Page 74

“The plaster vine-work around the cornices is quite extraordinary,” Elizabeth observed as they strolled past Darcy’s suite.

Georgiana’s rooms stood directly opposite Elizabeth’s own. Elizabeth, upon entering, was gratified to find Mrs. Reynolds had anticipated every comfort: the air was delicately perfumed with lavender, beeswax tapers glimmered on the mantel, and the trunks had already arrived, awaiting Georgiana’s eager hands.

“I cannot believe I am home,” Georgiana said, smoothing a muslin gown across the counterpane. “I kept thinking something would go wrong—that the wheel would break again, or Richard would decide I must be taken straight to London for a lecture, or that Brother would send word that I was not welcome after all.”

“Your brother was frantic with worry, and he rode out to fetch you,” Elizabeth said. “Had his horse not thrown a shoe, he would have escorted you himself.”

“But he does not know what I have done,” Georgiana said, blushing in a way that pricked Elizabeth’s nerves. “And you do not know him as I do.” Georgiana’s voice was light, but her hands trembled slightly as she lifted a stack of music sheets from the trunk. “When he is displeased, the silence is very terrible. I would almost prefer shouting.”

“He cares for your happiness above all things,” Elizabeth said softly, leaning against the dressing table as she seized the opening. “Though perhaps happiness is somewhat easier to secure when one’s guardians are consulted before an elopement is attempted. Tell me, my dear—did Mr. Ashworth actually accompany your party all the way from London, or did he judiciously vanish the moment your cousin the Colonel appeared on the horizon?”

Georgiana’s blush deepened to the roots of her hair, and she abruptly busied herself with her bonnet strings, avoiding Elizabeth’s direct gaze.

“He… he did not travel all the way to Derbyshire with us,” Georgiana admitted in a miserable murmur, her eyes darting anxiously to the door. “When we changed horses at Barnet, James and his sister left us to return to their family property near Saffron Walden. He said… he said it would be highly improper for him to arrive at Pemberley uninvited, and that we must correspond once the storm had blown over.”

“How very prudent of Mr. Ashworth,” Elizabeth remarked drily. “To leave you to face the full artillery of your brother’s displeasure while he retires to cultivate his family’s turnips in Essex.”

“I did not mean to cause trouble. I only wanted—that is, I thought if I could reach Pemberley before anyone stopped me, everything would be settled, and James could speak to Brother properly, and we might be married before the summer. You understand, do you not? Brother thinks I am being foolish, but you have not been raised to think only of duty and position. After all, you married my brother with much haste. Aunt Matlock said it was quite fortuitous for Brother, although they did not quite approve.”

“My circumstances were entirely different,” Elizabeth said carefully. “You are only sixteen, the age of my youngest sister. I confess I do not fully understand your situation. Mr. Ashworth’s plans sound admirable, if rather ambitious.”

“Oh, Elizabeth, for I may call you Lizzy, may I?”

“You may, only if you allow me to call you Georgiana, or Gigi,” Elizabeth countered. “Now, tell me why Mr. Ashworth wishes to marry you with such haste.”

“He is to take orders, but we must leave for the West Indies before the hurricane season,” Georgiana declared with the brightness of a young girl who still believed in fairy tales.

“Have you had the opportunity to peruse Captain Stedman’s narrative of Suriname, or any of the recent accounts detailing the seasoning process required for Europeans in the Antilles? I recall reading quite a fascinating journal in my father’s library concerning the climate—though I confess the author laid a dismal stress upon the necessity of carrying vast chests of powdered Peruvian bark and preparing oneself for months of uninterrupted rain.”

“James says one learns to endure the weather for the sake of the work.”

“Doubtless,” Elizabeth agreed smoothly, seating herself on the edge of the settee and gesturing for the younger girl to join her. “Yet even the most dedicated missionary must draw a line between spiritual devotion and architectural common sense. Surely a gentleman of Mr. Ashworth’s discernment would never dream of exposing a delicate, gently nurtured English bride to unplastered walls and malignant fevers before a proper, dry parsonage has been constructed.”

“He… he intends to build upon our arrival.” Georgiana’s voice was smaller.

“I do wonder if he should prove his endurance and ability to secure a healthy living before inviting a bride into the wilderness. Although I do foresee the necessity of a healthy dowry to secure the building material.”

“But that is not the point.” Georgiana whirled around, unpacking a white muslin walking gown. “My dowry is not available, and Mr. Ashworth still wishes to marry me. He believes God will provide.”

Elizabeth dropped the chemise she had been folding. She had heard Darcy drop dark, guarded hints that Georgiana’s fortune was tied up in complex commercial ventures, but she had never suspected the truth of it. “Surely, any suitor expects capital to be on hand when settlement papers are drawn.”

“Oh, but my uncle fixed it so he would have to wait,” Georgiana said airily, pausing to drape a vibrant Kashmir shawl shot with gold sequins across her shoulders. “My uncle advised my brother to tie up my entire portion in his overseas shipping ventures, expressly to keep fortune hunters at bay. I do not know if you are aware, but the last gentleman who attempted to persuade me into a clandestine match fainted quite dead away upon discovering that my dowry was currently bobbing about the Indian Ocean on a merchant brig.”

“Indeed.” Elizabeth had had enough with meddling uncles. “One must concede your uncle possessed a singular genius for discouraging mercenary ardor—though I suspect Providence might prefer three per cent consols to a cargo of spices.”

“Oh, my uncle was wonderfully flamboyant,” Georgiana laughed, her eyes dancing with affection. “He dressed like a peacock on parade—all embroidered waistcoats and velvet coats that could be seen across a county fair—and he always brought the most extraordinary treasures from his travels. He gave me this Kashmir shawl, and a miniature music box, and a doll with a porcelain face so startlingly lifelike I was entirely convinced she was a witch.”

Elizabeth’s scalp prickled at the description, and she wondered why Darcy had never mentioned an uncle. “I had believed your father was an only son. Rumor had it that should Darcy not marry, Pemberley would go to the Crown.”

“Oh, Uncle Bexley was not a Darcy.” Georgiana’s gaze settled on a high shelf near the window, and her expression softened from amusement to tender nostalgia, while the ghostly fingernails tapping Elizabeth’s scalp grew more insistent.

“Look, she is still here.” Georgiana crossed the room and reached up to retrieve a doll from the shelf. The paint had worn from her porcelain nose where small fingers had loved it past beauty. “Uncle Bexley brought her from Naples when I was seven. He said she was a Neapolitan contessa and that I must curtsy to her every morning or she would put a curse on my breakfast chocolate.”

“Did you say, Bexley?” The words sputtered from Elizabeth’s lips. Darcy had flinched when she mentioned her uncle Henry had stayed at Bexley House. If so, that might be the connection between her uncle and the Darcys.

“My father’s dearest friend. He was not truly an uncle, but Papa insisted we call him so, and he was the most wonderful visitor.” Georgiana turned the doll over in her hands, her thumb tracing the worn paint with absent affection. “He came at Christmas and always brought presents from wherever he had been traveling—colorful shawls from Kashmir, painted fans from Paris, Turkish treats wrapped in rose petals. He dressed so beautifully that the footmen could scarcely keep from laughing. Papa and Uncle Bexley would go up to London together and come home wearing the most extraordinary waistcoats, and Mamma would scold Papa for his extravagance, though she never seemed truly angry.”

Naples. Turkish sweets. Sea voyages. It was hard not to make the connection.