Of course, the matter was helped by how few of the staff knew the truth of what had taken place. Fortunately, though adjoined via a sitting room, Wickham and Georgiana had kept separate bedchambers while awaiting Darcy’s arrival. He’d since learned from Mrs. Reynolds that the maids had seen no evidence of…Darcy grimaced, not caring to consider what sort of evidence they might have seen. What mattered was that the staff believed his sister a virgin still and, aside from a select few, had no idea that Georgiana had actually wedded Wickham.
A foolish, foolish thing to do. How could she have strayed so fully? Perpetuated such a lie? Sometimes, Darcy had to fightagainst anger with her. Yes, Wickham could be charming, but no one had forced her to run off. Georgiana had done this to herself.
But his anger would change nothing, and would help his sister not at all. Being married to Wickham was more than punishment enough and far crueler than anything Darcy would ever devise.
Georgiana would be at her pianoforte now. She played endlessly and miserably, every song dull and full of sorrow. She did not seem to take any joy in the activity, but continued regardless. After over twelve months, Darcy could hardly stand to hear the notes. Mrs. Reynolds had conveyed that the staff avoided the music room as well.
Her new companion, Mrs. Annesley, seemed undeterred, however. She kept Georgiana company, and maintained unwavering calm. Darcy was very grateful to have her with them.
When he hired her on, he’d told Mrs. Annesley only that Georgiana had suffered a broken heart the previous summer. A half-truth it galled him to utter, but necessary. The more people who knew his sister’s shame, the greater the opportunity for the world at large to learn the truth.
Not that he could see what benefit hiding her transgression brought them. He held onto some vague hope that, with all the money he was funneling into Wickham, the man might drink himself to death. Or attempt one of those headlong phaeton races that seemed to entice reckless young men, and overturn on some ill-maintained stretch of roadway. What little word Darcy received from London told him that over the past year, Wickham had been banned from every legitimate club, where he’d been accepted at all. The seedier the company he chose to keep, the greater opportunity for some ill to befall him.
Darcy rubbed his forehead. He was reduced to this? Sitting at his desk, daydreaming about Wickham’s demise?
Shaking his head, he plucked back up Bingley’s letter and tried to sort his words. Obviously, something was troubling him. Something about which Bingley did not want to speak directly, but what? Had he taken this Netherfield Park place unseen and now regretted his actions? Did he want to invite Darcy there, but feared to be refused?
Or, perhaps, feared Darcy would make the journey, and see what a poor choice Bingley had made? After all, Darcy had never heard of a place called Meryton, in Hertfordshire. It must be a small, inconsequential sort of place. Even were the estate fine, society there would be lacking. Darcy doubted the whole area boasted even two families worth knowing.
He reached for a clean sheet of paper. The matter wouldn’t be made clear by speculation. He would compose a reply, enquiring for details of the estate. That should satisfy the bonds of friendship and garner at least a touch more information. In truth, despite the length of his letter, all Bingley had truly said was that he, both of his sisters, and Mr. Hurst, would be residing at Netherfield Park until the first of December. Also odd, as why would Bingley take a country estate and then spend the Yuletide in Town?
With another shake of his head, Darcy reached for his inkstand so he might attempt a reply. Sadly, the lack of substance in Bingley’s letter and Darcy’s year of self-imposed exile conspired to provide little fodder for correspondence.
Chapter Seven
Early October, 1811
At the first assembly that October, Miss Elizabeth Bennet stood in Meryton’s public hall with her mother and sisters, eagerly awaiting their first glimpse of the party from Netherfield Park. Rumors had flown about the village of Meryton as to who the newest addition to their local society, Mr. Bingley, would bring. Elizabeth had heard anything from five ladies to a dozen, but never reports of many gentlemen. This last was a source of great consternation for the community, as Meryton already boasted far too many unwed misses and far too few gentlemen worth wedding.
Finally, at a fashionably late hour, a small group of strangers entered the hall. Almost the entirety of the assembly paused to study them, Elizabeth and her clustered relations included. She assumed Mr. Bingley to be the gentleman at the forefront, and the other four the guests he was known to have fetched from London. As a group, the newcomers halted just inside the doorway, studying the people of Meryton in return. Elizabeth’s lips quirked as she wondered how these Londoners judged their society.
For his part, Mr. Bingley was handsome enough, and the two women with him, relations by their features, quite fashionable. The younger of the two was very tall and, by Elizabeth’s estimation, likely unwed. The older was obviously married to the stout gentleman whose arm she adorned.
Behind them entered a middling sort of man. Well formed, though not tall of stature, nor short. His even, symmetrical features were pleasant enough. The weather-worn lines of his face and the slightest trace of gray at his temples put him somewhere around his third decade, and he did not smile. Asmile would have rendered him far more attractive, but instead of issuing one, he angled his nose into the air and surveyed all before him with displeasure.
“I cannot see why you have brought me here, Bingley,” he said, his words cultured, clipped, and carrying to every corner of the hall.
The younger of the two women choked back a laugh and snapped open her fan to cover her face. Why she should find the man’s superciliousness so entertaining, Elizabeth couldn’t fathom, but her estimation of both lowered.
“Because, ah, Darcy, this is a lovely, lively assembly and I am desirous of dancing,” Mr. Bingley replied, his features pinched.
“Dancing? You know that I do not care to dance with partners with whom I am not already acquainted.”
Behind her fan, the younger woman snorted at Mr. Darcy’s words, while Elizabeth’s mama huffed. Beside Mrs. Bennet, Lydia leaned to whisper something to their sister Kitty. Elizabeth couldn’t hear what, but beyond them, Mary frowned.
Elizabeth frowned as well. If not to dance, why attend the assembly at all? And how did this Mr. Darcy mean to become acquainted with any women if he would not dance with them? He seemed to be relegating himself to very few partners for all perpetuity.
Mr. Bingley grimaced at his companions. “Yes, well, I will dance.” Plastering on a smile, he strode deeper into the room, angling for Sir William Lucas, the former mayor and unofficial spokesperson of Meryton. Local gossip held the two to be already acquainted.
Elizabeth turned to exchange a look with her older sister, wondering if she found the newcomers as strange, but Jane did not notice. Her attention appeared fixed on Mr. Bingley. Elizabeth raised an eyebrow at that, for Jane did not normallyexpress an interest in any man. Not that, in Meryton, they encountered many men worthy of such expression.
“Mr. Darcy, perhaps we should take a turn about the room?” the taller, younger of the two women said, snapping her fan closed.
“I suppose we must,” he replied, those four words infused with condemnation as his gaze traveled the hall. He offered his arm and the two angled to their right, moving into a gathering that parted before them.
Mrs. Bennet huffed again, and Elizabeth feared that soon her mother’s opinions on Mr. Darcy would be leaving her mouth in the form of words, rather than air. Beyond her, Lydia and Kitty giggled.
The older of Mr. Bingley’s sisters, as Elizabeth imagined her to be, watched the younger woman and Mr. Darcy walk away with twin lines creasing her brow. “Oh, I do hope he is not raising Caroline’s hopes,” she said, her voice so quiet that Elizabeth had to rely somewhat on the shapes of the words on her lips to decipher them.
