Darcy's Tale, Volume III_The Way Home Read online

  Lord Andover greeted him warmly as he entered the dining-room; his cousin nodded to him, but did not speak: his gloomy countenance was enough to tell Darcy how he chafed under the delay of another full day gone, and nothing forward.

  Once the customary questions of weather and roads were attended to, his uncle opened the topic that had brought Darcy to Clereford: “Have you had any word yet from Georgiana?”

  “Not a syllable,” he stated.

  His cousin made a noise of disgust. “How long am I to be tied here by the leg, Father?” he demanded in frustration. “You know what is at stake!”

  “Be calm, Edmund,” his father admonished, holding a reassuring hand up to him. “There is yet time enough; I have heard from Secretary Dundas this very afternoon—he assures me that the situation is stable enough at the War Office that another day or two is of no great moment.”

  “Not to him, perhaps, but it is to me!” said the Colonel heatedly. “How must I look, to have my mother holding me by her apron strings?”

  “Dundas knows your mother well,” replied his father, “and I have his assurance on the matter: this will not reflect on you; he is aware that you stay by my request. I have told you before: this has more to do with me than you; your mother has long resented how much of my time has been devoted to duties which she thinks might just as well be done by some one else.”

  “You will forgive me, Father, but I cannot help but believe it has more to do with George, blast him!” Colonel Fitzwilliam grumbled. “If he had not turned out to be such a wastrel, chasing around after Fox, she would not be so obtrusive when it comes to my aspirations!”

  His father nodded at this. “Perhaps there is some truth in that, but these points have been long argued, and are now little felt; but she will come around, Edmund, I am certain of it; she must listen to reason, and soon; should she not, you will still be in London on Saturday.” Father and son exchanged a look of understanding and agreement, and the matter was dropt.

  For his part, Darcy wondered that things had reached such a pass that his uncle and cousin were prepared to circumvent his aunt’s wishes, passing over her most strident objections, in what seemed to him a rather callous fashion. He could only imagine what arguments had passed before his arrival that would have admitted such behaviour in a family he knew to be as close-knit as any.

  Chapter Two

  As Georgiana did not leave her aunt’s rooms until very late, and went straight to her bed, Darcy did not see her before morning. She came down to breakfast, however, and he had an opportunity to gain some insight as to his aunt’s state of mind.

  “Here you are!” cried he with forced cheerfulness. “You look fit enough; did you sleep?”

  “Well enough. I am hungry, though,” she replied, yawning deeply. “Oh! —Forgive me, Fitzwilliam.” Given how sleepy her eyes were still, Darcy guessed that she had not risen until nearly breakfast-time.

  “How is my aunt?” he asked.

  “Quite honestly, I do not know,” said Georgiana, clearly troubled. “If she slept last night, I did not see it: it was well past midnight when she insisted I retire. I have never seen her thus, Fitzwilliam; I am exceedingly worried about her.”

  “Did she say much?”

  Georgiana shook her head. “Very little, in fact; she kissed me when I came in, and said how glad she was to see me; she asked how I was, and about the journey and so on; but she hardly seemed to listen, and asked the same things again more than once. She did not seem able to let go my hand, Fitzwilliam,” Georgiana said, looking very worried. “When I asked what was troubling her, she would only shake her head and ask after the roads. Twice, she dozed off, still holding my hand, but when I stirred, she woke instantly. From time to time she would ask a question about my reading, or my playing; for the most part, were it not for her silence, and her hand keeping mine, I should have thought there was nothing wrong at all. ” She looked up at her brother: “She will be well, will she not? She looks so weak!”

  Darcy sighed; the problem was so complex on the one hand, yet so simple on the other: the ties of love cut deep, when the pressures of the world were applied to them. Love, Darcy reflected, even familial love, caused so much pain, so much trouble and distress—but how to say that to a girl not yet sixteen? “I am sure she will be,” he tried to reassure her. “I only hope the Colonel will keep well in Italy; if he returns soon, and whole, her recovery will, I trust, be complete.”

  “He will though, will not he?” asked Georgiana, distressed by the sudden apparition of injury.

  Darcy wished he could offer her assurance on that point, but as he felt none, he could give none: “In all honesty, Dearest, I cannot say; he goes to war. He is as able, quick-witted, and dextrous as any one I know, but I do not trust his eagerness: he feels a great need to distinguish himself, which may lead him into harm’s way.”

  “Then my aunt is right?” Georgiana asked, alarmed.

  “She is not wrong,” Darcy admitted, repeating his uncle’s assessment. “But she must realise she cannot succeed; that is what puzzles me: the Colonel is not a child, to stay or to go at his mother’s bidding; he must and will follow his own path.”

  “But if he should be wounded! Fitzwilliam, what if he should be…gravely injured? How could she bear it? How could we all?”

  Darcy shook his head uncertainly. “We can but trust his abilities and luck will hold, Dearest, and stand ready to support our family, no matter the outcome.” Georgiana looked as if she would have argued the point, had not her respect for her brother been too great for her to oppose him.

  When breakfast was over, Georgiana went back to her aunt; shortly thereafter she came to find him, to say that she was come down, and awaited him in the summer drawing-room. The two of them entered to find their aunt sitting composedly, her hands folded in her lap; she wore a shawl, though the weather was warm; Darcy gave her his compliments, and kissed her cheek. While Lady Andover appeared outwardly calm, a determined set of her jaw told him that she meant to carry her point, and that she suspected he was there to dissuade her; on his part, he was not altogether certain what he was there for: whether he ought to persuade her, or oppose her, or simply listen to her. He did not like what her face showed him: the eyes were dark and hollow, and the cheeks were thin; there was an unhealthful pallor about her that spoke of a body close to failing under the demands of an implacable will; yet there was something behind her eyes that spoke more of despair than determination.

  “So,” she began, carefully smoothing the folds of cloth covering her lap, “are you come to prevail upon me, Darcy?”

  “I am here, I hope, to listen to you, Aunt,” he replied, his concern evident in his voice.

  With a sniff the lady said, “That will be a novelty. I presume you have been informed of what has transpired?”

  “Somewhat,” he allowed with caution. “From what I gather, you have set yourself against the Colonel’s going to Italy, on the grounds that you have already lost too much to the needs of the nation.”

  “Nearer the mark than I should have expected,” said she. “Not but what I could say more on the subject.”

  “Of course,” Darcy agreed. “But, my dear aunt,” said he in a tone of gentle bewilderment, “there must be more to this; I do not understand: he is a man grown, and must follow his chosen course; how can you hope to succeed in opposing so what must be seen as his duty, as well as his desire?”

  The deep unhappiness Lady Andover felt suddenly expressed itself on her face; —“Do not speak to me of duty!” she said angrily. “And, pray tell—why do men’s duties so often coincide so perfectly with their desires? A desire, an inclination, a woman might argue with; but let a man lay claim to duty, and all objection must fall before it.” Georgiana, her face reflecting her distress at such heated speech, excused herself quietly and left the room. Darcy looked from her to his aunt with concern, and was confounded.

  “What is it, Aunt—what is it, truly?” he asked, his accent filled wi
th all the apprehension and alarm he felt at seeing her so distraught. “There must be more to this than you are saying. I know you must realise that Edmund’s interests lie in the direction you oppose: he will distinguish himself, surely; he may even fall in the way of a title, with a bit of luck.”

  “And he may also simply fall, never to rise! Why will no one else see this?” she cried indignantly.

  “I know full well he might,” Darcy admitted frankly. “He is too eager for achievement; and in war, all his abilities will not save him, if his luck abandons him.” He did not say it cruelly, but merely as a statement of fact, in accord with her own.

  For a moment, she looked at him with an angry expression, but when he continued to look at her with concern and patience, without seeking to quarrel with her, her eyes fell, sorrow replacing the anger in them.

  “Oh, Darcy,” said she in a voice that barely restrained the tears behind it, “the thing of it is, it hardly matters, one way or another, do you see? —it is not just Edmund falling in battle I fear: even if all goes according to the fullest extent of his hopes, in his gain lies my ruin. If he succeeds—I will say, rather, when he succeeds—I shall lose him, as surely as though he had fallen; either way I shall lose him.” She paused for a moment to regain mastery of herself, then said: “You are right: he will leave me. I have known it in my heart all along, I suppose.” An even deeper sadness entered her eyes, and she went on, “But all my boys are lost to me, and I cannot bear it. I had already lost my husband and my first–born to politics, and now I am losing my last dear one to war—it is too much. I will not…I cannot…oh, Fitzwilliam, I am so tired.”

  Darcy was mystified, confused by what she was saying; shaking his head, he asked: “Dear, dear Aunt Eleanor, how have you lost your husband? The two of you are amongst the most devoted couples I know.”

  She looked up into his face, as though weighing her words. “Yes, perhaps you are right, but it was so different when we were young, living here at Clereford; we were hardly ever apart…well, of course that could never have lasted, but still…I am very proud of him, you know, and it means so much to him…but these days, we only come here once or twice in a twelvemonth—and he hasn’t gone riding with me since we were at Pemberley, for your father’s funeral.”

  Her eyes softening, she said, “And George…my sweet Georgie…he was such a dear child, Darcy—you can have no idea! Edmund was always so serious, such a thinking boy, but Georgie laughed from sun up till sun down.” Her eyes hardened, and she said, “Then that man Fox got hold of him; George wanted so much to be like his father, but of course, he has not his father’s brain for policy, and so now—now, he is what he is. But still, I had Edmund; his career was not always so demanding, and he was there when needed, always considerate, and, in his way, affectionate. But then he became fixed on that wretched Corsican, and that marked my end.”

  She looked into Darcy’s worried face, and shook her head. “I know I shall lose this battle—in truth, I already have: he has been gone for months—longer—his whole being focused on Bonaparte; Edmund is lost to me, just like his father and brother before him, and I am alone: that is my fate—but I would have some one know what I feel; I regret it must be you, and not one of the three on whom I have most claim.”

  Darcy thought this over, his eyes reflecting the disturbance of his mind. “I shall not speak to that last, Aunt, except to say I am honoured to be of use to you; but as to the Colonel—you have raised a strong man, and an intelligent one, possessed of no little initiative: surely this is something to be proud of, is not it? If he is not to use his strength, to what purpose was it given him? As a man, it must surely be better for him to do what he can, and pursue whatever accomplishment he is capable of, than to be one of London’s many useless gentlemen. He has made his choice: as greatly as I might wish, for your sake, that I did not, I must confess I feel it were better for him to go than to stay.” At his point, his aunt looked at him pensively, and her shoulders fell; Darcy could see she felt his argument; and by an almost unconscious nod of her head, it appeared to him that these thoughts were not altogether new to her. He went on: “I do hope you can find it in you to release him, Aunt, for you are making yourself unwell; it pains us all to see you so, and my uncle not the least.” He looked at her in all sympathy, tracing the lines of sorrow at the corners of her mouth and eyes. He was moved to say, “But I hope you will believe me: you are not alone: you are greatly loved by all your family. I shall stay with you; shall I? —Georgiana and I, we shall both stay here at Clereford, until we can hear that the Colonel is arrived safely, and the situation is in hand.”

  The lady looked at him gratefully. “I would appreciate that, Fitzwilliam, very much; you are a dear boy—have I said that before?”

  Darcy smiled. “Yes, I believe you may have. My dear aunt, you must know that you may rely on your family, as we have always been able to rely on you; I have reason to know that one of the most important functions a family performs is to sustain its members in misfortune; we shall be here, Georgiana and I, for as long as you need us.”

  His aunt gently squeezed his arm by way of expressing her gratitude.

  Darcy sat by her side without speaking for a while, then asked: “Aunt, why have you told me this?”

  “Georgiana is too young to burden with such matters,” she replied, lifting her head and drawing a deep breath—the first in some time, it seemed. “Edmund and his father stopped hearing me almost from the very first, but you listen when a woman speaks, and think before you answer,” she continued. “It is a most charming thing in a man—your cousin and your uncle might both benefit from your example—no, that is my anger talking. But also, Darcy, because some day soon you will marry,” at this, a momentary pang passed across Darcy’s face, which his aunt noticed; but, as he did not speak, she let it pass: “and you should know what a wife and mother feels; moreover…well, moreover, because you have enough of your father in you to care.”

  After waiting a brief moment for him to reply, she stood, and Darcy did, too; as she passed him towards the door, he asked, “What would you have me do, Aunt?”

  The lady paused, then, with a sorrowful look, she told him: “Tell them I have given over my objections; but make sure Edmund understands, Darcy. I shall speak with him again, perhaps, before he goes, but he will hear it better from you, I doubt not; I am only his mother: you are his friend, and very nearly a brother to him: from you it will hold neither censure nor judgement. And would you send Georgiana to me? I find I am terribly fatigued, of a sudden.”

  Chapter Three

  Darcy helped Georgiana escort his aunt carefully up stairs to her chambers before seeking his male relations; finding them together on the terrace, taking in the morning sun, he told them: “I have spoken with my aunt: I believe it will be well. She has gone back up; Georgiana is with her, and will help her to rest, I hope.”

  “What does she say?” asked his uncle.

  “She wishes you to know she has given over her opposition: the Colonel is released.”

  “But what of her objections?”

  “She understands the arguments against them, I believe; in truth, she probably always has. But this was important to her.”

  “Is that all?” demanded Colonel Fitzwilliam with some heat. “Just like that, and she concedes? Would that I had written you sooner, Darcy. Well, I, for one, shall not tarry to wonder: I shall begin packing immediately, lest she change her mind again”

  “But, Darcy,” asked his uncle, “how were you able to bring about such a sudden change of heart?”

  “I shall need to reflect on what I have heard, if I may, before I answer,” he said, not having decided just how to explain the matter. “But I am not altogether convinced it was sudden, really; more than anything, or so it presently seems to me, she simply wanted some one to listen to her.” The other two looked at each other for a moment, and a marked consciousness crossed their features. Darcy excused himself and went up to his own chambers fo
r a period of reflection. It troubled him to realise that his aunt and uncle, whom he had believed to be almost as devoted and happy a couple as had been his own parents, could have come to such a pass—so deep a schism—so late in their life together. He worried at this for a while, until, looking out the window, he spied his sister walking out into the shrubbery; he went out to her to hear about their aunt. Catching up to her where she walked along one of the many crossing paths, he stepped up to walk along beside her. “Is she well?” he asked.

  “She has lain down,” Georgiana replied. “I believe she has gone to sleep.”

  Darcy breathed a sigh of relief. “That is glad news, indeed. It relieves my mind a great deal.”

  They walked in silence for a bit, then Georgiana asked, “Fitzwilliam, is all well?”

  “I have hopes that it will be, now,” he answered.

  “No…I meant, with you,” Georgiana said hesitantly. “My aunt asked very particularly if you were quite well; she seemed concerned.”

  “I am well,” he assured her, although he was conscious that what he said was less than the complete truth. But his health was with him, that was true enough, and he did endeavour to be well; further, as his sister could not benefit from the knowledge of his struggles, nor would he derive any benefit from her knowing of them, it was better that the true state of affairs be left unsaid.

  “Really?” said she. “I, too, have thought perhaps you had something on your mind of late. It is not…are you still troubled by what took place in Hertfordshire?”

  He looked down at her; with a shake of his head, he said, “No, Hertfordshire is not at issue, truly; but you know I will not dissemble: yes, there has been something on my mind of late, but it is not something I feel at liberty to discuss. This, unfortunately, must occur from time to time; I do try, and I shall try, to keep such things from your notice, and you may be assured that, for such as affect you, I shall certainly give you fullest information whenever I may properly do so. I realise this is less than satisfactory, Dearest, but I trust that you will admit the necessity, and forgive me.” Georgiana, of course, nodded her acquiescence, though she looked at him thoughtfully; they continued their stroll, speaking rather of the day and the weather, and, when these topics of inexhaustible interest failed, of the affairs of their relations.