Principle & Inclination
Darcy came in at a pace that was a reprimand.
Wicked’s coat was dark with sweat and flecked with foam at the shoulder where the saddle had worked, and the horse tossed his head once, impatient to be rid of bridle and bit. One of the grooms stepped forward at once, hands lifted for the reins.
“Walk him out properly,” Darcy said, too quickly, and too sharply. “Do not allow him to be put up until his breathing is settled. See that—”
He checked himself, hearing his own voice in a register he disliked. The groom had gone still, attentive and silent, and Darcy’s irritation found no purchase there.
“See that he is rubbed down thoroughly,” he added, more evenly. “He has been over-heated.”
“Yes, sir.”
Darcy released the reins, and the groom led Wicked away. He watched them go, his gaze fixed upon the line of the horse’s neck, the steady motion of the man’s arm, anything that was not the thought he had been forcing aside since the moment he left the house.
It had not been the ride itself that unsettled him, but the route.
He had taken the longer road without deliberation, turning Wicked aside the instant the path would have carried him toward the stream.
He had done it with the ease of habit, as though the ground itself had directed him.
Only afterwards did the truth strike, sharp enough to bite: he had altered his course to avoid a ribbon of water and the remembrance of a single morning, and for all his effort he had purchased no peace by it.
A man ought not to be governed by such nonsense.
Darcy mounted the steps and passed into the hall, expecting the stillness of Pemberley to settle him as it always had. It did not. The quiet received him, cool and composed, and he found nothing in it that answered the restlessness he had brought home.
He took his place in the library with the air of a man returned to order.
A folio lay open upon the desk, half a dozen letters beside it, and his own seal-wax set ready, the whole arrangement suggesting steadiness whether he felt it or not.
He read the first page twice without absorbing more than a sentence.
Figures blurred. Names that ought to have carried weight slipped away the moment he looked up.
His hand moved, made a mark in the margin, and he could not afterwards have said what it signified.
The fire snapped softly. The room was as it always was: quiet, proportioned, obedient.
Yet his mind would not remain within its walls.
When the door opened he expected only a servant, a question put and answered, a small interruption. Instead Georgiana stepped in, and the change in her was so immediate that he rose at once.
There was colour in her cheeks that had not been there at breakfast, and though she held herself with her usual care, her eyes were brighter, more awake. She hesitated upon the threshold only long enough to collect herself, then came forward with an eagerness she did not often permit.
“Brother,” she said, and the word sounded less like duty than like pleasure.
Darcy felt relief before he could name it. For months he had watched her composure as one watches a lamp in wind, fearing how easily it might be extinguished. To see her thus, not forced into gaiety, not persuaded into it, but simply lighter, was a comfort he had not expected to feel so sharply.
And yet, beneath that comfort, a smaller sensation stirred, unwelcome and absurd.
He knew, without being told, what had brought this warmth into her.
He should have been grateful without reserve. It was what he desired for her: ease, confidence, companionship untainted by scrutiny. If the Bennets had contributed to that, then he owed them gratitude, and he owed Georgiana more than his own private disquiet.
Yet his mind had already supplied the image, unbidden and precise: Elizabeth Bennet, seated with that quiet assurance which made a small room feel governed; her voice steady, her smile restrained, her attention given as a choice rather than a habit.
It was not only that Georgiana had been cheered by such company.
Darcy himself had been altered by it, and he resented the alteration because he could not command it.
He forced his expression into calm.
“You are well?” he asked.
Georgiana’s mouth curved, a little amused by the gravity of the question. “Very well,” she replied, and then, after a brief pause, choosing honesty over mere agreeableness, she added, “I have been thinking of our neighbours.”
The word neighbours, spoken so simply, carried more weight than it ought.
“Have you?” Darcy said.
“Yes.” She came nearer the desk, though she did not touch the papers, instinct perhaps warning her that he clung to them for discipline. “Mary has written to me again. She is always so composed. I do not feel foolish when I speak to her.”
“That is to her credit,” Darcy returned, and found that it was true.
“I should like to invite her again,” Georgiana said.
Darcy inclined his head. “You may.”
Her eyes lifted quickly, brightening further, and in that instant he knew she had more to say than Mary’s name. Georgiana drew a breath, gathering courage.
“And,” she began, then hesitated, “not only Mary.”
Darcy said nothing at once. He would not press her. If she had learned anything in these months, it was that her wishes were less frightening when she spoke them aloud.
Georgiana’s gaze dropped to the edge of the desk, though her brightness did not fade. “Mary makes conversation feel safe,” she said quietly. “I do not fear mistakes with her.”
“No,” Darcy said. “You do not.”
“And Kitty is very different,” Georgiana continued, more freely now, “but I find that I like her for it. She makes me laugh without meaning to, and she speaks as though the world is meant to be enjoyed. It is pleasant.”
Darcy felt the familiar tightening in his chest ease by a degree. Kitty Bennet’s spirits could be trying, but if they brought Georgiana out of herself, then perhaps even that liveliness had its use.
“And Jane,” Georgiana said, colouring slightly, taking the liberty because it had already been offered to her. “She is gentle in a way that does not make one feel weak. When she speaks to me, it is with such ease that I always feel I may answer. She never makes me feel clumsy, even when I am.”
Darcy began to reply, then stopped. There were words he could have used, all of them true, none of them safe. “She has a very pleasing manner.”
Georgiana smiled, accepting the restraint for what it was. For a moment she was silent, and Darcy might have hoped that was the end of it.
It was not.
“There is also…” She drew a breath. “Elizabeth.”
She said the name softly, as though it might be overheard by the walls.
Darcy’s gratitude rose first, swift and sincere. Whatever else he had thought of the Bennets, their influence on Georgiana had been good. To see his sister speak a name with warmth rather than fear was no small thing.
Then discomfort followed, sharp at the edges. Because Elizabeth’s steadiness did not merely soothe Georgiana. It unsettled him. It shifted him from his own ground and made him aware, in the same instant, of how much he wanted her near and how much he feared the cost of it.
He wanted Georgiana to have friends.
He wanted, too, to decide the terms on which Elizabeth Bennet came within the circle of Pemberley.
Georgiana’s fingers stilled, and some of the brightness in her face sobered, for she had come at last to the point she was afraid to name.
She hesitated. “Caroline Bingley has written to me.”
That was no surprise. Miss Bingley never neglected an opportunity when it might be dressed as attention.
“It was very civil,” Georgiana continued, careful to be fair. “She says she anticipates a great deal of pleasure in Derbyshire when they arrive next week, and that she hopes we shall be much together. She speaks of music, of walks, of everything that is proper.”
Darcy inclined his head, acknowledgment making the thing no less imminent.
“It ought to please me,” Georgiana said.
“She means to be kind. Yet when she is with me, I always feel under correction. I cannot speak without thinking I have spoken ill. If I am silent, I fear I have appeared foolish. She corrects me without intending it, and afterwards I can remember nothing but the wish to have done better.”
Darcy felt a quiet anger stir, not violent, but fixed. Miss Bingley’s civility was faultless. It was also, too often, a lesson delivered with a smile.
“You are not obliged to bear it,” he said, more curtly than he intended.
Georgiana’s eyes widened a little, then softened. “I know. Only it is not so simple. She is always present, and she speaks with the assurance of someone who has a right to direct me. Perhaps she believes she does.”
Darcy did not answer at once. He knew Caroline’s confidence. He knew, too, his own past willingness to permit it.
“If they were here,” Georgiana continued, steadier now, “I should not be alone with her. Conversation is easier when there are more voices. Mary makes it safe, and Kitty makes it light, and Jane makes it simple.” She paused, then added, carefully, “And Elizabeth makes it impossible to feel small.”
The name sat between them.
Georgiana hurried on, fearing perhaps that she had said too much. “It would not be an entertainment. Only a small evening. If there were music, it would give purpose to the room. Miss Bingley could not command every moment if there were something to attend to.”
Darcy’s answer came out at once, before he had weighed it. “We may have music, then.”
The words were spoken before he had considered them, and once spoken they could not be reclaimed.
Georgiana’s expression brightened, then faltered again, a recollection of propriety returning.
“But they are still in mourning,” she said, and the care in her voice was not for rules so much as for the Bennets themselves. “I do not wish to do what would distress them, or what would be improper.”