Calls & Conclusions
The carriage rolled away from the cottage with a steadiness that ought to have restored calm, yet Mr Darcy found the quiet within it less complete than it had been when they arrived.
Georgiana sat opposite him, her hands folded in her lap as usual, but her posture had altered; she held herself like a girl who had, for once, been permitted to belong somewhere.
There was colour in her cheeks that had not been there at breakfast, and when she glanced out at the hedgerows slipping past, the movement of her eyes was quicker, more awake.
Darcy sat with his hat upon his knee, his manner composed and his thoughts markedly less so.
It should have been a simple call, a neighbourly civility returned and concluded; yet the image of Miss Elizabeth remained with an insistence he could not dismiss, not in any single look or phrase, but in the ease with which she had made a small room bear company, in the quiet authority with which she had governed both her household and herself.
He told himself at once and without effort that this was the true value of the morning.
It was not the call itself, nor the awkwardness of arriving so unexpectedly, nor even the small bustle of tea and introductions.
It was this: that Georgiana had spoken and been answered; that she had smiled and been met with warmth; that she had been at ease among girls near her own age, without needing to be guided through every sentence like a child.
After a moment, Georgiana leaned forward a little, the motion itself an act of courage.
“Brother,” she said softly, then took a quick breath, afraid, perhaps, of losing her resolution, “may I invite them all to Pemberley, and not only Mary?”
“Of course, my dear,” he answered, before he had quite stopped to consider what he had granted. Then, to set the matter safely among ordinary kindnesses, he added, “You were very kind to ask Miss Elizabeth earlier. She could not refuse you without appearing ungracious.”
Georgiana’s eyes brightened, gratitude touched with mischief.
“I did not ask in order to press her,” she said; and then, more softly, “I only wished to see them again.”
“The wish does you credit,” he replied, and meant it.
For a few moments she was silent, gathering courage that no one could lend her except herself. Then she said very quietly, “Brother, they are… easy to be with.”
Mr Darcy looked down at the careful arrangement of his hands, and felt an uncomfortable awareness that the word easy had applied, in his mind, to one person in particular. He dismissed the thought as swiftly as it had come.
“It is well,” he said. “It will be good for you to have acquaintances here. Proper acquaintances.”
The wheels changed their sound as they reached the Pemberley drive, the smooth lane giving way to gravel, and the house rose ahead through the trees with its familiar certainty.
The park lay quiet, the river glinting dully under a sky that could not decide whether it meant to clear, and Darcy felt, with faint impatience at himself, how readily he welcomed the return of ordered things.
Georgiana leaned forward to look, as she always did, though she had lived in its sight for years; and it struck him, not for the first time, how the mind could cling to safety almost as though it were affection.
“Then I may ask them,” she said again, needing, it seemed, to hear the permission twice before she trusted it.
“You may,” he replied. “We will write to Mrs Bennet, and the day may be settled in a proper manner.”
Her smile steadied, pleased into quiet confidence. As the carriage drew up before the steps, the door was opened at once, and Mrs Younge came forward with the alert propriety of a woman who believed herself essential to the household’s smooth running.
“Miss Darcy,” she said, all readiness and concern, “I trust you have not been over-fatigued. The air is sharp today.”
“It was very pleasant,” Georgiana answered, and then, before caution could reclaim her, she added, “We may have visitors, Mrs Younge. The Bennet ladies. At Pemberley.”
“Indeed, Miss Darcy,” Mrs Younge said, with a little bow that made encouragement look like duty. “A visit to Pemberley will be very suitable. The young ladies appeared well behaved, and it is always agreeable to have company within one’s own home.”
Georgiana’s shoulders loosened, a small relief made visible, and Darcy felt the familiar sting of noticing how much her ease depended upon permission.
“And perhaps,” Georgiana added, speaking quickly before courage deserted her, “when we go to Ramsgate, I might ask them there as well. Only for a week or two. It would be very pleasant to have friends.”
Mrs Younge paused, the smallest hesitation, something that might have passed for thoughtfulness in any other person. Then her voice returned, gentle and careful.
“Ramsgate is quite a different scene, Miss Darcy. There are crowds, and visits, and many persons who presume upon a seaside acquaintance. It is not like receiving quietly at home, where everything is under proper direction. You must consider your health as well. The sea air, though praised, may be fatiguing.”
Georgiana’s colour faded a little, but she held her ground. “I am not an invalid, Mrs Younge.”
“No,” Mrs Younge replied at once, all soothing propriety, “but you have been improving so well. It would be a pity to unsettle your habits.”
Darcy felt his fingers tighten upon the brim of his hat. Habit. Direction. Under proper care. The words lay too neatly together, and Ramsgate, spoken aloud, pressed upon his mind with an old unease he did not indulge.
“We will speak of Ramsgate later,” he said evenly, and left no opening for argument. Then he turned to Georgiana, softening what he could. “You may invite them to Pemberley first. That will be settled properly, and with your mother’s approval, as it ought to be.”
Georgiana nodded, but her eyes lingered upon him, seeming to hold more than she yet knew how to say.
Darcy offered Georgiana his arm, and she took it with a steadiness that would have astonished her six months ago.
Inside, the familiar hush of Pemberley received them. Mrs Reynolds appeared almost at once, her composure unshaken by weather or surprise, and welcomed Georgiana with the calm warmth of a woman who had never thought her a burden.
Georgiana’s hand tightened upon her brother’s sleeve. “I should like to write to them today,” she said quietly, speed seeming, in her mind, the best guardian of courage. “Before I begin to doubt that I am allowed to want it.”
“You are allowed,” Darcy replied, more firmly than the words required. “Write to Mrs Bennet. I will have the note sent.”
Mrs Younge, hovering with attentive concern, murmured something about Miss Darcy taking rest before exertion, but Georgiana did not yield.
“I am not fatigued,” she said, mild but resolved. “I only wish to do it properly.”
Mrs Reynolds’s eyes softened. “If you will write in the little morning room, Miss Darcy, I shall see that you are not interrupted.”
Georgiana went with her at once, gratitude visible in the quickness of her step.
Darcy watched her disappear, and felt the familiar mixture of relief and discomfort. Relief, that Georgiana had found something she desired without fear. Discomfort, that he could not look upon that desire without thinking of the particular person.
He went instead to his study, hoping a room might impose order upon a mind.
When his steward, Mr Booth, entered, Darcy spoke with deliberate calm. “There is a small pianoforte at the Bennets’ cottage. It has been moved some distance, and it may be out of tune. Find out whether a tuner may be sent tomorrow, quietly, and with no parade of obligation.”
Mr Booth bowed as though nothing could be more ordinary.
Only when the door had closed did Darcy allow himself the truth of it, sharp and unwelcome.
He told himself it was for his sister’s sake because that was safe.
He told himself it was not Miss Elizabeth, because he could not trust himself to make it sound merely neighbourly.
* * *
The moment the door shut behind them, the parlour altered.
It did not change in any visible way, for the fire still burned and the cups still stood upon the tray, but the air loosened, the room itself seeming to remember that it belonged to them.
Lydia remembered it too.
She waited precisely three heartbeats, long enough to preserve the appearance of restraint, and then turned upon the plate with the injured expression of a person who had endured martyrdom for the sake of politeness.
“Very well,” she said, sitting down with a briskness that suggested she might faint if she stood any longer. “We have made our sacrifice. We have allowed strangers to consume our tarts.”
“They were not strangers,” Kitty protested, though her eyes followed the plate with equal devotion. “We know Georgiana.”
“We know one of them,” Lydia returned. “The others are merely acquaintances who arrived at the exact moment our pastry was called into service.”
Mary reached for her cup with measured calm. “Hospitality,” she observed, “is a duty.”
“It is an affliction,” Lydia replied, and then, having taken a tart with a speed that would have alarmed a less practised sister, brightened at once. “Still. It was an excellent tart.”
Elizabeth, who had been watching Susan gather herself from the corner where she had stood like a statue of obedience, could not keep her amusement entirely at bay.
“You have had your share,” she said.
“Yes,” Lydia agreed, conceding a great point. “But now the danger has passed. There is no longer any need for economy.”
“The need for economy,” Elizabeth returned, “has never depended upon danger. It depends upon Lydia.”
Susan let out a sound that might have been a laugh and then looked shocked at herself for it. She began collecting the cups with the sort of relief that made even work feel like escape.