Her mouth dropped somewhat at this unexpected statement from her dignified, private master. “Laws, Mr Darcy,” she simpered somewhat, embarrassed at this confession of vulnerability. “If a gentleman were not a bit wary after all, one might wonder what he was about! I’ll have no faithless servants in the house though, sir. You have always been kind and generous to all, and I know of no one here at Pemberley who would wish you ill, sir.”
His fingers rubbed one another uncomfortably. “I appreciate the sentiment, Mrs Reynolds. I might also thank you for your diligent care of my sister while I was… away.”
A motherly pride shone on the housekeeper’s face. “Dear Miss Darcy! But it was not I, sir. Miss Bennet took prodigious interest in the young lady.”
Darcy had been about to end the conversation to take Georgiana her tea, but this statement piqued his interest. Unless he asked pointed questions, Mrs Reynolds would never reveal more, so ask he would. “I am to understand, then, that Miss Bennet proved an asset to my sister, and to the household?”
The woman’s cheeks pinked and she hid a smile. “Aye, sir, Miss Darcy was a sight more cheerful when she came, and she is well-liked by all the servants.” She sealed her lips then, not daring to offer a more personal opinion unless it were invited.
“You found her capable and amiable, then? I should hope that the… experience of aiding my sister in her affairs will be of use to Miss Bennet in her future endeavours.”
A knowing twinkle appeared in the woman’s eye. “Mr Darcy, sir, if the young lady marries well, she will be a credit to her husband.”
He permitted a twitch to his lips, barely perceptible beneath his beard. “Thank you for your candid appraisal, Mrs Reynolds. Good evening.”
She beamed proudly and dipped him a happy curtsey. “And a very good evening to you, sir.”
Darcy turned around, concealing the broad grin that now dominated his admittedly unkempt face. His Elizabeth had charmed the house! Now for the relatives. His face fell only somewhat, but a renewed sense of hope drew his shoulders back and made him lift the tray he held. If Georgiana were not impressed by a personally carried tea tray, delivered by his own hand and enjoyed in quiet communion, then he was at an utter loss.
He ignored the household staff as he passed by. Each discreetly averted their gaze as the master himself carried the small tea tray, and he expected he would be the subject of much speculation below stairs. He would be counted mad, after his imprisonment, or perhaps a changeling by the more superstitious among them. Well, no matter, for Mrs Reynolds was back in authority, and she would quell any unseemly talk with little more than a stern glance.
He arrived at Georgiana’s door and tapped gently. “Georgiana? May I come in?”
He was too proud, too cultured to listen at the keyhole, but he would have to be deaf to miss the buzzing of low female voices behind the door. He waited patiently, and could hear the conversation move in his direction. A moment later the door opened, and he found himself confronted by the rounded figure of Lydia Wickham.
He winced, then forced a stately bow of his head. “Mrs Wickham,” he greeted.
She bestowed on him a saucy wink and dipped a flamboyant curtsey. “Good evening, Mr Darcy!” She turned her head to glance back over her shoulder and, if his eyes were to be believed, she actually blew Georgiana a kiss. “Good evening, dear Georgie!”
He stood back, aghast, as her ample form squeezed by him. He then watched in dismay as she sashayed merrily to her own door, humming a bright tune and allowing her arms to swing in a most ill-mannered way. It was all he could do to prevent an audible groan. And this woman was to be his sister-in-law!
Georgiana was standing inside the door still, her hands clasped, and a wary smile upon her face. “Fitzwilliam, why are you carrying a tea tray?”
He shook himself from his chagrin. “I thought you might enjoy a cup. May I come in?”
Her brows arched. “Of… of course!” She held the door as he entered, then moved behind her writing desk to assist him with the serving. Once they were each furnished with a cup, Georgiana offered him a seat. Her lashes were lowered, as if she were afraid to look at him.
He had little better notion of what to say. What did she expect of him? The same sort of freedom he shared with Elizabeth, who had somehow been his companion in suffering? That would be impossible. The same brother and master of the estate he had been in former days? Perhaps one day he might feel himself, but….
“Fitzwilliam?” Georgiana leaned forward suddenly and placed her hand on his arm.
He cringed, shuddering visibly and shaking his tea cup until it spilled. Georgiana was staring in shock at the splattered drops on his saucer.
“Forgive me,” he stammered, and rose to the tea tray for a napkin.
“No, please, allow me!” Georgiana was rising at the same time, and they just barely avoided colliding again. She froze and jerked back her hand, then watched in silent consternation as he turned his back to her to clean his own cup. When he had finished, they commenced an uncomfortable dance back to their respective seats.
Georgiana did not dare speak or move toward him again. She stirred her tea—needlessly, for the sugar lump had long since dissolved—and seemed fascinated by the print of her dress. It would be up to him to speak, and he had little notion of where to begin.
“Have you been well, Georgiana?”
Her head jerked up. “Tolerably.”
He swallowed and cast his eyes about the room for help. “How… how have you occupied yourself?”
She tipped her shoulders. “Lydia and I talk a great deal, and she taught me to arrange bonnets. Elizabeth was making me learn to manage the household accounts.”
“She was?” a smile warmed his face, but the cool expression from Georgiana brought him to awareness. This was not the time to talk about Elizabeth. He cleared his throat. “And… have you been painting at all?”
