But Georgiana… she would need a steady sister, one who could counsel her and encourage her, one who could navigate Society and charm the mothers of sons, one who could mentor her as she prepared to make her curtsy. And naturally, such a woman could not have come from trade! How many such women were accepted at court? Certainly, not more than one had been presented. Two perhaps. Three at the utmost.
Darcy tried to return to his letter, but if he had struggled to express himself before, it was impossible now. He had been thinking to ask Georgiana to come to London, for he could not easily depart for Pemberley until his private affairs were sorted. How long that would be, he could not be certain, but at the very least there was the financial bother with Anne and his aunt and their retrenching.
There were also a new butler and housekeeper to bring on. Mrs Reynolds and Hodges should be arriving from Pemberley soon to oversee the process of replacing the remaining staff, but he would insist on meeting each new hire they recommended. He meant to be the master once again, and this time, he would take care to know each person who worked for him as well as his own friends. After all, it did not take so very long to know someone intimately… one day, to be exact. His head fell between his hands.
Egad, how he wanted her! His cool detachment when speaking with Fitzwilliam was nothing but a sham, for if he had shown even a glimmer of his true preference, he would be on a horse to Hertfordshire within half an hour of the confession. Everything about her, from her easy wit and vivacity to her gentle compassion, her honesty and her resolve… could there be a woman better formed for him? And how easily she had seemed to adapt herself to his peculiarities! Surely, she cared for him. Yet, when he had spoken, she had refused, and when he had called again on her uncle, she would not see him.
Perhaps it had been his address. Something in his manner which bespoke uncertainty, or insincerity. What was it he had said?
“Some way… I could protect you,” he had mumbled. Perhaps he was not articulate, but how could that have given offence? “I know that the relative position of our families would render it disgraceful, but there must be some manner in which we can… perhaps something can be arranged. You would not need to wed that fool.”
Darcy dropped his hands from his face. Had he truly saidthat? By heaven, she must have thought him to be asking something utterly the reverse of his true intentions! Casually as he had tried to speak when discussing the very subject with Fitzwilliam, every feeling of attachment and civility recoiled at the notion. Make Elizabeth a Cyprian! ‘Twould be more loathsome than desecrating the great sculpture of Venus herself, and the man guilty of such a crime, a hundred times more wretched.
How she must have despised him! And again, his single-minded focus on only his own desires, without considering how he must have appeared to her, had dashed him. No man of feeling and consideration could so insult a woman of such integrity, whose happiness and welfare had become as dear to him as his own, by suggesting that she become a Paphian to suit his whims.
And yet, that was what she had understood. Darcy tried to stand, to walk to the fire and stare into it, but he was too nauseated. Weak with self-loathing and reproach, he clutched his eyes and tried to claw from them the vision of her: laughing eyes gazing up to him, full of trust and affection. In one ill-judged blurt of his cursed tongue, he had done away with her regard.
“Elizabeth,” he wept into his palm, “forgive me!” Oh! What he would give to have that moment back, to once again cradle her in his embrace for even one of her sweet kisses—long enough to assure her that she was a woman worthy of being pleased, worthy of any man… even himself. No, rather the reverse. He wished he might be worthy of her.
Trade daughter or no, there was no help for it. He loved Elizabeth Bennet—loved her with a devotion that defied all understanding, that could not be accounted for by the single day from which it had sprung. How could he ever accept a substitute? She was, as the old hermit in the Gardens had declared, more than she appeared, and anyone else who failed to recognise her qualities could go hang. “Lift up thine head; never lookest thee down,” he had counselled her. Indeed, she ought never have cause to do so!
And what of himself? He was a fool, with a missing heart. It was gone, given freely to an impertinent miss who became ill from too much motion. Perhaps that was one of the things he loved best about her! Perfectly imperfect, and at peace with her flaws. He clutched his head, all the glories and agonies of that one exquisite day flooding back.
“Hard it is,” the raving old fool had pronounced over him, “when cast down thou art from artifice and pride! Seekest not thou pleasing lips and hands that lie. Woe upon thee, if thou learnest not, for verily the price is thine love and life!”
Darcy blinked, his chest pounding and his ears ringing with comprehension. He had been such a blind, stupid fool! And he would be cursed to be a lonely one if he did not act.
He snatched another sheet of paper, his letter to Georgiana temporarily forgotten. Hertfordshire was near enough to London that he could be in Meryton in four hours, and back again for any need within a day. As soon as Mrs Reynolds set up command of the house, he could be free.
His resolve fixed, his heart set, he bent his head to his letter.
Dear Bingley…
Chapter thirty-five
“Darcy! I cannot tell you what pleasure it gives me to see you. Why, you have come a full two days before I expected you!”
“Bingley,” Darcy nodded to his friend as he entered the house, “forgive me for not arriving last week as I had first intended. I am afraid the delay was unavoidable.”
“Think nothing of it! I am only delighted that you have come. You must know how eager I have been to ask your opinion of the house. What do you think of it?”
Darcy looked up at the ceiling, then cast a cursory glance about the room. “The grounds are perfectly acceptable, and the house seems suitable. Have you been satisfied thus far?”
“Darcy, I cannot express how pleased I am with the situation! This is the friendliest county in all England. I simply must have you meet all my neighbours.”
Darcy nodded held up a hand. “In time, perhaps, but I am in no humour for meeting all the country gentlemen just now.”
“Oh, but they are quite amiable. Why, I have never met so many pleasant gentlemen in all my life. And a few of them had deuced handsome daughters!”
“Naturally. Bingley, I hope you have not attached yourself already to some country tart.”
“Darcy!” Bingley laughed, “Fastidious as ever. But I assure you, I have not yet met any angels in Hertfordshire. You know, you do have the most wondrous timing, old boy. I have been invited to an assembly tomorrow, and I am assured that some of my newneighbours will be in attendance. It is a public ball, so of course, it is not quite so private and therefore less to your tastes, but you simply must accompany me.”
“And spend the evening dancing with milk-faced farmers’ daughters and being stared at by their mercenary mothers? That is not why I came to Hertfordshire.”
“Naturally, Mr Darcy! Indeed, you have expressed my sentiments exactly.” Caroline Bingley had walked in upon their conversation and proceeded to draw close to his side, laughing immoderately at his ill-humoured remark. “And so I have told Charles, that the company here is terribly backward and uncivilised. Why, I simply do not know how I can endure a rowdy evening of country jigs and drunken boors. I could not even dare wear my fine gown to such a venue! I certainly hope none of our friends ever learn of it. We shall be laughed from all the better drawing rooms in London!”
“I doubt the stain of attending a public ball lingers as an odour about one’s person,” he assured her dryly. “But I have other reasons for preferring not to attend, if it is all the same to you, Bingley.”
