And without another word, he had left the inn to ride away, leaving Georgiana to stare after him. George and Mrs. Younge had begun shouting at one another, but Georgiana had remained silent.
George and Mrs. Younge had then taken her to London. Throughout the journey, it was made very clear to her that George did not love her, had never loved her, very likely never would love her, and had married her for the sole purpose of gaining access to her dowry of thirty thousand pounds. Mrs. Younge was a long-time friend of his and had arranged Georgiana’s meetings with George Wickham. It was now all too obvious that Mrs. Younge had never written to her brother at all.
Georgiana finally understood that she had been the victim of a clever, well-conceived and flawlessly executed plot. She had wept until her face was red and swollen, but her tears changed nothing. She had ruined her life at the tender age of fifteen.
Chapter Seven
Fall 1811
After dinner, Mr. Darcy listened politely to a duet performed by Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst; he then excused himself, saying he had correspondence to attend to, and he retreated to the library. It was not much of a library, there being no more than thirty volumes sitting on dusty shelves, but it possessed the inestimable virtue of being quiet. He sank into a plush armchair and leaned his head back; eyes closed, he soon drifted off.
A soft sound had him opening his eyes again. He blinked a few times, and saw the young lady he had met earlier. She was taking a book from a shelf. “Miss Elizabeth?” he said.
“Oh!” she said. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Darcy. I had hoped to take a volume without waking you.”
She pushed the book back onto its shelf, curtsied and walked to the door.
“Please do not go,” he heard himself saying.
She turned her head and looked at him over her shoulder, eyes enquiring.
“If you need a book, I beg that you do not let me prevent you from fulfilling your errand.”
“Thank you,” she said, softly. “I would like to find something to read to my sister.”
“You will not find much here, I fear,” he said.
“I think tenants keep taking books away; the library grows ever sparser.” She returned to the shelf and took the book down.
“Will you sit with me?” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself.
“Well – if you wish it, then certainly.” She sounded surprised, but took the chair opposite his, her book resting in her lap.
And suddenly he, the most private of gentlemen, found himself telling Miss Elizabeth – a perfect stranger! – all about Georgiana, his young, innocent sister, and Wickham, the lying scoundrel who had seduced her into a marriage in Scotland. As his tale wound on, he found that she was, in fact, not justaperfect stranger, buttheperfect stranger, for she listened intently, deeply, and as he spoke, her expressive eyes reflected his own anguish, until at the end of his tale, he found that his hands were in hers and her face was a mirror of his pain. And in that perfect sympathy, touching those soft hands, his heart found a moment of peace.
He gloried in it! Even if this respite was to last just that moment, it was enough; he would live on the memory of it forever. To be free of anguish for even one minute…!
But they were interrupted, inevitably and noisily, by the entrance of Miss Bingley. Her eyes narrowed at finding them together in such a manner. “Mr. Darcy!” she exclaimed. “I hardly expected to find you in such company.” Her tone was steely.
Mr. Darcy stared at the intruder for a moment, unable at first to comprehend her presence or her words. Then he realised the impropriety of the situation. He was sitting with a young lady, holding her hands! He dropped her hands as if he had been burnt by them, and stammered out an apology.
But Miss Elizabeth shook her head at him, refuting the need for his apology. Without a word, she rose, curtsied, and left theroom. Miss Bingley huffed and left as well, slamming the library door behind her.
Mr. Darcy sat back, still basking in the glow of that unexpected connection. Who was she, this girl who had the power, simply by listening to him, to alleviate – even for a minute – his anguish?
He considered what he knew of her. He recalled how she had spoken in the drawing room, with nothing but praise for her friends and neighbours. She had remained silent during dinner, as Miss Bingley had given her guest no opportunity to speak, and Miss Elizabeth clearly was not someone who would put herself forward. You do not know her, he told himself sternly, but he could not believe that. Somehow, hedidknow her.
He mocked himself. So many beautiful, rich, well-bred ladies in Town had thrown themselves at him, but the one young lady for whom he had felt anything was this daughter of an unknown country gentleman. It was everything absurd. But he could not argue with one simple fact: the few minutes he had spent with her in the library had been a balm to his troubled soul. He had felt the first glimmer of tranquility since the horror that he had endured at Gretna Green.
What harm could it do to spend just a few more hours – or even just minutes! – in her company?
***
Back in Jane’s room, Elizabeth could not get Mr. Darcy’s story out of her mind. The poor man! His pain was so all-encompassing, his grief so new, that it had been impossible for her not to be affected by what he had confided to her. What he had suffered, what hestillsuffered!
It was unfortunate that Miss Bingley had found them together in the library, hand-in-hand. Happily, there was no chance of her spreading rumours, as she clearly had set her cap for Mr. Darcy – Mr. Bingley’s artless comment at theassembly had been confirmed by her own observations here at Netherfield – and Miss Bingley would not want even a hint of a compromising situation in the library to be bandied about. Unless, of course, it was Miss Bingley who had been compromised!
“Lizzy?”
