Principle & Inclination #2
Darcy’s hand, which had been resting upon the edge of the desk, stilled. He was glad of the hesitation; it gave the invitation the shape of consideration rather than insistence.
“A quiet evening is not a ball,” he said. “It need not be an entertainment at all.”
Georgiana nodded, eager for reassurance. “If it were only a few people, and early. If they might come and leave when it suited them. If we made no fuss of it.”
“That is the best way,” Darcy replied.
“And we might invite the Hardings,” Georgiana said at once, the thought clearly waiting behind all the rest. “Mrs Harding would know exactly how to make it easy. She always does.”
Darcy’s gaze sharpened, though his expression did not alter. “Mrs Harding is sensible.”
“And Cassandra would enjoy it,” Georgiana added, warmth returning. “She likes Mary very much, and she has been so kind to me. If she were here, it would feel less like an occasion, and more like a family evening.”
“A family evening,” Darcy repeated, and found that he did not object to the notion as he might once have done. If Georgiana could say such a thing without fear, then he ought to be thankful.
Georgiana nodded, encouraged. “Only a few people. Mrs Harding, and Cassandra. Perhaps Mr Harding as well, if he wishes. And if Miss Bingley is here, it will not seem arranged for her,” she added, almost anxiously.
“She cannot claim that we are dependent upon her company, if there are others who are welcome for their own sake.”
Darcy permitted himself the smallest of acknowledgements. Caroline would indeed be less able to command a room if it did not belong to her.
Georgiana’s smile faltered, and her eyes dropped. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter, for she feared she was about to say something wrong.
“Mrs Harding said something else,” she began.
Darcy did not move. “Did she?”
Georgiana hesitated, then looked up with that careful honesty which had begun, of late, to appear more often. “It was not unkind. Only… she said that people speak of Mr Ashton and Elizabeth.”
For a moment Darcy heard nothing beyond the soft crackle of the fire. His hand, which had been resting upon the desk, tightened before he could prevent it.
“Speak of them in what manner?” he asked, and was displeased to hear how even his own voice had altered, sharpened at the edges.
Georgiana’s brow furrowed faintly, trying to recall the exact phrasing.
“As though it were natural,” she said. “As though it were proper. Mrs Harding said that Mr Ashton is very attentive, and that Elizabeth’s situation makes attentions seem more serious than they might otherwise be.
She said…” Georgiana paused, colouring slightly, for repeating another person’s speculation felt immodest. “She said that when mourning permits, something may be expected.”
Darcy remained still, because to move would have been to betray too much. He told himself at once that it was merely concern for Elizabeth’s comfort. He would not have her troubled by gossip, nor pressed by expectation at so delicate a time.
Yet beneath that explanation another truth stirred, raw and unwelcome.
It stung to imagine the neighbourhood fastening Elizabeth Bennet’s future to another man’s name, speaking of it as though it were already settled, her wishes of no consequence at all.
When Georgiana had gone, Darcy remained for a moment as he was, listening to the quiet as though it might tell him what to do.
He drew the writing-box nearer by habit, set out paper, and broke a wafer with the steady care of a man determined to be composed. A note to Mrs Harding would be simple enough. An early evening. A little music. A small company. Every allowance made for mourning. It was proper. It was easy.
Yet his hand did not move.
The plan itself was not the difficulty. It was the notion of arranging it all at a distance, by lines of ink and under the name of delicacy.
Mrs Harding’s words returned, unbidden. Mr Ashton’s attentions. Elizabeth’s situation. The convenient certainty with which a neighbourhood could decide what a woman must do when she had been made vulnerable.
Darcy’s jaw tightened.
He told himself that his concern was reasonable. He wanted only that Elizabeth Bennet should not be pressed into gratitude, or obligation, or acceptance merely because her circumstances were reduced. He wanted her to be happy, and to be free to choose the terms of her happiness.
It was a reasonable explanation, and one he was glad to have. It did not, however, account for everything.
If he meant to know anything of Ashton’s intentions, or of Elizabeth’s reception of them, he would not learn it from rumour, nor from a note delivered by a servant. He would see. Quietly. Without interference. Without asking questions that would force answers.
He folded the blank sheet, and set it aside.
Tomorrow morning he would ride.
He would take the road he had avoided, and he would master that foolishness, if nothing else.
Dawn was cool and colourless, the sort of morning that made every sound distinct.
Pemberley was quiet. Even the servants moved with unusual care, unwilling to disturb it. Darcy took Wicked out before the house had properly stirred, hoping perhaps to escape the weight of his own thoughts by outriding them.
The horse was eager, stepping high upon the gravel, and Darcy set a steady pace, neither indulgent nor severe. The air ought to have cleared his mind. It did not.
At the edge of the park, the path divided.
One road ran out toward open country, where a man might spend his restlessness upon distance and return with nothing to account for but fatigue. The other turned down through the trees to the stream.
Darcy slowed. His hand tightened upon the reins before he could prevent it.
It was absurd. A man should not be checked by a turning of earth.
He drew a breath. He turned Wicked toward the stream.
The trees closed around the path, and the sound of water met him first, low and constant. Memory rose with it, unbidden and exact, and he hated himself for the strength of it.
He reached the bank and halted.
The stream ran clear in the early light. The grass near the water was dark with dew. Stones showed beneath the surface, unchanged, indifferent.
There was no one there.
No movement upon the path, no figure between the trees, no hint of colour to catch the eye. The place was empty, and the emptiness stripped away the last pretence.
He sat a moment, listening to the water and to his own breathing, and told himself what he had told himself again and again. He wished only to be certain that Elizabeth Bennet was not pressed into any attachment by circumstance. He wished only that she should be free to choose her happiness.
Darcy gathered the reins, and turned for home.
Then he saw her, through the early morning mist.