Page 57 of Near Pemberley

Now even that indifference oppressed him.

The colonel watched him another moment before speaking more lightly. “Come with me tonight.”

“I have no inclination for society.”

“Excellent. Then society will be delighted to see you miserable amongst them.”

“No.”

Richard shook his head. “Georgiana herself told me that although you had been wonderful with her, she knows you struggle, but she would not tell me why. If I leave you alone much longer, I fully expect to find you married to despair and living permanently in your library.”

“I had not realised my condition was so entertaining.”

“It is not entertaining at all,” said the colonel more quietly. “It is uncomfortable to witness.”

Something in the sincerity of the remark prevented Darcy from dismissing him entirely.

An hour later, against his better judgement and without quite knowing why he yielded, he found himself accompanying Richard through streets increasingly distant from the respectable quarter in which his own lodgings stood.

The house looked respectable enough from the outside, and even within, little appeared improper at first glance. Music could be heard somewhere beyond the next room. The smell of wine, warm wax, and too much perfume hung beneath it. A servant crossed quietly with wine. Several ladies, dressed almost too finely for the place, reclined upon sofas near the fire, laughing a little too readily at whatever was said to them. Everything was comfortable, fashionable, and carefully arranged – yet the absence of restraint soon became visible even to those who preferred not to see it too clearly.

Darcy disliked it immediately.

Everything within it appeared artificial – the smiles too ready, the laughter too loud, the flirtation so habitual that it scarcely resembled genuine feeling.

Richard, meanwhile, accepted a glass from someone and disappeared into conversation with all the ease of a man perfectly accustomed to such scenes. Within minutes, he had established himself upon a sofa between two ladies who appeared delighted by his attention. However, Darcy strongly suspected the colonel would have maintained precisely the same conversation with equal cheerfulness had the ladies been twice their age and wholly without beauty.

Darcy remained near the fireplace, already regretting his presence there. Several women approached him in succession. He dismissed each with restrained civility, though in a manner sufficiently cold that none attempted to remain long.

Richard, by contrast, appeared determined to enjoy himself on behalf of them both. Darcy observed him laughing at something whispered by a dark-haired woman near the card tables, looking perfectly at ease beneath attentions which Darcy himself found merely exhausting.

After some time, Richard found him again near the fireplace, standing apart from the general company with an expression which suggested he regretted every moment of his presence there.

“You look positively affronted by pleasure,” said the colonel, amused.

“I am merely wondering how soon I may leave without appearing intolerably rude.”

“That consideration alone proves you have spent too much time in respectable society.”

Darcy glanced coldly around the room. “If this is your remedy for melancholy, I find it singularly ineffective.”

Richard accepted another glass from a passing servant before lowering his voice slightly.

“My dear Darcy, the object is not refinement. The object is to stop thinking.”

“I am perfectly capable of doing that elsewhere.”

“No,” said Richard quietly. “You are not.”

Darcy’s expression altered faintly.

“For one evening, lose yourself a little. Forget the outside world exists. Forget consequences, disappointments, all of it.” His eyes moved meaningfully towards the women gathered farther across the room. “There are gentler distractions available than solitary suffering.”

Darcy followed the direction of his glance almost unwillingly.

The women laughed beneath candlelight while music drifted through the room. They looked pretty at first glance, though the effect faded the longer one looked at them. Yet to Darcy, the scene appeared curiously joyless beneath its ornament. Every smile seemed practised; every gesture rehearsed too often to retain sincerity.

“I do not think,” said he quietly, “that oblivion is to be found here.”