The Indecisive Confinement of Mrs. Fitzwilliam
Fitzwilliam and Georgiana had been home to Derbyshire County but briefly in their year-long tour of England’s spas. Their travels took them to the chilly coast of Kent and Margate, then they skirted Ramsgate altogether and strove on to the smaller Sussex towns of Littlehampton and Worthing. Whilst they journeyed, Fitzwilliam resolutely dragged his game leg from site to site, insisting it was no bother whatsoever. For Georgiana’s part, she assured him that he looked quite dashing driving a gig rather than on horseback—and as the double-vision that had long troubled him had abated enough for him to at last toss aside his eye-patch—she could compliment him on that as well.
Still, it was evident he yearned to be able-bodied enough to return to the saddle and enjoy the long rides that he and Darcy were at one time accustomed to taking. He missed them less for the reassuring sensation of a brisk mount beneath him and the scent of saddle leather as for the company of his good friend. Hence, when they finally made their way to Brighton, he was quite unhappy to find that they had arrived before Darcy and Elizabeth. When at last he espied their arrival, he betook himself directly to their apartments—only to find the new parents still all in an uproar. Little progress had been made in situating their retinue. Fitzwilliam had to laugh at the throng of beings their first trip from home required. For the number of trunks still sitting on the landing told the tale of just how many were in their entourage of babies, nurses, and maids. His own quite simple situation in Georgiana’s able hands meant Fitzwilliam was quite at his leisure to ridicule Darcy’s.
“I say, Darcy,” Fitzwilliam said, endeavouring to disguise a grin. “You are laden with more provisions than required by both Wellington and Blucher together!”
Darcy stood amidst the mound of baggage that had barely dwindled from the day before. He looked about him as maids and footmen heaved and pulled them about.
“Such disorder looks to be indefensible, indeed. But you cannot imagine what folderol two so small can demand.”
As he spoke those words, it occurred to Darcy that Fitzwilliam’s understanding of such matters would soon be tried. He had finally accepted that his sister was no longer a deflowered virgin but a mother-to-be who would soon bring forth a living, breathing infant. Indeed, once his sister’s marriage had taken place, the sense of betrayal Darcy had felt towards Fitzwilliam had all but vanished. To see his sister happy at last had done wonders to return him to good humour.
At least initially.
As the months had worn on and the Fitzwilliams did not return to Derbyshire, sending only brief letters admiring the landscape of their latest holiday vista, Darcy had become alarmed.
“Pray, should not they make their way home for Georgiana’s upcoming…event?” Darcy inquired, as if to reassure himself that his mental calendar had not failed him.
“One would think…” replied Elizabeth cautiously.
She had no more clue than did Darcy why all their carefully phrased letters inquiring of Georgiana’s health had been ignored. The return letters, written in Georgiana’s precise script, said nothing but of the excellence of their happiness, the fineness of the vistas, and wishing the same for the Darcys. There had been no announcement of a child born dead, or for that matter, alive. They did, however, enclose an itinerary. Hence, the Darcys’ trip to Brighton was designed to coincide with that of the newlyweds. Because of all that lay untold, any riposte he would have liked to have employed in response to Fitzwilliam’s gentle teasing remained unspoken.
They quickly made arrangements to meet for dinner; Darcy was quite anxious to see his sister and endeavour to determine her condition. Upon this reunion, their astonishment was compleat. For the nine-month anniversary of their nuptials saw Mrs. Col. Fitzwilliam sporting a pregnancy that could at the most be only of six-month maturation. Darcy frowned, uncertain what to make of any of it. Had his sister in this short time miscarried, then conceived another child? Elizabeth was better at hiding her disconcertion, and offered hugs and kisses all around. When at last they were seated, Darcy repeatedly looked to Elizabeth with the question in his eyes he dared not put to his sister. Elizabeth was less concerned than simply curious. Her husband’s glances told her that it would fall to her to learn the particulars. Georgiana, however, was not forthcoming with them. As Elizabeth had been the original conduit of Georgiana’s notification of her quasi-defilement, she thought she was owed some sort of explanation, but knew she must await a private moment before pressing the issue.
From first they met, Elizabeth and Georgiana had been fast friends. There had been little that they were not eagre to share. Georgiana had confided in Elizabeth some of her very deepest feelings. Or, rather, they had shared their most intimate longings until Georgiana had fallen in love with Fitzwilliam. Other than providing the confidence of her pregnancy, Georgiana had reinstated the reticence of her girlhood. Elizabeth very much wanted to return to their easy company and affection. Her endeavours to engage Georgiana, however, seemed a bit dull-witted.
“Pray, are congratulations in order soon?” she asked Georgiana.
Georgiana answered without resorting to artifice, “Yes. Yes, they are.”
Now that the obvious had been established, Elizabeth meant to delve further, but did so with caution. She chose her time carefully. When she found Georgiana cooing and admiring Janie and Geoff, the time appeared to be ripe. However, Georgiana avoided her gaze. Elizabeth knew a subterfuge when she saw one, and devoted an aunt as Georgiana was, she did not think interest in her niece and nephew supplanted her own condition.
“When do you expect to be confined?” Elizabeth asked innocently.
“Martinmas?” was her reply, less a statement than a hope.
“Am I to understand that…you have suffered a disappointment prior to this happy news?”
At this direct query, Georgiana stood and looked directly at her interrogator.
“No, I have not.”
Elizabeth could not let it go. She feared that in being Georgiana’s informant to Darcy and then subsequently successfully persuading him to support her marriage to Fitzwilliam that she had been an unwilling agent of Georgiana’s deception of them all. She did not look upon that office with a kind eye. It briefly crossed her mind that Georgiana meant to recompense her for the compliment of Fitzwilliam’s one-time regard. If she had, then—touché, Georgiana. But she could not think so meanly of Georgiana or her motives. She remained dogged, however, in determining what had come to pass.
“No?” she repeated, determined to be blunt, “All has been well? You have not miscarried?”
“No, I have not.” With this admission, Georgiana did not look particularly chagrined, nor did she sound particularly convincing (nor did she appear in want of it) when she said, “I was initially mistaken.”
“I see,” was Elizabeth’s only reply, knowing it was an understanding between them that, indeed, see she did.
There was no further word on the matter from either of them. But Elizabeth did repeat the conversation verbatim, and with all due inflection, to Darcy. Once she convinced him that she was not a conspirator in this matter, he was even less amused than was she. But as a new child was expected, they believed it to be in the best interest for all concerned to consider the subject a fait accompli. That this adjustment was right and true was reinforced by Georgiana’s evident bliss and the return of reason to Fitzwilliam’s countenance.