Duty and Desire
Duty and Desire
Home! Darcy, closed his eyes and relaxed into the dip and sway of the coach. He had barely allowed himself to think of Pemberley or even the journey there until the truth of their departure made itself apparent to all his senses. But now he could think of it, for the obstacles had been swept all away yesterday as if by miracle.
Hinchcliffe had laid the last bit of business before him by eleven, giving him ample opportunity for a light nuncheon and an invigorating turn about the square before his appointment with Lawrence. The interview had gone surprisingly well and Darcy left Cavendish Square for his club with the famed artist firmly commissioned to see Georgiana for preliminary sketches within a week of their arrival in Town. A multitude of carriages in the street and servants about the doors forewarned him that Boodle's would be crowded and, for distaste of more undesired attention, he almost turned away. But, as Darcy made his way around the salons and card tables, the talk had been all of a young peer newly-returned from the Continent whose maiden speech before Parliament had sent the Tory majority into a choking fury.
"The fellow's a lunatic," voiced more than one of Darcy's fellow members. "Or worse," was the usual rejoinder concerning the impassioned but ill-judged speech defending the fanatical, loom-smashing followers of "General Ludd" against the current Bill which called for their summary execution.
"He must relish living dangerously," Lord Devereaux ventured as he threw down his hand in response to Darcy's king of diamonds, "for he also is in a fair way of becoming Lady Caroline's new pet... and Lamb's latest humiliation. Did you observe them at Melbourne's on Friday?" Darcy's ears had pricked up at the reference.
"Good Lord, yes! What a display!" replied Sir Hugh Goforth, "Thought Lamb would call the fellow out for encouraging his wife in such an outrageous start. If she were my wife, the lady would be stitching handkerchiefs behind locked doors on my remotest estate and my Lord Byron would be awaking about this time in the hold of an India-bound ship."
A chorus of nods had agreed with this avowal and, not long after, the game broke up. Darcy had called for his coat and took his leave shortly thereafter without one inquiry addressed to him concerning the accursed knot. As Boodle's door closed behind him, he thanked Heaven that the actions of the dangerously foolish Lord Byron had so quickly displaced his notoriety in the public mind.
The last appointment of the day had been the one he had most dreaded. His preoccupation with the coming evening could not have been more obvious. Fletcher, while carefully preparing him for dinner at Aldford Street, had been forced to issue discrete instructions in order to get the task done. Oddly enough, his valet had offered no other comment, preferring instead to express himself by dressing him in the severest black coat and trousers in his possession. All his concentration on the evening ahead of him, Darcy had not noticed his funereal appearance until he had entered Bingley's drawing room at the appointed hour and been greeted by a pair of startled looks.
"Heavens, Darcy! No bad news, I hope!" Bingley had risen and quickly come to his side while Miss Bingley had laid a hand to her heart and brought a handkerchief to her lips.
"Bad news?" Darcy stared at the two in confusion. "I should think not! Why should you think that?"
"Your dress, Darcy," the worry on his friend's face changing into amusement. "For a moment I thought the King had died! What is your man thinking of, turning you out like a great black crow?" he laughed as he circled 'round him to observe the entire effect.
He had looked down, then, at the unembelished, unrelieved black of his costume and pursed his lips in ire with Fletcher, but there was naught he could do. What can not be mended must be borne, he reminded himself, but his valet's message was very clear: he was a harbinger of doom.
"Mr. Darcy looks like nothing remotely resembling a crow, Charles," Miss Bingley had recovered herself and advanced toward them. "It is the fashion now for gentlemen to dress with such understated elegance, a la Brummell. Mr. Darcy is merely in advance of the style, which you would do well to emulate, Brother." Darcy bowed over her hand and was surprised to feel it grip his own in signal, but of what, he knew not.
"Well, if not a crow, then a raven...a very Brummellian raven, if you must have it so, Caroline!" Bingley laughed, but the smile behind his eyes was faint. "But, come Darcy. Dinner is ready and it is just the three of us tonight." He sighed then, and lapsed into silence as they crossed the room and hall.
"You must wonder to see me in Town, Mr. Darcy," Miss Bingley eyed her brother nervously and her voice quavered. "Charles was most surprised, thinking he had left me well situated in Hertfordshire, which, of course, he had. But, alas, I am not as enamoured of the country as my brother... at least, not of Hertfordshire. I ask you sir, what would I do with only Louisa and Hurst for company! And at this season!" she laughed, but its pitch rang false and Darcy noticed Bingley flinch at the sound.
"The neighbourhood was at your feet, Caroline," Bingley spoke quietly, "You would not have lacked for company, I am certain."
"Perhaps you are right, but I should have greatly missed our friends in Town. And the shopping, you know! What is Meryton to London for shopping?" Miss Bingley had looked to Darcy for conformation.
"I would gladly have squired you on a shopping expedition," Bingley replied before Darcy could come to his sister's assistance. "There was no need to close Netherfield." She began to protest, but he cut her off, "But this is ground already covered and I am sure we do not wish to bore Darcy with family squabbles." Miss Bingley coloured at his words, casting a brief, pleading look Darcy's direction.
Darcy hesitated. The atmosphere was fraught with tension and, for perhaps the first time, he was finding it difficult to read his friend. Had Miss Bingley followed his instructions or had the two gone toe to toe over Miss Bennet? Bingley offered him no clues, his eyes focused down upon his plate as servants flittered about, performing the well-choreographed motions of serving a gentleman's dinner. Miss Bingley delicately cleared her throat.
"How went your interview with Lawrence today?" Bingley's eyes came up, his countenance suggesting that he was willing to be amused.
"Quite well, actually," he had replied, thankful to be relieved of the responsibility of lighting upon a topic of conversation. "I expected to be treated to all manner of high, artistic sensibilities and nerves, but Lawrence was quite civil and his studio was in every way respectable."
"No paint thrown against the walls or scandalously-clad models lying about, then?"
Darcy laughed, "No, nothing of the kind. I am sorry to disappoint you, but it was all rather business-like. I was shown to his study, offered tea and asked what sort of portrait I had in mind. We then repaired to his studio where he showed me samples of his finished work and some in progress. We agreed upon a date for Georgiana's first sitting, I was thanked for my patronage and shown out the door. Done and done in a matter of three quarters of an hour!"
"Shocking! All my notions of artists are tumbled over," Bingley had quipped back in a manner more like himself. "I suppose I must content myself with Lord Brougham's description of L'Catalani's hysterics on Friday last to sustain my impression of the artistic temperament."
The rest of their dinner had been taken in the same light manner. Miss Bingley relaxed somewhat as they ate and talked but refrained from her customary domination of the conversation. Instead, she had occupied herself with indulgent attention to her brother's stories, punctuating them with meaningful glances in Darcy's direction, the content of which he could only guess. By the time Bingley had excused Darcy and himself to his study after dinner, she was biting her lower lip, but whether in vexation or agitation of nerves, Darcy could not tell.
Charles had again fell silent as they strolled to his study and, not finding a creditable way of relieving it, Darcy had followed suit. The study door had not even clicked behind them before Charles was extending a heavy, cut-glass tumbler of light amber liquor toward him. His own, he held up in salute and downed it entire as Darcy looked on in consternation.
"Charles..." he had begun, but was stopped by the closed eyes and uncharacteristically grim line of his friend's mouth. Bingley had opened his eyes then and tilted his head at him.
"Do you remember our conversation at the coaching inn last week? You warned me there of my propensity to exaggerate." Bingley's gaze bore into his own and it had required a good deal of command on his part not to look away.
"Yes, I remember," he had replied quietly.
"And also, you cautioned me of becoming so enthralled with the phantoms of my imagination that I would render myself disgusting to family, friends and society in general." Bingley withdrew his gaze and turned to pouring another round from the decanter.
"You were more than tolerant of my advice, Charles," he had offered back, still unsure of his friend's state of mind. Bingley held out the decanter to him, but he had refused it.
"I have thought a great deal about what you said, Darcy. I have argued with myself and, in my mind, with you as well." He bent and snatched away the scattering of papers from the chairs by the hearth and then indicated they should sit down. "I have spent the last two days, since her surprising arrival, testing what I believed true against Caroline's observations."
He seemed to remember squirming in his chair at this point in Bingley's narrative, but he hoped it had not been so. Bingley had paused and looked into the flames of the hearth for so long a time that he had been hard put to maintain a disinterested attitude. Then, with a small sigh, he had continued.
"I have also thought long on Lord Brougham's admonition and, in the light of the love my friends and family bear me, I have come to a conclusion." He lifted his eyes again and with a self-deprecating smile confessed, "You were right, Darcy. I have greatly misled myself in believing Miss Bennet offered anything more than her friendship. It was all my own doing. No blame should ever be attached to her, ever..." He took another swallow from his glass. "She shall always be my ideal of womanhood...her beauty, her gentleness. I shall carry her always with me, but to further my desires would only cause her distress and that I could not bear," he ended in a whisper.
As the coach sped north through the gathering dawn, Darcy recalled how he had looked down into his glass, unable to think of what he should reply. He had achieved his object with, as it seemed, fewer tedious confrontations than he had feared and had retained Bingley's friendship in the bargain, yet he could not entirely rejoice in his success. Relief, he concluded, was his chief emotion. There was little danger of encountering the Bennet sisters ever again. Charles would survive his heartbreak and not blame him for it. Yet, it pained him to see Charles dispirited so, whose habitually sunny disposition had supported his own more reserved one on so many occasions.
"It is for the best," he had finally uttered and he found himself repeating the solecism now.
"Mr. Darcy?" In the opposite corner Fletcher struggled to attention from a doze which began mere blocks from Grosvenor Square. "Pardon me, sir. Did you say something?"
"It is for the best, Fletcher. It usually is, is it not?"
His valet gave him a brief, curious look before sliding back into his restful position against the cushions. "If it has been placed in the hands of Providence, sir, it is invariably so."
Darcy settled back into the dark green squabs of his traveling coach as the toll gate at Hampstead vanished behind them in the half-light of early morning . Unbuttoning his great coat only enough to reach inside his waistcoat, he pulled out his pocket watch and held it up to the feeble light. It was a quarter past seven, which meant that they had taken less than an hour to navigate the streets of the city and pass through the toll. Now the road before the horses lay wide and free. The smart snap of his driver's whip cracked against the approaching dawn, assuring Darcy that James Coachmen was not unaware of these excellent conditions nor of his master's impatience to be home. The coach surged forward.
"Heigh-yup, there!" Darcy leant forward, almost pressing his face against the coach's window as James Coachman encouraged the team's leader to take the curve which would bring them into Lambton at a safer pace. He knew their temperament as the horses were Darcy's own, kept against his return at the last posting inn before Lambton, and their eagerness to return to their familiar stableboxes was keeping James well occupied with the ribbons. Snow lying a foot deep glinted and winked at Darcy under a brilliant but chill winter sun as the coach jounced and laboured through the ruts carved into the road. It was late afternoon as they approached the village yet, despite the dusting of new-fallen snow that morning, Lambton still bustled in its own country way, shaking out its apron and getting on with its small concerns as confidently as any great London establishment.
The horses were reined in to a walk as they entered St. John Street and passed the village's now frozen pond. Several big lads armed with brooms were ranged against each other on its icy surface waiting for one of their mates to launch the stone down a path cleared of the morning's offering. Before they were lost from view, Darcy saw the stone curled and the other lads begin furiously brushing the ice to assist its slide.
"Strapping curl, that," Fletcher commented as he sat back again after joining his master at the window. Darcy grunted a cordial agreement, his attention already engaged in taking note of any changes in the village since his departure in early fall. A new thatch here and a bit of whitewashing there were the only differences, but the snow hugging the corners and o'er hanging the eaves of the snug houses and familiar establishments of Lambton framed a view for him second only in dearness to Pemberley itself.
A shout from the street caused Darcy and Fletcher to look ahead. With effort Darcy repressed the smile of anticipation on his face, as the innkeepers of both the Green Man and Black's Head inns emerged from their doors on opposite sides of the street at the same moment. For several years now it had been a point of honour between the two to be the first one to greet any Darcy equipage that passed through the village . Last fall Matling, of the Black's Head, had hustled out his wife to add her curtsy to his tug of the forelock when he had left for London, causing old Garston of the Green Man to look his rival daggers as the coach had passed. Today, Darcy could see, Matling had his wife by his side once more as his coach drew near and he nodded an acknowledgment of the pair's greeting as he passed by. But as Matling looked to the steps of the Green Man to crow his victory, Darcy observed the pleasure his regard had brought fade away to be replaced with a terrible scowl.
"Mr. Darcy, look sir!" Fletcher's voice almost choked with the laughter as he motioned out the opposite window. There on the steps of the Green Man, arranged from the oldest to the youngest, were all of old Garston's grandchildren curtsying or tugging, with Garston himself beaming and tugging behind them.
The children gave a cheer as Darcy, shaking his head at the innkeepers keen rivalry, waved to them. When the carriage turned the corner he settled back into the seat with a grin the match of that upon his valet's face. The horses were permitted to pick up their pace a bit as they reached the end of the line of shops on St. John and turned onto King Street. In moments they passed the village well, it's pure waters famous for staving off the Black Death of one hundred and fifty years before, and the lime bordered lane which led up a gentle hill to St. Lawrence's Church, whose embattled tower and spires had stood against the world for five centuries and had answered to Heaven for the well-being of the Darcy soul for three of them. Then, it was over an ancient stone bridge spanning the Ere which met and then meandered along Pemberley's border and on to the gates of the park, five miles beyond, at as spanking a pace as the road would allow.
"It shall be good to be home, sir," Fletcher offered as Darcy once again turned to the window, eager for the long-desired sight of his ancestral lands and home.
"Mmm," was all he replied as the coach pulled into the lane and up to the imposing gates which were, even now, being flung open in welcome. Pemberley's gatekeeper waved the team and coach through and, pausing to tug at his forelock, lifted a wide smile in greeting to the travelers before scurrying to close the wrought-iron barrier behind them.
"Is that a sprig of holly in Samuel's cap, Fletcher?" Darcy nodded appreciatively at his gatekeeper's warm welcome.
"I believe it is, sir. Yes, indisputably holly. Entirely appropriate due to the season, sir."
"Ah, yes...the season." Darcy fell silent once more, his attention wholly focused on their passage down the long drive. The private lane wove its unhurried way through the wood that girdled the outer reaches of the park. Designed a century ago under the aegis of Darcy's great-grandfather, it required approaching visitors to slow their horses to a collected trot and then rewarded their patience with more than a few charming views of secluded glades and tumbling streams that formed the untouched, natural beauty of Pemberley's lands.
The great trees o'er hanging the lane were heavy-laden with snow and, in the late afternoon sun, they cast long, lavender shadows across the lane and into the wood beyond, enveloping the coach in a frosty stillness that defied the fact of its steady progress. Darcy opened the window and took a deep breath of the sharp air, savoring the familiar, tangy taste of it like a fine wine. They were almost there. The team quickened its gait, their excitement transmitting itself to the occupants of the coach moments before they broke free of the wood at the crest of the hill. Suddenly, all of Pemberley lay before them, glittering like a fallen star upon a crystalline sea.
The mellow walls of the west facade glowed rosily in the light of the setting sun, the corners cooling to violet as they glanced away from the fading glow. Despite that orb's impending retreat, the windows of Pemberely seemed to gather the remaining fire and, themselves a-blaze with reflected glory, mirror the red-gold rays out upon the surrounding snow, the effect immeasurably heightened by its twin reflected in the frozen pond below it. Seeing it, Darcy felt his heart turn over and the weight of the past weeks lessen.
They began their descent from the crest immediately. The horses, a-tremble with desire for home, broke into a canter from which no one on the coach wished to dissuade them. The pounding of their hooves beat at counterpoint to the creak of leather and wood and the rattle of glass as they reached the bottom of the hill and rounded the last curve of the lane, flinging stones and mud in a grand show of homecoming. They reached the straight-laid approach to Pemberley Hall and Darcy could hear James calling to the leader as he worked the ribbons upon the team's tender mouths. They slowed to a trot, then a fast, stiff-legged walk and, finally, to a collected stroll that brought the coach to a gentle stop before the arched entrance of Pemberley's enclosed courtyard.
Well before they had come to a stop the courtyard had erupted into activity. Grooms from the stable caught at the ribbons of the leader, welcoming the horses home with rough affection. A small army of footman appeared to wrest the trunks from the coach's boot while Reynolds, himself, opened the coach door.
"Welcome home, Mr. Darcy! Welcome home, sir!" the butler's voice shook slightly as Darcy climbed down from the coach.
"Reynolds! It is good to be home...more than good," he smiled back at yet another of his people who had known him since boyhood. He looked up at the greenery that bedecked the archway into the courtyard. "You have received my instructions, I see."
"Yes sir! We have made a beginning, but Miss Darcy wanted to consult with you more particularly before we proceeded any further with decorations." Reynolds leant forward conspiratorially and whispered, "She's been happy as a grig, sir, going through all the gewgaws in the attics and inspecting the Christmas linen and plate. Thanks be!" He straightened then and turned to direct the disposal of the trunks while Darcy strode through the archway.
As Darcy lengthen his stride toward the double flighted stair leading into the hall he looked up to catch a flash of colour at the second floor window which commanded the most favourable view of the approaching drive and yard. He stopped and with narrowed eye searched the window for another glimpse. None was vouchsafed to him so, with a smile to himself, he proceeded up one of the stairs, his hands already working at his greatcoat buttons so as to divest himself of encumbrances as soon as he was inside the doors. The task was completed as the doors swung open and the coat neatly shrugged off into the care of a footman, but to no purpose. Georgianna was not in the hall. He looked about questioningly, but recalled himself as Mrs. Reynolds and the upper staff bowed their greetings to the homecomer.
"Mr. Darcy, welcome home, sir!" Mrs. Reynolds repeated both the words and heartfelt sincerity of her husband's greeting.
"Mrs. Reynolds! Thank you. It is very good to be home, ma'm." Darcy grinned down into the face of a woman who had been intimate with the life of his family since he was four years old. "Is Miss Darcy not here to greet me?"
"Miss Darcy will receive you in the music room, sir, as is proper. She being no longer a moppet-miss, a-running down the stairs the moment you come home," Mrs. Reynolds scolded him affectionately. "Now it's you who must run! Up to the music room with you, sir, to a sight that'll gladden your heart," her words caught in her throat for a moment as her old eyes misted, "as it has gladdened this old soul's." She quickly wisked a handkerchief from her apron pocket and wiped them as she motioned with the other hand to the stairs. "Go on with you!"
"Yes, ma'm," Darcy responded obediently but then qualified it with a sly smile, "if you will have dinner early this evening. The talents of the new cook at the Leicester Arms were somewhat questionable thus, I have not partaken of more than bread, cheese and local brew since before noon."
"No more than we suspected, sir," Mrs. Reynolds sniffed. "Miss Darcy has planned a fine welcome dinner that will be ready at six o'clock, if it please you, sir."
"Miss Darcy has...?" Darcy looked up the stairs in wonder. "You will excuse me, ma'm." He nodded to her curtsey and made for the stairs to the rooms on the second floor. A spark of hope made common cause with his ever-vigilant caution in all things touching his sister as Darcy hurried up the stairs to the music room. A few quick strides from the top he slowed his pace in happy expectation of being welcomed with enticing strains from the pianoforte or a soft, melodious voice, but neither fell upon his ears. Only the tick of the great hall clock celebrated his approach. What was Georgiana about? his brow furrowed in puzzlement. She had not come down to welcome him home nor, would it appear, was she occupied in greeting his arrival with song. Perhaps Mrs. Reynolds was mistaken and she did not await him in the music room. He stopped at the conjunction of the hall he now traversed with another which led to the private family rooms and bit his lower lip as he peered down each in turn, the accumulating silence preying upon his hopes Could it be that he had deluded himself. Had the changes in her letters been merely his own wishful thinking!
In an unease which increased with every step, Darcy continued down the darkening hall until he reached the edge of the softly glowing island of light that fell from out the music room door. He stopped just outside the reaches of the glow and vainly tried to throw his senses before him, as if he might, in some way, gain some premonition of what awaited him within, but no impression was gifted to him. Denied by his creatureliness of even a modicum of foreknowledge, he took a deep breath in preparation for whatever might come and quietly crossed the threshold.
She was sitting on one of the pair of divans that faced each other across a low table, her back to the window, her figure erect but pliant. She was attired becomingly but quite simply in a fine blue wool frock edged with knitted lace which, while modest, left no doubt that she had bid girlhood adieu. Her eyes were downcast, apparently fixed upon her delicately formed hands which lay in her lap, allowing him only a view of the dark, glossy curls which framed her brow. There had been no change. Darcy’s shoulders sagged, his disappointment a keen-edged threat to the hope he had nurtured for the last several weeks. The temptation to despair nearly overtook him, but he thrust it away. Georgiana needed him, needed his strength, and in this, he vowed, he would not fail her.
“Georgiana?” he ventured softly.
At her name, Georgiana’s head came up and, to Darcy’s amazement, merry stars danced for joy in the eyes that met his own. She rose gracefully from the divan, a shy smile wreathing her face and, without a word, stretched out her arms to him. Without knowing how he came there, he found himself across the room, standing over her. “Georgiana!” he choked out and in the next moment his arms were entirely full and wonderfully engaged in holding the dearest of sisters against his heart.
“Dear Brother,” Georgiana breathed gently against his waistcoat. Darcy blinked rapidly several times before allowing her to pull away sufficiently to look up into his face. “I cannot tell you how happy I am that you are home!”
The purity of expression upon her face, so completely in opposition to her woeful melancholy of the summer past, bereft him of speech. He could only look with thankful wonder into the placid depths uplifted to him. Georgiana bushed at his scrutiny and rested her burning cheek once more upon his chest before he could assure her of his own joy in being home.
“I had meant to receive you properly,” she murmured against the haven he still held her within. “I had meant to be quite formal, you know, and say, ‘So, you are home, Brother’ and ‘How was your journey?’ She pulled back from his embrace, “But it all flew out of my head when you came and stood over me. Oh, dear, dear Brother!” The smile she bestowed then upon him gave Darcy’s heart to turn again within his chest and once more, he could not speak.
“Shall you have some tea now before you dress for dinner? It is all here on the table.”
“Y-yes,” he managed to respond, “tea would be perfect.” He released her with reluctance and allowed her to lead him down onto the divan beside her. The dimple they both had inherited from their father peeped out from her softly rounded cheek as she set about pouring, deepening yet more as she turned to present him his cup.
“There, you have not been gone so long that I have forgotten how you like it, but do tell me if I have remembered amiss.” He took the cup and sipped at it cautiously, determined to pronounce it ‘perfect’ regardless of the taste. There was no need of prevarication; it was just as he preferred and for some inexplicable reason that fact seemed to loose a signal that raced throughout his entire frame communicating sweet relief from the haunting guilt he had carried since spring. The sigh that escaped his lips was unquenchable. Georgiana laughed softly but, at the curious light that arose in his eyes, lowered her own to her cup in some confusion.
“You have remembered exactly, Dearest,” Darcy hastened to assure her, hoping to see the dimple again, but Georgiana remained preoccupied with her cup. Although a hundred questions concerning her transformation fought each other to be voiced, he hesitated to broach the subject, fearful that their mention would shatter the wonderful peace that sheltered them at that moment. It were better not to stray without the bounds of polite social intercourse, he decided, until he was more sure of her condition. “Should you like to hear of my journey home?” he inquired gently, “or would you rather hear of London?”
At his question, her delicate chin rose slightly, but she still did not look at him, preferring instead to examine the intricacies of the tatting of her napkin. “Truly, Brother, I should like most of all to hear of Hertfordshire.” Her gaze flickered quickly to his face and then away. Darcy could not guess what she saw there, for his surprise at her request was complete and he had had no opportunity to school his features.
“Hertfordshire!” he repeated, somewhat hoarsely. Something inside of him clenched and a sudden rememberance of lavender and sun-kissed curls sent shards of longing to pierce and shred what remained of his equanimity.
“Yes,” she replied, her dimple returning as she cocked her head and looked directly at him. “Your letter from London told nothing of the ball. Was it well attended?” The re-animation of her manner put Darcy in a quandary. How devoutly he wished to forget Hertfordshire! or, at least, to relegate it to those times when he was safely alone and able to come to grips with the memories it conjured up. So quickly, its mention had discomposed him, sending him into places he dare not go without great care. Yet, this dangerous subject was the one thing that his sister most desired of him!
“Yes,” he answered her, looking away, “it was extremely well attended. It was not long before I began to believe that the entire county was in attendance.” He hoped his dampening tone would discourage any further probing of that evening.
“And Mr. Bingley? He must have been pleased that so many honoured his invitation.” Georgiana smiled in anticipation of her brother’s affirmation of Bingley’s pleasure.
“Bingley was quite pleased.” Darcy paused, ostensibly to indulge in more of his tea, but in truth, to order his thoughts. “I should say that Miss Bingley was pleased as well. At least at the start of the evening,” he amended. A questioning look appeared on Georgiana’s face but she did not pursue his qualification. Her interest, as he would discover, lay elsewhere.
“Did he dance with the young lady you wrote of? Miss Bennet?”
“Yes,” Darcy replied curtly.
“Did he show her any particular attention?” Darcy looked closely now at his sister, but could detect no ulterior interest in Bingley’s affairs in her bright eyes. No, she does not ask this for herself, he decided. She does not think of him as anything other than my friend.
“He very nearly made a fool of himself over her, I regret to say,” he replied in a voice rather more harsh than he had intended, “but he has come to his senses and put Miss Bennet behind him. I do not believe he will return to Hertfordshire,” he ended firmly, but softened at his sister’s paled countenance. “It was nothing very shocking, Georgiana, just poor judgement on his part, I assure you. He is well out of it and a wiser man for it.”
“As you say...but, poor Mr. Bingley!” Georgiana’s face clouded and she looked down into her cup. After a few moments of silence between them, wherein Darcy deemed the subject closed, he put down his own cup and, relieving Georgiana of hers, possessed himself of her hands. They lay soft and compliant in his strong, corded ones and she did not resist as he brought first one and then the other to his lips in tender salute.
“Do not concern yourself, Dearest. He is a man grown, and can take his knocks. You know his happy nature. He will recover.”
Georgiana returned him a serious regard. “But what of Miss Elizabeth Bennet? Did she correct her opinion of you? How shall I meet her if Mr. Bingley does not return to Hertfordshire nor wish to renew the acquaintance?”
Darcy almost dropped her hands in astonishment. “Is this the meaning of your distress? You wish to meet Miss Elizabeth Bennet! Pray...why, Georgiana?”
Georgiana gently pulled her hands from his grasp and, with her brother’s eyes intent upon her, rose from the divan and walked to the old pianoforte at the window. She ran her fingers along its smooth, polished side before turning back to him and his question.
“I told you in my letter that I can not bear to think that someone you admire does not return your admiration and, indeed, thinks ill of you. I would know whether she admitted her error.” She looked to him for conformation, but seeing his face hurried to add, “Oh, not in words, perhaps, but in her regard? Did you part on amiable terms?”
“As a gentleman, I can not say whether the terms were regarded amiably on Miss Elizabeth’s part. That would be for her to affirm or deny,” Darcy replied carefully, his curiosity at his sister’s interest in Elizabeth overcoming his determination to put away all thoughts of her.
“Were they amiable on your part, then?” The innocently hopeful look she cast him gave him to wish he had tried more faithfully to follow her sisterly advice.
“I followed your advice to the best of my poor ability,” he smiled ruefully as he joined her at the instrument. “I was as amiable as I am able to be on a ballroom floor.”
“You danced with her, then?”
Darcy could have groaned. The more he attempted to conceal, the more she seemed to learn. At this rate, she would soon be in possession of the entire story. He looked in wonder at her as she stood there before him, her eyes so alive with interest. Her transformation was astonishing, nay, miraculous, and Darcy meant to know exactly how it had taken place. He would start tomorrow, but he had not yet the nerve to tax Georgiana with it. Darcy made a mental note to interview at first light the woman under whose care Georgiana had overcome so grievous a wound.
He shook his head at her, refusing to answer her question and then smiled down into her upturned face. “My dear girl, if you would have a moment by moment account you must provide me greater sustenance than a dish of tea. Now, what have you ordered for this dinner Mrs. Reynolds spoke of? For, I warn you, I am that hungry!”
The dimple that cleft his cheek was swiftly matched by its feminine counterpart as Georgiana returned his loving gaze. Softly, she slipped into his arms once more. “Oh, Fitzwilliam, I am ever so glad you are home!”
His arms tightly woven about her, Darcy looked thankfully to Heaven and then, burying his face into her gathered curls, could only find the strength to whisper in reply, “No more than I, Dearest. No more than I.”
On to Chapter 6
Back to Chapter 4
Duty and Desire
