Page 35 of The Fee Entail

The lesson about my brother took at least a decade. Granted, at eight years of age when it more or less began, I was not the most acute observer of life around me; but over time, I gradually put the pieces together. Between what I could see, what other people told me, and, frankly, the results of more than a little bit of eavesdropping (I could put a church mouse to shame when I wanted to), I learnt a great number of things. I did not restrict my forays to my brother and his cousin, but things were learnt from servants, housekeepers, and even my brother’s valet. Mrs Reynolds was especially helpful in her less guarded moments, and she had known my brother since he was four years old.

To truly understand the magnitude of the change, you must know how he arrived at that point of giddy excitement I am currently beating to death.

As far as I could determine, he had been dying inside a little bit at a time almost since my birth. He was like a water barrel in a farmstead with a very slow leak. The staves would warp a bit as the water leaked out, it would go down to a certain level, then the rain would come along to fill it back up. Every time the rain came, the barrel was refilled, but the staves warped just a bit more, and the leak became just a touch more pronounced, so that it was never properly filled. Each storm brought life and death at the same time, with the barrel gradually losing its battle with the elements. That was my brother, day by day, dying a little bit at a time, the light gradually leaving his eyes. That may seem an odd analogy for a lady of my station, but at heart, the Darcys were gentleman farmers, and I flattered myself it was in my blood.

I imagine the leak began in earnest when my father died. I was young, and it would take me a long time to work out the essence of my father. My brother would probably disagree with my assessment, and be angry on top of that; but I shall not be moved in my opinion.

My father was a coward—an irresponsible coward! His wife had a baby, she died, and he just gave up on his life and his family. He never paid the slightest attention to me, and he barely took care of his son’s education. Like I said, a coward! So, his wife died! That was no excuse! He was the master of a great estate, born to wealth and privilege and responsibility. He knew where babies came from and the dangers of childbirth. He should have just acted like a man and taken care of his family, but he did not. I do not really repine his loss, since he was never anything except a vague concept to me, but I will never forgive him for abandoning my brother.

When my father finally gave up on life, the entire burden fell on Fitzwilliam, and that is when the leaks began in earnest. I know Fitzwilliam loved his father and misses him terribly, but I do not.

The summer of the year eleven, I nearly killed Fitzwilliam myself with an ill-conceived courtship with a scoundrel in Ramsgate. Granted, I was an even more ignorant girl then, and granted, Fitzwilliam really should have warned me about Wickham; but I was my responsibility, and I failed spectacularly. Worse yet, no matter how much I raved and cajoled and pleaded, Fitzwilliam would not relent. He would not chastise me as I deserved. Censure was simply something he was incapable of. He took all the blame upon his own shoulders for failing me, and proceeded with his self-appointed task of killing himself. I really would have preferred it if he had beaten me senseless or restricted my privileges or took away my dowry or something. That would have been rational, that might have been effective, and we might have then moved past it, but Fitzwilliam simply kept it all bottled up inside and allowed me no room to just be wrong.

I had no idea what happened a few months later in the winter of that year in Hertfordshire, but he came back from that with a decidedly bigger leak. Aside from mentioning a lady named Elizabeth in a few letters, apparently one of five sisters with a typical matchmaking mother, nothing out of the ordinary seemed to have happened; but he came back altered… very altered.

I think he actually enjoyed all the fires and flooding and other mayhem of the year twelve, because at least that was something he knew how to deal with; but I despaired of ever having a brother that was whole and complete.

All that changed on Thursday, the third of December, about a half-hour after luncheon, when an express rider arrived at our townhouse with a note.

~~~~~

3 December, 1812

Rosings, Kent

Georgiana,

I cannot explain at the moment, but I require your presence at Rosings tomorrow at precisely five o’clock. Bring your cousin Fitzwilliam and try to keep him sober as well. Bring a good but not overly ostentatious dress. I recommend the yellow silk with the blue ribbon. Prepare for a dinner that will be pleasant and entertaining. We will be dining at the parsonage in Hunsford Village. The timing is important. Five o’clock, if you please.

Have no fear. You will enjoy this very much.

Fitzwilliam

~~~~~

As you can see, this was clear and unambiguous evidence that my brother had gone insane. However, after the slow slide into the grave he was engaged in, I thought insanity an improvement. I could visit him regularly in Bedlam, and all would be well.

The note was clearly written in a hurry. His usual fastidious, even, elegant hand was replaced with something that looked more like a missive from his friend Mr Bingley, also conspicuously absent that year. The missive gave exact and specific instructions that had so many things wrong I hardly knew where to begin. Going to Rosings was bad enough; an exact time was unheard of; notice of a single day nearly impossible; but supper at the parsonage in my favourite dress? How did he even notice which dresses I owned, or know which was my favourite? How did he even know where the parsonage was? Not only that, but I was to collect my cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam and bring him with me, as if I did not have enough trouble already.

One glance at my brother’s countenance when we arrived at the exact appointed hour (which required a certain amount of waiting at Bromley while my cousin eyed his watch and consumed brandy at my brother’s expense) told me something momentous had changed. It was as if some mysterious cooper in the sky took his leaky barrel and tarred it over, replaced the staves with new ones freshly cut from the tree of life, repaired all the leaks, and redirected a river to ensure the water was clean and cool all year long. He actually smiled… and smirked. My brother! Fitzwilliam Darcy! I had no idea what had changed, but whatever it was, I was in favour.

My cousin, as usual, just went along as if my brother went insane every week.

He entered the parlour at Rosings, and engaged in even more uncharacteristically odd behaviour, which apparently included complimenting my cousin Anne about her appearance, apologising to my Aunt Catherine for neglecting her for a week, and casually mentioning with some kind of smirk that he did not tell anyone of our visit, to keep it a surprise.

Cousin Anne seemed as confused by the whole affair as I was, but she rallied quickly; and I tried my best to not be overly jealous, as my brother was right: she looked lovely in a pale pink dress with long sleeves. I made an impressive job of getting ready in my favourite dress, as specifically instructed by my deranged brother, and the next thing I knew, I was in a parlour crowded with Bennets and servants and apparently a sergeant to go along with my colonel, talking to Miss Mary Bennet about Mozart.

Miss Mary was a delight, and it was all I could do to not overwhelm her with questions. Imagine! Five sisters! Mrs Collins must be the mysterious Elizabeth from last winter. After a few minutes of pleasant discussion of music, I could not stand it any more, particularly since my brother, who was known for not letting me out of his sight, seemed to have handed me over to the Bennet sisters, never to be thought of again.

“Miss Mary, pray do not consider this overly familiar or forward… even though it actually is… but do you have any idea why my brother is behaving so… peculiarly… not that I am complaining, mind you; I am most pleased with the change; but I find it… confusing.”

Miss Mary eyed me carefully, perhaps wondering how much of a stickler I was. I wondered if she had already heard of me, and if so, what she heard. I could sense her nervousness, so I moved quickly to remove any apprehensions.

“Please do not stand on ceremony or feel I will be offended. I am satisfied with the change, but… puzzled.”

She nodded. “We all are! He is behaving most… most—”

I could see her struggling for words, so thought perhaps to assist. “Irregular? Uncharacteristic? Odd? Strange? Abnormal? Unusual?”