P&P The Untold Stories: Georgiana Worries About Darcy

Her brother’s efforts to battle through the pain of heartbreak weigh heavily on Georgiana’s mind. Is there anything she could do to help him?

June 26, 1812

“Another cup of tea, Brother?”

Georgiana’s quiet question was met with a faint start and a swift, “I beg your pardon?” which served to confirm what she already suspected: that his thoughts were hundreds of miles away. She suppressed a sigh and schooled her features into a pallid smile.

“I was merely wondering if you cared for more tea.”

“Oh. I thank you, yes,” he said with an apologetic quirk in his lips, so she prepared his cup just as he took it – strong tea, a dash of milk, no sugar – and placed it beside his plate.

There was some consolation in finding that his appetite had improved of late, Georgiana mused when she saw him help himself to another muffin and begin to butter it. His newly established routine must have accounted for that, in some measure at least. He had taken to rising earlier than had ever been his wont, so that he might begin his day with a long swim in the lake. Or perhaps he quitted his rooms so very early because he could not sleep.

The last notion was unwelcome, so she pushed it to the back of her mind and unthinkingly reached out to brush his still damp forelocks from his brow. At that, her brother glanced up from his employment, set the butter knife upon his plate and raised his hand to clasp hers in mid-air. He carried it to his lips, then made to release it, but she held on, and brought their joined hands to rest on the corner of the table.

Well-meaning questions were on the tip of her tongue – How are you faring? Is it any better? Do you wish to talk? – but she bit them back, for they were useless, and inherently hurtful. She could see for herself that he was not faring any better, much as he uniformly sought to put on a brave front for her sake. The pain was there, still lurking in the depths of his eyes even when he pasted forced smiles upon his lips. Worse still, she could see it plainly etched in his countenance when he thought himself alone or unobserved. As for talking about her, what purpose would it serve to encourage him to do so? Elizabeth Bennet’s name had not passed his lips since that fateful day, when the pair of them had returned to Pemberley, and had sat together in the portraits gallery. Nor had he said another word about his heartbreak. Perhaps he would have kept his sorrows to himself, had she not caught him in an unguarded and deeply vulnerable moment. Even then, when he had given her a glimpse into his private hell, she could sense that he was loath to burden her.

As though he had guessed her thoughts, he squeezed her hand and said, “My dear girl, you must not fret over me. I am well. Better than I deserve, by anybody’s reckoning.”

“Not by mine!” she instinctively protested, but he pressed on.

“It is the truth, all the same. You must believe me, dearest: I behaved badly and brought this upon myself.”

The earnest question escaped her before she could check it.

“How?” But then she quietly retracted. “I should not have asked. Forgive me. I did not mean to pry.”

“You did not. This is caring, not prying.”

“Even so, it does no good to rake up the past, does it?”

“No,” he said simply, and in the ensuing silence Georgiana turned his hand over, palm up, and trailed her fingertips along the almost healed scar she found there.

If only his heart would heal as quickly! She suppressed a sigh as she stroked his fingers. At one time, she might have been surprised to find them calloused and blistered, his hands as scarred as that of a labourer toiling in the fields. Not any longer. Ever since their return to Pemberley, he had thrown himself into all manner of projects. An extensive refurbishment of the alms house in Kympton. Repairs to the road to Lambton and the narrow bridge over the Pember. Improving the drainage of the lower pastures. And goodness knows what else. The best part of two weeks ago, when she had ridden to Kympton as arranged, with his luncheon and hers in a wicker basket tied to her saddle, she had found him planting saplings in the small garden of the alms house. At her look of surprise to find him thus engaged, he had ruefully chuckled, “Sadly, I know nothing of mending drystone walls or tiling roofs, but I can dig a hole and wield a hammer or a chisel. What say you of this bench? I put it together earlier this morning. Let us see if it is sturdy enough, shall we?”

So they had partaken of luncheon on the bench he had fashioned, which had been shown to be perfectly sturdy. Unfortunately, his claim that he could wield a chisel had been disproven the very next day. Thank goodness that the sharp tool had not cut a deeper gash into his palm!

His other projects posed a lesser risk of bodily harm, but she still felt that he was exerting himself to a wildly immoderate degree. A lesser man would have secluded himself in his study and sought oblivion in the port decanter, but not he. His prescription of choice – his laudanum – was Pemberley. Yet, just as laudanum, it could only offer palliation. As Georgiana knew full well, for some conditions there was no proven cure.

Even so, he was exerting himself day after day, riding from one end of the estate to the other to supervise the progress or, more often than not, stop and lend a hand. He had never neglected his duties to the estate that had been placed in his keeping, nor the welfare of his servants or his tenants, but now it seemed as though he was concerning himself with everybody’s welfare but his own, and was pushing himself to the limits of his endurance so as to ward off tormenting thoughts, and perhaps prove a point as well. Prove what, though? And to whom? To himself – or to the woman who would not have him?

Georgiana drew a deep breath to calm herself as fresh resentment and impotent anger welled up inside her yet again. Her brother’s insistence notwithstanding, how could she not think ill of Elizabeth Bennet?

All of a sudden, he drew his hand away and reached out to briefly stroke her cheek, then leaned back and spoke with an air of resolve and a faint, repentant smile.

“That being said, I should rake up the past and clear up your affectionate misconceptions. I ought to have spoken sooner, but I did not wish to lose your good opinion – which goes to show that I have been selfish in that regard as well.”

“Selfish? You? Fitzwilliam, you are the kindest and most generous—”

“Dearest girl—” he made to interrupt her, but for once she would not allow it.

“Do let me have my say,” Georgiana urged, dangerously close to tears, and it was a fresh testament to his kindness that he indulged her and held his peace, however disinclined to do so.

She rushed forth, desperate to restore him to himself and somehow soothe his wounds, so wantonly inflicted.

“I know you think me biased on account of sisterly affection and the way you treat me. But I have long found that you are the soul of generosity and kindness to everyone who relies upon you – everyone you care for. When we spoke of your— When we spoke in the portraits gallery three weeks ago,” she amended, instinctively recoiling from making a direct reference to his heartbreak, “I did allow that you can be reserved and taciturn when you are among strangers. I will even go so far as to say that you can be aloof and coldly formal when the company is not to your liking. But I will also tell you this: any woman worthy of your devotion should take the trouble to look beyond the shield you may choose to raise in order to ward off impertinent intrusions. Forgive me,” she added swiftly, quick to forestall him yet again when he flinched and parted his lips to speak. “You said you did not wish me to blame her,” she whispered, likewise recoiling from mentioning his Delilah by name, “and I… I shall endeavour not to.” It was a false promise, but so be it. She would say anything, do anything, to restore his peace. “Can we not agree at least that she should have looked more closely, rather than rejecting you out of hand?” Georgiana tentatively offered. “As Richard often says, you tend to hide your light under a bushel. And I think—”

“Richard had upbraided me already for my abominable conduct,” her brother countered.

“But he was not there to witness your conduct!” she forcefully retorted. “All he had was your account – your version of events. And I expect you sought to shoulder all the blame, just as you are doing even as we speak. Had he made her acquaintance, he would have formed his own opinions.”

“He had made her acquaintance. Last Easter, at Rosings,” her brother supplied, and Georgiana’s eyes widened.

“Your courtship was concluded under Lady Catherine’s nose?” she gasped, then shook her head in mild exasperation. “How can you still reproach yourself for being reserved and guarded?”

Her brother gave a weary sigh.

“There was no courtship. Not as such. Just an ill-timed and ill-worded proposal.”

“Fitzwilliam, it could not have been so,” she offered gently, the only absolution that was in her power to give. “I cannot possibly imagine that you said anything that was so very bad.”

“Then let me put it to you thus: imagine, if you will, that a gentleman of some consequence – say, the titled scion of one of the ancient families – came to pay his addresses to you with little to no warning. Imagine him declaring his admiration and regard in the same breath as pointing out that your favourite cousin is a mere soldier, your brother is a discourteous and churlish fellow, your aunt Catherine is an opinionated harpy whose connection to you is a taint by association, and that he had long resisted the impulse of making you an offer, for he knew full well that his relations would regard your union as a degradation. And then, once you had refused him with cool restraint despite your perfectly justified indignation, imagine him demanding to know why he had been rejected, and whether you had expected him perchance to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections and congratulate himself on the hope of relations whose condition in life is so decidedly beneath his own.”

Throughout his bitterly impassioned speech, disbelieving shock rose and overwhelmed her. He had not offered marriage in that insulting manner, surely! She studiously kept her eyes averted, lest they betray her consternation and thus give him further pain, and fixed them on her fingers nervously smoothing the napkin she had dropped beside her plate. But all her efforts at concealment must have been woefully inadequate, or perhaps her countenance was an open book to him – or both – for her brother covered her hand with his and quietly observed, “You see my meaning: blame should rest in its proper place.”

She looked up then, and haltingly murmured, “Would it make a difference if you were to go to Hertfordshire and apologise?”

His mien sombre, he answered her question with another:

“Could you bring yourself to trust such a man if he apologised?”

Georgiana bit the corner of her lip. She would struggle to trust any man – after Wickham. If she had been proven wrong to put her faith in someone she had known all her life – her own father’s godson – how was she to trust anyone else? In truth, the very notion of quitting her home and giving a near stranger absolute power over her was little short of terrifying. Was it easier for other girls, who knew nothing of betrayal? Or did they all look into the future with the same anxiety?

All of a sudden, a novel sentiment washed over her: a sense of fellow feeling for Elizabeth Bennet. Compassion, too, for she might have made a life with the best of men, yet had turned away, for she had not seen him for what he truly was: the very best of men, despite his errors. Compassion grew and spread, mingling with the deep concern and sympathy that Georgiana felt for her brother – which could not fail to strike her as disloyal, but it could not be helped. How had the pair of them managed to make such a hash of everything?

Was there no way to repair the damage? Surely there must be a way, if one looked hard enough. And then the wildest notion came to her: what if she were to write to Elizabeth Bennet and explain what Fitzwilliam was really like?

It was the wildest notion, Georgiana acknowledged a moment later. Moreover, it was patently absurd, and would never work. A case of such delicacy demanded absolute forthrightness, and she could not be quite so forthright in a letter to a complete stranger. It would be so much better if she could devise an opportunity to make Miss Bennet’s acquaintance. Then she might have the chance to ascertain what sort of a girl she was, and perhaps sound her out – speak to her in private. But how was that to be achieved? Unless… What if she were to coax Miss Bingley into inviting them to Netherfield on their next sojourn there? Perhaps she could wheedle an invitation from her – or from Mr Bingley himself – once they arrived at Pemberley as arranged. Would Fitzwilliam agree to set foot in Hertfordshire again? If need be, she could go without him, but he might not consent to that either. Would Richard lend assistance if she asked? Like as not, Richard would urge her not to interfere, but she might be able to bring him to her way of thinking. With him, she could be completely forthright about the state of affairs at Pemberley and the wretchedness that Fitzwilliam was trying so very hard to conquer. Richard would understand that it was beyond her to witness her brother’s pain and not lift a finger.

Georgiana straightened in her seat and squared her shoulders. Yes, she would write to Richard. That would be a start. Between them, they would find a way to help her dearest brother, if they set their mind to it.

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