But this—this was Georgiana.
And she was hurting.
He pressed his fingers against his temple, closing his eyes. Perhaps he was thinking of this the wrong way. If it were Richard, he would simply issue a command: Stop your self-recrimination, and let us move forward. But Georgiana was not Richard.
She was fifteen. She was young, raw with heartache, confused by her own emotions.
Darcy rubbed his chin.
Elizabeth would know what to say.
She had a way of understanding people—not merely their words, but what they were truly saying. If Elizabeth were here, what would she write to Georgiana? Surely, one young woman might understand another.
Darcy straightened. That was it. He needed to speak to her—not as her guardian, not as the head of their family, but as her brother. As someone who had failed her and needed her to know that did not mean he loved her any less because of her mistakes.
He pulled out yet another page and dipped the pen once more, his movements slower this time, more deliberate.
My dearest Georgiana,
If you believe I am angry with you, you are mistaken. Do not heed what Richard says—he speaks from frustration and worry, not from any true condemnation. I will not pretend that I do not regret what nearly happened, but I regret far more that I was not there to prevent it. That I was not the sort of brother you could confide in before it came to such a desperate moment.
You have done nothing that cannot be recovered. Your reputation—your standing—these are matters that men like Richard and I concern ourselves with, but they do not define you. What defines you, Georgiana, is your own heart. And it is a heart that our father cherishedbeyond measure. Do not let your sorrow make you forget that.
You say you miss him. So do I. More than I can ever put into words.
And you remind me of him—of all the best of him. But you remind me even more of our mother. I see her in your strength, in your gentleness. You want to know what her voice sounded like? Then sing, my dear sister, and you shall hear it. You never knew her, but you are her daughter in every way that matters.
Do not think of what will become of you. Think only of what is. And what is true is this—you are my sister. And nothing, no scandal, no gossip, no misstep, can change that.
I will see you soon. If I am able, I will come to Pemberley myself. If not, I will send for Richard to bring you to me. One way or another, we will be together again.
Yours,
Fitzwilliam
He set the pen down and rubbed a hand over his jaw. Was it enough? Had he said what she needed to hear?
He had rewritten several lines, stopped more times than he could count. But as he studied the final words, a strange stillness settled over him.Yes.
This was what she needed to hear.
Elizabeth would have approved.
Darcy swallowed hard and folded the letter carefully, sealing it with his signet. He rose, stepping into the hall and calling for a footman to have it posted at once.
As he turned back, his butler approached with a quickness in his stride that spoke of some urgency. “Sir,” he said, extending a folded missive. “There is word from Lord Matlock. The election had been decided.”
Darcy stopped.
His breath stilled for half a beat before he nodded once, taking the note. “Thank you.”
“Lydia, that is quiteenough,” Elizabeth said for the third time in as many minutes, pulling her younger sister away from a group of eager-looking officers. Lydia pouted but allowed herself to be steered back toward Jane, who had successfully detached Kitty from a similar situation.
Elizabeth exhaled with a hiss. “I do not know how we shall manage them, Jane.”
Jane’s eyes twinkled with a mix of amusement and resignation. “As best we can, I suppose. It is only that a red coat looks rather fine, do you not think?”
Elizabeth gave her a dry look. “Oh, certainly. But they can hardly afford to feed themselves, let alone a wife. I daresay their interest in young ladies is not bound to be honorable.”
