Why was she so insistent on keeping to that bare fifty pounds a year?
She had sworn to her father that she would not spend more, but she was not a gentleman who needed to pretend that an angry retort in the midst of a heated argument was a solemn vow before God. It was not like that vow made before the vicar when they made their marriage vows. If Elizabeth decided to do so, she could permit herself to spend more money on her clothes.
And, she ought to. No, she did not want to be uselessly fine, but it was sensible to make some effort to look the part of the mistress of Pemberley.
As that thought went through her head, a picture of her father, nodding with satisfaction, with the knowledge that he’d been proven right, went through her mind.
Elizabeth paced back and forth, angrily arguing with her father in her mind.
He’d eventually hear. He’d hear that she was famed in society for spending barely anything on her clothes, for dressing in cottons and wools instead of silks with gold embroidery. And then…
He’d sneer and tell her, the next time they saw each other when she visited her sisters and mother, that she was ridiculous, and that he knew full well that she’d still married Mr. Darcy for the money, even if she was sensible enough to focus on the enjoyment of more sensible purchases than impractical clothes.
She couldn't convince her father of anything.
Yet… yet…
Papa had accused her of being a… a… wanton, mercenary woman — just for the sake of fine dresses. Then she’d never wearthose fine dresses, and she would prove that she was better than he thought she was, even ifhenever understood. He didn’t need to understand.
He just needed to bewrong, wrong, wrong!
She walked back and forth past the thousands of books, filling the endless collection of tall bookcases that made up the Darcy library. There was a rolling ladder in a heavy dark wood.
She pressed her forehead against one of the windows, needing the cold to comfort herself.
Odd, at this moment she liked her husband — her autocratic, high handed, passionate, yet quiet, and demanding, yet generous husband far more than her father.
Did he really love her, like Georgiana thought?
Or did he merely enjoy their nightly connection? Men always did. Or at least that is what was said. She had not thought thatshewould come to enjoy it as something far more than merely pleasant.
Elizabeth turned around, and then she jumped in shock.
Georgiana stood there, quiet as a mouse, looking down, and wringing her hands together.
“Hello, Georgiana.”
She flushed.
Elizabeth smiled and asked, “How long have you stood here quietly?”
“Oh, just for a moment.”
“You tend to be very quiet.”
“People always seem to forget I am there.”
“You should not be so shy,” Elizabeth replied. “You have a fine mind and an excellent sense of humor. But I see that your feelings of shyness will not be shattered by anything so simple as beingtoldto be less shy — I must imagine I am not the first to try such a cure?”
Georgiana smiled a little. “Fitzwilliam often suggests Ishould be more bold.”
“And he is always right.”
“But I just… it is not so easy.”
Elizabeth took her arm, and they sat on one of the sofas near the banked fireplace. “What did you wish to ask me?”
“Did… when you met him, did Mr. Wickham say anything about me?”
