Georgiana’s middle child, William (Will) Townshend, has agreed to become the heir to his childless uncle. As a result, he has taken the Darcy name, so that he is now William Darcy.  (Think Frank Churchill or, in real life, Jane Austen’s brother Edward Knight. Both took the names of the rich relatives who made them their heirs.)
• For much of Will’s youth, Darcy was his hero. He absolutely loved his uncle. But now that he is the heir to Pemberley, Will feels the pressure of living up to his uncle’s high standards.
• Darcy has not spoken with Bingley since 1812, when Darcy refused to stand up with Bingley at his wedding to Jane Bennet.

All right, that’s enough context from me. Hope you enjoy this excerpt!

“Georgiana and Darcy” — a chapter from Seasons of Waiting

May 2, 1837

It used to be so much easier, this silence between them. How many afternoons had they occupied the same room and exchanged not a single word? Dinners used to be a symphony of cutlery and chewing, so rarely punctuated by speech that the odd, “Please pass the potatoes,” startled her half to death.

This reign of silence had begun after George Wickham and became fully entrenched following Elizabeth Bennet. Even before Ramsgate or Hertfordshire, they had not been vociferous, these two remaining Darcys. But she had sometimes liked to chatter, and he had liked to tell stories. Yes, Fitzwilliam Darcy was a master storyteller, a fact she might have forgotten after leaving Pemberley, had she not overheard him once, lulling five-year-old Will to sleep with the tale of the mouse who saved the lion.

Twenty-three years of being a Townshend had changed Georgiana; she could no longer sit for a quarter of an hour without commenting on something or another in a laughing manner. It was this inability to maintain a dignified silence that was ultimately to blame for her slip that afternoon. Oh, she might try to pin it on her husband and children, for if they had been at Rainford House when Fitzwilliam had arrived, their animated conversation would have kept them all on safe ground. She could also have blamed her brother, for he had appeared a good two hours before he was expected—or perhaps it was the fault of the roads. Yes, the roads were always to blame for these sorts of things, even when they were in tip-top condition.

But no. It was her own doing; she might have read or embroidered or played piano while her brother wrote letters at the table by the window (his favorite spot when he visited; no man loved staring out windows more than her brother). Instead, she insisted on having a chat by the unlit hearth, tea cups in hand, an untouched tray of scones on the table between them.

Was it so unreasonable to attempt a conversation when they had not seen each other in almost a year? Since Anne’s death, he so rarely visited; even before Anne’s death, he had preferred Pemberley to town, but there was always some business that could not be conducted via letter, and Anne had, to the surprise of everyone, enjoyed the bustle of London, at least in small doses.

“Reminds me I am alive,” she had once commented in that quiet, sardonic tone of hers.

And so each May, they had visited town for exactly ten days, and those ten days had followed a very particular pattern:

Day One: Arrival. Rest, see no one but the servants they had sent ahead from Pemberley to open the house; not even Georgiana and her family were welcome on Day One.

Day Two: Dinner with Georgiana and Rainford. No one else was invited, especially not the children (Anne being wary of all creatures who possessed a need to touch without permission).

Day Three: Assembly night. Considering Anne’s deep dislike of the accidental bump or stray touch, Georgiana had at first been baffled by her cousin’s request to attend a public assembly each year. But over time, she had come to learn how much Anne adored fashion. (It had been Georgiana’s task, after Anne’s death, to find new homes for the one hundred sixty-three unworn gowns stored in trunks and wardrobes throughout Pemberley.)

Day Four: Business for Fitzwilliam, shopping for Anne and Georgiana. Anne was especially fond of Gunther’s, where she purchased enough marzipan to last her the remainder of the visit and the long carriage ride back to Pemberley.

Day Five: No visitors. Days Three and Four wore on Anne. Fitzwilliam went to Cheapside, where Georgiana knew him to have some business interests.

Day Six: Outings with Georgiana’s children for Fitzwilliam; more shopping for Anne. Afterward, the two spent a quiet evening at home in preparation for Lady Catherine’s visit.

Days Seven and Eight: Lady Catherine’s visit. This meant Georgiana’s almost constant presence by the side of her brother and cousin, for they needed her. Anne always looked about ready to crumple, and Fitzwilliam often seemed on the verge of explosion. That she, Georgiana, had become the steady one in the family still surprised her. When Catherine died (was it wrong to feel grateful for such a departure?), those days became glorious days of freedom, celebrated with picnics in the park or trips to whatever exhibition or theater performance was all the rage.

Day Nine: Dinner at Rainford House, children included. Anne had little choice but to accept the Townshend’s shocking habit of including their young children at family dinners, but as the children grew to adulthood, Anne grew to like them better.

Day Ten: Departure. They never said farewell in person, always by note.

Anne’s death had, understandably, altered things. Ten days became seven, and Fitzwilliam stayed with the Townshends at Rainford House. He had sold Darcy House for an exorbitant amount to a family with new money and few connections, but this had not shocked his former Mayfair neighbors nearly so much as what Darcy had done with the proceeds: he gave every last farthing away. Some of the money had gone to the Royal Hospital Chelsea. As everyone knew how devastated he had been by the death of Major-General Richard Fitzwilliam at Waterloo in ’15, Darcy was forgiven his contribution to that venerated veterans’ hospital. Yet he had also funded a home for fallen women and made a liberal donation to the Anti-Slavery Society. Clearly, Fitzwilliam Darcy had lost his bearings.

There was no marzipan or shopping during the post-Anne visits, and no more outings with the children either, for they were no longer children. Now he spent most of his time in London focused on matters of business. Still, he never hid away in his room; he never excused himself from a dinner party or social engagement that fell during his visit. He played cards (often choosing Will as his partner; their minds had always worked similarly), applauded Emma when she sang and played, and even fenced with Robert, whom much of the ton called Viscount Bravado for the way he carried himself during a match. Somehow, Fitzwilliam had found a way to appear engaged while remaining completely and wholly separate from everyone around him.

That, Georgiana realized now, was how he behaved even with her. As she spoke, he nodded and met her gaze, responded to her queries, and even asked a few questions of his own. Yes, Fitzwilliam had learned to chitchat, but Georgiana was not fooled. Her brother was still that gentleman on the edge of the crowd, observing his fellow humans with that odd combination of interest and disdain.

“You have been quite busy,” he commented after she ended her recitation of the many events of the Season. He said this with no judgment, but Georgiana felt the sting of those words nevertheless. She knew how her brother spent his time—almost always in the service of others—and was conscious suddenly of the frivolity of her own concerns. So perhaps it was her guilt that was to blame for the slip? For when embarrassed, Georgiana always spoke without thinking:

“Yes, and I shudder to think how much busier we will be next Season. Between Emma’s presentation at Court and Will’s likely marriage…”

Fitzwilliam’s lips parted, but otherwise he showed no outward sign of astonishment.

Georgiana, however, gasped. It was almost as if someone else had said those words; she nearly looked over her shoulder to see who could have been so foolish as to prattle on about things better left unsaid.

“It sounds as if William has also been busy,” said Fitzwilliam. One had to know him well to hear the dry humor in his voice or see that hint of a smile haunting one corner of his lips.

“Oh, good Lord, Fitzwilliam, forgive me. I had not meant to say that.”

“Perhaps, then, it is not my forgiveness you should be requesting.”

This made her laugh, though again he spoke without any overt attempt to be humorous. “Yes, you are correct. Will is going to be livid. He wanted to tell you himself; he was planning on asking your advice during your visit.”

“My advice? Does this mean he is uncertain with regard to her feelings? Or his?”

“No, of yours.”

This brought the faintest spots of red to his long, gaunt face. She wondered if it was pride or embarrassment that made him blush—and wished suddenly that he had more opportunities to feel emotion of any kind. The blush, after all, became him.

How lonely he must have felt since Anne’s death! He never spoke of it, of course, and the marriage had hardly been conventional or even loving, but they had developed a routine together that had at least allowed him to feel of use.

Georgiana had hoped that Will’s arrival to Pemberley—that his assumption of the Darcy name—would have banished her brother’s loneliness. But she had her doubts on that score. Indeed, she feared that Fitzwilliam had begun, quite unintentionally, to turn her son into a replica of himself.

“William need not concern himself on my account.” Fitzwilliam toyed with his teacup. “It is his father’s advice—and yours—he ought to seek.”

Georgiana longed to reach across the table and embrace him. Since Will had taken his uncle’s name, all her concerns had been for her son—her sensitive, thoughtful son whom she knew wrestled with the weight of the decision he had made. Yet she realized now that she ought to have been more worried for her brother. Will’s presence could only serve as a reminder of what he would never have—what he would never be. No one knew more than Georgiana how excellent a father Fitzwilliam Darcy would have been, for had he not been a kind of father to her all those years ago?

“You do approve of this young lady, I suppose?” The blush had receded; his hands had stilled. Nothing in his voice or manner now suggested any deeper feeling than idle curiosity.

“Indeed, we do approve, though rather in spite of ourselves.” Georgiana laughed. “She is odd, but undeniably delightful, compassionate and bright. Her dowry is said to be small, and her connections…” Here she paused, not wishing to go into that yet. “They are respectable enough, and that is all that matters. No, what truly matters is that she makes him laugh, and so there is nothing for me to do except approve of the girl.”

His lips twitched. “And does this paragon have a name?”

Ah, it was avoidable only so long.

“Elizabeth.”

It would have been kinder to say the whole name at once, but the surname stuck in her throat when she saw how his eyes flashed. He got up, went to the window, and looked out in silence for a long moment.

“Elizabeth,” he finally said. She knew what else he thought, for she thought it, too: Elizabeth Darcy. There would at last be an Elizabeth Darcy at Pemberley.

When he turned to look at her, Georgiana knew there was no help for it. “Elizabeth Bingley, Fitzwilliam. Her name is Elizabeth Bingley.”

She thought he might go back to staring out the window, but after only a brief pause, he resumed his seat across from her.

“Does William know?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “Is that why he wanted to speak with me?”

“Know? You mean of you and…no, Fitzwilliam. I have never told him anything! Of course not. I…I would not know what to say on the matter.”

“Indeed.” His lips twisted. “There is nothing to say.”

She hesitated, but only for a moment. After all, had she not already made a mess of things? “I was so angry with her, for many years afterwards, quite angry.”

His gaze jerked to hers. “What?”

“Do you remember—oh, it must have been almost twenty years ago now—a ball at the Argyll…” She shook her head, managing a shaky laugh. “I spoke with such incivility to her when I saw her, laughing and dancing as if she had not a care in the world! Poor Rain. He was shocked by my behavior. I do not think he knew until that moment just how spiteful I could be.”

Fitzwilliam closed his eyes briefly. “She did nothing wrong, Georgi.”

“I suppose. And yet…how could she be so teasing? At Pemberley, that summer of 1812, I saw how she looked at you, how she gave you reason to hope, and then, to say such things to Aunt Catherine just a few months later, to have not even the decency to say them to you—”

“Georgiana, please.”

His face had gone quite pale, and she felt shame wash over her. She had never spoken of these things with him before, for she had known how such a discussion would pain him. Why she had done so now…well, she had been thoughtless, dredging up memories like that! Twenty-five years had passed, and still he hurt.

“Oh, Fitzwilliam.”

He took a deep breath, opened his mouth to speak, and then shook his head. “It matters not.”

She set down her teacup with a rattle and reached across the table for his hands.

At first, she thought he might not respond, but then he smiled a little and took her two hands between his.

“You have an incredibly indiscreet sister,” she said.

“We will blame Rainford for this change in you.”

She laughed, he dropped her hands, and they might have left it at that, except he said, quietly, “And how are the Bingleys, Georgi?”

Her smile was tentative. “Charles Bingley remains as good-natured as the man we once knew, and Jane Bingley…Well, I had never officially been introduced to her till I met her by chance in Hyde Park. She is a lovely woman, Fitzwilliam. I regret not knowing her better before now.”

“I am surprised you had not the chance to meet her in years past. Are they not often in town?”

“They come most years, though never for more than a month.” She looked down at her hands. “To be frank, I…I avoided them.”

“I never asked that of you.”

She met his gaze, so direct for a man who kept such distance from everyone around him.

“I am well aware of that. Believe it or not, Fitzwilliam, I am perfectly capable of making my own decisions.”

He raised a brow, and she laughed.

“In any case, Charles Bingley was never in Rain’s circle of friends, and so it was not quite as if I was cutting him.”

Now he looked away, and she again had cause to regret her words. She knew how guilty he felt for having dropped Charles Bingley.

“Perhaps I ought to have discouraged the match,” Georgiana said, more to herself than to him, “but when I saw how Will lit up in Miss Bingley’s presence, I felt so very glad for him, Fitzwilliam.”

He nodded. “If William is happy, and she is a young lady you feel worthy of him, then I can have no objections. Now, if you will excuse me, I should write to my solicitor to let him know I have arrived in town.”

“Oh, but Fitzwilliam, do not go yet! I am sorry. I have completely bungled this conversation, and can only hope that your visit here—”

“My visit here,” he said, rising, “will be as enjoyable as always.”

“I will not keep you then,” she said, rising as well, “but when Will returns, do allow me to send him to you, for he will want to tell you of his own accord how—”

“No.”

As if this word were not clear enough, he shook his head.

“No, Georgiana, there is no need.”

“But Fitzwilliam, he will want to explain for himself—”

“He is not my son.”

The sharpness of his tone brought tears to her eyes. He must have seen this, for he added, more gently, “He does not need my approval, Georgi.”

“But he will want it, Fitzwilliam.” She felt several tears fall. “He is desperate for your admiration. Can you not see that?”

“Then tell him I approve, but there is no need for him to talk with me about this, Georgiana.” He bowed and then turned toward the door. “Thank you for the tea, my lady. I will see you at dinner.”

When the drawing room door clicked shut, she slumped back into her seat and had herself a good, full cry. This indulgence in self pity had always been a difference between them. Indeed, she had seen him cry only twice: after their father’s funeral (she supposed he had also cried at their mother’s, but she had been just an infant then), and in one unguarded moment, when he supposed himself alone, during the autumn of 1812.

She, on the other hand, employed all sorts of tears: there were the cathartic cries that came from reading a particularly moving novel or watching a tragedy at the theater; there were the happy tears she had shed at the births of Robert, Will and Emma—and the plaintive wails she had issued when Anne, her third child, had been born dead; there were the bitter sobs that had come after Rain’s one betrayal; soft tears she had shed at her cousin Anne’s funeral; and the grief she had let loose at her father’s.

These now were the worst kind of tears—tears of self pity and guilt—for she really had made a mess of things. Rain had often seen her shed these kinds of tears, and oh, how he enjoyed laughing at her then. “You are too hard on yourself, my lady!” he would say, even as he chuckled. It used to infuriate her, this boundless sense of humor, but with time and his instruction, she had learned to laugh at herself.

So what could she do now, but laugh? Good thing, too, for she heard then the voices of her children and husband in the entrance hall. Wiping the tears away, she stood and went to greet them.

© 2018 Christina Morland