They had been comfortable together. Comfortable, and quiet, and honest. He had met her eyes when she spoke and smiled with real happiness when she greeted him in the mornings. Elizabeth missed that, for it had made her feel wanted. She had not been singled out for affection for many years. The love her parents had to spare was shared with her sisters. Mr. Darcy saw only Elizabeth, and he had a hundred different ways to show her that she was cherished.
And his eyes… oh, his eyes. They were dark when he was angry, but when he was happy, they shone like polished jet. Sometimes she could not meet his gaze, for it made her tremble as if she was cold and frightened and warm and excited all at the same time. She knew that her cheeks glowed then, and her voice shook. It had annoyed her in Kendal, when she desperately wanted to hide her embarrassed blushes from her new husband. Now, she missed it with all her being.
The problem was that Mr. Darcy wasn’t her husband anymore. Now, he was Georgiana’s brother.
Elizabeth knew instinctively that Mrs. Reynolds’ idea of asking Darcy to show her his house would not bring him back to her. It was far too trivial compared to spending time with his sister. She had no notion of what else might help her husband, and the servants were no help. Mrs. Reynolds refused to discuss the family with anything other than praise, and the other servants rarely bothered to venture past the words ‘yes ma’am’.
If only she knew a little more! Then she would not feel so useless.
Elizabeth found herself searching the house for clues to the Darcy clan. Perhaps if she understood them a little better, she would know how to help.
Her wanderings took her upstairs to the long-forgotten nursery. Without any children to use it, the old rooms had been left to the spiders. Cobwebs and dust were such unusual visitors to the immaculate house that Elizabeth was amazed. It was pointless to waste time and labour cleaning rooms that nobody was ever going to use, she knew, but it seemed so out of place!
She found old, forgotten toys thrown haphazardly into a large wooden chest. Something about the box made her pause. Unlike most of the furniture, it looked old and damaged. Old flecks ofpaint and ink splattered the lid, and deep scratches and dents littered the wood. Childish letters had been cut deeply into one side, made with an unpractised hand and a blunt tool. Elizabeth worked out that the writer must have been very young.
Smiling and running her fingers over what was surely Darcy’s childhood masterpiece, she shoved the heavy chest into the light to read it properly. While she moved it, she imagined her husband crouched over it, carving the letters. Yes, with his sister standing guard, as Kitty used to do when Lydia was up to mischief!
But such an image had to be false. The age difference between the siblings was too great for them to have played together.
Sure enough, when she opened the chest, she saw only boyish toys. There were skittles and soldiers, but not a single thing that a little girl might have played with.
Elizabeth looked back at the carving. There were two names:Fitz and Georgie.She could not understand it. She knew that ‘Fitz’ was her husband, but who was ‘Georgie’? The question nagged at her as she climbed back down the stairs. Thinking quickly, she made her way to the portrait gallery. If the answer was anywhere, then it would be there.
The room had always made her feel intimidated. An endless parade of Darcys looked down at her with their dark, shining eyes. It felt wrong to stand among them, wearing their name by contrived coincidence alone.
The oldest portraits were of people wearing starched collars and heavy gold chains. Dark with a patina over the oil, their features were a blur of cold, noble disdain. As Elizabeth walked further down the corridor, she saw how Darcy’s family had changed through the years. Faces softened and then grew severe oncemore. Bright fabrics became austere, then burst forth like roses after a frost.
Lizzie saw a remarkable blue jewel on several portraits, hanging around necks, pinned onto stomachers as a brooch and finally set into a lovely, simple pendant. The owner of this last necklace was a young lady with a gentle smile. The style of her gown told Elizabeth that this must be Georgiana.
What a sweet face! Elizabeth could not help smiling at it. Even though it was a painting, there was something about Miss Darcy’s soft black eyes that made her look pleasing. She was slender and graceful. Her pale cream hand rested lightly upon a music stand, where the artist had carefully outlined a few pages. The other hand held a white camellia.
Why did Darcy think that I was an angel? Compared to her, I am nothing.Elizabeth thought dazedly.
Then she remembered the raw pain in her husband’s eyes whenever he thought of Georgiana. She stepped away from the painting uneasily. It had been made before the ‘accident’. Darcy had told her that his sister was forever altered. This painting was not the real Miss Darcy, it was the shy, delicate child who Darcy feared was lost forever.
Reminding herself of her mission, Elizabeth forced her eyes away from the painting and looked at the portraits around it. The only other contemporary works were of a man and woman wearing the fashions of thirty years past. These must be Darcy’s parents. Between them and Georgiana was a modest painting of Darcy himself, standing beside a strong oak tree. Pemberley had been painted behind him, shining and glorious in the sunshine.
This was another image that Elizabeth had to stop herself from staring at. The painter had not exaggerated anything; herhusband really was that handsome. How had she not seen it until now?
There were no other paintings. There was nothing to suggest that another boy had once lived here.
Perhaps he was a brother who died.The thought occurred to her in a flash, and Lizzie bit her lip guiltily. She was suddenly glad that she had not asked Mrs. Reynolds about it.
A case of miniatures caught her eye. She wandered over to it. Perhaps there was a picture of the missing brother there.
There was Darcy again, carefully situated at the bottom of the case in a sort of family tree. On his left was Georgiana, and on his right…
It was not a child, but at man the same age as Darcy. It was obvious that he was no brother. His hair was light brown with a luscious wave, and his eyes were a striking shade of blue. He was undeniably handsome but there was something in his expression that Elizabeth did not care for. His eyes were too sharp, narrowed at the painter impatiently, and there was an indolent curl to his lip.
Whether this was the mysterious ‘Georgie’ or not, it was definitely odd to find his picture among the family’s. It was that which gave Elizabeth the nerve to call for Mrs. Reynolds. The woman answered the summons quickly, pleased to see the new mistress in the portrait gallery. She was delighted to tell her about the family and looked up at the portraits as if they were old friends.
Elizabeth was genuinely fascinated. She spent an hour with the housekeeper learning about courtiers and soldiers, of scandalous love matches and bitter feuds. The Darcys were afiery and determined family whose pride burned as fiercely now as it had ten generations ago.
When they reached the miniatures case, Elizabeth pointed out the man with blue eyes and mentioned how peculiar it was to see him amongst the family.
“Oh, that shouldn’t be in there.” Mrs. Reynolds said hurriedly, “Don’t worry, madam. I shall dispose of it.”
“Why? Who is he?” Elizabeth pressed, then sighed at the familiar, obstinate frown on Mrs. Reynolds’ face. “Would it be easier if I asked someone else?”
