As there had been but one full set since their arrival, and Charlotte had danced it with Mr. Bingley while Jane stood out, Elizabeth found that statement exceedingly nonsensical. She studied Mr. Darcy’s and Miss Bingley’s retreating backs with amusement.
“I have danced once already with you, and your sister is engaged,” Mr. Darcy declared. “There is no other woman in theroom whom it would not be a punishment to me to stand up with. Certainly, none are handsome enough to tempt me.”
A snort came from Charlotte and Elizabeth looked to see her friend clamp her hands over her mouth, trying to keep in her mirth. Elizabeth shook her head, smiling, and mouthed, ‘insupportable.’ Charlotte’s eyes danced.
As soon as the two were far enough away, for she was not as rude as they were, Elizabeth gave in to her laughter. She shook her head again, unable to find the breath to form words, such was her amusement.
“You are not handsome enough to tempt me, Miss Elizabeth,” Charlotte whispered, a chuckle rattling her artificially deepened voice. “Not even Miss Bennet is.”
“I should say not, when he has such a perfect match in Miss Bingley,” Elizabeth replied, dashing tears from her eyes.
“Oh, but he will be the talk of Meryton, that Mr. Darcy.” Charlotte turned her head to track his progress about the room with Miss Bingley. “I should not wonder if rumors of such boorish behavior do not reach all the way to London.”
“From this provincial, countryfied backwater?” Elizabeth asked on a laugh.
“Yes, even from here,” Charlotte agreed.
Elizabeth watched the two gambol on, stirring more frowns in their wake. “Well, one thing we can say for Mr. Darcy, he is no sycophant.”
“True,” Charlotte agreed.
But sycophant or not, why go out of his way to insult an entire community? With behavior so horrendous, word truly would reach all the way to London. Was Mr. Darcy so very wealthy that he simply did not care?
Chapter Eight
Darcy sat at his desk pondering another truly odd letter from Bingley. Something was decidedly amiss. Darcy could only conclude that this Netherfield Park place had an immense flaw, one Bingley felt ashamed to have missed and one on which he hoped Darcy could advise him. And yet, Bingley was obviously embarrassed to ask for said advice.
Yes, Bingley regretted not consulting Darcy before taking up residence in the place, and was ashamed of the mess in which he’d become embroiled. He required Darcy’s assistance, but did not know how to ask. That was the only rational explanation for letters that seemed almost guilty in nature, and that somehow conveyed so little information despite their length. If Georgiana didn’t need him, Darcy would simply set out for Hertfordshire uninvited, to spare Bingley the trouble of mustering his courage. And to spare Darcy reading any more absurd, poorly scrawled letters that contained nothing.
On the study’s carved Connemara mantelpiece, the clock chimed, reminding him that the dinner hour drew near. With a final grimace for Bingley’s meaningless chatter, Darcy set the letter aside, and rose. He sought his chamber and changed for dinner, then made his way to the small parlor, where he, Georgiana, and Mrs. Annesley met before evening meals. He was early enough that it did not trouble him to find the ladies absent. He took a seat facing the door and picked up the paper Pemberley’s competent staff had left for him.
It was not until the hour for dinner drew nigh that he heard footsteps. One pair. With a sigh, Darcy lowered his paper and stood as Mrs. Annesley entered the parlor alone. “Again?” he asked.
She nodded, her features pinched, giving her the look of a bereaved stoat. “She will not dress and she will not come downto dinner.” Mrs. Annesley clutched her hands together. “I have never seen a young lady so bereft at the defection of a suitor.”
If only Wickham were but a suitor,Darcy thought sourly. “This cannot go on. It has been over a year.”
“I know, but I have no notion how to assist her.” Mrs. Annesley shook her head, her brow creased with worry. “I have listened. I have talked. Been understanding, and brusque. Short of shaking her until her teeth rattle, I am out of ideas. She is despondent and seems to wish to remain so.”
“No, we will not shake her,” Darcy said. “You are correct, however, in the notion that something more drastic is required. Something different from what we have been doing.”
But what?
Folding his paper, he tossed it back on the table before marching from the room. In a scuttle of slippered feet, Mrs. Annesley followed. Darcy could all but feel tension radiating from her like heat from a candle’s flame as he led the way to Georgiana’s room.
He knocked.
No answer came. Not even the sound of someone shifting about.
“Georgiana?” he called. “We must speak.”
Still, no reply.
Worry scuttled up his spine. Darcy reached for the doorknob. “I am entering.”
He cracked open the door to find the room well-lit. Georgiana sat at her dressing table, staring into the mirror, tears sliding down her cheeks. Half of her hair was curled, and an iron rested near the fire, but no maid remained.
Leaving the door open so Mrs. Annesley could follow him in, Darcy crossed to stand behind his sister, meeting her red-rimmed eyes in her reflection. “Georgiana. Will you come down to dinner?”
