693The Man He Truly Was
Georgiana's shy nature meant that her presence was often quite forgotten.
This was no hardship for her. In fact, even at a young age, she recognized it as a luxury, one that her brother was not afforded. Though Fitzwilliam was not much more comfortable than she in the company of strangers, his position as eldest and heir did not allow for him to escape unwanted attentions as she did. It only became worse when he reached his majority.
Because she was overlooked, it meant that people spoke more freely than they might otherwise have done had they only remembered Georgiana was there. Her opportunities—or rather, obligations—to be in large parties were, of course, extremely limited before she was brought out in society, but they were enough for her to learn how others regarded her brother and be pained by it.
What they saw was how Fitzwilliam stood just a little apart from everyone else, back straight and observing the room impassively. They disparaged his tendency to speak as little as possible, monosyllabic replies being the order of the day when he could manage it—and sometimes when he could not. Words whispered behind fans and teacups were never discreet enough for her ear not to catch how they speculated over his coming to an assembly at all when he so seldom danced or engaged in a game of cards or even smiled.
These ungenerous impressions, however, did not seem to materially diminish any young lady's determination to catch his favor, an incongruity that Georgiana considered with no little alarm.
Who she saw was the man who read to her before bed every night, changing his voice to fit each character. During long winter carriage rides along endless country roads, he would fog the frosted windowpane with his breath and draw silly pictures with his fingertip just so she might pass the time with some diversion. The mantle of brother was one he'd always worn well, skillfully and seemingly effortlessly. And though she never saw him falter under the lately shouldered weight of trying to also be the father and mother they both lost, she wondered. She watched as day after day, year after year, he sacrificed his own wants and needs for the estate, for their tenants, for her.
He was always taking care of others. Would he ever allow someone to lighten the burdens he took on so readily or to take care of him?
.*.
"Oh, yes!" Georgiana replied earnestly to Miss Bennet's question. "Although I much prefer the Irish airs. I could play them for hours."
"And has," teased Fitzwilliam.
Miss Bennet laughed. "As do I, though my pianoforte skills are quite unequal to performing my favorites with any justice. I would never condemn anyone to hours of my playing, least of all myself."
"She is her own harshest critic, Georgiana." Fitzwilliam's eyes gleamed with some private joke as he went on to say, "Besides, Miss Bennet does not keep to music only. She is a young lady who has pleasure in many things."
"A most diplomatic reply, sir," Miss Bennet acknowledged with a pert bow of her head in his direction and a smile that betrayed to the others in their party that the amusement was one they shared. "But it's true, I do have too many other frivolous interests that keep me from the discipline required to be a true master of one that's worthwhile as you are, Miss Darcy."
"How do you best like to spend your time when at home?" Georgiana asked. "And your sisters?"
Miss Bennet opened her mouth to answer, but Miss Bingley cut across her.
"Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the —shire militia removed from Meryton? They must be a great loss to your family."
Being struck across the face could not have stupefied Georgiana more violently than hearing the name of that regiment uttered so wholly without warning or reason. She felt her cheeks go hot, and her teacup began to tremble in its saucer with a faint tinkle of porcelain.
The others were speaking yet, but the paroxysm of embarrassed distress that gripped Georgiana muffled their words. Her gaze could not seem to leave the teacup she held. It was but half drunk, but the idea of finishing it was impossible. With an effort too great for the task, her fingers curled around it tighter, gently stroking the glazed lip and delicate whorls of paint as she deliberately slowed her breaths to keep them from catching in her breast.
When her senses were under her power once more, it did not seem that much time had passed based on the conversation still happening around her.
". . . how very civil of you to inquire, Miss Bingley," Miss Bennet was saying. Her tone was all studied cordiality, beyond reproach, but there was a crispness there that cautioned any further attempts to pursue the topic would not be brooked.
Eventually, as the tide of talk ebbed and flowed into new waters, Georgiana dared to look up at Miss Bennet. She knew that Fitzwilliam had confided in her Georgiana's greatest shame, and though she knew not all the particulars, she trusted her brother implicitly. That trust was made only more absolute the longer she was in company with Miss Bennet. Their acquaintance was young, but feelings towards matters like the one in Georgiana's past were difficult to conceal. Never once had she made Georgiana feel humiliated or scandalous or less. And now, her kindness extended far and away above anything Georgiana expected or deserved. It was the sort of fierce but perceptive protectiveness that she knew she could depend upon from Fitzwilliam, but to have it come from another quarter was nothing short of astonishing.
Miss Bennet was a little more reserved after her exchange with Miss Bingley, letting Mrs Gardiner and Mr Bingley have the lion's share of the conversation. When Georgiana bashfully caught her eye, Miss Bennet gave her a solicitous smile before glancing beside her and then away altogether, coloring a little. Bemused, Georgiana turned to see what had garnered Miss Bennet's attention only to send it fleeing just as quickly.
Had she the gift of verse and a hundred years to apply it, Georgiana is certain she would still have not the words to describe her brother's expression in that moment. She had never before seen him look at another living soul as he was then at Miss Bennet, his eyes soft and warm and bright.
She watched as Miss Bennet, unable to help herself it seemed, met Fitzwilliam's gaze again, and he did nothing to disguise his open regard of her. This time, she held it steadily.
.*.
She could not bear to hear another word of abuse from Miss Bingley about Miss Bennet. With a murmured excuse that no one but Mrs Annesley and Mr Bingley paid any mind to, Georgiana slipped from the saloon. From the front hall window, she could see Fitzwilliam handing Miss Bennet into the carriage.
The two Darcys lingered on either side of the glass, her eyes fixed on her brother and his on their departing visitors as they drew farther and farther away, finally disappearing behind a stand of trees.
Georgiana knew in her heart that this would not be the last she saw of Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
End Author's Notes
I am the wind. I am the night. I am—what? Where am I? Whose pants are these?