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“How is all your family?” he cried, with that familiar good-natured cheer. “And Longbourn, such a pretty property, as I remember it. All are well?”
Mr Darcy joined us in time to hear his question. “Her parents died nearly eight years ago, Bingley. Lady Matlock’s idiot vicar—do you remember the one? Collins?—inherited.” He spoke, not coldly, but in a controlled way that suggested some annoyance. “I believe I mentioned it at the time.”
Mr Bingley flushed. “Did you? My deepest condolences, Mrs Darcy.”
I was a little slow to respond—I was so astonished that Mr Darcy had known of the death of my parents when it happened, and that it meant at least enough, in the moment, to repeat the news. He had told me he’d heard it from Lady Matlock; he had not mentioned just when she had told him. But of course, Mr Collins held the Matlock living when my father died, and she would have known.
But it was all beside the point. If Mr Bingley had known back then of Jane’s loss, did that not mean he had never, truly, been in love with her? He might have called upon her with a friend’s concern, or, even if not willing to raise her hopes at such a time…he might have, at least, remembered it happened at all. Jane, of course, no longer felt anything towards him—but she could always recall when she had.
“I am so sorry, too,” Mrs Bingley put in, gamely trying to cover his blunder. “I lost my parents when I was young. It was very difficult.”
I smiled at her with genuine warmth. “It was long ago now.” As I drew her out with gentle questioning, she shed some of her shyness, telling me of a redecorating project she had undertaken, of a play in London they attended, and of horses they were breeding.
Mr Darcy and Mr Bingley discussed plantings and fields, crops and yields, with all the enthusiasm my father once showed for such subjects. I stole occasional looks at them, cataloguing their differences.
Mr Bingley was not much changed, except his waist had thickened, while the rest of him remained slender, giving his limbs a stick-like appearance. Mr Tilney was not at all slim, but he was…proportional, strong and fit. Mr Darcy was of an athletic build, with not an ounce of extra flesh. I did not, usually, dwell upon his appearance; when I looked at him, it was not to enumerate his flaws or perfections, but at certain moments, his beauty struck me.
Mrs Bingley might have caught my glances, for she smiled wistfully. “I ought not to have come so soon, when you have been home only a few days. I knew I should have waited. But I was so eager to see my brother happy again, as if a new marriage could—” She stopped suddenly, looking stricken, as if she had spoken out of turn.
“All is well, Mrs Bingley,” I reassured her. “I know he has had a terrible loss, and it will take time to recover from it. I also know that there is no cure for grief, and I cannot and do not expect his feelings for his first wife to be subsumed by feelings for his new one.”
She reached out and took my hand. “Please, call me Georgiana. We are sisters now,” she said. “And I am certain to grow wiser in marriage just by listening to you.”
“Oh, yes, most certainly you should come to me for advice. After all, I have been married for almost three weeks,” I said, laughing gaily. “I believe you are the expert in the room, my dear, for all my great age.”
I expected her to laugh too, but she did not. Instead, she glanced over at her husband, and there was both sorrow and bitterness in her look. “I am afraid I have none to give,” she said, her voice small.
A terrible sorrow filled me, and I was not even sure why. I did not know her at all, and barely knew her husband. But I had esteemed him once, and had no wish for his unhappiness despite the pain Jane had suffered. And, as Georgiana had pointed out, we were to be sisters. It seemed to me a tragedy almost, as if a cherished memory became only a pretence. The men continued talking about farming; Mr Darcy made a remark and Mr Bingley laughed at it, neither paying any attention to the sudden seriousness of our conversation.
“You will give me your opinions regardless,” I urged, “and I will try and heed them. And although I am so inexperienced, I will tell you what I think, too. We will be friends as well as sisters, shall we not? I have never been married, but I watched my parents, who seldom understood each other, and I watched my aunt and uncle, who had a wonderful accord. Neither marriage was ‘easy’ because such a connexion never is, though one was much happier than the other. It takes courage to be a wife.”
She dropped her gaze. “Perhaps it takes more courage to refuse to be one.”
Had she never loved Mr Bingley, then? How sad—to choose a path as Charlotte had done, without the strength of will to endure the consequences. However, Mr Bingley was no Collins. There must be something that could be made of him.
And so, to make her laugh, I told her of my ridiculous cousin, and his ridiculous opinions and finally, his ridiculous marriage proposal. And she did laugh aloud; I saw both men’s gazes swing sharply towards her, as if it were not a usual sound. And I laughed, too—the memory had long since lost its power to mortify—and I knew we would be friends. As we talked and grew to know one another a bit, I discovered her birthday was the same month as Lydia’s. They were—or would have been—so close in age. I will look after you, my sister, I silently vowed, as I had never managed to do for the one I had lost.
* * *
Our guests easily agreed to stay the night and then the rest of the week, or at least until the weather improved. Mrs de Bourgh joined us for dinner, which was somewhat of a damper on the meal, I thought, as she had little to add except disapproving looks. Georgiana, in her shy way, tried to bring her into the conversation, but she answered the polite questions with clipped responses designed to put off the questioner. She did not join us in the parlour after we separated from the men, but excused herself to her rooms, claiming a megrim. The mood improved after her departure, and when the gentlemen re-joined us, we were quite the convivial little group. It was late when we retired at last.
Clara was brushing out my hair—never an easy task—when my husband entered my dressing room. It surprised her into dropping the brush.
“Never mind it,” he said. “You may retire for the night, Clara.”
“Yes, sir,” she murmured, almost scampering out the door.
I sighed. As happy as I was that he had come, I wished it had been fifteen minutes later. I could brush out and braid my own hair, had done so for years—but having my own maid to do it for me was a definite source of happiness allotted to Mrs Darcy.
To my astonishment, however, he picked up the brush as I reached for it, and nudged me back to face the mirror. And then, he began brushing my hair. I felt oddly shy, wondering, at first, if this was a task he once performed for his first wife. But his strokes were tentative; of course, her hair had been smooth, and doubtlessly much easier to cope with. The tendrils of my hair reached out wildly, as if to drag the brush from his clutch.
“You will not hurt me. My hair takes on a life of its own if it is not braided at night.”
He did not answer, and after a time, I realised the strokes were not from a hairbrush, but from his fingers combing the thick locks. I began to be calmer, easier, as he ran his hands through the masses, as he massaged my scalp; it felt wondrous, blissful. He stopped, finally, and I sighed, leaning back against him.
I tilted my head up to meet his eyes. “I shall braid it now,” I said.
“I would prefer you did not,” he murmured. “I have wanted to see it like this, touch it like this, for years.”
