Page 30 of Return to Pemberley

Chapter thirteen

Georgiana's Encouragement

T he morning room, though ever a sanctum for the mistress of Pemberley, had on this particular day a cast of abandonment which even the keenest sunbeams could not entirely dissipate.

Elizabeth sat at her accustomed station by the great window, her eyes tracing the familiar paths of the garden without truly seeing them.

The lawn, which yesterday had seemed a theatre of possibility, now appeared merely empty; the flower borders, so painstakingly arranged, seemed to want a witness worthy of their efforts.

The gentle tick of the clock, once an ally in household management, now sounded rather like a species of reproach.

She had, before breakfast, made the circuit of the principal rooms with a diligence that might in another have bordered upon mania; she had reviewed the day's schedule, approved the menus, and arranged the flowers—had, in short, fulfilled every obligation required of a lady of the house.

Yet still she remained unsettled, her fingers ceaselessly working the fabric of her skirt as though seeking in its pleats the solution to some vexing riddle.

The cause of her agitation was not the affairs of the estate—though the question of the western boundary lingered like a shadow—but rather the more immediate loss of her sister's company.

It was remarkable to Elizabeth how Jane's departure could so instantly alter the very atmosphere of the house.

Where once there had been the music of familiar footfalls, or the certainty of a smile at breakfast, there was now only memory's echo and a persistent, almost mocking silence.

The effect was less loneliness than bewilderment, as if Jane's absence had rendered all other relationships somehow provisional.

She was contemplating the precise measure of her dependence on Jane's presence—whether it betrayed some essential deficiency of character, or merely a sisterly devotion no reasonable woman need subdue—when a soft sound in the corridor disturbed her reflections.

Elizabeth, always alert to household movements, turned to see Georgiana in the doorway, her posture that peculiar blend of reluctance and resolve which signalled both unwillingness to intrude and determination to do so nonetheless.

"Forgive me," said Georgiana, her voice scarcely above a whisper. "I did not mean to disturb your solitude."

Elizabeth, conscious that her own manners had lately been wanting in warmth, beckoned her forward with a smile.

"You mistake solitude for sulking, I fear.

I was engaged in nothing more edifying than counting my grievances against an empty breakfast table.

Pray, come and rescue me from such unprofitable employment. "

Georgiana entered with that delicacy which was not merely breeding but disposition—a habitual inclination toward deference. She took the chair opposite, folding her hands with meticulous care.

For some moments neither spoke. The sunlight crept by degrees across the carpet, and Elizabeth, sensing unusual gravity in her companion's manner, resolved to break the silence.

"You are uncommonly early abroad this morning, Georgiana. I trust you slept well?"

Georgiana coloured slightly, consulting the shrubbery beyond the window before replying. "Very well, thank you. Only—I thought perhaps you might not object to company, since the house seems so much... larger now."

"Object? My dear girl, I should have sent out a search party had you not appeared.

I had not realised how swiftly one grows accustomed to a favourite companion until that companion vanishes.

Jane has been absent not four-and-twenty hours, and already I find myself addressing the roses—who, I assure you, prove even less conversational than Mr. Darcy before his morning coffee. "

This sally, though gently offered, brought visible relief to Georgiana's countenance. "Jane is everything amiable. I have always wondered at the ease between you—such perfect understanding. It is something I never knew, having been so long alone."

Elizabeth, struck by this admission, felt a sharp pang of remorse for her previous inattention to Georgiana's isolation. "Then you must allow me to remedy that deficiency at once. I could not wish for a dearer sister, nor a more valued friend."

The words, spoken with greater warmth than Elizabeth had intended, seemed to embolden Georgiana. She leaned forward slightly. "Elizabeth, might I—might I ask you something rather personal?"

"You may ask me anything you please."

Georgiana's usually averted gaze now fixed itself upon Elizabeth's face with startling directness. "Do you believe people truly change? Or do they merely learn better disguises?"

The question so surprised Elizabeth that she paused, her mind ranging over love's transformations, disappointment's lessons, wisdom's tardy arrivals.

"I believe we may change, if we possess both the will and the courage for it.

But perhaps not beyond recognition—we grow, we learn; the essence remains. Why do you ask?"

"I should very much like to change, but sometimes I fear I am merely... performing. As though everyone performs, and the only distinction lies in the quality of the acting."

Elizabeth poured tea, offering the cup with renewed attention. "If you are performing, my dear, you do so with a sincerity that would shame those who imagine themselves genuine. As for the world's theatrics—I have observed enough to know that most players scarce recognise their own masquerade."

Georgiana accepted the cup with slightly trembling fingers. "Thank you," she whispered, and in those simple words Elizabeth heard volumes.

They sat in comfortable silence, Elizabeth feeling the day's anxieties gradually ease. Georgiana's presence, so often overlooked by others, proved unexpectedly restorative.

"Elizabeth," Georgiana ventured at length, "I hope you will not think me impertinent, but I believe you are very brave."

"Brave? I spend half my time fretting over what cannot be helped, and the remainder wishing I possessed courage enough to attempt something useful."

"But you do attempt things. You face what others would avoid. That is more than most dare."

Elizabeth was inclined to protest, but something in Darcy's expression months past—pride, affection, and something deeper still—returned to her memory. She found she did not wish to dismiss Georgiana's observation.

"Then I shall endeavour to prove worthy of your good opinion."

Georgiana smiled, and the room seemed to recover its former warmth. The world, with its expectations and censures, retreated to a manageable distance. For the first time since Jane's departure, Elizabeth felt not diminished but renewed.

The clock chimed the hour—no longer reproachful, but promising.

T he tea, once merely a prop for awkward silences, had become true comfort—an emblem of the understanding now established between them. Elizabeth, her spirits still lifted by Georgiana's earlier avowal, ventured further.

"You speak as though you had much to overcome, Georgiana. Yet you appear to me always the picture of composure. I should never suspect any struggle beneath."

Georgiana, her hands now steady upon the cup, looked up with mingled gratitude and rue.

"You are very kind, but I have not always been so composed.

When I was younger—before I had proper guidance—I felt perpetually bewildered by society's demands.

Even now, in company, I sometimes feel myself divided: one part knowing what is expected, another watching in dismay as each moment passes beyond remedy. "

Elizabeth, recalling her own early agonies in grand houses, listened with immediate sympathy. "I am certain you judge yourself too harshly. All young ladies must feel unequal to their circumstances at some time. But you have managed admirably—everyone acknowledges it."

"You did not know me when Lady Catherine visited the winter I turned fourteen," Georgiana replied, shaking her head with wonder rather than self-pity.

"There was a dinner for forty, and I sat between Lord Wexford and Lady Frances.

I believe I spoke only to echo whatever had last been said.

I was so terrified I could scarcely manage my fork.

The next day, Fitzwilliam assured me no one had noticed—but I knew better. "

Elizabeth smiled, recalling her own mortifications. "I suspect most were merely grateful to have their own deficiencies overlooked. At such gatherings, it is generally the talkers, not the silent, who commit the gravest errors."

This observation visibly heartened Georgiana, who continued with growing confidence.

"The assemblies were worse still. Once at Lambton, I concealed myself behind the pianoforte for a full hour to avoid meeting a baronet's daughter.

I emerged only when refreshments appeared—and promptly spilled punch down my entire front.

The household spoke of little else for weeks. "

"Then you were fortunate in your choice of refuge," Elizabeth replied, laughing. "I had only a writing desk for concealment, which proved sadly inadequate to the purpose."

The exchange seemed to lighten the very air. Georgiana's countenance lost its habitual constraint, and the advancing sunlight filled the room with cheerfulness both literal and metaphorical.

"It is curious," Georgiana observed, "but since your arrival, I find myself less fearful.

At first I thought it merely because you are unlike anyone I had known—you never consent to sit idle while others act.

You create change, and somehow make it seem that others might do likewise, were they but to attempt it. "

Elizabeth felt herself colour at this tribute, recognising it as sincere rather than flattering. "I cannot claim to have altered anyone, but if I have made you feel less solitary, I am well content."