…Was back in London.
Yetanother day ofhis life wasted.
Darcy sat hunched over his desk, his pen poised over the page, but the words blurred before him. The single candle flickered in the late afternoon light, casting long shadows across the paper. The day’s correspondence lay neatly stacked at the corner of his desk—letters from allies, notes from political acquaintances—but the only one that mattered was the letter from Georgiana.
Her handwriting had always been careful, delicate, but here, the lines wavered.
Brother,
I know you must be disappointed in me. I know you must be furious. Cousin Richard says so. He says I have embarrassed you, that I have ruined myself, and that the best thing I can do is to stay hidden at Pemberley until the talk dies away. But the talk will never die away, will it? I will always be the girl who nearly ran away with a rake. I will always be the girl who was too foolish to listen.
I was furious, you know. Furious with Richard for taking me away, furious with you for being the reason I was sent to Ramsgate in the first place. And furious that no one would let me have what I wanted. Because I did want it, Fitzwilliam. I had feelings for him. I believed he cared for me.
Richard tried to tell me the truth. He told me that I was not the only girl Wickham had charmed, that I was only the latest in a long line of foolish, naïve creatures who had fallen for hislies.
I did not believe him. Not at first. He was so indulgent with me! But then I demanded an answer from Mrs. Reynolds, and she confirmed it. She had known things. She had always known. And I hated her for it. Hated all of you for keeping me in the dark while you knew perfectly well what kind of man he was.
I do not hate you now.
I do not know what I feel.
I am still angry. But I think I am more grieved than anything.
I was angry at you for listening to old Uncle Matlock, for leaving me, for being too busy to think of me—but now, I think I was just angry because I was alone.
I have spent so much time at Pemberley with nothing to do but think, and out of boredom, I started reading Father’s old letters. At first, I thought they would make me feel better. But they have only made me cry.
I miss him, Fitzwilliam. And I miss you.
And I am angry that I never got to know Mother. I do not even know what her voice sounded like. I used to think that did not bother me, but it does. And it makes me angrier than I can explain. More angry still that I cannot beg you to hold me when I cry.
I never wanted you tostand for the seat—I know you did not want it either. I wish you had never stood. I wish you were here instead.
I do not know what will become of me now.
Georgiana
He had expected anger. He had even expected the anger to give way, in time, to understanding—hopefully, even, to maturity. In the process, he had feared she would blame herself, but this—this heart-wrenching grief, this desolate isolation and the self-recrimination her words visited upon him—those, he had not been prepared for.
He reached for a fresh sheet of paper and dipped his pen, then paused, gripping the back of his neck.
How could he put it into words? How could he make her understand that nothing—nothing—mattered to him more than her?
He touched the nib of the pen to the page.
Georgiana,
No. That was too abrupt. He crumpled the paper and began again on a new sheet.
My dearest sister,
Too sentimental? He did not wish to smother her. She was in an agitation that would not be resolved with platitudes and vain assurances. He frowned, reaching for a new sheet.
I am not angry with you.
He hesitated. Was that what she needed to hear? Richard had said she expected his fury. Was it better to reassure her? Or would that only make her feel more ashamed?
Darcy exhaled sharply, setting the pen down. Words had never failed himbefore.
