Pemberley to Waterloo: Georgiana Darcy's Diary, Volume 2 (6 page)

Wednesday 21 December 1814

I went out for a walk this afternoon, thinking that I might catch up to Kitty and the boys, who had gone out earlier.

Well, if I am completely honest, I was also hoping to find Edward and my brother, who rode out early this morning on a tour of the estate farms.

I didn't find Edward. But I did catch up with Kitty and the boys, just beyond Pemberley's gates. The boys were pretending to fish in the stream using sticks. And Kitty herself was sitting on a wooden stile at the edge of a field with a young man. They were too far away for me to recognise him, or to see more than that he was dressed in a red hunting coat and wore a tall beaver hat. Even at a distance, though, I could see how close together his head and Kitty's were, and that he was holding her hand while she laughed.

But then they caught sight of me, and the man, whoever he was, let go of Kitty's hand abruptly and swung himself up into the saddle of the horse he had waiting. He was off, riding down the road by the time I reached Kitty's side--though her cheeks were still flushed.

I hesitated. And then I said, "Who was your friend? He must have been in a great hurry, if he couldn't stop and wait to be introduced."

He'd been incredibly rude to depart the instant he saw me--though I didn't care about that. I was thinking of the other morning's conversation with Elizabeth.

Kitty's gaze fixed on the small square of scarlet riding coat we could still see, growing smaller in the distance as the man galloped away. She smiled--a small, secret smile. "That was Lord Carmichael."

"Lord Carmichael!" I truly was worried, then.

Lord Henry Carmichael does not live in our part of the world, but he comes once or twice a year to visit an elderly aunt on her estate near Kympton. And that fact--that he visits his elderly aunt, I mean--is probably the best thing known of him. I've only met Lord Carmichael two or three times myself--but I know his reputation; everyone in this area does. And even the handful of times I met him was enough to convince me that the reputation is richly deserved.

He is fair-haired and blue-eyed, and handsome in a rather obvious way--his is the sort of face that will grow dissolute and puffy with age. He's ... a rake-hell is the best word for it, I suppose. He came into his title very young, and has since spent all his energies on running through the family fortune as fast as he can. He gambles, races horses, drinks to excess, and spends a fortune on clothes. The first time we met, I remember him telling me in a drawling voice that a true gentleman cannot really be considered to 'dress' unless he spends at least eight thousand pounds a year on his apparel.

And he has an even worse reputation when it comes to his dealings with women. Or, rather, with respectable, unmarried women. In London, he's whispered to have conducted affairs with the wives of half the House of Lords.

I don't for a moment think that Kitty is rich enough or beautiful enough or of a distinguished enough family to tempt him into actual marriage. But he would be perfectly willing to amuse himself by toying with her, while he's stuck on an otherwise dull family visit.

"Are you sure--," I began.

But Kitty interrupted before I could say anything more, wriggling her shoulders impatiently and rolling her eyes. "If you're going to start preaching a sermon the way my sister does, you can save your breath. Lord Carmichael"--she nodded in the direction Lord Carmichael had ridden--"is everything charming. He has five carriages--five!--and his own stable of horses. And a house in London in Mayfair. And a
vast
estate in Kent. And we've a
connection
, he and I--we share so many of the same opinions about so many things. It's perfectly remarkable. And besides, it was all quite respectable. He is thinking of buying a new barouche, and wanted my opinion as to the colour of the seat upholstery. Any project of that sort wants a woman's touch, he said. Even Elizabeth couldn't object to anything in the conversation between us." And then she smiled that small, secret smile again, and added, "Well, almost anything."

Kitty is the same age I am. But sometimes I feel far older. Or rather, she seems much younger--not much older than her nephews, really--in her single-minded determination to do exactly as she likes and take whatever pleasure she can grasp, no matter who suffers the cost.

But I also felt as though I were being the most insufferable prig--because, really, I'm not Kitty's mother nor even her older sister, and it's no business of mine to criticise how she behaves. But I couldn't stop myself from saying, "And what about Captain Ayres? Would he have found anything to object to?"

I thought--just for an instant--Kitty might have looked at least faintly guilty. But then she waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, John. What he doesn't know can't hurt him. And besides, he deserves to be punished for writing me such incredibly dull letters. Nothing in them at all except pages of how glad he is the war is over, and now he and I can settle down in peace to a quiet life." She made a face. "A quiet life! I ask you, who wants--"

Before she could finish, Thomas and Jack ran up, red-cheeked, sweaty, and panting, and demanding us to judge who had been the winner of the last race. "You both were!" Kitty proclaimed grandly. She made a ceremony of kissing each of the boys on both cheeks. And I told them they had each won the prize of picking out any sweet or pastry they liked at Mr. Todd's shop.

The boys raced off ahead of us down the lane. And Kitty narrowed her eyes at me. "Speaking of love affairs, what is the trouble between you and Colonel Fitzwilliam? Have the two of you quarrelled?"

I felt slightly sick, because if even Kitty has noticed something amiss between me and Edward, it must be obvious indeed. But I said, only, "Why should you think that?"

"Oh, well." Kitty shrugged and tossed the strings of her bonnet over her shoulders. "I just thought you might have. And if the two of you really
had
quarrelled, that would make him fair game." She looked off into the distance with a dreamy smile. "He's not the handsomest man in the neighbourhood, I suppose--but there's something quite thrilling about him all the same."

I felt my jaw drop open slightly. But there's no point in even being angry with Kitty. She really is like one of her nephews. Coming over and demanding that I loan her a particular toy that she thought I might have outgrown.

Thursday 22 December 1814

Caroline Bingley arrived at Pemberley today. I haven't seen her--nor yet even exchanged letters with her--since last May, so I wasn't at all sure what to expect. For as long as I've known her, Caroline has been the same--very proud, sharp-tongued, and excessively conscious of her own importance. Which sounds uncharitable, but it honestly is the strict truth. Caroline tried her level hardest to make my brother fall in love with her, so I had ample opportunities to observe her.

But last spring while she was staying here at Pemberley, she did fall in love--really in love, I think--with Jacques de La Courcelle, a French expatriate. Who turned out in the end to be a sham and a fortune hunter, and who married my aunt Catherine de Bourgh--despite the twenty year difference in their ages--for her money.

I was incredibly sorry for Caroline when she left here, just after their engagement was announced. And now--

Now I suppose maybe I am sorry for her still, in a way. But I certainly have to work a great deal harder to feel so.

She looks as handsome and as expensively dressed as ever; when she arrived this afternoon she wore a dark-red velvet pelisse trimmed with gold frogging over her travelling costume that set off her dark-gold hair and blue eyes. And this evening at dinner she wore a very low-cut gold silk gown with six inches of elaborately beaded trim around the hem, and pearls both at her throat and in her hair.

My brother had some business with his estate agent in Lambton and so was dining there for the evening and planning to return to the house late. And Edward accompanied him.

But the whole point of writing in this diary tonight was to distract myself from thinking about Edward. So, Caroline:

With Fitzwilliam and Edward gone, it was just Elizabeth, Kitty, Caroline and myself at the dinner table. Elizabeth looked tired, I thought. And she ate hardly anything. Though that's not so unusual. With the baby so close to being born, she says she sometimes feels as unwell as she did at the very start.

Kitty for once hardly chattered at all. I think she was slightly awed--or at least intimidated--by Caroline, who was dressed so much more richly than Kitty was herself, and who scarcely glanced at her all through the meal.

When Caroline first arrived, what she said to Elizabeth was, "Why, look at you, Eliza. Aren't you just the picture of a sweet little mother? Never mind, I'm sure you'll get your looks and your figure back once the child is born."

Elizabeth and Caroline have never been such intimate friends that Caroline should feel free to use Elizabeth's Christian name. But apparently that fact hasn't registered with Caroline. Or--to give in to my most uncharitable speculations--it may be that Caroline simply refuses to address Elizabeth as "Mrs. Darcy."

Tonight at dinner Caroline addressed most of her remarks to Elizabeth, punctuating her speech with a good many little tinkling, silvery laughs:

"I do think it was so very, very wise of you to allow Darcy to have his time away in London. Gentlemen do need their disports, their time away from the shackles of matrimony. Such a mistake to try to keep one's husband buried in the country, constantly at one's beck and call. And we did have such a delightful time while in Town. Do you know the Rushworths? Oh, you don't? Really? How strange, they are
such
friends of Darcy's. They gave a dinner party in his honour, and everyone there was remarking on how agreeable it was to have him back in London for at least part of the Season. All his old friends have seen so little of him, these past two years since you and he married."

To do Caroline justice, I don't think she could have been any ruder or more hateful if my aunt de Bourgh herself had scripted the entire body of her dinnertime conversation for her.

Elizabeth at least refused to be drawn; she simply smiled and said
yes
, and
certainly
, to everything Caroline said. Which annoyed Caroline far more than any direct counter-attack could have done. By the end of the meal, Caroline's laughter was sharp-edged and there were bright spots of temper burning in her cheeks.

As Elizabeth and I were going upstairs to bed, though--I don't think any of us, Caroline included, wanted to prolong the evening, so we all retired early--Elizabeth asked me, "Do
you
know the Rushworths?"

Caroline and Kitty's rooms are in the east wing with the rest of the guest rooms, which meant they had parted from us on the stairs and Elizabeth and I were alone. I looked at Elizabeth in astonishment. "You can't tell me you honestly believed everything--or for that matter
anything
--that Caroline said tonight?"

Elizabeth smiled, though I thought it seemed a little forced, and rested her hand on the curve of the baby under her evening gown. "It must be the child. Aren't expectant mothers supposed to lose all command of their good sense?"

"Well, don't even think of letting Caroline worry you." I hugged her. "I do know the Rushworths. They're passing acquaintances, nothing more. Acquaintances of Fitzwilliam's and my parents, really. And incredibly stuffy and boring. Mr. Rushworth never talks of anything but horse racing and guns. My first Season in London--before you and my brother met--I actually saw my brother consent to dance at a public assembly, just to avoid having to sit and talk with him."

Elizabeth laughed at that, and we said goodnight.

Friday 23 December 1814

I had to break off writing just now. There was a knock at my door, and my heart started pounding--even though I knew it might be only Fitzwilliam, coming to tell me that the baby was on its way sooner than expected.

It was Edward, though.

He'd been wearing evening dress: white waistcoat, black knee-breaches and probably a black long-tailed coat, as well. But somewhere between dinner with my brother's agent and here, he'd shrugged out of the coat and pulled his cravat off, too, leaving his plain white shirt open at the throat.

For a heartbeat of time after I'd opened my door, we both simply stood silent, staring at each other. And then, at the same instant, we both said, "I'm sorry."

That made both of us laugh. Edward's tight posture relaxed and he took a step forward, pulling me into his arms. I felt his breath go out in a rush, and he rested his cheek against my hair.

Finally Edward drew back a little. "Will you come downstairs with me? I don't want to wake anyone."

We ended up in the drawing room, where there were still the lingering traces of warmth from the fire in the hearth. Edward lighted the pair of taper candles that stood on the mantle, and I closed the door behind us.

I started to speak, but Edward stopped me, shaking his head. "No, please. Let me go first."

I nodded--but for all that, he didn't begin at once, but crossed to me, and pulled me towards him again, looping his arms lightly about my waist. And then he bent his head, resting his forehead against mine. "I truly am sorry," he said at last. "But before you say anything, I need to tell you that I do trust you. That I never did think you a liar. Or really believe there was anything between you and Cantrell. I was surprised to find the two of you together, true, but after that--" Edward exhaled hard again. "After that it was myself I was angry with, not either of you. I--" Edward traced the curve of my cheek with one thumb, making me shiver.

He cleared his throat and said, "I wanted--I did want--to tell you the same night I came. But it seemed"--he frowned, as though searching for the right word--"selfish, to inflict my own concerns on you, practically the instant I walked through the door."