Page 3 of Secrets Across the Sea

Boston, Massachusetts – 1808

“Catherine, Georgiana, would you come into my study, please?” Fitzwilliam requested from the doorway, his sisters, occupied with drawing each other’s portraits, setting their pencils down as they met his gaze.

“Of course,” Catherine said, her staid, lifeless tone too familiar for her family’s liking.

Following him into the darkly furnished room, the pair sat down where he directed, the overcast day adding little light to the space. Should they have had this discussion in the library? No. He needed the desk between himself and them–as cowardly as that may be–for their joy or anger he could not predict.

Sitting in the seat that felt his father’s still, he rubbed his hands secretly against his clothing and gulped.

“Girls,” he began at last. “I know it has been six months… rather, only six months since. Since the death of our parents.” Clearing his throat he sought to recall how his father had handled uncomfortable situations; a straight back and raised head all he could recollect. He would have to do just that. Sitting rigid in his seat, it somehow felt wrong, yet still, he pressed onward. “Life has been upturned I know, however, I have been giving it much thought, and, though I know it may prove… disagreeable… it is the only way I can see forward.”

Silent and wide-eyed before him, he watched as they each clung to the hand of the other, preparing for whatever horrible development he might speak of.

How had he botched this so thoroughly?

“It is time you were with family.” Faces falling before him, he hurried, “I mean, that we should all be with family–more than we are, that is.” Sighing, he rubbed his temple, the tightness forming threatening a thunderous headache. “There is no family of Father’s left–leastwise, none of close relation–however, we still have Mother’s. If we were to return to the estate Father inherited in England–Pemberley–and were to obtain a house in London as well, then we could see our aunts and uncle and cousins often. As things are now, well… aside from a few friends and Father’s estate and holdings here, there is nothing tying us to Boston. So… what do you two think?”

“England? Would Father approve, do you think?” Catherine worried, her siblings staring at her expectantly; neither having heard feeling in her tone since their parents were buried. “He always spoke against it–and you know what they say Grandfather did during the war…” she whispered, shoulders lowered as her eyes darted toward the door and window.

“Well,” Georgiana countered, “Mother was always for it; and Father said that last day that there were fond memories there for him too.”

Face pulling as she let her sister’s hand fall away, Catherine asked, “Why do you always have to speak of that day? I wish no one ever did again!” Whirling toward Fitzwilliam she added, “I am for it–Father might not agree but I am! At least then I shall be away from all of… all of this,” she exclaimed, lifting her hands toward the space around her before standing and rushing from the room crying.

“Cathy,” Fitzwilliam worried as he stood, ready to go to her until the gentle hand of his other sister stayed him.

“William,” Georgiana said softly, “let her be. At least for a few minutes.”

Nodding, he forced himself to sit back down and observe the little girl in front of him working so hard to be mature and strong. Only twelve years–thirteen before the year would be out–yet, here she was, sounding many years older.

If only she did not have to grow up so fast.

“What do you think about moving back to England, Georgie?”

Hands clasped as she considered her answer, she gave him a small smile. “I am for it. I do love it here… but Catherine needs the love and distraction of family. Of the doting and attention they are bound to give. Maybe you and I need it too,” she teased, “I know I could find it in my heart to be spoiled–and enjoy it.”

“Could you now? That is remarkably generous; perhaps I can find it in myself to enjoy it too–though I admit it would be quite difficult.”

“Oh, William,” she chuckled, swatting in his general direction though seated too far to hit him. “It is good to laugh; I have missed it. I only pray Cathy will again. Do you remember how we all used to laugh until our sides hurt and our faces were sore? Even Father and Mother? I think together we made the most beautiful sound in the world.”

“Yes… we did.” Gaze dropping to his lap as the weight of memories fell upon him, Fitzwilliam’s chest tightened. How happy those days had been. Idyllic even. But such memories would do him no good. Not now when his sisters depended upon him.

Not when he had to learn to be father, mother, and tend to the futures of all those the great wealth of their family touched. Wealth, luxury, as Father had told him often, they came with duty.

Raising his head to meet his sister’s gaze, he pulled his lips upward into what he suspected was a less than convincing smile. “It may be as much as a twelvemonth before I can dispose of my duties here, though I hope nearer eight. If you would prefer, I could arrange a governess to take you both sooner–our aunt and uncle, I am certain, would gladly allow you to stay with them until I could follow. If, however, you do not mind waiting, we could all go together? Think on it, in any case. I must see to Cathy now.”

Giving Georgiana a far more genuine smile as he stood, he proceeded toward the study door, his steps halted all at once as his little sister wrapped her arms around him.

“I do not need to think on it, I want to stay with you!” Burrowing her face into his coat her muffled voice held a desperate tinge, “Please, let us stay? As a family?”

Hand coming to rest upon her soft curls, he felt his heart pinch as though she held it instead of his sides. A soft sigh following, he knew that, even should he desire their going, he could not oppose Georgiana. Not in this. And likely in nothing else were she to ask. “Of course you may stay,” he soothed, stroking her hair as he had seen their mother often do. “Do not worry… when the time comes, we all shall go together.”

“Thank you, William,” Georgie sniffed before hugging him tighter still. “Thank you.”

∞∞∞

Boston, Massachusetts – 1809

“Mr. Darcy,” his neighbor Mr. Redding greeted as he paused in front of Simmons Mercantile. “What a pleasant surprise! I have heard talk that you and your sisters might return to England. Well, should that be true, I am more than willing to take that unprofitable south acreage off your hands–though it would do me little good. Your estate would sell far quicker and for a much higher price without that land scaring off your potential buyers, I dare say. Far better indeed!”

Pulling his shoulders back as he stared at the man in front of him, Fitzwilliam’s lips thinned. Mrs. Simmons had been all kindness when they had met in the mercantile, as had many others who asked after him and his sisters–offering to help in any way they could. Unfortunately, men such as Mr. Redding pulled at his thoughts far stronger. Those men longed for money, and were willing to do almost anything to obtain it. Including lying.

“Mr. Redding,” he bowed slightly before returning to full height, eyes narrowed. “You mean the south acreage that abuts your property? The land which allows access to the river and has enough straight trees to supply a furniture making business–such as yours–for years? Is that the land you meant?”

“Well…” Mr. Redding hemmed and hawed, his face growing blotchy as he pulled at his coat sleeves, “I suppose it could be described that way. When I said unprofitable, of course, I meant in terms of farming. It is rather poor for farming you realize. Should someone want your estate for farming then… well… but I suppose. In any case,” he redirected the topic, “I am late for an appointment. Good day, Mr. Darcy.”

Watching as the man all but ran away, Fitzwilliam shook his head. Too many greedy men in the world. Too many.

∞∞∞

Fingers folded on his desk, Fitzwilliam observed Mr. Offal warily. The auctioneer’s name alone might give anyone pause. Still, such matters beyond his control would be easily overlooked if his simpering manner, at full war with his sharp eyes, were not presently telling that the name Offal had not been hard won.

If only there were another auctioneer with enough experience to handle the sheer quantity of belongings. Perhaps he had been wise to remove a few of the more valuable pieces from the list before handing it over?

“Here is a list of all the items I wish to be placed into the sale,” Darcy began, “their history where applicable, values, and the lowest price I am willing to accept on each item. Should you disagree with any information, Mr. Piedmont is the man to speak to–he is working on my behalf in this and other matters. Five weeks hence falls well for the sale I believe, for my schedule and for those who may wish to bid; by then the weather should be far milder.”

Licking his lips, Mr. Offal studied the list before returning it to Mr. Darcy’s outstretched hand. “I am certain the highest of values shall be reached! Only the highest! My men, however–though keen–may require assistance in going through your home and finding such an impressive list of items. Will you be present in the days leading up to the auction?” he asked, voice lilting as he eyed Mr. Darcy with all curiosity. “I assure you sir, I am well able to oversee every step if you should… plan to be out of the country?” Pulling himself half across the desk between them he coaxed, “Indeed, sir. Given all that your family has gone through, I imagine you would wish to be well gone before your parents’ precious possessions are put under the hammer. Leave it all in my care.”

Sitting back in his seat, Fitzwilliam frowned at the man across from him. Simpering. Untrustworthy. Yet, none of his alternatives proved particularly fine. Entrusting someone with little experience to the job or arranging for all the goods to be taken into the city to several auction houses, would, after all, require a great deal more effort and risk.

If only he could rely on his instincts in this matter. Brows raising, he smiled. Why could he not?

“You know,” Fitzwilliam said as he leaned forward, “I believe your comment regarding the list is correct. It is quite long. Indeed, it is far too involved for one man or business to contend with. Given your efforts in coming to my home today, I do not wish to see you unduly punished for my change of mind, therefore… YOU shall personally oversee the sale of my favorite sow! No, all of the sows on this estate.”

“Sows? Sir,” he fumed, “I came here on the assumption of a large sale. I assured my buyers they would get the best deal, the choicest pick, and now what? To think I might offer a reduction to dozens of my associates over one sounder of sows? One!”

“The best deal? Offering a reduction?” Mr. Darcy asked, one brow raised. “I thought you were to garner the highest price possible for my items? In fact, the way you speak I wonder if all my goods would be sold in the auction itself, or to business associates of yours–what do you gain from it, favours? Well, sir, I wondered if I had judged you too harshly, now the reverse is true. I shall never work with you, you have my word on that matter. And, though I doubt you suspect otherwise, that includes livestock–prize sow and all. Good day, Mr. Offal. Excuse me if I do not lead you to the door.”

“I take it this is what gentlemen of English blood are made of–half promises and no generosity! For all that your grandfather helped this nation, you are merely a…”

“Good day,” Fitzwilliam interrupted, voice scarcely under a shouting volume and full prepared for a confrontation as he stood.

Hands clenched at his side and jaw tight as Mr. Offal hurried from the room, Fitzwilliam could still hear the words that had been left unspoken–his own sharp rebuttal forced deep within. Mr. Offal proved another solid reason for returning to England–there, their connections, wealth, and good breeding would be admired rather than scorned. There, his principles, himself, and his family might flourish.

Thankfully, that return would not be far off, and his sisters would feel the benefit of it most of all.

∞∞∞

“It is all settled,” Fitzwilliam said as he sat with his sisters. “We leave in a fortnight and, if the wind proves favorable, in about a month’s time we shall find ourselves ashore in Liverpool.”

Georgiana’s eyes grew bright at the news, though in Catherine’s he saw only the dull ache he had seen for nigh on a twelve month.

“Cathy,” he began, tone falsely bright as he held out a plate of her favorite sweet tarts, “you ought to try one of these, they pair exceptionally well with the tea you and your sister procured for my birthday–how you two spoil me.” Smile faltering at her silence, he tried to draw her out again, “Truly, you must try one!”

“Mr. Quinton to see you, sir,” the butler noted from the parlour door.

Glancing between the unchanged face of Catherine and the sympathetic hesitance of Georgiana, Fitzwilliam turned to the butler and requested that Mr. Quinton be brought in.

If all went well, the papers regarding the sale of the estate would be signed before the week was out; still, until he and his sisters departed their old home, he would see to any needs the tenants might have.

“Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Quinton bowed from his place in the doorway, “thank you for taking the time to see me.” Gaze falling upon the two younger Darcys he bowed in their direction and added, “Miss Darcy, Miss Catherine. I trust you are well?”

“We are,” Georgiana answered shyly. “Is it so with yourself?”

“It is, Miss. It is kind of you to ask.” Returning his attention to Fitzwilliam, Mr. Quinton remained silent until a nod from Fitzwilliam gave permission to continue. “Sir, I know you are soon to sell the estate and I did not wish to miss my opportunity.”

“Your opportunity?” Darcy questioned, brows pinching at the word, ‘opportunity.’ It sounded far too familiar. Since the death of his father, many men had sought to reach into the deep pockets of the Darcys in the hope of finding their efforts rewarded in gold or silver. Mr. Quinton offered his sympathies early on and had never seemed a greedy man before, but neither had most who had seen the family’s misfortune as opportunity.

“To thank you for your kindness. To wish you safe travels. And…” he said as he reached into his own pocket, “to give you these. Please, sir,” he continued as Fitzwilliam raised his hand to protest, “I promised I would pay you for the use of your men–though, I fear it took me far longer to do so than I supposed–and these,” he held up two small packages, “are for your sisters. Your mother, God rest her soul, may not be here to bestow my thanks upon, but her daughters are. I fear it is not much, but I had to do something.”

Moving his face toward the window briefly as his eyes threatened an unwelcome response, Darcy drew a sharp breath before turning toward Mr. Quinton once more and accepting the packages and money.

His own pride would argue the acceptance of money over help that had been a gift, yet he would not injure Mr. Quinton’s pride to spare his own. Not when his kindness had proved a stark reminder that the place and people his father had loved still remained as he had seen them; perhaps not as consistently as he had believed, but rather good and bad mixed together. Mother had seen that. Father would have too in time.

In time.