I remain yours most affectionately and in hopes of embracing you soon,
Elizabeth
Itwasinsupportable—unthinkable.
Darcy stared devotedly at the pages of his book, blotting out the other occupants of the room. The ladies would not mind if he said nothing—they ought to be accustomed to his silences by now. Georgiana knew him well enough, and his growing familiarity with the new Mrs Wickham had taught him one other thing about her—a thing he was not altogether pleased to have discovered. She could brood as thoroughly and laboriously as he.
What had passed through her mind on that first journey from London, as she gazed out one carriage window and he out the other? What did she consider when she wandered out into the cold outdoors, or stared into the fire by evening? Certainly, he knew no other ladies who could fall into deep, ponderous thought for hours on end, without troubling him for mundane chatter to soothe their nerves.
Darcy raised the book he was trying to read a little higher, hoping with it he might block his own view of the ladies at the pianoforte. His vision might be obstructed, but his ears were not. And they rang pleasantly with the sounds of feminine laughter and musical harmony.
Mrs Wickham—drat, but that name suited her ill—was no great talent. Rather, she was clearly unschooled in classical forms and her voice, while charming, carried no remarkable quality of melody. Still, hers was a voice he could listen to without desiring to be elsewhere, a thing that could be said for only a handful of persons. But it was dashedly irksome that she had to be so enchanting while he was in the same room.
Georgiana liked her. That was a wondrous comfort, for his sister had been ill at ease since her near disastrous attachment three months previous. And that was why he had settled on Elizabeth Bennet—she possessed just enough cheek to shake Georgiana from her protective shell, but enough practical wisdom to know what it was to plan for the future… to fear for her family’s welfare… to take little for herself so that others might have more.
To be sure, his stomach had twisted the first time he had sat at table with her and beheld the faint widening of her eyes at the generous spread, and the meagre portions she chose thereof. With each passing day, she had seemed to settle a little more, but there was still a hint of discomfort when Georgiana would press her to try one more buttered biscuit, one more sweet roll. But those same eyes had taken on a healthy sparkle in these last weeks that was altogether new.
Darcy shook his head and tried to read another line of his book.
“William? William, did you hear that?”
“What?” He dropped the book at last. Georgiana was flitting toward him in that girlish way she still had, her toes light on the carpet as she came to clasp his hand and coax him to his feet.
“Elizabeth said she would play for us and you can teach me how to dance the Allemande. Come, do not be a rock on the sofa all night.”
He stood reluctantly, and Mrs Wickham applied herself to a lively, if not flawless tune. Georgiana was no more skilled than the musician—all legs and arms, she was. The graceful girl she was had vanished when the music began. She was probably thinking of the last time she had danced with a man—not himself. It was a memory that ought to make her as uncomfortable as it made him.
“No, Georgiana, like this,” he tried to explain. Yet, she kept twisting to the side whenever he would try to step dos-à-dos with her. “No, you must fall back. Has not your dance master taught you this?”
Georgiana pushed away, her expression taut and frustrated, as the pianoforte went quiet. “Oh, I shall never get this! Yes, my master tried to teach me, but I have never yet managed it. Elizabeth said I should try with you, but I cannot picture how it goes. If I could see it done—oh! Elizabeth, you must come show me.”
Mrs Wickham’s hands dropped from the piano. “I am sure that is unnecessary, Miss Darcy.”
“No, it is! Come, William is a fine dancer. You mustn’t let this last performance with me make you think otherwise.”
Reluctantly, Darcy bowed to Mrs Wickham when she drew near. She curtsied gravely as Georgiana began to play, then her chin came up in near defiance with those first few steps. “If it is any comfort to you, sir, I despise dancing.”
“Indeed? How should that be a comfort to me?”
“I would not wish you to suppose that I could accidentally enjoy your discomfiture.” They turned twice, she gracefully spiralling about on her toes and ending perfectly positioned beside him.
“I am not discomfited, Mrs Wickham. Are you?”
“Not in the least, sir.” She casually tipped her forearm to the side for him to take her hand, her eyes locked straight forward.
“And I suppose you do not care for balls?” he asked.
“Perhaps I have never been to one.”
He clasped her hand and felt her back sliding against the inner part of his arm. She was warmer than he had expected. And softer. Remarkable what several weeks of Pemberley’s best had done for her figure.
“I believe you are misleading me, Mrs Wickham,” he said after a moment of silence. “You seem far too familiar with the steps for one who has never been to a ball.”
“It is not misleading to suggest an alternative supposition. I only said ‘perhaps.’ I did not declare it as a fact.”
“In that case, ‘perhaps’ I dislike dancing as much as you do,” he replied.
“Is it the dancing or the environment in general you dislike? Or perhaps it is the music or the selection of partners that displeases you?” She tipped her chin round to him for the first time, and he glanced down into her eyes… and immediately wished he had not done so.
