Page 92 of A Question of Character

He remained in the doorway for several moments before speaking. “You have not played today.”

She startled. “I was about to begin.”

“I see.”

Neither of them believed it.

Darcy crossed the room slowly. “Mrs. Reynolds has written from Pemberley.”

A faint interest entered Georgiana’s face. “Has she?”

“She reports the tenants well. Mrs. Wilson’s youngest has recovered from his fever.”

“I am glad.”

“And the rose garden has produced more blooms than anyone remembers.”

Georgiana nodded.

“Mrs. Reynolds enclosed one for you.” He placed the pressed flower upon the music stand.

Georgiana touched it gingerly. “Thank you.”

He wanted to say something more. He wanted to ask whether she regretted what had happened, whether she still thought of Wickham. Did she blame him? Did she blame herself?

Instead, he said, “Mrs. Annesley proposes a drive tomorrow.”

“If you wish.”

The answer, so devoid of preference, exhausted him.

“I shall leave you to your music.”

He withdrew before she could see how completely helpless he felt.

The following morning brought Charles Bingley to his door.

Darcy heard his cheerful voice in the entrance hall before Barton announced him. It carried through the house with its customary warmth, unaffected by the burdens that had accumulated within Darcy’s own walls.

“Darcy!” Bingley entered the library without ceremony, shook his friend’s hand vigorously, then stopped short. “My dear fellow.”

“What?” Darcy swirled his drink in his glass.

“You look abominable.”

Darcy winced a smile. “I have been informed of that already.”

“By the good colonel?”

“Naturally.” Richard had urged Darcy to see to his own health.

“He is generally correct.” Bingley removed his hat and threw himself into the nearest chair with characteristic ease.

“I had expected to find you buried beneath correspondence, not wasting the day away in your library.”

Darcy cringed inwardly. “I owe you an apology.”

“For what?”