Elizabeth is standing next to my cousin Anne. My Aunt de Bourgh comes next and then Caroline Bingley. And I am at the back, writing in this book.
Monday 25 April 1814
I’ve just realised—perhaps I should have begun first of all by describing myself? That seems a little strange in my own private journal. But I suppose those future descendants I was imagining would want to know who I am?
At any rate, I shall see if I can write a character sketch of myself here—if only because it seems only just, since I have done everyone else.
My full name is Georgiana Catherine Anne Darcy. Georgiana after the King, Catherine after Aunt de Bourgh, and Anne for my mother. I am eighteen years of age. My parents died when I was small, leaving me to the care of my brother and my cousin, Edward Fitzwilliam. Though my brother is only eleven years older than I am, and Edward ten.
I am tall for a girl and slightly built—though thankfully not as spindly-legged and skinny as I was as a child. I have very dark hair—almost black, like my brother’s—and dark eyes.
This is sounding very brief and stiff, isn’t it? My hypothetical descendants will be thinking Mr. Edgeware was right, and I really am the dullest person alive.
I suppose it’s even harder to write of myself than it was the others—all the more because I have never tried before.
I wonder what more I can say, though? That my fortune—left to me by my father—is thirty thousand pounds?
At the moment, I feel rather as though I should like to forget all about it.
I suppose I could claim accomplishment—but of course any girl would do that. Every young lady must be accomplished: paint and draw and play on the pianoforte—and execute embroidered needlework to perfection, as well. Because those are the skills gentlemen wish in a wife, and to attract a good match, we must all be sure to acquire them.
Which seems strange to me. In the entire history of the world has any man, anywhere, honestly cared about an embroidered landscape picture? Much less passionately desired that his wife be able to cover the walls of his home with them?
Still, after my father died, I was sent away to school and taught all the usual accomplishments just like the other girls.
I suppose this is exactly what any girl would say—though maybe it is more believable since I am only writing it down here in these private pages? Since I cannot worry too terribly about what my imagined great nephews and nieces think of me—but I really do love to play the pianoforte. I have been told I’m quite good at it, too—even by Miss LeFarge, our school music mistress, who had the worst breath I have ever encountered and disliked everyone, including me, on general principle.
I like to sing, too—though I like it far more when I am alone than I do performing in public.
And I love to draw, too. And that I actually can prove, since it is easy enough to include drawings in these pages.
And now that we have returned to Pemberley from the London house, I love to walk in the hushed stillness of the woods here, and watch the way the mother birds push their chicks from the nest when they are ready to fly, and see the morning dew glinting on the spider’s webs and try to capture in crayon and paper the way the cat-tail reeds by the lake look when they have gone to downy seed.
Tuesday 26 April 1814
Mr. Goulding, our old parish clergyman, would call such sentiments heretical, but it seems to me that Fate has a strange sense of humour at times.
Even here, alone in my little sitting room, my toes are curling at having to write this down. But despite myself I did—I will admit it—believe just a little bit in the old gypsy woman’s fortune. She spoke of seeing an old love returning. And on that very morning, a letter had arrived from Edward, saying that he would be visiting Pemberley in a week’s time.
I know such prophesies are nonsense, of course. And yet—very well, I will admit this, too—all the time I was lying awake the other night, I was spinning equally nonsensical fairy tales in my imagination. Edward, seeing me in the garden on the day of his arrival and suddenly realising that I am not a child anymore. Sweeping me into his arms and murmuring broken endearments the way the heroes do in sentimental novels.
My skin is crawling with embarrassment just reading that on paper.
But this morning, Elizabeth received a letter from her sister Kitty, who is recently engaged to be married to a captain in Edward’s regiment.
My aunt and cousin are taking breakfast in their rooms, and since the rain has stopped, Caroline Bingley has gone out to take a ride around the lake with some of the men. Elizabeth and I were sitting here in my sitting room alone while she read her letters and I—finally—took the chance to play the pianoforte, for I never mind Elizabeth hearing me practice.
But then, all at once, Elizabeth said, “Oh!” in a surprised voice.
I stopped playing and looked around and asked her whether something was wrong. “Is there bad news?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “No—quite the reverse. It is good news. Or at least I hope it is. Kitty writes to say that she hears from John”—John is Kitty’s betrothed—“that Colonel Fitzwilliam is engaged to be married.”
Elizabeth glanced down at the letter again—which I was thankful for, because it meant she was not looking at me. “To a Miss Mary Graves, so Kitty says. She says that he met Miss Graves in London last year, just before the regiment departed for France.”
I swallowed. “Does she”—I was surprised, but my voice sounded almost normal, if a little distant in my own ears—“does your sister give any particulars about Miss … Miss Graves?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “No. You know Kitty. Or rather, I suppose you don’t, not really, for you’ve only met her once. But believe me, she’s not the most conscientious of correspondents. She only gives the news about Edward and then goes on to write about all the wedding clothes that she’s having made.” She stopped and shook her head again, still looking down at the letter. “Edward is such a dear. I’ll be so happy for him—if only this girl is truly worthy of him, and he’s sincerely attached to her.”
I said something. I have no idea what it was I said—but it must have been some sort of appropriate words of agreement, because Elizabeth nodded. Then she said she must speak to Mrs. Reynolds, our housekeeper, about tonight’s menu for dinner and went out, leaving me alone.
I have not cried. I am not going to cry. I have already been idiot enough for one day, and I would lose my self-respect entirely if I sat here weeping over this news.
Maybe the old love the gypsy woman told me was going to return was my little cat, Frederick, who ran away and was lost when I was eight.
All right, I would be happy to see Frederick again.
And maybe I will take one look at Edward and realise that what I felt for him was only a child’s infatuation. It has been a year since I’ve seen him—maybe he has grown bald. Or fat.
Though I have a horrible, sinking feeling inside me that it would not matter to me if he had.
Wednesday 27 April 1814
I grew up with Edward almost as another older brother, but I have not seen him in more than a year. Not since his regiment left to serve under Sir Arthur Wellesley in the Sixth Coalition against the Emperor Napoleon.
Of course, most commissioned army officers never actually serve in the army—not to see battle, I mean. They most often live in London, where they are very fashionable men-about-town. And those with large enough private incomes usually agree to go on half-pay, which means that they are not even required to spend time with their regiments or perform any duties save for purely ornamental ones.
I am sure Edward’s father expected Edward would be exactly that kind of officer, when he purchased a commission for him. But then when I was twelve, Edward’s regiment was called to foreign service to defend Portugal against the French army. And he has fought with his regiment ever since.
Eighteen months ago, he was home in Britain for several months during a lull in the fighting. He was home for Elizab
eth and my brother’s wedding a year ago at Christmastime, and he came to stay at Pemberley for Christmas, along with Elizabeth’s Uncle and Aunt Gardiner.
That was the last I saw him, at the dance my brother held in the Gardiners’ honour.
Actually, there was such a crowd of guests that I scarcely saw him all that night—not until late in the evening when I was dancing with Sir John Dalrymple. Sir John is—again small surprise—one of my aunt’s favourite contenders for my hand. I suppose I should count myself lucky that he is not a guest here at Pemberley now.
Though that is not quite fair to Sir John. He is a nice young man—or rather, there’s no malice in him. It’s just that he is loud and red-faced, has absolutely no sense of humour, and is a devoted lover of food. He is almost as broad as he is tall, with soft, doughy features and plump hands. He does not speak so much as bellow—and all through the dance he could talk of nothing but his new French cook. By the time the dance finished, he had enumerated each dish the new cook had made for him, one by one.
I was just about to thank him and make my escape, but Sir John kept tight hold of my hand. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not much used to talking to girls. I expect I’ve been boring you silly.”
He looked so crestfallen that I said, quickly, “Oh, no! It’s been very interesting. Um, ragout of pullets and sweetbreads, did you say?”
Which was a mistake, because Sir John brightened at once and said, “I hope you’ll give me another dance?”
And that stopped me, of course. I had not the heart to refuse—how could I, without hurting his feelings? But before I could utter a word, Edward was there next to me, bowing formally to Sir John.
“You’ll excuse me, Dalrymple,” he said. “But as Miss Darcy’s guardian, I can’t possibly allow her to dance more than one dance with a single gentleman.”
Edward was wearing his army uniform: red coat and white breeches. He is tall and broad-shouldered, and he made an impressive figure, with his brows drawn and his lean face stern and grim. Sir John certainly thought so. He blanched, swallowed visibly, bowed and then beat a hasty retreat.
I turned to Edward to thank him, but he was looking at me, his mouth twitching at the corners as he shook his head. He must have heard the whole of Sir John’s and my final exchange.
“Am I going to have to give you lessons in saying no? Just to prevent my coming home to find you married to the first crashing bore who asks, just because you’re afraid of hurting his feelings?”
“I wouldn’t have married him!” I protested. But Edward was already shaking his head and pulling me from the dance floor.
“No. Not another word. I’ve been watching you all night. First you danced with Lord Waterstone, who’s a spineless fop. Then Gerald Cartright, who dances as though he’s got two left feet. And now Dalrymple. You’re going to learn to stand up for yourself if it kills me.”
No one would call Edward handsome. Not exactly. His features are too lean, too angular for that. But he has a good face. Strong and dependable, with humour in the set of his mouth and in his deep-set dark eyes. His hair is dark, too, and falls over his brow.
He pulled me with him into the hallway outside the ballroom. No one was there, save for ourselves. The guests were all dancing or talking inside, and the servants were all busy with laying out the supper things.
“All right,” Edward said. “Pretend I’m Sir John Dalrymple. I’ve just asked you to dance. What are you going to say?”
“No?”
Edward shook his head. “I’m not even going to hear you, much less believe you, if you say it that way. Try again. I’m Sir John Dalrymple.” He bowed from the waist and offered me his hand. “Miss Darcy, would you care to dance?”
I put my head on one side, pretending to consider. “I would love to, Sir John. But I should hate for you to miss the very extensive supper just being laid out in the supper room. I understand from our housekeeper that there are not nearly enough quail’s eggs to go around, and only those who come first to the table will be served.”
Edward laughed at that and tugged on a stray curl of my hair loosened by the dancing, and I laughed, as well.
I have known Edward all my life—and I have never been shy with him. It would be almost impossible to be so, I think—he is so relaxed and at ease with himself that he sets everyone else at ease, too.
“All right, smart aleck,” he said. “That might do it in Sir John’s case, I grant you.” Then he sobered, and there was a new, unaccustomed note in his voice when he went on. “But what if some other man asks you?”
“Edward, I—” I hesitated, then asked, “What is all this about?”
Even as I asked, I was bracing myself inwardly, because I half expected Edward to bring up George Wickham—and I would be happy never to hear Wickham’s name again. But Edward did not answer at once. He shook his head, then turned slightly to look back inside through the open door at the crowded ballroom.
“I’m going to war, Georgiana. What if … if I don’t come back? I don’t want to have to worry about you.”
I felt my heart tighten. I put my hand on Edward’s. “Edward, I—”
But Edward shook his head before he could finish, forcing a smile. “Never mind me. Just being maudlin, I suppose. Here, we’ll have another lesson so that I can march off knowing I’ve done my duty as guardian. Pretend I’m a suitor, bent on making improper advances. What do you do?”
He pulled me close to him, one arm going around my waist, the other sliding upwards to angle my face up towards his. I felt my heart contract again—but for quite another reason this time. I felt as though my skin would burst into flames at the heat of his touch. I tried to say something, but I could not. Edward’s breath was a stir of warmth against my cheek.
And then Edward’s look changed. He had been laughing, smiling down at me with all his old ease. And then something seemed to shift in his eyes and the smile faded from his face.
Time seemed to slow, almost to drag to a stop. The beat of my own heart in my ears seemed unnaturally loud as Edward stared down at me with the strangest look on his face, almost as though he had never seen me before.
And then he stepped back, away from me, shaking his head as though to clear it and clearing his throat. “Just promise me that you’ll take care of yourself, that’s all.”
My mouth had gone dry, but I managed to swallow. “Me? When you’re the one going off to fight Napoleon’s armies?”
The strange look, whatever it had been, was gone from Edward’s face. Or maybe I had only imagined it, imagined that moment of charged stillness between us.
He grinned at me. “I’m an officer. We don’t do anything dangerous—just stalk about giving orders and looking important.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Oh, is that why they gave you this medal?” I touched the medal on his chest, the one he won at the battle of Vimeiro. “For stalking around and looking important?”
Actually, for all I would have known from Edward, he might have won the medal that way. Edward never speaks of the campaigns he has fought or what he has seen and done at war. I practically had to use thumbscrews to even drag the location of the battle out of him.
And it is only from one of his fellow officers, Captain Peabody, that I know Edward really won the medal for leading the charge up a hill to capture a French cannon position.
Edward was still smiling, but there was an edge of sadness or weariness to the smile, and something about his face, the way he held himself made me feel as though he had abruptly stepped back behind a high wall. On impulse, I put out my hand.
“I’ll make you a bargain,” I said. “I’ll promise not to accept proposals from any unsuitable men—and you promise that you’ll come back home alive.”
For a moment, Edward’s eyes were dark and sober on mine. But then he smiled again and put his hand into mine. “Done.”
Thursday 28 April 1814
I have been avoiding writing this. But I suppose as long as I am writing d
own recollections, I should. Even if I do not wish to so much as think of it again, much less recount it here in print.
But then perhaps that is exactly why I should record it here. I can read it over again the next time I think myself flattered by the attentions of another of Mr. Edgeware’s sort.
When I was fifteen, I nearly eloped with George Wickham.
There. I have written it. And maybe that was the hardest part, and telling the particulars of what happened will not be quite so bad as I thought? That seems a vain hope, but I suppose I’ll have to see as I go on.
George Wickham was the son of my father’s steward. He was years older than myself, of course. But I can remember him living here on the estate when I was small. He and Fitzwilliam often played together as boys, and they shared a tutor when they got older. And George was kind to me—in an off-hand sort of way. He was a very handsome boy, with fair hair and blue eyes and a ready laugh.
He fell in with a wild, dissipated crowd when he went away to school. But I knew nothing of that. I knew only that while I was staying at Ramsgate with the companion my brother had hired for me, George Wickham chanced to arrive there, as well. Or rather, it was not chance. But I did not know that at the time, either.
He was just as he had been when I was growing up—just as handsome, just as ready to laugh and smile. Only he treated me not as a child but as a woman to be courted and adored. We would walk along the beach—with my companion, Mrs. Younge, following a few paces behind—and he would quote poetry to me. Bits of Shakespeare’s sonnets, and Wordsworth. He usually got the Shakespeare wrong, but I was far too happy in his company to care.
Was I in love with him? I do not really know, even now. I wished to be in love, I do know that much. He was handsome and charming and looked at me—quiet little Georgiana Darcy—as though I were the most beautiful creature in the world. Just as though we were two characters in a novel or one of the poems he recited to me. And I liked him—as I always had when I was a child.
And more than that—
It is hard to explain. But I do hate changes. And at fifteen, growing up and entering the world of balls and courtship and marriage felt to me like the most terrifying round of changes that could be imagined. Being courted by George Wickham felt … safe, I suppose. Because he was part of that safe, secure world I had known here at Pemberley when I was small, before my parents died.
But then George asked me to elope with him. To run away and be married without my brother’s knowledge or consent. I was so shocked I did not know what to say.
I said before that I hate being shy, sometimes. But it is more than that. If I could change one quality in myself, I would wish that I could stand and fight more easily, rather than wanting to run away and hide every time I am shocked or afraid.
And if I still struggle with it now, I was a hundred times worse at just-turned-fifteen.
While I was standing there, feeling my cheeks flush and trying to find words, George kissed me. Not on the hand or on the cheek as he always had done before, but on the mouth.
And all at once I was not happy or flattered any longer. It was frightening, that kiss. He was not gentle or charming, but rough and hungry.
Do all men kiss so? I haven’t exactly a wealth of experience to draw from for comparison, having only been kissed on the forehead by my father and brother.
And then that once under the mistletoe by Edward—Colonel Fitzwilliam. Though that scarcely counts, since I was only ten years old at the time.
I pulled away from George Wickham, but he only laughed and kissed me again and said I had made him the happiest man alive. And then he told me he would make all the arrangements for our elopement. We could travel to Gretna Green in Scotland and be married by declaration only, which of course is legal in Scotland.
I wanted to say something—anything. But I just stood there. Feeling the words lodged in my throat like sharp edged rocks. And then he left me alone in the sitting room of our lodging-house.
I did manage to speak that night to Mrs. Younge, telling her that I was afraid I could not elope and asking her how I ought to tell George Wickham.
But she only said very severely that I was a lucky girl to have attracted the notice of a fine man like Mr. Wickham, and to have the prospect of being wedded at only fifteen years of age.
I lay awake all that night, thinking of how George Wickham had looked at me, how often he had professed his admiration and love. How he had said our marriage would make him the happiest man alive. And I actually cried at the thought of breaking his heart by telling him I could not marry him after all. But perhaps if he were willing to wait a few years—if he would only speak to my brother Fitzwilliam first—
George had said he loved me, after all. And perhaps I would grow to love him in time, after we were married. Not at Gretna Green, but in a proper ceremony in the chapel at Pemberley. Surely my brother would agree, as he and George Wickham had always been close friends—
I cannot believe I was so foolish and easily gulled looking back on it. But that is what ran through my mind at the time.
And then my brother arrived at Ramsgate, too. And I was so relieved.
I suppose that does not show me in a very favourable light, does it? That I was coward enough to be relieved I would not have to muster the backbone to tell George Wickham that I could not elope with him. But since I am being honest, I felt as though I could draw a full breath for the first time in days, the moment I saw my brother walk through the door.
I told my brother the whole—Wickham’s courtship, the plan he had made to elope.
And that was when I learned that George Wickham did not love me—had never loved me. The whole of his courtship was merely a ploy to get at my fortune. He had fallen into very dissolute ways and was heavily in debt, and my brother had refused to help him out of his current difficulties. George Wickham had wanted to elope with me first because he knew my brother would never agree to our marriage—and secondly because marrying me would be the neatest revenge he could achieve against Fitzwilliam.
I suppose I never did love George Wickham—because I found I did not feel any disbelief at all when my brother told me the truth of his character. Maybe a part of me had sensed all along that for all his charm, he was dishonourable at his core.
George left Ramsgate at once. At least I never had to see him again.
Now George Wickham is married to Elizabeth’s youngest sister, Lydia. That is almost the only time I have ever seen Elizabeth look truly sad or sorrowful: when she speaks of Lydia’s marriage. Though when I told her once that I hated to think of George Wickham taking advantage of her sister’s trust, she said a little bitterly that Lydia had known full well what she was about.
No one save for Edward, Fitzwilliam, and Elizabeth knows of what happened at Ramsgate between George Wickham and me. Besides Wickham and myself, I mean.
No one can know. My reputation would be irretrievably lost if it ever were known that I had been on the brink of such an elopement—that I had been unchaperoned in George Wickham’s company, besides.
Which may be utterly unjust, but it is the way of the world.
I do not think I ever did truly love George Wickham—and if I was infatuated, a little, I told Elizabeth the truth when I said that was long gone, now. It is just that recounting the whole of the hateful episode here has made me feel—
But I am going to stop feeling sorry for myself. I would be happy to stay here at Pemberley—what I said to Elizabeth on that score was true, as well. I am happy here, even if I never find a suitor who actually wishes to marry me, instead of my thirty thousand pounds.
The rain is streaming down outside the windows and has been since last night; I could hear it drumming on the roof as I lay in bed. Now my brother is busy with his accounts and the running of the estate in his study. The other men of the house party are playing at billiards in the game room, and I am with the ladies in the drawing room, sitting in my favourite place at the window seat. Caroline is
looking at a book on the settee—flipping through the pages and looking sulky because the men have abandoned us today and it’s too wet outside to ask any of them to go outside and walk in the grounds.
Elizabeth is sewing, and my Aunt de Bourgh is sitting next to her making observations like, “What a pity you cannot sew as well as I could in my youth. You would need a magnifying glass to see the stitch work in the sampler I made at school.”
Elizabeth has just smiled and said, very politely, “Thank you so much for telling me. I must be sure to have a magnifying glass on hand if you should ever choose to show it to me. I should hate not to be able to appreciate it in full.”
My aunt is sitting and frowning and trying to work out whether she has been insulted or not.
And the papers today say there are to be great balls in London to celebrate the Marquess of Wellington’s victory over Napoleon.
Friday 29 April 1814
Edward is engaged.
Maybe I should write that a hundred times in a copy book, the way our schoolmistresses used to make naughty pupils copy out their faults when I was at school.
Edward is engaged. Edward is engaged. Edward is—
No, actually I do not need to write it out. That is just the trouble: I am convinced enough of it already. The knowledge of it is like a black beetle in a cup of tea, completely spoiling my memory of today.
(What an elegant analogy, Georgiana, I can hear my aunt saying in tones of deepest sarcasm if she were ever to read this diary. Which of course, she never will. I either carry it in my reticule or hide it in my room under the mattress on my bed, where even my Aunt de Bourgh would never bother to look.)
The trouble is that I do not care whether he is engaged or not to Miss Mary Graves. Or rather, I may care, but my heart apparently does not. If I were being melodramatic, I would say that my heart is at this moment aching far more than my sprained ankle, which is currently wrapped up in bandages and propped on a stool in front of me.
At least my hair has finally dried.
But I had better write it all down properly.
Edward arrived today, fully four days before we expected him. He had stayed the night in Nottingham to rest and stable his horse, and then rode out for Pemberley at first light this morning. Though since he had sent no word, we of course had no idea he was coming.
I had slipped out for a walk, because I had overheard my aunt speaking to Mr. Folliet and telling him how much she knew I wanted him to accompany me on a ride. In company with Dawson and two of her menservants, of course. My aunt would never suggest anything so improper as my riding out alone in company with a man.
I have scarcely spoken to Mr. Folliet, but he seems perfectly amiable. And not at all vain, despite looking so much like Sir Lancelot. But standing there beside the French doors in the morning room and hearing my aunt speak to him, I found myself imagining exactly what the proposed ride would be like: me feeling as though I ought to be making polite conversation with Mr. Folliet, but having no idea what to say. He either bored to tears or trying to ingratiate himself.
The two serving men looking on and probably laughing silently. Poor, long-suffering Dawson taking note of every word said so that she could report it to my aunt. Not that I blame her for it. If I were my Aunt de Bourgh’s maidservant, I would probably spy for my aunt, too, just to keep the peace.
But still, I suddenly felt I absolutely could not do it, could not go riding or be pushed into an acquaintance with Mr. Folliet that—unless he is in more dire financial straits than my aunt thinks—he probably wishes for no more than I do. So I slipped out the French doors and into the garden and went for a walk.
Which was very childish and cowardly, and I was properly punished for it, because I had come out without a bonnet or a pelisse, only my shawl, and the morning air was quite chilly. And even worse, I was wearing thin slippers instead of boots, and the ground was very muddy with all the recent rain. By the time I had gone a hundred yards, my shoes were more black than pink. But even so, I kept going. And not just because I didn’t want to go back to the house and face my aunt.
The air was clear and the sun was gloriously bright, and the grounds of the park felt fairly bursting with the promise of spring: all the new leaves and buds on the trees, the shoots of daffodils just poking up from the soil.
Without thinking, I had taken the usual path, through the woods and across the stream. I had just crossed the bridge when my already mud-slick slippers slid on a fresh patch of mud. I lost my footing, tried to catch hold of the bridge railing, but my hand only slipped off that as well, and before I knew it, I had tumbled the whole way down the embankment and landed with a splash in the stream itself.
The cold water was like a slap in the face, and I’d had the breath completely knocked out of me. But when I tried to push myself up, I found I could, so I knew I was not really hurt. My heart was still hammering, though, and I was struggling to catch my breath, so that I had only managed to pull myself into a sitting position when all of a sudden strong arms were lifting me up, clear of the water.
That made my heart jump again, but then I recognised the voice that spoke in my ear. “Georgiana! Good God, are you hurt?”
I pushed the wet hair out of my face and looked up, and sure enough it was Edward who was holding me, one arm about my shoulders, the other under my knees so that he could carry me up the bank.
He wore his red army coat, and his hair was a little longer than I remembered. And there was a thin white line—a new scar—running down one of his lean brown cheeks.
I tried to speak but was still too much out of breath, so I could only nod.
“I was riding through the park, and saw you fall,” Edward said. I was still pressed up against him. I could feel how hard his heart was hammering in his chest. “What on earth are you doing out here all on your own?”
“Just walking,” I managed to say.
The tight line of Edward’s mouth relaxed at that. “Well, next time try to include fewer dives into freezing cold stream beds on your walks. Less dramatic, but far more comfortable.”
I would have said something indignant to that, but the stream had been freezing cold and I was drenched to the skin; even the shawl I’d had wrapped around my shoulders was soaked. I had started to shiver and my teeth were chattering so much I couldn’t make myself form the words.
Edward set me down on a dry, grassy patch beside the path and knelt beside me, shrugging out of his army coat. “Here—take this.” He wrapped it around my shoulders. “It will be yards too big on you, but at least it’s dry.”
“Th-thank you,” I managed to say.
The first time I see Edward in nearly a year, and I had managed to go tumbling into a stream like a clumsy six-year-old. And now I was covered in mud and looking like a drowned rat.
Fate really does have a very peculiar sense of humour at times.
And then I saw it: a stain, bright scarlet and wet on the shoulder of Edward’s white linen shirt.
“You’re hurt—you’re bleeding!” I said. His lifting me up the embankment must have re-opened the wound in his shoulder.
I sat up. “Take off your shirt.”
Edward’s eyebrows shot up. “What—here?”
“It’s better than bleeding to death!”
Edward glanced down at his own shoulder for the first time. The stain was at least the size of my hand, and spreading, but he shrugged and said, “It’s nothing much. I’ll have it seen to when we get to the house.”
“We’re three miles from the house at least,” I said. My teeth were still chattering, but the warmth of his coat was helping and I didn’t feel nearly so cold. “Let me at least bind it up for you before it gets any worse.”
Edward’s jaw clamped shut. “I thought young ladies were supposed to faint at the sight of blood.”
“And I thought soldiers were supposed to know how to keep themselves alive!”
Edward’s mouth twitched again at that. He looked at me, then
shook his head, and finally undid the ties on his shirt and slid it off one shoulder. “All right, if it will satisfy you. But it’s really not serious.”
The wound had been bound up with a thick linen pad, but the bandage was entirely saturated with blood. I untied the bindings, and Edward drew in breath through his teeth when I peeled the final layers back; they’d been stuck to his skin with dried blood.
I did feel a bit queasy at the sight of the bloody furrow in the muscle of his upper arm. I suppose the injury must be two or three weeks old by now, but it still looked ugly, angry and red and puckered around the edges.
“You should have a physician look at this,” I said. “It doesn’t look as though it’s healing properly to me.”
Edward looked down at me, eyebrows raised again. “You mean to tell me you don’t number doctoring among your varied accomplishments?”
I realised abruptly that I was sitting nearly in Edward’s lap, my drenched clothes plastered to me, and with one hand braced against his bare chest. I felt my cheeks start to heat up, even as the contact with Edward’s skin seemed to jolt through my every nerve.
“Do you have a handkerchief?” I asked, as matter-of-factly as I could. Because it was bad enough to have been pulled like a drowned kitten from the stream. It would be worse yet to start blushing and stammering like some silly schoolgirl.
“What?”
“Your handkerchief—give it to me. Unless you’ve clean bandages about you. But I need something to pad the wound.”
I did manage to make a fresh pad for the wound from my handkerchief and his. Even if I could not stop my pulse from racing every time I had to touch him.
When I had finished, Edward unclamped his teeth. “Now will you let me get you back to the house?” He started to lift me again, but I shook my head. “I’m all right, now. I can walk.”
But when I tried to stand, my ankle gave a sharp, sudden throb and buckled under me. I had not felt it before, but I suppose I must have twisted it when I fell. I would have fallen again if Edward had not been so quick to catch me.
He is very strong; I could feel the hard muscles of his arms even through the layers of his coat. And before I could argue or pull away, he turned his head—he still had his good arm around me, supporting my weight—and whistled softly, two short trills and one long. A chestnut horse stepped out of the shade of the trees and onto the path, and Edward said, “This is King. He’ll carry you with even less trouble than I could.”
We neither of us spoke on the ride back to the house, and when we drew close to the front steps Edward pulled up on the reins to stop the horse, then simply sat there, staring at the front door.
I suppose now that the immediate crisis was past, we neither of us knew quite what to say. In the space of half an hour, I had been dunked in the stream, pulled out by Edward, then demanded his handkerchief to bandage a bullet wound.
Finally Edward swung himself down out of the saddle and reached up to help me down, as well. “So, Georgiana,” he said. “How have you been these last months?”
I couldn’t help it: I started to laugh, and Edward joined me, laughing so hard that we were both entirely out of breath. And then, all at once he stopped and just stood there, looking down at me.
He still had his arms round me from helping me off the horse, and we were so close that I could see the tiny flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the tiny laugh lines at the corners of his mouth. I could feel the steady beating of his heart, the warmth of his body seeping into mine.
I stopped shivering, stopped laughing, stopped even breathing. I felt as though I were a dragonfly in amber, trapped by the weight of his gaze.
And then the front door opened, and Elizabeth came running down the steps. “Georgiana, there you are! And Edward! But”—she looked from one of us to the other, taking in my soaking wet dress and Edward’s bloodied shoulder. “But what’s happened to you? Are you all right?”
Edward let go of me so fast I nearly fell over. He did put a hand under my elbow to steady me, but he did not look at me again as he said to Elizabeth, “She’s all right, just a slight fall into the stream. Though you may want to summon the local physician to look at that ankle.”
Then he tipped his hat and strode past Elizabeth into the house without once looking round.
Elizabeth wanted to summon two of the footmen to help carry me into the house, but I would not let her. My ankle was not nearly so painful as it had been. And besides, I had more than reached my limit on the number of people I wanted to see me in my drowned-rat state.
With Elizabeth’s help, I hobbled up to my room, and Elizabeth called for the servants to bring kettles for a hot bath. She stayed to help me wash the mud out of my hair. But she didn’t ask me to talk—which I was very, very grateful for—only helped me to dress and then wrap up my ankle. She asked if I wanted the physician, but I said I didn’t. It’s only a slight sprain, and he could do nothing but tell me what I already know, that it will be painful for a day or two, then gradually less so.
Elizabeth said I ought to rest and left me to sleep if I could. But I can not, so I have taken up this book instead.
Would it be terribly cowardly to pretend I’ve taken a chill? Or say that my ankle is far too painful for me to go down to dinner tonight?
I am afraid it would. Besides, I can hardly stay in my room the entire month Edward is here. I will have to face him again sometime.
What did he see in that frozen moment when he looked down into my eyes? I wasn’t thinking of trying to guard my feelings—I wasn’t thinking of anything. So he very likely saw little Georgiana Darcy, who he suddenly realised has a schoolgirl’s infatuation with him.
That is probably why he left so abruptly—he realised how awkward it was going to be. My father’s will left him my co-guardian, along with my brother. And now his fond little charge fancies herself in love with him.
He is probably even now trying to decide how to let me down gently and inform me of his engagement to Miss Graves in the kindest possible way. Because he is fond of me. Of course he wouldn’t want to hurt my feelings.
I’ve just realised that I am grinding my teeth together so hard my jaw is aching. I have to stop. I have to stop and think how I am going to act the next time I see Edward. I will have to be very polite and very cool and collected and calm. And it would help if I could convince him that he was entirely mistaken, and that I’m actually in love with someone else.
Maybe I can persuade myself to develop a violent passion for Sir John’s greasy hair and gooseberry eyes and endless talk of guns.
For one thing, I don’t want Edward feeling sorry for me.
But for another, if he truly is happy in his engagement to Miss Graves, I don’t want that shadowed by worry for me. Edward deserves better than that.
Saturday 30 April 1814
I did go down to dinner last night. I did not manage to fall violently in love with Sir John. But I did speak to Mr. Folliet for some time. He is very nice. Really, as nice as he is handsome.
Elizabeth said she was feeling a little indisposed after dinner and went to lie down in her room, and my brother went with her, to be sure she was not seriously ill. Sir John proposed a game of whist, and my Aunt de Bourgh allowed herself to be persuaded, though she did decree that Anne was feeling tired and sent her off to bed first.
Mr. Folliet came over to sit beside me, where I was perched in my usual place on the window seat, reading.
“I feel I ought to apologise, Miss Darcy.” He has a voice that exactly matches his face: deep-pitched and very attractive.
“Apologise? Why?”
“Because any girl who is so horrified by the prospect of going riding with me that she hurls herself into icy cold rivers to avoid it must clearly dislike me a good deal. Therefore, I must have done something to offend, and should apologise.” He smiled. “Though my apology would be a good deal more convincing if you told me what it is I’ve done.”
I could feel colour flaming in
my cheeks. Of course the entire house party knew about my misadventure. I would have been perfectly happy to have no one but Edward and Elizabeth hear that I had tumbled into the stream. But of course I had to give some explanation for why I was limping and needed Elizabeth’s help in managing the stairs.
“Tell me,” Mr. Folliet was saying, “and I’ll apologise in earnest and we can begin again. I promise I’m not so terrible once you get to know me. You’ve only got one other ankle, and it would be a shame to sprain that one, too, by throwing yourself into another river the next time your aunt decides that you’re longing to show me Pemberley’s grounds on horseback.”
I set down my book and looked up at him. My cheeks were still burning. But in a way it was freeing to be able to speak openly, because I surely could not become any more embarrassed than I already was.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Folliet. It’s surely not escaped your notice that my Aunt de Bourgh is intent on hurling me at the heads of any and every eligible young man under Pemberley’s roof.”
“Lady Catherine is certainly a force to be reckoned with,” Mr. Folliet agreed.
“But there’s no reason you should suffer for it. You should feel free to invent your own excuses the next time she tries to force us together. I won’t hold it against you, I promise.”
“What about what you want?” Mr. Folliet asked.
“Do you mean, do I want to be paraded in front of my aunt’s collection of suitors like a prize-winning horse at a show?” I felt my mouth twist. “Not especially, no.”
Mr. Folliet was watching me. “And what about your brother? Couldn’t he speak to your aunt on your behalf?”
“He would—if I asked him to. He’s one of the very few people in the world who does stand up to my aunt—and whom she actually accepts that she can’t bully.”
“But you haven’t spoken to him?”
I shook my head. Because it’s not only that I’m not accustomed to sharing such confidences with my brother. “It seems so childish, calling on my elder brother to speak for me to my own aunt,” I finally said. “I ought to be able to stand up to her, as well. It’s not as though she can actually do anything but be unpleasant if I tell her I don’t want to marry any of the men she’s chosen for me. It’s just—”
It’s just that I hate unpleasantness, and loud voices and yelling. And just the thought of the scene my Aunt de Bourgh would create if I ever did speak out so made my stomach lurch and all my nerves clench. But I recollected myself, and recalled that Mr. Folliet was almost a complete stranger. “I’m sorry—we needn’t go on speaking of this. You must think me childish indeed.”
Mr. Folliet looked away for a moment, towards the card table where my aunt was sitting between Edward and Sir John. “I think … I think that it’s not always easy to be honest, and especially with family members.” His voice had a note of something, something lonely or sad that I didn’t understand. But then he shook his head as though to clear it and smiled again. “Well, then. I’ll just have to tell your aunt that you’ve broken my heart and turned me down—and do something so spectacularly unsuitable that she finds your refusal utterly justified. Would it help if I stood under your window at night, looking mournful and reciting bad poetry? Or playing a guitar? I don’t actually know how to play the guitar, but I suppose I could learn.”
I laughed. “Please don’t do anything so drastic on my account.”
I felt my aunt look up at us when I laughed. Likely she was congratulating herself on the success of her matchmaking scheme.
I think out of the corner of my eye, I saw Edward watching us, too, but I would not let myself look at him.
Before we parted for the night, Mr. Folliet asked me to go riding with him tomorrow after church. I said I would be delighted.
Sunday 1 May 1814
Tonight I happened to be passing my brother’s study on my way upstairs to bed, and I saw Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth together inside. I did not mean to spy, but the door was partway open, and as I walked past I saw Elizabeth curled up on the floor in front of the fire, leaning her shoulder up against my brother’s chair. She was wearing the short-sleeved green satin gown she’d had on at dinner, and the firelight ran golden along her face and bare arms, and twined golden highlights in her hair.
She said something—I didn’t hear what—and tilted her head back to smile up at him.
And Fitzwilliam said something low and husky and leaned down to kiss her on the mouth.
I walked away quickly—and neither of them saw me. But I can still feel a little lonely, hollow ache inside my chest.
It’s not that I am envious. Well, I suppose if I’m being completely truthful, I do envy them a bit. More than a bit. Or rather, not them so much as what they have found in each other.
I couldn’t love either Elizabeth or my brother more. And I want them to be happy, truly. I’m so glad that they are.
But—
Never mind. I’m even going to irritate myself if I keep going on in this vein.
Let me think what else I can write about.
I learned several new measures of a Mozart sonata on the pianoforte today. I finally had the chance to practice alone, since I came downstairs in the morning more than an hour earlier than anyone else.
And I did go riding with Mr. Folliet. A small part of me wishes I could report that I do not like him, just because my aunt is so determined that I shall. But I do like him, actually. He’s very charming and agreeable—and doesn’t seem at all vain of his good looks. He is very easy to talk to, as well. I did not feel at all shy.
A larger part of me wishes that my heart raced and my skin tingled when Mr. Folliet speaks to me or touches my hand. But it has not happened yet.
Monday 2 May 1814
I have not seen Edward at all today.
Which I will admit is more than partly by design, since I stayed upstairs in my room this morning until I saw my brother and Edward riding out away from the house.
Mrs. Reynolds came to speak to me about him, though, almost as soon as I came downstairs.
Mrs. Reynolds is our housekeeper—and has been since years before I was born. She is plump and red-faced and very fierce in her manner—all the kitchen staff and the maids are terrified of her. She bullies both Edward and my brother unmercifully because she has known them both since they were small boys and Edward used to come and spend his summers here.
This morning her face was anxious, though, as she stopped me in the front hall. “It’s Mr. Edward,” she said, when I’d asked whether anything was wrong. “He doesn’t seem a bit like himself.”
Against my will, I felt my heart contract. It would be so much easier if I could just order myself to stop caring so much about him.
“Maybe his shoulder is paining him,” I said. “We should make sure he sees the physician.”
“Aye, I’ve sent for him,” Mrs. Reynolds said. “He’ll be here this afternoon. But there’s more than that ailing Mr. Edward, I’d say. He’s so thin and brown—and he scarcely touched a bite of supper last night. And there’s more. I gave him his old room—the one he always slept in when he came to stay here as a boy.”
I nodded.
“Well,” Mrs. Reynolds said, “This morning, Mr. Edward comes to me and says he doesn’t want that room—he’d rather have one in the east wing. The east wing! I ask you. Where most of the rooms aren’t even in use, and half the chimneys won’t draw on account of it’s been so long since a fire was lighted in them.”
“What did you tell him?” I asked.
“What could I tell him?” Mrs. Reynolds spread her hands. “I told him I’d find him a room in the east wing. He’s a grown man, I reckon he can sleep where he likes. It just seems strange to me, that’s all.”
I thought of the wound in his shoulder, the new scar on his cheek. “He’s just come back from war,” I said. “Perhaps he just needs space—time to himself to adjust. And he’s ridden out with my brother this morning. Maybe he’ll speak to Fi
tzwilliam if there’s something really wrong.”
“Aye. Maybe.” Mrs. Reynolds nodded her head, though she did not look convinced.
I’m not sure I am, either. But neither do I think there is anything else I can do. Not because I am resolved not to throw myself at Edward—because I would risk humiliation, if I thought I could help him.
It sounds a strange thing to say about anyone so relaxed and amiable as he is, but Edward is a private person, in many ways. He does not share his innermost thoughts easily.
Unless and until he decides to speak to one of us, I do not think anyone will find out if there really is anything wrong.
Tuesday 3 May 1814
From the time I was twelve, any time Edward would go off to fight abroad, I would sit down at the pianoforte and play Robin Adair whenever I was afraid for him.
Maybe that is a strange choice, since Robin Adair is such a sad song. And maybe it was; to be honest, at first I only played it because I was twelve years old and it was almost the only song I could play without any mistakes. But then after a while … I don’t know. Somehow I would play it, and it would always make me feel better. As though my worrying and missing him had been poured into the song and so lifted out of me.
That sounds as though I am one of those romantic, sentimental girls who wander about out-of-doors quoting Wordsworth’s poems in the middle of thunderstorms. I’m not sure how to put it so that it does not sound overly romantical and silly, though.
It’s just that that is what music has always done for me, ever since I was quite small: given me a place to put the feelings that hurt most.
I was in the music room this morning, practising the Mozart sonata again. But I could not seem to keep my mind on the musical score in front of me. I kept getting my fingering wrong and losing the tempo—and finally I gave up and let my hands travel, just idly, over the keys.
I had not really meant to play anything in particular, but almost before I realised it, my fingers had fallen into the tune of Robin Adair. I started to sing, as well—just softly.
What’s this dull town to me
Robin’s not near
What was’t I wish’d to see
What wish’d to hear
Where all the joy and mirth
Made this town heaven on earth
Oh, they’re all fled with thee
Robin Adair
I played it all through, and then a slight sound behind me made me turn on the pianoforte bench. Edward was standing just inside the doorway. He must have been listening to me play for some time, because he was standing quite still, leaning up against the doorframe, with his arms folded across his chest.
My heart stumbled and quickened in my chest, and I must have gasped because Edward smiled a little and said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. It’s just I didn’t want to interrupt you. And it’s a long time since I’ve heard you play.”
He was wearing civilian clothes today rather than his army uniform: tan breeches and boots and a maroon coat. His right arm was in a sling.
I know I resolved before to be distant and calm and cool the next time I was with Edward. But sitting there, in the same room with him, I could feel all that resolve slipping away. The war is over—and he has returned alive.
And he is a friend, even if he will never be anything more.
“How is your shoulder?” I asked.
“It’s fine. A little sore, that’s all. I could leave off the sling—but Mr. Broyles threatened me with dire consequences if I didn’t wear it for a day or two.”
“Old Mr. Broyles or young?” I asked.
“There are two of them?”
“Father and son,” I said. “Both physicians in Lambton; they have a practice together. Though it must have been the father you saw—I can’t imagine your having been intimidated into wearing a sling by the son. He’s a very nice young man, but not terribly imposing.”
“Wait a moment,” Edward said. “Thin? Spectacles? Ears like flying gibbets?”
“Flying gibbets is a little unkind. But they do stick out, I grant you. And yes, that’s young Mr. Broyles.”
Edward nodded. “He came to call along with his father, but I took him for an assistant.” He raised his eyebrows at me, “And come to think of it, he asked after you—and said to give you his compliments. Do I need to go charging down to their offices in Lambton and defend your honour?”
“From young Mr. Broyles? Good heavens, no, you’d scare him to death. Besides, he’s already engaged to the daughter of a local landowner. He came to the house last year when half of the servants were ill with influenza, that’s all—and I helped him with doses and heating water and all the rest because half the servants were ill and there wasn’t anyone else.”
Edward wiped his brow theatrically. “Well, that’s all right then. I was afraid I was going to have to play the stern, heavy-handed guardian and lock you in your room.”
I laughed. “Heavy-handed guardian? When you’re only ten years older than I am?”
“Ten years?” Edward turned away to look out the window as something crossed his face like a swift shadow. “At the moment it feels as if I’m a great deal older than that.”
I looked at him. I know his face almost as well as I do my own, and today in the morning light filtering through the windows he looked thinner than when last I had seen him. He’s sun-browned from living on campaign, with fine lines about the corners of his eyes.
Edward has always been of an open disposition, relaxed and easy in company and very self-assured. He and Elizabeth do have similar temperaments in that way, even if he was never really in love with her. Just like Elizabeth, Edward jokes and teases a good deal, and can laugh and banter with very nearly anyone.
He had been speaking in almost his usual way. But as he spoke the final words, there was a new note in his voice. And there was just at that moment a hint of … I’m not quite sure. Darkness or sadness or something about the look in his eyes.
“How are you, Edward? I mean, how are you really?” I asked him.
Edward lifted one shoulder. His eyes were still fixed out the window. “It turned out there was a fragment of the musket ball still lodged in the wound that was keeping it from healing properly. Broyles the elder dug it out for me and gave me something he said would help draw any further impurities out.”
“I’m glad,” I said. “But that wasn’t what I meant.”
It is true, what I wrote yesterday, about thinking there little point in questioning Edward unless he was ready to talk.
But there was something that looked almost … almost lost about him as he stood, staring out the window.
“Mrs. Reynolds told me you asked to change your room,” I said, after a moment’s hesitation.
Edward was silent. Then his shoulders moved again. “I didn’t … I don’t fit into the old room anymore.”
I waited, but he did not say anything more, only stood at the window with his shoulders tensed. “It must seem very strange to be back here, at Pemberley,” I finally said.
This time, the silence lasted so long I thought Edward wasn’t going to speak at all. But then he said, “It is … strange. I suppose that’s as good a word as any.” Edward rubbed the space between his eyes. “Strange to eat off china plates instead of my tin mess kit. Strange to suddenly sleep in a real bed again instead of on a camp cot or more often muddy ground.” He turned and gave me a brief flash of almost his usual smile. “The first night after I landed in England—I was staying at an inn—and I had to pull the blankets off the bed and lie down on the floor before I could get off to sleep. The chamber maid tripped over me in the morning when she came in to lay the fire—she must have thought I was out of my senses.”
Then his smile faded. He looked out the window again, resting one hand against the pane of glass, his eyes travelling over the view of the lawns, dotted with Spanish oaks and elms. The lake in front of the house, and the woods beyond.
“It’
s an odd feeling, too, to come back here and find all this”—he spread one hand to indicate the view—“so much unchanged. Everything looks as it always has. Completely untouched by anything that’s happened in the outside world.”
Edward shook his head as though to clear it, then seemed to force a smile. “Strange—but good, too, I suppose, to find it so. It makes me feel as though Pemberley is a small, bespelled pocket that the caprices of time and chance can never touch.”
I moved to stand next to him at the window. “I know—I’ve always loved that feeling about it, too,” I said.
Edward turned. He didn’t speak, though, just looked down into my eyes. And there it was again—just for that instant, the dark, shadowed look was there at the back of his gaze.
And then the door opened behind us and he instantly stepped back, away from me.
It was Elizabeth—come, she said, to summon us both to breakfast.
“Mrs. Reynolds says you’ve come back from the war all bones and need to be fattened,” she said to Edward, smiling. “If you don’t take a good enough breakfast, I think she has every intention of picking up a spoon and feeding you herself.”
Edward laughed. “I may have faced down Napoleon’s armies, but I know better than to cross Mrs. Reynolds when her mind is made up. All right, I’ll come.”
He spoke so easily and his smile was so carefree that I could almost believe I had imagined that lost look in his eyes.
Wednesday 4 May 1814
My mother died when I was six years old. I am glad we have the portrait in the upstairs gallery that my father had painted of her, because it helps me to remember her now. It hurts that my true memories of her are so much faded—but they are. And looking up at the portrait helps bring remembrance back, at least a little.
She was beautiful. I wish I looked like her, but I don’t, not at all. She was fine-boned and small, with golden hair, blue eyes and a heart-shaped face.
She used to sew little dolls for me when I was very small—a whole collection of them. I have them, still, in a drawer in my room. Milk maids and tiny swaddled babies and fine ladies dressed in scraps cut from the remnants of her worn-out gowns. She made a doll-sized version of our family for me, too: a little doll of my father, dressed in his breeches and his green riding coat; one of my brother, as he was at twelve or thirteen, very tall and thin and with a mop of unruly black hair; and doll versions of herself and me, wearing matching white dresses and blue sashes.
She used to take me out into the garden with her, too, and we would read from storybooks or play at skittles and spillikins.
My father would laugh when he found us together, my mother with her hair coming down and her skirts spotted with dirt and bits of grass. And my mother would laugh, too, and say she never could learn to behave as a fine lady ought.
My father’s heart was broken when she died. He did try his best to comfort me—but he had his own grief to think of, and my brother’s, as well as mine. And all the relations who had come to stay for her funeral. And I didn’t want to see anyone—not my father, nor Fitzwilliam nor anyone else. I think I spent the entire week after the funeral hiding under furniture—tables and sofas and chairs. Hoping no one would see me, and I would not be forced to come out and speak to anyone.
That was how I came to overhear two of my older girl cousins, who were sitting together in the library: I had crept under the library table and fallen asleep, and woke up to find them sitting on the sofa just inches away from me. So I stayed frozen where I was, not daring to move.
They were speaking of the novel they had been reading—a grisly story about an abbey inhabited by the ghost of a drowned monk that haunted any visitor who dared spend a night under the abbey’s roof. I had never heard anything like it before. And at six, I didn’t understand that it was only a story; I believed every word.
And after that I couldn’t go to sleep at night. I was terrified that the moment I closed my eyes, I’d see my sweet, happy, lovely mother, come back to haunt us all as a horrible ghost.
It was Edward who found me sobbing under the table in the dining room late one night. My nurse was supposed to sleep with me in the outer room of the nursery, of course. But I had waited until I heard her snoring and then crept past her, because I could not bear to lie there in bed any more, waiting for my mother’s ghost to appear.
Edward was sixteen and had just received his first army commission. He picked me up and found some wine that had been left on the sideboard and poured me a glass. He watered it down so much that it was almost all water and scarcely any wine, but I didn’t know that and thought it was very grown-up. I had never tasted wine before.
Then, while I was drinking it, he finally got me to tell him what had frightened me. And then the next day he got a whole box of the most gothic, grisly books he could find from the lending library—full of haunted castles and skeletons and swooning heroines—and sat next to my little bed in the nursery and read them to me every night.
Which sounds like a very strange sort of cure. But he made the stories incredibly comical—exaggerating all the horrible groans and gasps, clutching his forehead at the stupidity of the heroines, who would persist in going into the forbidden wings of the castle all alone, and at night.
I would sit there with him, giggling while he read. And then afterwards I would be able to go to sleep.
Edward stayed for a full three weeks, which was a longer leave of absence than he’d been granted by his Colonel. I found out afterwards that he would have been disciplined except that the peace treaty—the first peace treaty—with Napoleon had just been signed and everyone in the army was in a celebratory mood.
I remember watching him ride away at the end of his stay and trying to decide just how old I would have to be before I could marry him. I think I decided on twelve—at twelve, I thought, I would surely be old enough.
My fingers are itching to draw Edward now. But I’ll draw Mr. Folliet instead.