Chapter 1 #6
Georgiana's letter was warm, conversational, filled with small observations about her music and her reading.
She had written of a difficult passage in a Beethoven sonata, of a novel she had begun, of the autumn light in the London squares.
Mrs. Younge's letter contained none of this.
It was formal, distant, a report rendered by a paid companion on behalf of her charge.
Why would Georgiana not write to him directly?
The question settled into the room like winter fog.
Darcy set the letter down and returned to the window.
The sun was descending toward the western hills.
The fields beyond the park had taken on a golden cast, and the beaters were returning toward the lodge, their day's labour concluded.
In London, it was three o'clock. Georgiana would be at her music. She was devoted to her practice—one hour in the morning, one in the afternoon, without fail. By the time evening came, she would be fatigued.
Perhaps she had been too occupied to write. Perhaps Mrs. Younge had taken it upon herself to reassure him without burdening Georgiana further. It was conceivable, almost plausible.
The question, once formed, would not leave him. Darcy's hand, when he raised it to his mouth, was not steady.
He set down his untouched claret and crossed to the writing desk.
He drew out fresh paper and began a letter to Georgiana—not a demand, but a gentle inquiry.
He asked after her health, her studies, whether she had progressed in the Beethoven sonata that had occupied her before his departure.
He requested that she write to him directly, at the lodge, so that he might hear from her own hand of her contentment.
It was a reasonable request and a brother's natural concern.
He signed it with his full name and title, sealed it with his ring, and summoned the butler to ensure its immediate despatch.
Only after the servant had departed did Darcy return to the window. The light had nearly gone from the fields. The park beyond the lodge had dissolved into shadow. Somewhere in that darkness, the crows settled for the night, their calls distant and harsh.
Mrs. Younge was a respectable widow, well recommended, capable in her duties. Georgiana had seemed settled when he had left London. There had been no sign of discontent. These facts ought to have reassured him. They did not.
The question remained, however, unanswerable and persistent: why would Georgiana not write to him directly?
Darcy stood at the window until the servant came to light the candles, and he did not move towards the drawing room where his host and the other guests were waiting for dinner.
The Headache
The five sisters returned to the house in stages over the next quarter hour, taking great care not to draw attention.
Jane and Kitty entered first, chattering about the snow.
Lydia followed shortly after, complaining loudly about Josephine's ingratitude.
Mary and Elizabeth came last, Elizabeth walking slowly and pressing her fingers to her temple in a manner that suggested the onset of pain.
Mrs. Bennet was in the drawing room, directing Hill about which gowns should be pressed for the evening.
“There you are! Where have you all been? I have been looking everywhere—we must begin dressing soon if we are to arrive at the Gouldings in good time. If this weather continues, we will be asking Mr. Hill to hitch up a sledge!”
“We were in the barn,” Lydia said breezily. “Playing cards in the tack room to avoid the noise of the house.”
“Playing cards in the barn! What nonsense. You will catch your deaths. Look at your hems—they are filthy.” Mrs. Bennet turned to Hill. “The lavender silk for Jane, I think. Kitty, you shall wear the white muslin with the pink ribbons.”
Elizabeth sank into a chair with what she hoped was a convincing wince.
Mrs. Bennet noticed immediately. “Lizzy, what is the matter with you? You look quite peaked.”
“I have the headache, Mamma,” Elizabeth said quietly. “It came on whilst we were outside. I think perhaps the cold—”
“Oh, for Heaven's sake. Not to-night! The Gouldings are expecting all of us.”
“I am sorry, Mamma, but I do not think I can—”
“Nonsense. You will feel better once you are dressed. A little excitement will cure you.”
“I am quite unwell—” Elizabeth pressed her fingers more firmly to her temple. “The pain is quite severe. I believe I must lie down.”
Mrs. Bennet's expression shifted from annoyance to calculation. “Well. I suppose it cannot be helped. The Gouldings will not miss you particularly—you are always too clever by half in company, anyway.” She turned to Jane. “You will make up for it, my dear. You always do.”
Mary stepped forward. “I ought to remain with Lizzy, Mamma. Someone should attend her in case the headache worsens.”
“You as well? This is most inconvenient, Mary.”
“It would be most improper to leave her alone whilst the family is away,” Mary said primly. “What if she should need something?”
Mrs. Bennet waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, very well. Stay if you must. Hill can look in on her if needed, but I suppose you are right.” She turned back to Jane. “At least I shall have you and Kitty and Lydia. That will have to suffice.”
The girls dispersed to prepare for the evening. Elizabeth rose, maintaining her posture of discomfort as she headed toward the stairs.
She had reached the foot of the stairs when her father's voice stopped her.
“Lizzy.”
She turned. He stood in the doorway of his library, regarding her with a slightly furrowed brow.
“Yes, Papa?”
“You are unwell?”
“A headache. Nothing serious.”
He studied her for a moment. “You are not commonly subject to headaches.”
“No,” Elizabeth agreed. “But I am afraid this one is quite determined.”
“Shall I send for the apothecary?”
“That will not be necessary. I am certain it will pass with rest and quiet.”
Mr. Bennet continued to regard her with an expression that suggested he was not entirely convinced. “You are sure you wish to remain behind? The Gouldings will wonder at your absence.”
“I doubt they will notice,” Elizabeth said with a slight smile. “My wit is hardly essential to the success of a dinner party. Indeed, its absence may make the evening more comfortable for everyone.”
A small smile tugged at the corner of her father's mouth. “That is likely true. Very well. Rest, then. I shall see you in the morning.”
He retreated into his library, and Elizabeth continued up the stairs, maintaining her pained expression until she was out of sight.