A Merry Darcy Christmas

“I would not have you pollute the shades of Pemberley with that girl,” said Lady Catherine nearly hissing. “Paying off Northover to marry her is a cheap price to prevent that.”

On hearing this admitted, Darcy felt as though he had received a blow. He suddenly wished to sit, but instead he remained standing, facing his aunt.

“Fitzwilliam,” Catherine continued, softening her tone. “Do not think only of the common here at Rosings, but of Pemberley too. Georgiana’s settlement will be costly for the estate. If you wish Pemberley to be preserved for future generations, you must marry well, and you could not do better in that regard than Anne.”

She was right, at least, about that. He did owe a duty to Pemberley, to his ancestors, and to future generations. But still. “My feelings in the matter are to mean nothing, then?”

“What are feelings, nephew, but fleeting things that change with the seasons? They do not matter, except your feelings of pride in your family, and in your position.”

Family pride, Darcy thought miserably, he had always had that. Would it sustain him, he wondered, without Miss Elizabeth Bennet?

But could he turn his back on the good people of Rosings Park would be displaced when their common was lost? And could he risk the diminishment of Pemberley by failing to consider the resources of his marriage partner?

Elizabeth Bennet was without fortune. It is true that her wit, her liveliness, her intelligence and her charm would augment Pemberley. He could not think of a more suitable mistress so far as that went.

But the fact remained that Pemberley would be diminished by Georgiana’s settlement, and he might well find himself—or rather his children might find themselves—in the same position as Northover with Hardwick Park.

He looked once again at his aunt and saw that her features were hard and remorseless. She would not be moved by him. She would not vary her in her design.

“Marry my daughter, as your late mother and I arranged so many years ago,” she said this gently, softly, but her visage Darcy saw, was as obdurate as the stones from which Rosings Park was fashioned.

“Do your duty, Fitzwilliam,” said Lady Catherine, and now her tone was commanding. “Marry Anne!”

Chapter 16, Georgiana’s Birthday

January 2, 1813

Darcy was shocked.

He knew he ought not to have been, that he ought to have expected such a thing having observed the affection shared between Georgiana and Mr. Pettigrew since the time of their first meeting in London, but nevertheless he could not believe that it had already progressed to this point.

“You asked me what I wanted for my birthday,” said Georgiana plaintively. “And I’ve told you: I wish for your permission to marry Mr. Pettigrew.”

“Why has the man not come to see me himself?” Darcy said. He tried to conceal his anger—it was Georgiana’s eighteenth birthday after all—but it felt as though every fiber of his being was strained to the breaking point. “That is the custom in society, as I understand it. Or is Mr. Pettigrew so ill-bred that he does not know it? It is up to the gentleman to speak to the . . .”

Darcy had been going to say, “speak to the father,” but stopped himself before finishing, realizing that he was not Georgiana’s father, but her brother only.

“Mr. Pettigrew sees you as my father,” said Georgiana, reading her brother’s thoughts. “He would not wish to marry me without your permission, and your blessing. You are my guardian after all.”

Darcy sat down in an upholstered chair and leaned back, looking up at his sister. They were in the sitting room adjacent to their bed chambers. Georgiana—wisely, Darcy thought—had waited for an opportunity when they were alone to put the matter to him. She had also chosen her birthday when he would be most amenable to the proposition.

B

ut Georgiana to marry Mr. Pettigrew!

Why, the man had no family to speak of at all. He had never attempted to conceal that he came from trade, and unlike Charles Bingley—who had at least inherited his fortune—Pettigrew was a self-made man. That he should marry a Darcy was unthinkable!

“Have you given any thought to what others will think of this match? What would our mother have thought?”

Georgiana sat down across from him and leaned forward in her chair. Her eyes were large, and in their deep blue depths, Darcy saw a plea for understanding.

“I do not suppose that our mother would approve,” she said softly. “Nor do I think Lady Catherine will approve, though, since I’m only a daughter, and Mr. Pettigrew is very rich, she may have less objection to the marriage than you suppose.”

Darcy looked sharply at his sister. In this, he had to admit, she was shrewd: their aunt would give credit to Mr. Pettigrew’s wealth, and Georgiana would not take the Darcy name with her in any event.

But still, such a match was not what he had always hoped for his sister.

Darcy had always imagined that Georgiana would marry someone of her own rank and station. It was not merely a matter of wealth, or fortune, but of family and ancestral connection.