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Chapter 16

Posted on 2008-08-20

"I do not understand why we are in such a rush to go to London," Elizabeth argued. Lady Catherine had readily found Anne and Jane in close conference; they reported Elizabeth had gone to walk in the grove. Darcy, upon hearing this, immediately offered to fetch her back to Rosings to pack for London.

Darcy sighed to himself. After Richard explained the newest information, something he had not thought to even ask himself, he had fully concurred. "Elizabeth, please," he begged. "I would rather not be the one to tell you this but -- You were missing for three months; there is no telling who kept you for that length of time, nor what their motive for concealing you was. We wish to move you to London for your safety."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. He truly wished she was not quite so enchanting when she was being stubborn and frustrated; it made it entirely too difficult to restrain a desire to soundly kiss sense into her. "Truly, William, would that not be the least safe place for me to be?"

"It must be safer than Rosings is for you now," Darcy argued. Even in his concern and impatience, he could not deny to himself the thrill it was to hear his name spoken by her, and how lovely she looked in the dappled shade of the grove. "Beyond that, it may indeed be necessary to remove you elsewhere; London is our first point of call, and from there, we will have to determine. Our uncle is most likely to have a solid recommendation. Please?" he offered his arm to her to escort her back, and with -- he was amused to note -- a somewhat petulant sigh, she accepted. Given the longing glance she gave the path she had been walking down, he did not think the sigh was directed at him, per se.

They walked in silence for a few minutes before she spoke. "William?"

"Yes?" He wondered if Richard and Anne realized how difficult this notion of theirs was for him to go along with.

"I am... sorry, for having believed Wickham," she glanced up at him soberly then a mischievous expression flickered across her face. "Even if I was so mortified by being merely tolerable, it was quite inexcusable of me to believe him so readily."

Darcy blushed, and started to apologize. She shushed him quietly. "Jane told me some of what you said -- about the earl making you leave Georgiana when you would rather not have -- I have forgiven you, for what it is worth. I can well imagine what it must have been like, forced into society while mourning for a sister's broken heart; except in Jane's case, she has not had to despair over a mistaken faith in her chosen's character."

"I -- thank you." He paused a moment, adding, "I told her that Bingley did not know of her presence in London, and hinted I would ask Bingley to open Netherfield for our family's use, should the earl wish to visit Longbourn."

Elizabeth looked up at him, eyes widening in surprise. "I thank you for that; Jane deserves to have a little hope."

Darcy swallowed and glanced away from her. "I hope you do not find me presumptuous -- but I wrote Bingley that evening, after our... truce... and informed him of Jane's presence in London, although I did ask him to wait until... the situation here was more settled."

Elizabeth stopped in her astonishment. "You did? Then he knows?"

Darcy smiled ruefully. "Assuming he has read my letter by this point, then yes, he knows that Jane was in London -- although I did not tell him what the situation was, as we did not yet have confirmation."

For a split second, Darcy thought Elizabeth was about to hug him -- and heaven help him if she did -- but she regained her composure and merely beamed at him. This course of action merely almost overcame his composure, instead of demolishing it completely. "I cannot thank you enough, then, William. While I realize this means it is now up to Mr. Bingley..." she trailed off with a shrug and a smile. He inclined his head in agreement, then -- when she tugged on his arm in the direction of Rosings -- gave her a quizzical expression. She replied with a grin. "Mr. Bingley is in London; that is where Jane should be now. And since I do not believe she will leave without me, I must go to London."

He could not help but laugh. Apparently the trick to getting Elizabeth to agree to a course of action she disagreed with herself was to convince her it was in her beloveds' best interests. He hoped, one day, he would be included in that select group.

Tiny hands pressed against his waist while the pony methodically plodded along. Her excited murmurings had faded to quietness; perhaps she had fallen asleep. The light was failing fast, but he dared not say anything about the fact he was lost. To give voice to his concerns would make them that much more real, and he knew the only way to keep the little girl seated behind him calm was to remain calm himself. He glanced up at the sky as the sun set, trying to get his bearings. Rosings should be... that way. He still felt fairly sure of this, but despite this, they had been going in the same direction for what must be over an hour now -- they had not been that far out when he had realized they were lost!

He cursed his failings fluidly in his mind; despite his father's and godfather's attempts otherwise, with such a mother as his, his knowledge of vulgar language was quite extensive. William never had a problem with doing something on a whim; Richard could improvise without recrimination. He, however, attempted anything and quickly found himself in over his head. There is no hope for this, George, he told himself. If he were the only one out on the little grey dapple, he would just keep riding in this direction until he ran into a fence or a road. But he did not know if that was a sound plan, when one had one's father's patron's sister's three year old daughter out on an illicit pony ride. And it was getting darker very quickly, and he knew Elizabeth hated the dark; she had told him that herself. He could not see the moon rising; how would he find their way safely, without some kind light to see by?

He never should have agreed to Elizabeth's plea, there outside of her nursery door. "But George, I wanna ride the pony." She still lisped his name a little, and her grammar was atrocious, but there was an undeniable charm to her begging. Her hands twisting on his jacket pulled him back to the immediate present. He could blame himself for their predicament, but he could never blame Elizabeth. He was the weak one, after all.

"George, I'm scared. It's getting dark," she lisped. He could hear her creeping fear, too, and he silently begged the moon to rise.

"It does that at night, Elizabeth, you know that," he replied gently.

"Are we going home soon?" she asked. "I want to go home now."

He swallowed, feeling a touch of panic. "We are on our way there now, dear."

"Oh," was her reply.

He felt a sudden inspiration. "Would you prefer it if I walked beside the pony, so you can ride by yourself?"

"Yes!" was the enthusiastic reply, the incipient darkness momentarily forgotten.

He brought the pony to a halt and slid down. He kept a tight grip on the reins, and adjusted her seating, surreptitiously attempting to ensure she would not slide off the pony while he could not see her. "There, you look like a big girl now," he said encouragingly.

"I am a big girl!" Elizabeth responded, predictably. "I'm three!"

He smiled at her. "Of course you are, only big girls can ride ponies by themselves." This encouragement did the trick; even as the dusk deepened around them, Elizabeth was too proud of being told she was a 'big girl' to admit she was actually getting scared by the fading light. The situation bought him precious time to try to find his way.

Just as the gloom fell, he spotted movement that might just have been a carriage going past. A road? Dare he hope? He longed to bring the pony to a faster pace, but he dared not risk it with Elizabeth perched atop as she was. In the agonizingly slow moments it took to reach the road through the brush, the light disappeared altogether. He stood, reins in hand, at the edge of the road, trying to figure out where he was, so he could walk along the right direction. After a moment of deliberation, it was Elizabeth's stifled whimper which made him decide. He set off to the right, hoping against hope he was correct. After an indeterminate amount of time, but what he thought could not be more than half an hour, he walked -- well, stumbled quite a bit -- as he led the pony, his hopes rising that they were not far from the front gates of Rosings. He would take the licks -- gratefully -- and the scolding and the grounding too. All he wanted was to be back at Rosings, with Elizabeth safe in her nursery.

Hoof beats sounded up the road, and, suddenly fearful of whom they might encounter, he led the pony off the road a ways, considering for a moment to remount. The pony could run much faster than him, if it became necessary. But keeping the pony quiet and calm was paramount after Elizabeth. "Be quiet," he cautioned her softly. He thought he saw her nod in response. The sounds grew closer and Elizabeth began to tremble with the merest whimper. George whispered desperate calming words in her ear, trying to keep his own voice from trembling. In the next moment, as the horse and rider came close enough to be dimly seen, Elizabeth must have thought one of the night-terrors she had told him about had come for her, for she screamed in terror.

The reaction of the two equines dictated the result; the horse reared with a scream of its own, throwing its rider, who landed with a sickening crack, and the pony bolted, catching George unawares, and he tumbled, fractions of a second too late to secure his grasp on Elizabeth. Somehow, she did not topple off the racing pony, and before he was even able to scramble to his feet, all he could do was try to chase down the pony in the direction of her cries. He did not spare the figure sprawled out on the ground a second glance. "Elizabeth!"

George Wickham woke with her name in his throat and his heart racing. It had taken years of careful retelling in his mind to rid him of those dreams. He had, he assured himself, spent the evening in the library, and slept in his own room at Rosings, and had not known of Elizabeth's disappearance from the great house until the next morning, for no one had thought to inform him. It was pure fantasy to believe anything else. Except... ever since he had arrived in Hertfordshire and met her, the dreams had returned, and even though he had become able to believe his own stories after only a telling or two, he knew in the back of his mind that this story, the first one he had made himself believe, was about to unravel.

He painfully pulled himself out of bed -- there was no point in trying to go back to sleep now -- and methodically dressed. He did not know what it was about Elizabeth Bennet -- besides her given name -- that prompted the return of the dreams. He almost felt he knew her, from the moment he talked to her; and he had watched Darcy's reaction to her like a hawk, interrogating his associates who saw them in company more frequently than he had, hoping to catch a cue that Darcy recognized her as well. All he saw and heard, however, was Darcy looked at her a great deal. She looked familiar, much like Anne de Bourgh, but with Darcy's almost non-reaction, he could not trust himself. He found himself wishing Fitzwilliam was with Darcy, here in Meryton, for a confirmation as to whether he was losing his mind or not.

Like so many other events in his life, Wickham had never intended to repeat his Darcy-inflicted woe story to Miss Bennet. He had, obscurely, been acting on a protective instinct; Denny's comments about her had alerted him -- one cad to another -- where his interests lie with the lady. Wickham had wanted her sympathy and attention to shield her from Denny, who had been attempting to use his acquaintance with the younger Bennets as a method to break through to the elder Elizabeth. He, like Denny, cared nothing for the two younger girls; it was Elizabeth who was to be prized. But their reasons for it were different -- Denny had fond ideas of being a conqueror of such a fiery spirit, and Wickham felt fiercely protective of her, much like Georgiana. His mind shied away from the younger Darcy; he was not yet ready to face the result of his actions there.

It was not without a certain sense of irony that he reflected his tongue had told her more truth intermixed with the story he had convinced himself of, than anyone had heard from him in years... and it was that very corrupted truth that made Elizabeth painfully angry with Darcy on his behalf. Wickham felt uneasy about this; to Wickham's mind, Elizabeth, much like Georgiana, was safest under Darcy's direct supervision and care. He was bitterly aware that his attempts to protect Anne's little sister and, later, William's little sister, had failed miserably. Thus, the only person he could trust with Elizabeth's safety -- completely -- was Fitzwilliam Darcy.

He had used his considerable charm to hear the story of the Bennets; he knew that the eldest child had been a boy who perished the same year Elizabeth de Bourgh disappeared, but no mention was made of Elizabeth. In other rooms and venues, chiefly amongst the officers, he spoke of her often, attempting to persuade the others his interest was of a serious nature, alternating with a bespoken belief that Darcy favoured her himself. Thus far, it had worked, and her other admirers had subsided in their attentions, believing themselves out of the league of Wickham and Darcy combined. When he became concerned she may be too charmed by him, he half-randomly changed the directions of his attentions -- Mary King was a nice enough girl, quiet like Georgiana, and obliging enough -- knowing that the rest of the officers would not dare attempt anything with Elizabeth; he knew the betting pool had shifted to favour he would attempt to make Elizabeth his mistress after he married Miss King. Yet, he tried to downplay the, er, expectation of his colleagues for him making a move on either girl.

When he heard she was leaving for Kent, to visit the wife of Lady Catherine's parson, he was torn between deep seated terror and relief -- Lady Catherine would know immediately if Elizabeth Bennet was the missing de Bourgh, and he would no longer feel responsible for trying to protect her in his unorthodox way, regardless of the outcome. Her fate would be out of his hands; Darcy would protect her if she was their Elizabeth.

When he heard Mr. Bennet had left Longbourn for Kent, quite unexpectedly -- information passed on to him by the ever obliging Lydia and Kitty Bennet -- the relief he felt was nearly sensual. Lady Catherine most certainly had summoned him about Elizabeth -- he had not lost his mind; it was her. He had done the right thing -- perhaps not the most right of all right things, but a right thing -- in trying, how ever haphazardly, to protect her. For the first time in seventeen years, he almost felt redeemed.

He finished dressing and made his way downstairs, where he discovered a letter awaited him from Lord Randall. He hovered on the edge of opening the letter -- torn between cowardice and hope -- before breaking the seal. A ticket for the post carriage fell out; he caught it and read the letter.

"----- House, London
March 10th

Mr. Wickham,

While I vividly recall telling you in the not-distant-enough past you were never again welcome in my household, I find I need to extend an offer of hospitality to you at this time. The journey to London and a few days spent at my disposal will be made worth your while. Have no fear, I shall not harm a hair on your head, and as long as you do not purposely antagonize my nephew Darcy, Georgiana, or my sons, I will hold them to that promise as well. My reason for summoning you here is, as one once so intimately connected with this family, you, too, should be made party to the information that has been discovered.

I have sent a letter to your commanding officer -- Richard's contacts with the military do prove so very useful, do they not? -- explaining in as little detail as possible why you are being summoned. Do not bother attempting to glean information from him, however; he has less than you do.

Enclosed is a ticket for the post carriage; while I realize this is not the style to which you could be accustomed to, I felt it would not be fair to send my carriage to your encampment, as I do not know its exact location; I have little desire to treat my horses so ill. If your interest in horses remains what it was in years past, I have no doubt you will acquit me in this regard.

I expect to see you by the 13th, no later. Send word if there are unavoidable delays -- but let me caution you that an attempt to flee will be frowned upon.

Lord Randall Fitzwilliam"

Flee? When the chances offered him an opportunity for confession which may be close at hand? -- A confession for Elizabeth, a confession for Darcy, a confession for Georgiana -- no, Wickham, despite everything, wanted nothing more than the forgiveness and love of his family, irrespective of how little he was deserving of it. As long as Elizabeth and Georgiana were safe -- and he might have the opportunity of seeing them again -- fleeing was the furthest thought from his mind.

He searched out Colonel Forster, who glowered at him slightly as he appeared before him. "I dislike having requests being made to me by earls," the man said, "and if you should want an excuse to avoid this visit, I can find a reason for why your presence is unavoidably required here."

Wickham shook his head. "Nay, sir. It would not do for me to offend Lord Fitzwilliam," more than I already have, his mind supplied, "for, you see, he was my godfather's brother by virtue of marriage."

"Family, in a round about way, then," Forster fixed a grim eye on Wickham. "I had wondered how a gambler like you had scraped together the money required for a commission."

Wickham felt no need to blush, although Forster was not far off from the reality. "Luck favours the prepared, sir," was all he was willing to offer.

"Very well, then," the colonel waved a hand at him. "If you are willing to go, you may as well leave now."

"Yes, sir," Wickham said, and left. He hovered a moment in his room before packing almost the entirety of his meagre belongings. The blessing of a uniform environment was that he could conceal how few clothes he owned; the trip to Ramsgate had cost him almost every farthing he had had left. If he was not aware -- based on Darcy's reactions to him on the street in Meryton -- of some of the consequences of that trip, he would not have regretted it. There had been a bribe of ten pounds -- nearly the last of his money -- he would never repine, except for its necessity. He remembered with a sour smile how Georgiana's maid had looked at him askance as he mentioned to her it would be for the best that a word was dropped in her mistress's brother's ear that she was concerned about Georgiana. Darcy's arrival two days later proved it had been money well spent.

And now he was to see them all again -- he longed for and feared this. How was he to explain everything, and regain some measure of credibility and forgiveness? It was too much, he knew, to hope to regain his brother's and cousin's affections -- he would have to settle for their decreased animosity, although the thought tore at what remained of his heart

Posted on 2008-08-27

The post carriage had not been the most comfortable he had ridden in, even without the uncomfortable swirling thoughts which accompanied him from Hertfordshire; he was grateful to find Lord Randall had sent his own carriage to collect him from the station. One of the footmen who attended had been one of those who escorted him out of the Fitzwilliam townhouse after his last visit; Wickham noted the look of irritated disdain the man quickly masked. He did not blame him. "My lord will be pleased to see you so soon," the man said. Wickham well understood that meant Lord Randall had suspected he would flee; with a meeting imminent, he felt a desire to do just that.

"I was most honoured to receive his lordship's request," Wickham replied. A flicker of surprise crossed the footman's face before Wickham entered the carriage.

He wondered what he would say when he arrived at the Fitzwilliam townhouse. Dare he ask after Georgiana? Should he tell his lordship he had suspected Elizabeth's identity before she left for Kent? Should he tell the real story of that night and throw himself at the earl's mercy? Questions such as these were dangerous; his courage was not his most plentiful virtue, else much in his life would have been better. Cowardly by nature, the easiest route had never been the full truth; that is, if any crossed his lips at all.

His musings came to a halt as the carriage slowed. He swallowed, and wondered again how he was to get through this. The disdainful footman opened the door and he got out. "I have been instructed to escort you to your room," he said. Wickham nodded in understanding -- the earl would want him sequestered until he was apprised of his arrival -- and followed the man up. He noted with dry amusement, in direct conflict with his fear of the earl, that the earl had bequeathed him a room at the very end of the guest wing, a room he had once heard Lady Catherine call a "wretched disgrace." There was no need for fearing anyone given this room in an otherwise empty wing could believe themselves welcome visitors. Still, it was several steps up from many places he had slept of late; he would not even begin to think of complaining.

His belongings were stored, and the footman fixed him with a firm eye. "I shall inform my lord of your arrival. His lordship has deemed that due to your unfamiliarity with the house" -- a blatant lie, that, Wickham reflected, with him being as intimately familiar with the house as Darcy or the Fitzwilliam siblings could be -- "you are to be accompanied by a servant should you need to leave the room. One shall be posted at your door for your... convenience. Have you any immediate requests?"

Wickham shook his head. "A few hours rest would be appreciated," he said. "That was perhaps the most wretched post-chaise I have ever known."

A touch of agreement flickered across the footman's face. Wickham could be relied upon to have a good eye for horses and carriages; that much was still widely accepted among those who served the Fitzwilliam family. "I shall convey that to my lord," the footman replied.

"If I have any other requests, I will inform my guard," he added, with an ironic smile. Perhaps the footman would mince words and be polite, but Wickham was too busy combating his innate cowardice to do so himself. The footman quirked an eyebrow, but did not correct him. Instead, he withdrew, presumably to do as he had said.

Wickham settled himself on the bed, swallowing against the rising nausea. This was going to be more difficult than he had anticipated.

Lord Fitzwilliam paced his library a couple of hours later. Dawson had faithfully relayed the entirety of everything Wickham had said or done since they met him at the station. After Dawson's scathing comment about the carriage -- "One would believe we had not discovered sprung carriages" had been his exact words -- Lord Randall felt he could not demand Wickham's presence immediately, for that would be too cruel. Georgiana had been informed already of Wickham's coming presence in the house; expecting his arrival today, she had petitioned Lady Sarah's company for shopping. It was a measure of the girl's dismay that she also expressed a wish to call on the Bingley sisters, one of the few families she could visit due to the brother's particular friendship to her own.

The letter that included the Rosings party's travel arrangements had included the most recently gleaned information, and it had thrown Lord Randall more than he was willing to admit. He was assured that the person who was most likely able to find information from the orphanage Elizabeth had been found at had a letter of her own, requesting her assistance in the investigation, along with the address for the Fitzwilliam townhouse.

He reasonably expected to see Elizabeth with his own eyes in a few hours, but he was not sure he should speak to anyone else about the issue until he had spoken to Wickham. Extracting the information from Wickham was his job; he could not trust his sons or his nephew to do so without resorting to threats of violence. A knock sounded at the door. "Come in."

Andrews, the footman Dawson had assigned to guard Wickham's door, announced, "Mr. Wickham." Lord Randall was startled; he had not expected to see the boy for at least an hour or two yet. He stepped into the room, and Randall actually felt remorse on the boy's behalf. Wickham was obviously petrified and -- for once in his life -- trying to work through it instead of fleeing.

"Lord Fitzwilliam," Wickham bowed as the door closed. "I suspected you would wish to see me sooner rather than later."

Randall inclined his head in agreement, and gestured to a chair. "Before I start the inquisition, did you rest?"
Wickham shook his head convulsively. "I found that, even if I am weary, my mind is too discomposed to settle even for a nap."

An honest answer, Randall noted in surprise. "Then, perhaps, you can tell me why you have been so discomposed. I know my letter contained no particular information."

Wickham fidgeted, swallowing hard, and would not look at him. "I ... is it ...I know why you summoned me here." He shuddered, and brought his hands together in front of him, clasping them tightly. "I did what I could to protect Elizabeth, from the attentions of the other officers in the militia, before she travelled to Kent. I was not sure it was her, that she was our Elizabeth, for Darcy did not seem to recognize her, and I did not trust my own mind in the matter." He finally looked at Lord Randall. "I swear, if I had been surer, I would have informed you immediately."

Randall was shocked. "How did you --?"

Wickham looked at the ground. "She looks like Anne, but even Anne has more of the Fitzwilliam features. Anne is the only one in the entire family she truly resembles. If you had not noticed," Wickham added with an ironic smile, "most of the family displays their kinship to the Fitzwilliams before their other family." Lord Randall made an amused noise of agreement, but Wickham continued as if he had not heard. "I think I was the one to notice who she was, for I have for so long had to be content with seeing so little of my kinship in Darcy's face."

Lord Randall came to his feet and Wickham quailed. "What do you know of the matter?" Randall asked.

"Which matter?"

"Your parentage."

"I ..." Wickham looked at the ground, biting his knuckles as he controlled himself. "When Georgiana was born ..." he began, the memories as vivid as his nightmares, although he surely could not say all of it, not here, not now.

George Andrew Wickham, Jr. had come to speak to his father and Mr. Darcy. He wanted to see if he would be allowed to hold William's new sister, before he attempted to ask William or Lady Anne. Thus, he stood at Mr. Darcy's door, prepared to knock, when he heard slightly raised voices in the room. With a flicker of dismay at what he was about to do, he placed an ear to the door to hear more fully.

"Come, Richard," he heard his father say, "You cannot seriously mean to name the girl after me?"

"And why should I not choose to, George? Are you not my most stalwart friend?" George felt a flicker of pride in his father; to be spoken so highly by Mr. Darcy was a rare thing indeed.

"And no friend in any of our circle of acquaintances has two children named after him!" came the heated reply. George blinked -- he knew William's name as well as his own, and neither 'George' nor 'Andrew' was in William's name anywhere.

"You know full well why we named the boy after you. There was no other way to pass him off as yours so completely." George felt the strength drain out of his body in horror. Surely he did not hear what he thought he did.

"And you are fortunate enough that I had no interest in marrying at all, and was thus at liberty to... deal with that unfortunate situation you found yourself in," his father's voice replied sardonically.

"Quite," replied Mr. Darcy's cool tones, "and for that I can never repay you enough, old friend."

"You keep me supplied with books, conversation, and gave me a chance to raise a son, something I never expected to accomplish. That is repayment enough," Mr. Wickham replied.

Mr. Darcy answered, "But, still, to the world's knowledge, I only have one son, not two, and now I have a daughter, who I should like to legitimately name after you. No one will think it odd in the slightest. Humour me?"

In a voice filled with a tender defeat, tones George had never heard the man he had called father all these years use towards his mother, "As you wish, then, Richard. You know I could never gainsay you for long."

Mr. Darcy laughed. "Thankfully, you are easily persuaded to reason." A mirthless chuckle was the response, followed by footsteps moving towards the door.

George felt himself stagger back from the door, looking for a place to hide. A murmur of voices paused the footsteps, and he scurried away to hide and wallow in his confusion. He, the son of Mr. Darcy -- brother to William! The man he had looked up to as his father, talking in such tender accents to Mr. Darcy! He felt vaguely thankful that Mr. Darcy did not appear to notice the emotions behind the older Wickham's words and actions. But what could he say -- to either of them? What of Richard and William? And William's new sister -- his sister! What of her?

He knew, obscurely, dimly, that his sense of honour and faith had been shaken severely, above and beyond the loss of -- his mind shied away from those memories quickly. Had he not sworn to himself they were fevered memories, brought on by the stress of those dark days? But, even as he stood there in that hall closet, secreted away from the world, for a breath of infinity, he promised he would do everything he could, to make his little sister happy, to make his brother -- however little William may know him as such -- proud of him. He was still proud of the man who had given him his name; such unrestrained and loyal friendship was rare, and he could not be but thankful for the legitimacy he had apparently gifted to his friend's illegitimate child.

But -- oh! -- how he wanted to be able to confide this to William. How was he to be strong enough to handle this secret -- on top of the ones already concealed in his heart -- on his own?

"You knew?" Randall hissed. "Yet you hurt Georgiana as you did? How despicable --"

"Sir, please," Wickham begged. "I never meant to hurt her; that was never my intent. Did not Darcy tell you I disappeared without a word contrary? Did he not tell you her maid had contacted him? I gave her maid money -- as a bribe to do it, for I knew Mrs. Younge had forbidden any of the servants from telling Darcy of my presence -- to send an express to Darcy." Wickham buried his face in his hands. "She is my sister. I wanted to see her -- so badly. I knew Younge from my --" he coughed slightly "I knew her from before, and we had kept up correspondence. She had wished me to marry her, years ago, and after she was widowed, she wished it again. I had made some mention of needing a fortune to do so; her next letter said she had been hired as companion to Georgiana." Wickham fell silent for a moment.

"Continue, sir," Randall's voice had grown excessively icy, and Wickham flinched again.

"I -- I confess, I thought nothing but how much I wished to see my younger sister, and I suggested that when Younge and Georgiana travelled to Ramsgate, I should meet up with them." He glanced up at Lord Randall. "Younge mistook my intent as wishing to marry Georgiana," disgust flitted across Wickham's face, "so I could then keep Younge in a style to which she could be accustomed. I did not realize this at first," he sighed. "And once I did, I tried to downplay the idea -- I suggested an elopement hoping it would dissuade her, and made mention of how little Darcy seemed to trust me. I said everything I could think of to discourage an attachment, except that which would have been most effective."

"Then why did you not tell her?" Lord Randall glowered.

Wickham looked up at him, and Randall was hit by the vulnerability in his face. "I was too cowardly to do so, sir. I did not know until later that Younge had been actively encouraging an attachment to me. I had merely been enjoying the company of my most darling sister, who I do love very dearly, and treating her as I thought she should be treated. But -- when I realized that Georgiana was serious -- I found I could not say such things to her, when I had never been able to even breathe word of it to Darcy." He looked back down. "So I took the coward's way out. I bribed the maid to inform Darcy she was 'concerned' for her mistress, so he would visit Ramsgate and I knew -- once she was confronted with him, she would confess, and I would be the villain, but I would not have to look in her face and see her heart break, nor see the result of the damage to her -- our -- father's memory."

Lord Randall took a shaky breath. "I will have to confirm with her maid before I will trust your account of things."

Wickham nodded. "I expect nothing less, sir."

Lord Randall fixed him with an ironic glance. "Lady Sarah and I have intended to inform you, Richard and William of your parentage -- we thought it was long overdue intelligence. Seeing as you already know, we shall be informing them separately." He paused, recollecting his original reason for summoning Wickham to London in the first place. "Seeing as it appears to be your day for confessions -- do you have any others to make?"

Wickham paled, closed his eyes, and took a steadying breath. "Sir... may I have your word, that I will be permitted to make my apologies to Darcy, Georgiana, and Elizabeth, before I am thrown from the house, regardless of what else I may say?"

Lord Randall narrowed his eyes. "As long as you only have apologies -- or confessions -- to make, you have my word, regardless of how the rest of this conversation goes."

Wickham nodded. "Thank you, sir." He paused and took another deep breath. "I know how Elizabeth left Rosings that night.

Posted on 2008-09-03

Had this been any other day, Lord Randall would have found it necessary to retire for a short rest prior to the next party's arrival. As it was, he was still exhausted -- mind, body, and soul -- at least some of it in empathetic echo of Wickham. He had given the boy a fortifying shot of brandy and sent him specifically to bed -- just at the moment, he needed to be treated more like he was six, not six-and-twenty.

He knew Wickham to be a tolerable actor if he had reason to be assured of some success. He also knew Wickham could breathe in truth and breathe out a lie faster than the ton could affect sincerity. Tears and expressions of guilt -- these were not the hallmark of the Wickham he had come to know. No -- he firmly believed the boy was finally telling the truth, a truth he had long suppressed. He shuddered to think what they had done to him, not sitting him down and making him talk. He had blamed himself for Lewis' death on top of a childish thoughtlessness in regards to Elizabeth.

At least Randall now understood how Lewis -- bloodied and battered by the fall as he was -- had been so adamant that Elizabeth was alive and well. He could not remember the fall; they had asked him repeatedly, but he could only recall saddling the horse, not even leaving the front gates. Somewhere, Randall was now sure, Lewis had heard Wickham calling for Elizabeth, and even if he could not remember why, it had been enough to keep him alive through the night.

But a critical question remained unanswered -- where had Elizabeth disappeared to? He hoped the person with the contacts at the orphanage was able to find the answers they needed. He glanced at the clock, rubbing his neck against the strain. The Rosings party would be arriving shortly. He had Georgiana's maid summoned -- not that, after the last emotional hour, he doubted Wickham had done what he said he had -- but it was better to verify than to simply believe.

The thought that the worst part of his day -- informing Darcy, Richard, and Alexander of Wickham's parentage -- had yet to come intruded upon his thoughts. The temptation to take a fortifying shot -- or three perhaps -- of brandy himself hovered on the edge of his thoughts. Perhaps, he decided, after he spoke with the maid, if the Rosings party had not yet arrived, he would yield -- carefully, it would not do to appear in front of his niece anything less then sober -- to that temptation..

Madeline Gardiner frowned as she read the letter from her brother. Three months was a decidedly long time for a little girl to be missing; more puzzling still was how her little gown had been only a little dirty and in good repair. After ensuring the children had settled down for their nap, she left them to the care of the nanny, and set off for the orphanage.

When she arrived, one of the carers was tending the little ones. "Oh, but you are here early," the woman said.

Madeline shook her head. "I am afraid I did not come to assist just at the moment, Natalie. Do you know where Frances is?"

Natalie nodded. "In her office, attending the correspondence that came in not long ago."

She gave her long-time acquaintance a smile. "Thank you." She departed to the back, up the stairs, and at the furthest end of the hall -- the stuffiest little room the building had, for it had been deemed nonsense to give a good room over to a mere office -- she knocked on the door.

"Come in," called Frances. She entered, and Frances gave her a grateful smile. "Come to distract me from these accounts?"

Madeline laughed, albeit quietly. "Yes, if not for precisely what we would expect."

Frances raised an eyebrow at her old friend. "Oh? Do tell."

Madeline settled in the chair across from the desk. "We finally found Elizabeth's family -- or they found her? I am not sure how one would phrase it. It is a tad complex."

Frances lit up. "Truly? That is astounding."

Madeline laughed. "Yes, indeed. I could not be more pleased; I always hoped we would stumble across them. However," she sobered, "I have been asked to search the records for Elizabeth's appearance here. It seems she disappeared for nigh on three months before arriving here; her original family and my brother are very concerned for her current welfare."

Frances frowned. "Three months? That is... troubling." Madeline nodded in agreement. "We can search the records, of course, but you know as well as I how disorganized this institution was under that particular head, even beyond the troubles placed upon us by that horrible epidemic."

"I know, but -- if I am not mistaken, the women who would have been in charge of admittance are both deceased, and our only hope is that we have the paper records," Madeline replied.

"You are indeed correct," Frances answered. "And I, myself, was not even here that month, for my father had taken us on holiday." Madeline suppressed a grimace -- Frances' memory was the most reliable she had ever witnessed. There went her first hope, that Frances would recall herself, for she had been unable to remember who had been at the orphanage during that time.

"Do I have your permission, then, to start searching?" Madeline asked.

Frances nodded. "With any luck, the information may even be in the proper location." Frances rose and beckoned Madeline to follow. "If nothing else, at least you can but say you tried."

"Indeed," Madeline agreed.

The records -- such as they were -- had not been as helpful as Madeline would have preferred. Elizabeth's name did appear on the rolls -- "Elizabeth, age 3, family name unknown. Escorted by unrelated male, who did not wish to be named. Spoke of being unable to care for such a young waif." The date matched what Madeline had recalled, herself. She left to return to her children, disappointed. She did not a pen a reply to her brother's letter -- he had stated he intended to return to London with Elizabeth and Jane in the next day or so, and as she had nothing further to add herself, it made little difference if she conveyed it immediately by letter or two days hence in person.

She had just settled back into the household, having freshened up after her excursion. Only her eldest daughter had woken from her nap; she was currently engrossed in the pianoforte. The length of time Elizabeth had been between known locations bothered her obscurely, and she wondered which of her acquaintances at the orphanage -- the ones who did not go there daily or even weekly, but were seasonal, transitional -- two or three tinkers among them, who fixed things for the orphanage for free -- might have insight on the matter. Many knew one of her nieces had been adopted; only a handful knew which one it was, although, as long as Elizabeth had not known herself, it had not been spoken of in her presence.

Now that she thought about it, one of the tinkers had always known which niece was Elizabeth; he had always asked after her when he passed through. He had seen Elizabeth but a handful of times over the years; he generally drifted through London in August or September, when Elizabeth was in Hertfordshire. He had made mention, once, when Madeline wondered at his interest in Elizabeth, that he had met her prior to her being placed with Madeline's brother, and had been quite taken with the girl. She bit her lip in frustration -- gypsies were difficult enough to pin down when one knew where they were! How was she to find him, now, and ask questions of him? Better yet, that her husband and brother asked the questions. It was only March now -- should she mention the idea, so that they could all plan on converging on London in early August, in case he should pass through so early?

Even as she thought this, and began to move towards her writing desk -- to jot down a note to herself, lest she forgot -- when she heard unfamiliar footsteps in the hall, presumably being escorted to the parlour. Her housekeeper opened the door and announced -- "Mr. and Miss Bingley, ma'am."

Madeline was astounded; after Miss Bingley's cold behaviour on her last visit to Gracechurch Street, she had been forced to gently convince Jane to not expect another visit -- or even that a return visit would be welcomed. To find Miss Bingley here -- with her brother, the man who had captured Jane's heart -- she could not even begin to fathom what brought it on. Even as this flickered through her mind, however, she smiled charmingly at the two guests, and curtsied. "Miss Bingley, it is pleasant to see you again. I hope you are well?"

The lady's reply was cool and uncomfortable, her eyes glancing towards her brother anxiously. "Mrs. Gardiner; the pleasure is all mine. I am well, as is my brother." She nodded towards Mr. Bingley. "Charles, this is Mrs. Gardiner, the Bennets' aunt. Mrs. Gardiner, my brother Mr. Charles Bingley."

Mr. Bingley... glittered. That was the phrase that flickered through Madeline's mind. His personality was light and sparkling, much like his smile. "I am very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Gardiner. I hope you do not believe me overly forward, nor sorely lacking in manners -- I only just recently was informed that some of my Hertfordshire acquaintances had lately passed time in town; your eldest nieces, that is."

Mrs. Gardiner smiled at him, quite unable to feel too dismayed with someone so cheerful. "Indeed, Jane has been in London with us since January; her sister Elizabeth passed through on her way to Kent but a se'ennight ago, perhaps a few days longer."

"And how do they fare?" he asked; Miss Bingley -- Madeline felt almost sorry for her, for this was not the arrogantly confident lady she had met previously -- seated herself a little to the side, and was principally employed in toying with her bracelets.

"They are both well," she answered. "Jane travelled to Kent with her father at the end of last week, but we expect them both to return with Elizabeth to London before week's end."

Mr. Bingley nodded. "I confess, my friend, Mr. Darcy, did mention that possibility in his letter to me." Madeline noticed Miss Bingley looked up at this sharply and paled slightly, but she did not speak. The word 'possibility' indicated to Madeline that whatever information Mr. Bingley had from Mr. Darcy dated prior to her own trip to Kent. She wondered how much Mr. Darcy had passed on to his friend, although she did not suspect he had let on the truth of the situation; Mr. Bingley did not allude to anything about Elizabeth. This did, however, answer the question as to what prompted the current visit to Gracechurch Street.

"I met Mr. Darcy when Jane and Mr. Bennet journeyed to Kent, although it was exceedingly brief," Madeline replied.

"Oh?" Mr. Bingley asked, seeming to be more than politely interested.

"Yes," she smiled. "The Kent countryside is quite beautiful this time of year. He must be well pleased to be able to stay there -- I understand it is a yearly occurrence."

"Indeed," Mr. Bingley replied. "He has visited his aunt, Lady Catherine, around Easter-tide for as long as I have known him."

Conversation lulled for a moment before Madeline asked if her guests would like some refreshments. Mr. Bingley smiled in reply. "I thank you, ma'am, but I do believe my sister has an appointment for this afternoon. I am sure she will agree with me that staying longer here would be pleasant, but prior arrangements ought be kept, do you not agree?"

"Indeed," Madeline agreed. She did not take offence to the reply; she knew herself to not be the primary object of the meeting. "Dinner, then, perhaps in a few days' time, after Jane and Elizabeth return from Kent?"

"That would be lovely -- would it not, Caroline?" Mr. Bingley glanced at his sister.

"Very," Miss Bingley replied.

"Then it is settled -- do send 'round a note once you can fix a date, and we shall attend," he said to Madeline.

"You may count on it, sir," she replied. She saw her guests to the door -- Miss Bingley said only the most basic of required civilities in farewell; warmth remained for her brother to display. Even when Miss Bingley had called previously, she had spoken more than today -- what had her brother said to her after receiving the intelligence from his friend to cause such a change?

Madeline recollected she had been about to go to her desk when the Bingleys arrived -- to do what? A note to herself, yes, that was it, but about what? She had been fretting about Elizabeth's past... and... she had had a thought about a possible lead and... Oh! For the life of her, what had it been? She bit her lip in frustration, trying to recapture that thread of thought. It was like grasping air; only the barest tendrils of it remained, and she rued that the Bingleys had not arrived even but two minutes later. No matter how hard she tried, she could not remember. She could only hope that it would come back to her in due time.

The Rosings party had woken early enough to be ready to depart to make good time to London. Lady Catherine found herself in the library -- a place she had rarely inclined to retreat to; it had been her husband's, and subsequently, her nephew's favourite haunt. She felt drawn, however, as she knew Elizabeth favoured books over more ladylike pursuits, and -- even if she knew her second daughter to be above stairs, readying for the journey to London -- she felt closer to her in here, than in the parlour where she had first recognized her.

Seventeen years of heartache, so close to being a thing of the past. It was not yet, however -- for as much as she loved Elizabeth, and could not but rejoice at witnessing her daughters' attempt to work towards a common affection, she felt... distanced from Elizabeth still. Perhaps it was because no one ever thought to find themselves with two sets of parents, and siblings were already usually a multitude.

The pain had been worst that first year -- losing Lewis, whom she had loved from the moment she met him, and had jested to him she would prefer that he survive her so as to not live without him, that had been a blow she would never have been prepared for, even if she knew it was approaching. Losing Elizabeth, who looked so much like her father, had been a horrible blow, tempered only by an ever fading hope of her recovery. Indeed, even while she refused to let go of that hope, she had slowly begun to let herself grieve for the child she believed had to have followed her father. To find Elizabeth -- alive, hale, and still every inch her father's daughter -- her joy was boundless, but she felt checked in her expression of it.

She wondered at the quiet in this room -- was it the solitude that drew her nephew here? What of Elizabeth, who was a lively girl, and seemed to have a preference for company? But -- she recollected -- Elizabeth also sought solitary solace outside -- perhaps she was more of a Fitzwilliam than she would have thought, just one who was able to balance her need for company and solitude better than most of the family. Perhaps -- she hesitated to think this, but could not help it -- it had been to Elizabeth's benefit to have grown up in a lively family, so far removed from the stately and formal Fitzwilliam clan.

Her musings were interrupted by the door opening and closing quickly. She turned to find Elizabeth standing there, her hands clasped behind her back. For the life of her, she looked like a child waiting to be scolded. "Yes, my dear?" Catherine asked.

Elizabeth bit her lip nervously. "I... I want to apologize."

Catherine raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Indeed? Whatever for?"

"I would not wish you to think I am... intentionally keeping my distance from you, Lady Catherine," she replied.

She thought -- hoped at least -- she kept from wincing at the title. "I have been trying to keep from smothering you," she admitted. "Some of the distance is undoubtedly my fault -- I do not wish to scare you off."

Elizabeth smiled. "My courage rises at every attempt to intimidate me, your ladyship. I dare say it will not be the worse for a bit of maternal smothering."

"If that is the case..." Catherine paused until Elizabeth nodded encouragingly. "I should like it if you... did not address me so formally, my girl."

Elizabeth's eyes unfocused slightly as she nodded, then refocused on her. "I had decided that formality was... safe. Until I could think of what to call you," she answered.

Catherine felt a pang. "I would that you call me 'mother,'" she replied.

"I... I know you would," Elizabeth sounded extremely apologetic. "But when I say the word 'mother,' I think of Mrs. Bennet." Catherine winced. "But," Elizabeth continued, "I discussed this with my sister -- Anne, that is, although Jane contributed -- last night, and I believe I have come up with a... compromise."

"I should like to hear it," Catherine prodded.

Elizabeth smiled slightly. "I also had a question to ask, when I arrived in here -- in which carriage would you prefer me to ride? My cousin William's or yours..." she paused very slightly "mère¹ ?"

Catherine had been nonplussed by the sudden change of subject -- until the last word. She felt a sudden rush of tears, and moved to embrace her daughter, who returned it strongly. "Whichever you prefer, my girl. I am just glad for you to be home."

"I believe I am as well, mère."

¹Mère: French for "mother". http://www.wordreference.com/enfr/mother

Lady Sarah had assisted Georgiana in delaying her return to the Fitzwilliam townhouse for as long as she could; at length, however, their return was required. Lady Sarah watched in sorrow as the glimmers of the girl who had begun to surface once again faded out the closer they came to arriving to Wickham's presence. She longed to say something, anything, to ease her niece's fears, but the words died before she could even begin to open her mouth.

When they arrived, Georgiana immediately attempted to plead fatigue from her long day, and to excuse herself from company. Dawson, ever the faithful man he was -- one of the few servants even Georgiana felt at ease -- made an oblique comment to her ladyship. "Your husband's guest is currently resting at the master's orders, milady. He is not expected down until supper at the earliest." He pretended to not see Georgiana sag with relief, but the glance he gave Sarah spoke volumes.

"Where is milord?" she asked.

"In his study, milady," Dawson replied.

"Thank you," she nodded. "Come," she added to Georgiana, "let us tell him of our day." Georgiana followed docilely enough, her apprehension less with the assurances she would not be immediately in Wickham's company.

She knocked when they arrived, and heard a tired "Come in."

"We are back," she announced as she motioned for Georgiana to follow her.

"Welcome back, my loves," Lord Randall responded. He attempted to smile, but he was worn. He glanced at Georgiana. "Come to tell me how your day has gone?" he asked encouragingly.

Georgiana nodded, and at her aunt's careful prodding, gave a brief overview of what shops they had frequented, along with the news that they had only visited Louisa Hurst and her husband, as Mr. and Miss Bingley had been out visiting themselves. Randall asked open questions, carefully assisting Georgiana in expanding on her own sparse words. At length, however, the topic was exhausted, and Georgiana, in a fit of courage she did not know she possessed, asked, "Did you speak to Mr. Wickham already, uncle?"

Randall suppressed a start; Sarah surmised he had been intending to bring up the boy's past himself, and had only wanted an opening. "Yes, my dear, I have spoken with George." Georgiana and Sarah both looked askance at him for using Wickham's first name, and he gave them a wry smile. Taking Georgiana's hand, he led her to the only couch in this room of business. "Georgiana, I was not sure this was ever to be information for your ears, but my discussion with Wickham earlier has convinced me otherwise." Sarah felt herself stiffen -- the boys, yes, but Georgiana would not survive the mortification! A quick, fierce glance from her husband quelled the protest on her lips -- he obviously knew what he was about, and she reminded herself she had not been privy to the conversations going on in the past few hours.

"I realize some of this may confuse you at first, and I will hasten to add that, apart from George, myself, and your aunt, there is no one left alive who knows this information." Georgiana slowly nodded. "But first I must ask -- had you known that Mrs. Younge had forbidden the staff at Ramsgate from contacting your brother, under threat of unemployment?"

Georgiana's eyes grew wide. "No, uncle, I heard not a word of that. How did you --"

"George told me, earlier today," he answered. "Do you remember that your maid gave you a small present, after your return from there?"

She nodded. "Yes -- she had said she disliked seeing me so sad, and while I protested her spending her hard-earned money on me, when it ought to be the other way around, she insisted."

"It was not hard-earned money, Georgiana. When I spoke to her this afternoon, she said she felt she did not deserve the remainders, when the money had been given to her to help protect you." He paused. "Wickham had given her a bribe to convince her to send a note to your brother in defiance of Mrs. Younge's instructions."

"But --!" Sarah broke in herself. Randall glanced at her, and at her questioning expression nodded firmly.

Georgiana swallowed. "But he had suggested an elopement, and stressed I was not to tell my brother..." she trailed off, eyes tearing. "He could not even bear the thought of my money?" Sarah gripped her niece's hand tightly.

"Georgie?" her uncle asked softly. "Look at me." When she did not, he gently tilted her head up to look at him. "He never meant to marry you --" Georgiana winced, and Sarah stirred angrily. Randall narrowed his eyes at his wife for a fleeting second. "He never meant to, because that was an atrocity not even he could commit -- Georgie, Wickham is your brother."

Georgiana, who had been attempting to stifle the tears from what she believed to be a most complete rejection, jerked herself taut. "My what?"

"He is your half-brother, a Darcy by blood," Lord Randall expanded.

"But he --" she floundered for a moment "William told me of his debts -- his behaviour -- he courted me in Ramsgate; Mrs. Younge assured me he was being so excessively attentive he could not but mean to marry me."

Randall frowned. "Wickham swears -- and given how distraught he became during our interview, I see no reason to disbelieve him -- he did not know Mrs. Younge had been encouraging an attachment. He did own he was lavishing you with attention -- but he only meant to spoil you, as a brother ought to spoil his younger sister."

Georgiana -- who never had the most robust complexion -- had paled to an astonishing shade of white. "What he must think of me! Such a simpleton I am!"

"Never," her uncle responded fiercely, even as he drew her into an embrace, "call yourself a simpleton again. George does not hold you to blame -- only himself for not being brave enough to tell you the truth. And I certainly could never hold you at fault, when I failed to tell you as well."

Georgiana, both mortified and relieved, could not repress her sobs completely, although she cried on her uncle's shoulder for but a minute. She did not lift her head from his shoulder, as Lady Sarah stroked her hair. "Then he did love me?"

"As a brother loves his sister, yes, he did, and does," Randall answered.

He felt her nod slightly. "I do feel better," she said quietly. "That means I mistook his intent, but not his meaning."

Randall smiled into her hair as he pressed a kiss to it. "A reasonable misunderstanding without all the information at your disposal. We should have told you and William long ago."

"Why does William not know?" she asked, still quiet.

"Your father -- did not like to own up to mistakes, not even those not entirely his fault. He never wished for the three of you to know," Lady Sarah answered. "He thought it was painful enough for your mother to know he had failed her; he could not bear the thought of admitting to any of you he had failed you as well."

"Are you going to tell him?" she asked.

"Yes, that is one reason we requested your brother and Richard return to London with the de Bourghs and Bennets," Sarah responded.

Georgiana finally pulled herself away from her aunt and uncle. Her eyes were a little puffy and red from the tears, but she seemed to have regained her composure and was tolerably at ease. "I should like to speak with Mr. Wi -- with my brother, George, before my brother William arrives, if he is willing."

"I do not know," Randall responded. "It has been a trying day for you, but his day has been past endurance. I shall see if he has rested enough to be tolerably fit for company."

Georgiana nodded. "I would like to retire now, for a short while, to refresh myself," she announced.

Lady Sarah stood as well, intending to escort her niece, when her husband pressed her hand to stay. For a moment, she stood divided, but seeing Georgiana's composure, she said, "I shall see you shortly then, Georgiana, to help you."

Georgiana summoned a tepid smile and nodded before taking her leave. As soon as the door was shut, Sarah turned to her husband. "He knew?"

Randall sighed, moving back to his desk. "Yes. He overheard a conversation between his father -- well, I suppose, fathers -- the day Georgiana was born." He paused, fiddling with the letter opener sitting on his desk. "I can only hope he is unaware why George agreed to take responsibility for him."

Sarah seated herself on the edge of his desk morosely. "I know that such things are to be an abomination," she said sadly, "but it always broke my heart, to see the way George would light up when Richard would enter the room, and how yet he never resented your sister for her marriage to him."

Randall smiled sadly. "George and Anne, I think, had long since established a friendship akin to that of siblings -- I thought of him as the brother I never had, myself -- it must have been a comfort to him, knowing he could entrust his heart's desire to her care. My father was quite shocked when George did not offer for her, but instead congratulated Richard so warmly."

"I always wanted to ask her if Richard ever knew," Sarah admitted. "I do not think Anne ever doubted."

Randall shrugged helplessly. "Would it have mattered? Such things are forbidden -- and I know it tore at George, as devout a man as he was, that he was tainted in such a way. Richard was better not knowing, and George was correct in never saying anything. Richard would have broken off their friendship -- and rightly so -- had he ever suspected." He sighed again. "And yet when I offered him a chance of a life where he would not suffer the constant companionship of what he could not have..." he shrugged. "He made his choices -- I can only hope he has been forgiven for them."

"I wish George the younger had followed in either of his fathers' footsteps," Sarah said. "With three sterling examples of adult behaviour around him, why did he have to follow his mother's?" The comment was not unexpected; she and Randall had both despaired in its repetition over the years.

"You know Richard was concerned with appearing too paternal towards the boy -- and I think George was too concerned about punishing the boy harshly and angering Richard," Randall replied. "His mother certainly felt no such restraints in her treatment of him, and thus she was given a freer hand with his education than she should have."
"Do you think there is a chance to reform him, at this late date?" she asked.

He tilted his head in consideration. "I do not know. He has... suffered under the weight of many secrets -- I will tell you the rest when the Rosings party arrives -- since he was young." He paused. "I think there are two who may be able to affect his reformation -- if he is willing, that is."

"Georgiana is one," Sarah half-asked, and Randall nodded.

"He is devoted to her -- and I find myself grateful she has recovered as much as she has. If he had seen her those first few months, I do not think he would have survived the knowledge it was by his hand she suffered so."

Sarah pursed her lips. "And who is the other?"

Randall half-laughed, half-sighed. "Richard's hope -- our Elizabeth."

The trip had been delayed; the road between Bromley and London suffered from the rain. Indeed, the party had been forced to linger there for over an hour longer than anticipated. At length, however, they returned to their carriages -- Mr. Bennet impatient to return to his book, the women anxious to return to the tentative bonding still on-going, Darcy and Fitzwilliam anxious to ensure the trip's length did not cause undue alarm for those awaiting them in London.

At length, however, they arrived in the outskirts of London. The way was only slightly familiar to Elizabeth and Jane, for they had never travelled to the part of London where the Fitzwilliam townhouse resided. Anne -- somewhat more familiar -- pointed out salient locations, with Lady Catherine's assistance. Elizabeth had just commented on the handsome park they passed on the left, when Lady Catherine turned their attention to the right. "And there," she said, "is your uncle's -- my brother's -- house, Elizabeth."

"It is a handsome house, to be sure, mère," Elizabeth answered and Jane murmured concurrence. She hoped the inside was decidedly less grand than Rosings, even as she hoped to eventually offset her mother's taste in furnishings.

Although no one stood at the door when the carriages stopped, by the time Elizabeth had been handed out by William, an older man whose face bore kinship to her mother's stood at the top step with a handsome lady on his arm. They came down the steps in a flurry of movement. "Catherine!" the man exclaimed. "We had not expected your arrival to be so late."

"Brother," Lady Catherine answered, "indeed, we had not expected it ourselves; the road between Bromley and London was quite terrible -- I cannot understand why they do not construct the roads like ours at Rosings, which can withstand the rain more effectively."

Elizabeth bit her lip at her mother's pronouncement -- she was not sure she cared for such easy arrogance in her mother any more than the thoughtlessness of her adoptive mother. A flick of a glance at William showed her that he, at least, was mildly amused by her mother's comment.

"I am sure I do not know, sister," Lord Matlock replied. "Come, let us continue this in the house."

The party nigh swarmed up the steps; the rain seemed bent on following them to London, and was now making its presence known. Introductions did not yet take place -- her mother's brother said that Georgiana was in the sitting room, and they were walking in that direction now. Indeed, even as they approached, Elizabeth could hear a quiet laugh as a random jumble of notes sounded on the pianoforte. A deeper laugh answered, and William -- who still held her arm -- started. She glanced up and was startled to see the same ferocious scowl on his face she had seen in Hertfordshire on occasion. He muttered an apology under his breath to her, and pulled away, deftly stepping around his uncle and aunt, even as they attempted to stay him. He burst into the room, where from her vantage point, Elizabeth could see a young fair-haired girl sitting at the piano, and beside her ... Mr. Wickham. She sucked in a breath, fearful of her cousin's reaction.

"Remove yourself from my sister!" Darcy nearly bellowed, even as the earl attempted to stop him. Darcy took a few steps towards the piano when Wickham did not immediately move.

Surprisingly, it was Georgiana who responded by standing up and placing herself between William and Wickham. "George has been welcome company while we awaited your arrival, brother. There is no call for such behaviour."

The family had piled into the room behind the earl and Darcy, and the door was shut. Elizabeth glanced between her cousins in concern. This time, the earl had a fistful of Darcy's jacket, so when he moved towards Wickham again, he was pulled back. "Calm yourself, William. Things are not what you believe." Wickham, Elizabeth noted, was pale, but seemed to be aware of the wisdom of not goading William further by speaking himself.

"How can you let him in her presence?" Darcy growled to his uncle. "After everything?" An angry, agreeing murmur came from Richard.

"Because," Georgiana stepped forward to place one delicate hand on William's arm, looking up at him earnestly, as she responded quietly, "our brother means me no harm.

Posted on 2008-09-10

Randall had never intended Georgiana to be the one to inform her brother -- and certainly not in front of the Bennets or de Bourghs! This was, after all, a Darcy situation, not even a Fitzwilliam one. Yet, even as William stood there gaping at his sister, Randall felt relieved. Had he been the one to say it, he would be feeling the sharp edge of his nephew's tongue.

"Our brother?" finally came Darcy's strangled question. Georgiana nodded, her expression still earnest and intent. Darcy blinked twice, and with a slow deliberate turn of his head, trained his focus on Lord Randall, who could but offer a wry smile. Darcy shook his head in denial.

At this, Elizabeth broke the tableau, leaving her sisters, Anne and Jane, and moving to Darcy's side. "William?" she asked softly. He barely glanced at her, but the look she exchanged with Georgiana -- although they had just met and were not introduced -- communicated their mutual concern, and with her younger cousin's assistance, they drew Darcy to a sofa and bade him to seat himself, then took a position on either side of him. Randall felt a wry amusement -- Elizabeth had only accepted she was a part of this family within the past week, and already she handled Darcy better than his uncle and cousins could.

The party seemed reluctant to break the pause that Georgiana's words had caused -- although now the entire party's focus was on the two girls and Darcy in close conference. Randall felt sure Georgiana was relating what she had been told -- even as Darcy clenched one fist tightly, Elizabeth had placed her hand over it at the same time Georgiana had. The girls gave each other a quick, amused look.

Randall did not notice Wickham had drifted to his side. "I did tell you, did I not, that she is a de Bourgh in appearance?"

Randall tilted his head in consideration. "Indeed you had -- and you are correct; it is readily apparent when one is looking for it."

Wickham smiled, still pale, and then, turning towards the Rosings party, said, "Please let me introduce you to the Bennets, my lord, milady. Mr. Bennet -- Elizabeth's adopted father -- and Miss Jane Bennet, the eldest daughter. Mr. Bennet, Miss Bennet, Lord Randall Fitzwilliam, Earl of Matlock, also known as Darcy's uncle, and Countess Sarah Fitzwilliam."

A murmur of "delighted"s from the Bennets did not cover Richard Fitzwilliam's scowl, however. He refused to greet Wickham, and instead brushed past, headed for the sofa where Georgiana was relating her information to Darcy. Randall watched as Georgiana looked up at Richard; Elizabeth said something -- he guessed, based on Richard's abrupt movement of an ottoman in front of the sofa to make a make-shift chair -- she had suggested he listen to the story as well.

After a moment longer, Lady Catherine turned her attention from her younger daughter to her brother. "Are you truly suggesting, brother, that the shades of Pemberley have been thus polluted? That our brother Richard connived our childhood friend into raising his bastard child?" Wickham stiffened, but at a look from Randall, did not say anything himself.

"George Wickham, Senior, did not require conniving, sister. It is true, Richard Darcy found himself in a particularly uncomfortable situation -- quite unexpectedly, I might add -- and would have done the same thing for our George Junior that countless other men of rank have done for their... unexpected additions. For that matter, our sister was willing to take him on as her own child as well. George offered his assistance, and Richard was not such a fool as to deny his and his wife's best friend the chance at raising a son."

"I assure you, madam," Wickham added himself, "I have nothing but pride for the father who gave me his name. I am only sorry to not have been worthy of it thus far."

"So you were not lying, that day at Rosings," Anne finally said, giving Wickham an appraising look.

It was odd to see a blush overlaying such paleness -- he had not yet recovered his proper colour, and it was beginning to concern Randall -- but Wickham responded with relative ease. "Nay, Miss de Bourgh, I was not. I had... accidentally come upon the truth myself, and I was a fool to have mentioned it to you in such a manner. I do hope you will forgive me my presumption."

She tilted her head in acknowledgement, but did not say anything else. At length, the party settled themselves down, while Elizabeth and Georgiana continued their attempts at keeping Darcy and Richard calm. Randall moved closer, and it seemed that Georgiana was only in the midst of convincing her brother and cousin her information had not come from Wickham, but Randall himself.

"But he tried to convince you to elope with him, Georgie -- how can that be the act of someone who loves you as a brother?" Richard was intent on finding fault.

She sighed, and could not look at either of her guardians. "Mrs. Younge had convinced me he was courting me -- and perhaps in a way he was. He had never felt permitted to treat me as a sister; we all know -- now at least -- he has long excelled in the courtship of women. It may have been his actions, but it was not his intent -- had I but known of our kinship, I should never have been so horribly mistaken." She paused and looked up at William. "He told me -- and our uncle -- he had mentioned the elopement purely to dissuade me; how I wish Mrs. Younge had not been hovering just then, for it did give me pause, yet she assured me it was not unheard of and I -- I believed her. You must see, William, it was never all George's fault. I was so desirous of being... grown up... I instead proved myself quite inept at the task."

Elizabeth smiled slightly. "Recognizing that now, proves you are closer to it than you were then. And," she flicked her eyes at William, "even the best of us backslide on occasion." Randall marvelled to himself as he watched his self-assured, typically composed nephew blush. He chose this moment to inject himself into the conversation.

"Now that the drama for the initial hour's stay in London is almost over, may I secure an introduction to my niece?" he asked.

William started. "I, um, yes -- of course, forgive me. Georgiana, uncle, this is Elizabeth Ben -- de -- um, my cousin Elizabeth. Elizabeth, my sister, Georgiana, and my uncle, Lord Randall."

Elizabeth laughed as William stumbled over what name to give her. She smiled up at her uncle. "I was thinking ‘Bennet de Bourgh' has a nice ring to it, actually. A bit of a mouthful, but I should not wish to slight either of my families."

Randall tilted his head in amused agreement. "What says your mother?"

"Mère says as long as Mama and Papa do not complain, she will not either."

"Mère?" Georgiana asked. "Is that what you are calling my aunt?"

Elizabeth nodded. "'Mother' still remains Mrs. Bennet to me -- and her command of French does not extend past pastries. I thought it appropriate that my mother de Bourgh should also be known to me as ‘mother' -- but calling her such in French removes the possibility of confusion."

Lord Randall nodded in understanding and agreement. "Elizabeth, if I may speak to you?"

Elizabeth looked up at him and nodded. She rose and followed him away from the rest of the party. "As you are the one most affected by the remaining information to be related, I wished to leave it for you to decide when it would be announced."

She eyed her uncle, and replied in lowered tones. "I am to suppose, then, that Mr. Wickham had information regarding my... disappearance?"

He arched an eyebrow at her and nodded. "Not complete information but... well... something."

She nodded and bit her lip. "Dinner is soon, is it not?" At her uncle's nod, she sighed. "I... do not wish to delay the information any longer than necessary," she started, "but I do not see the point in not waiting until after the repast."

He smiled at her. "That is what I was thinking myself. Are we in agreement then?" She nodded. "Then I shall inform Wickham -- he has requested the chance to relay the story himself."

"Sir?" she asked as he was about to leave.

"Yes?"

"Is that... wise? Given William's reaction to him being in the same room as Georgiana -- an hour or three is not enough to overcome such a reaction. I would not wish my cousin to... do something he may regret later."

"Earlier, when I made a similar argument, he insisted on the dubious honour." The earl shrugged. "Perhaps after having seen Darcy's temper today, he will reconsider."

Elizabeth nodded; that was obviously the best that could be hoped for currently. The earl drifted back to Wickham for a quiet conference; Elizabeth looked about the room, and could not be sure where she should settle herself back down. Her sisters and mother were seated with Lady Sarah; it seemed an animated conversation. Her father was reading the book he had brought with him in the carriage, although the quick glances about the room told her he was as much watching and analyzing the behaviour of the party as he was his book. Georgiana still held earnest conversation with her guardians. Where did she fit at the moment? She did not wish to be... ill-judged, for making the wrong choice. So, instead, she let herself wander to a window, to look out on the street and wonder at being where she was.

"I thought I was the only one who looked out windows when uncomfortable," William's voice laughed a little behind her. She startled; she had not noticed his reflection in the window until just now.

"It is less feeling uncomfortable," she answered, "than wishing to not... make a mistake, at such a critical point in time."

A wry smile reflected back at her, as he looked down and over her shoulder out the window. "You forget that -- despite everything -- you are our family, Elizabeth. The only one among us who would have ever turned away from you, were you simply a Bennet, is the one who is your most staunch ally. She will see no flaw in you; not with her knowing who you are."

"‘Were I simply a Bennet?'" she repeated with a laugh, however quiet they were speaking. "You cannot seriously mean that there is any reason I would have had purpose in caring for her opinion, were I not so closely related?"

A mischievous smile answered her. "Had you agreed to take another's name -- mine, perhaps? -- prior to being introduced to her -- she would have descended upon Longbourn with all the fury of an avenging angel."

Elizabeth blushed. "You are quite forward, now that I am your cousin, I have noticed. But you despised the family who raised me." She shook her head as he winced. "No, there is no need to dissemble, William. We both know I am only acceptable to you now because of what I am." Even as the words left her mouth, she wondered if that were true -- and what on earth they were doing, having such a conversation in their aunt's parlour?

He took a step closer and made as if to point something out to her through the window. "I think your sister, Jane, did not tell you all of our conversation, if you believe that." He paused for a second. "But, indeed, even if you refused your share of the money to be split between the Bennet daughters, you would still be acceptable at Pemberley. And that," he added, "is all that a Darcy cares about."

There was naught to do in response but blush at such a comment, and she was thankful when dinner was announced. William offered her his arm with that distractingly charming smile he must have misplaced during his time in Hertfordshire. She had a momentary whim -- after such a conversation, it was hardly surprising, really -- to inform him his valet needed to be more careful in packing his smiles the next time he travelled to the wild countryside, for surely that package had been mislaid and left in London, but she checked herself in time.

Lady Sarah had seen no reason in assigning seats, thus Elizabeth found herself seated between William and Jane, while Georgiana sat on his other side, with Richard on her far side. Her father sat across from herself, and Wickham was to be found seated near Anne. The only seat left open was for Richard's elder brother, who was late. Richard advised Darcy, over Georgiana's head, that Alexander would be arriving without his wife tonight; she was feeling a bit ill, but would likely be ‘round in the morning. Darcy, in turn, relayed this to Elizabeth.

"Alexander?" she asked.

"Oh -- you did not know his name. The viscount," he clarified, "Richard's brother."

"Oh!" She tilted her head. "And who was he named after?"

Darcy laughed. "Lady Sarah's twin brother. She swore for the longest time that until her brother held his firstborn nephew, the babe did not quit screaming, not from the moment he came into the world. It was, she said, a sign he would be every bit the trouble to her that her brother had been."

Elizabeth grinned. "Was she proven prophetic?"

Richard -- who had been listening to the conversation, as well as Georgiana -- quipped, "Indeed, my mother underestimated my brother's capacity for trouble. Compared to him, I was surely an angel."

Darcy snorted. "Perhaps; until you kept the library well stocked with frogs that one particular summer."

Wickham, who had been listening intently, but not speaking himself, choked. "To this day," he said, after he quit coughing, "I remember the expression on our fathers' faces -- yours too, Miss Elizabeth -- when they went to open the cabinet where the port was stored, and five or six frogs leapt out at them, in an attempt to make a bid for freedom."

"And why, Mr. Wickham, were you able to see that?" Elizabeth asked.

"Well," he half-smiled, "I was always the smallest of us, being a couple of years younger, and not nearly so tall as Darcy or the colonel. I generally was the one tasked with witnessing the effects of our... games, as I could conceal myself more easily."

"Does that mean you were the one caught most often, as well?" she asked, flicking a glance up at William's expression. He looked... thoughtful, as if something had never before occurred to him. That was encouraging. Perhaps.

He gave her a diffident grin. "Well, in that incident at least, I managed to escape detection until nearly the last moment."

"Oh?" Jane asked, interested.

He grimaced. "I was perfectly capable of remaining silent. That is, alas, until a spider decided to crawl across my knee. I am... less than fond of spiders," he added. "So you can little doubt my reaction, just at that moment."

Jane smiled slightly. "Oh, indeed. Spiders do not bother me, in particular, but our sister Mary dislikes them intensely." Elizabeth smiled and concurred. William's expression, she noted, had become even more thoughtful.

Not a moment after the conversation had turned directions, as conversations are wont to do, particularly when childhood memories have been brought up, the viscount was announced. Lord Randall rose from the table. "There you are, my boy! Come; sit; eat something."

Alexander Fitzwilliam, Elizabeth noted, was nearly as handsome as his cousin Darcy, and decidedly more so than his younger brother. At the moment, that face wore a slightly joking scowl. "Bah, father, you know I only came to meet my cousin Elizabeth -- must you and mother force food at me at every opportunity?"

Lady Sarah spoke up. "Oh, Alexander. Do be careful to not give Elizabeth a poor opinion of you. We will never forgive you if you chase her off." She paused, eyeing him. "And do as your father says; sit down and eat something. You are entirely too thin, yet again. We will properly introduce you to her shortly. Now eat!" Good-natured laughter echoed around the table, and Elizabeth felt quite at home -- such jibes and irreverent speech would not be out of place at the Bennet table, to be sure.

Yet, when she looked up at William -- when had she acquired this habit of checking on his mood and temperament so constantly? -- she was slightly disturbed to note he was not amused. "Is there something the matter?" she asked softly.

He glanced down at her and then at his plate, as he commenced to pick at it. "Wickham's story reminded me of something."

"And that would be?" she prodded slightly, when he did not continue.

He sighed. "Our fathers knew it had been done by all three of us, but Wickham would not turn against us and admit to that. It was... almost three hours, before we realized he was not going to say anything himself -- Richard and I had hidden ourselves, believing we were to be punished for sure. When it did not happen... we went looking for Wickham, and discovered him in the kitchen, helping the cook, as his punishment." He paused and glanced up to meet her eyes. "When I realized he had lied for our sakes, I did the only thing I could -- I dragged Richard to the library with me and confessed, and demanded the same punishment as Wickham had, so he would not be punished unfairly -- it had been Richard's idea, and my planning, and it was not fair."

She nodded, even as she bit her lip. She wanted to continue the conversation but -- not here. Not without the rest of the information Wickham held regarding her, either. "I think -- perhaps tomorrow -- we should continue this."

He gave her a sharp look which she met steadily. He nodded after a moment. "Another mind to bounce things off of -- that would be beneficial."

She thought of what might be related tonight, and agreed. "For more than just yourself, possibly." With that, they consciously turned the conversation to something else, and ere long, Georgiana was nearly pushing her brother out of the way while Jane and Elizabeth spoke of music. He merely looked on in amusement.

At length, dinner came to a close, and Lord Randall stood. "While I would normally wish to keep to convention, tonight is... abnormal. Thus, we will all depart for the sitting room." The party rose and began to filter out of the room; Darcy had once again offered his arm to Elizabeth, while Richard escorted Georgiana. "Darcy," the earl said; they paused. "I should like to escort Elizabeth myself, if only to introduce her to Alexander." Darcy smiled slightly, nodded, and released her.

Elizabeth took her uncle's arm, who then lagged behind the party, his eldest son at his side. "And this, Elizabeth, is my eldest son and heir, Viscount Alexander Fitzwilliam. Alexander, Elizabeth Bennet de Bourgh."

Alexander gave her an expressive smile. "You have no idea, cousin, how wonderfully thrilled I am to see you. In fact," he gave his father a sidelong glance, "if this old dotard would move out of my way, I should like to escort you myself."

The earl mock-scowled. "And you expect me to reward such insolence as this?" Neither man managed to hide the grins for long, and Elizabeth giggled. He affected an offended sniff. "Very well, I see I am unwanted at the moment." He moved out of the way, and Alexander wasted not a second in offering his arm to Elizabeth. The earl moved ahead towards the sitting room, but Alexander stayed Elizabeth a moment.

"I was not jesting about how much I am grateful to see you, Elizabeth," he said quietly. For the first time that evening, his face and eyes were solemn. "I -- I was seventeen, myself, and the highlight of my family's visits to Rosings the last three years I went, was you." He paused and blinked hard. Elizabeth fancied she saw tears. "After you -- disappeared, I could not face going back there. I tried, once, and was so haunted by you, by the terror of wondering what had happened, and if you were safe, or -- if the unthinkable had happened -- I -- I could not even stay the night." His voice cracked. "I know it was wrong to treat my aunt and cousin Anne so but---" he swept her up into a hug unexpectedly -- or perhaps not so unexpectedly, Elizabeth thought, her own eyes damp. "When I was courting my wife," he continued, speaking into her hair, "we somehow laughingly fell into a discussion of what we would name our children. I told her I wished my firstborn daughter to be named Elizabeth, after you. I -- I hope you would not mind, if we can finally bring a daughter into the world, that we do so?"

Elizabeth drew back from her cousin, quite undone by such unreserved demonstration. Not even Anne or Darcy had been so unreserved in their determination and affection. "No, indeed. I should be honoured -- I am honoured, to be held in such high regard."

He smiled down at her, like all the Fitzwilliam men did on account of their shared height. "You must think me a sentimental idiot."

She shook her head in denial. "No, I cannot, even if I cannot understand why you would have been so attached to a mere child."

He laughed, finally leading her to the sitting room. "Oh, Elizabeth! You were never, in anyone's heart, a mere child. Until the moment my aunt brought you into the world, I had held nothing but disdain for children younger than I -- it was love at first sight, and my father had to tell me in no uncertain terms I was not allowed to bring you home to raise you as my own daughter."

She laughed. "At the age of fourteen? What does a boy of fourteen know of child-rearing, or should even want to have anything to do with it?"

He grinned. "What can I say? Besotted fools occur at any age." He paused, and added with a mischievous lilt to his voice, "Although I do recall, when you were but two years of age, and he a lad of ten, telling our cousin Darcy that he would be able to have the pick of any women he liked, when he was old enough -- but if he dared settle his eye on you, he would not have to get just your father's permission, but mine, for I did not think he could ever be good enough for you." He gave her a sly grin. "Shall I have to ask his intent towards you, do you think?"

Elizabeth blushed and did not even bother to keep from rolling her eyes. Was the entire family intent on teasing her for William's attentiveness