Page 66 of A Question of Character

It stood before the door, not his own traveling carriage, but a hired one, with a driver already upon the box and two servants carrying trunks toward it.

Darcy drew rein.

One trunk was Georgiana’s.

He knew it because his sister had insisted upon a ridiculous blue ribbon being tied around one handle after a maid had once sent it to the wrong room at Pemberley. The ribbon fluttered now in the salt wind, absurdly cheerful.

For several seconds Darcy did nothing. The horse tossed its head, impatient with being held in the street, and the groom who had hurried forward from the mews stopped short at the expression on Darcy’s face.

“Sir?”

Darcy dismounted without answering and handed over the reins.

The front door stood open. Inside, the hall was in disorder: a cloak over one chair, a bandbox near the stairs, a maid hurrying down with a bundle of linen pressed to her chest. From somewhere above came the thump of another trunk being dragged too quickly across a floor.

Mrs. Younge stood near the foot of the stairs, one hand pointing as she directed a footman.

“No, that one first. Quickly, if you please. Miss Darcy’s—”

She turned.

The color left her face so completely that all pretence died before she attempted it.

“Mr. Darcy.”

He removed his gloves one finger at a time. “Mrs. Younge.”

“I— We were not expecting you so soon.”

“So I perceive.”

The footman looked between them and wisely stopped moving.

Darcy set his gloves upon the hall table. “Where is my sister?”

Mrs. Younge’s mouth parted. No answer came. She looked toward the stairs, then toward the open door, and in that small movement betrayed more than any confession might have done.

“Mrs. Younge,” he said, and every servant in the hall became still, “where is Miss Darcy?”

“I was—she wished—Mr. Darcy, there has been a misunderstanding.”

“Where is she?”

Before Mrs. Younge could produce another fragment of explanation, a door above opened. Light footsteps crossed the landing, quick and eager.

“Mrs. Younge, have they brought my blue cloak? I cannot find—”

Georgiana appeared at the top of the stairs.

For one instant she stopped, her face blank with astonishment. Then joy broke over her so swiftly that Darcy had no chance to prepare himself.

“Fitzwilliam!”

She ran down the stairs, careless of dignity, ribbons, and the maid trying to pass behind her, and threw both arms around him.

“You are home! Oh, I am so happy you have returned. Now you may come to my wedding.”

Mrs. Younge went white.