Page 18 of Her Brother's Keeper
Sixteen
AFFECTIONATE BEHAVIOUR
Elizabeth hardly felt Neddy’s weight as she carried him indoors once again—because she was floating.
“It is because Jane is not so severely ill as I feared,” she told herself. But she knew it for the lie it was as soon as she said it.
She laid him upon his bed and thought about the never-ending list of chores she ought to be doing; however, so seldom did Neddy nap, that to have a few minutes to herself during the day seemed too great a pleasure to waste on housekeeping.
Instead, she sat upon her favourite chair beneath a window with good light, opening the book Jane had brought on her latest visit. She had turned two or three pages before she even realised that she could not recall a single word she had read.
“Returned from a drive with your sweetheart, I see,” Mrs Finch said, with an avid curiosity that could probably be forgiven.
“He is not my sweetheart,” Elizabeth scoffed, trying tosound derisive. “He is a guest at Netherfield, and he brought news of Jane.”
“Very kind,” the older woman said placidly. “Merely a messenger.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth agreed. “He was willing to give Neddy a treat, so the drive was for him. It meant nothing more. I will thank you not to mention it to others—it truly was only for my brother’s sake that he agreed to the outing.”
Mrs Finch appeared a little sad. “I would say nothing regardless. The home you have provided keeps me from going to the workhouse. Because I am grateful, I shall relate to you a very dull, very brief little tale. Long, long ago, there was a young man who took an interest in me. I knew he did, but I was shy. My dearest friend was not. Before I knew it, they were engaged. I did not make the same mistake with Mr Finch, but admittedly, I did not love Mr Finch, so I believe it was easier.”
“Perhaps you were better off not marrying a man who could so easily be drawn away to another.”
She sighed. “There are very few who have heart enough to be really in love without encouragement. A kind man who interests himself in Neddy might stay interested in only Neddy, unless you help him along. But I am an old woman. What do I know?” She shook her head and went back to her room, shutting the door quietly behind her.
Elizabeth’s first instinct was irritation, until she recalled the sensation of his gloved finger wiping the tear away. He had touched her face once before, and she had wondered at it—but this time, there had been the feeling that something else was going to happen before Mrs Finch appeared, something majestic and meaningful. A kiss?
He had been a perfect gentleman on the drive, with nomore light touches…but the very fact that he had offered a drive at all…did it mean something?
He had said he was coming back tomorrow. His consideration, as if he had already understood she would be upset about Jane, and had chosen to take his own time and effort when it would have been so easy to send a servant…did it mean something?
Was Mrs Finch correct? Did he require a hint? Howdidone hint such a thing?
The letter was awaiting him when he arrived back at Netherfield after one of the pleasantest, most frustrating, most provoking afternoon drives he had ever experienced. It had been all he could do to refrain from saying those words which would strengthen their attachment, which would inform Elizabeth of his admiration…and what he greatly feared might be love. Only the sensible lectures he had been receiving since childhood regarding the expectations of his spouse, echoing in his mind, had given him the strength of will to resist her.
From the wide, loopy writing on the envelope, he knew who was its author without reading the words.
Georgiana.
It was a godsend. He would read it and find all the reasons he would ever need to oppose his own foolish heart. His mind returned, as it so often did, to Ramsgate.
He had known something was off; her letters had grown unusually sparse and her hints of a pending surprise were odd. However, spotting George Wickham exiting the front door of her seaside home, whistling merrily, was wholly unexpected. Henrietta Younge was no match for his righteous anger, andshe had confessed everything. Darcy would never forget taking the stairs to the music room to face his sister, a forced march towards the destruction of her happiness.
The notes of Beethoven had greeted him as he entered the lavish, high-ceilinged room, where Georgiana was entirely absorbed in her music. He remembered his amazement, as always, at the way her hands skimmed agilely over the keys. Their proficiency, at sketching or music, was unmatched; it was only in drawing rooms that they grew awkward, graceless. Unwilling to interrupt, he stood near the doorway, watching her in profile as she closed her eyes, utterly lost in the sonata, its grace and beauty transferred to her for a finite space in time. Something akin to physical pain had clutched at him at the thought of taking away another piece of her innocence. If Wickham had taken it all, he would have killed him; Younge had sworn it was not so, but all he truly ever knew was that no child had resulted from the affair.
“Fitzwilliam!” Georgiana had not hesitated upon finally noticing him—she practically leapt from the pianoforte and ran to him. “You are here, you are here!” she had snorted with laughter, hugging him tightly, heedless of her gown or his cravat.
Her love for him was as innocent and pure as a babe’s, and he had always adored her affection, even if she was too enthusiastic for society’s standards. The memory of what followed rang in his head, a repetition that would never leave him.
“You are here! I did not know you were coming! Oh, Fitzwilliam, I have so much to tell you!”
“Perhaps we could sit before we share news.”
“Oh, yes!” She had bounced happily in her slippers. “Come and sit!” She grabbed his arm and tugged him to the settee, taking his hand once he was seated, her eyes alight. “Ihave a surprise for you. An enormous surprise! Can you guess? You will never guess!” She bounced a little again in her seat.
Straightaway, he had unhappily understood that the phrase ‘a sinking heart’ was not wholly metaphorical, and wished again he could kill Wickham and rid the world of his worthless hide. How easily the churl must have been able to persuade Georgiana to do as he pleased!
From long experience, he knew that the best means of dealing with his sister was to be very direct; she did not do well with subtlety or analogy. All the same, he had picked through his words carefully.
