Chapter Six #2
Darcy’s gaze moved to Jane, then along the line of sisters. His eyes passed over Mary, Kitty, Lydia—
He stopped on Elizabeth.
For a moment that seemed to draw the whole room into silence, their eyes met.
Recognition sprang into his face, carrying with it, she suspected, an unwelcome recollection of a snowy lane and an impertinent stranger who had denied him.
His expression altered from impersonal courtesy to something far less easily defined. His jaw grew firmer by a degree.
Elizabeth lifted her chin a little and met his look steadily.
“Mr. Darcy,” Mrs. Bennet continued, quite unaware, “may I present my daughters? This is my eldest, Jane, and these are Elizabeth, Mary, Catherine, and my youngest, Lydia.”
They each curtseyed in turn. Darcy acknowledged them with the briefest of bows, yet his gaze returned to Elizabeth before withdrawing.
“You must be most anxious to see your sister, sir,” Mr. Bennet said. “Jane, perhaps you would be so good as to conduct Mr. Darcy upstairs?”
“I shall come as well,” the Colonel said quickly.
“Of course, of course,” Mrs. Bennet cried.
“My girls will show you the way. We have placed Miss Darcy in our finest chamber. The prospect is quite pretty, and the fire has been kept up. She will be delighted to see you, Mr. Darcy. She has thought of little else since the Colonel left her yesterday.”
Jane turned towards the stairs. Elizabeth fell in beside her. As Darcy drew level with them, he inclined his head slightly.
“Miss Bennet. Miss Elizabeth.”
“Mr. Darcy,” Jane replied, with gentle composure.
Elizabeth’s curtsey was perfectly proper. Only she was aware how much more quickly her heart beat than the mere ceremony required.
They ascended in silence. At the blue chamber, Jane knocked softly.
“Miss Darcy? Your brother is here.”
Georgiana’s answer came faintly through the door.
“Come in.”
Jane opened it and stood aside to admit the gentlemen. Elizabeth followed, but remained a little within the threshold, leaving the space before the fire free.
Georgiana sat in the chair by the window, in one of Jane’s simple gowns, her hair arranged simply. She looked very young, and quite pale. At the sight of her brother she rose and stood motionless, fingers knotted together.
“Georgiana.” His voice was not quite steady on her name.
He crossed the room in two strides. In a moment she was in his arms, her slight figure almost lost against his broad shoulders.
He held her with a care so intense it bordered on desperation.
One hand supported her head, the other was fixed about her as if any slackening might let her slip away again.
“I am sorry,” she whispered into his coat. “I am so very sorry.”
“No.” His answer came roughened by feeling. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“I was so foolish—”
“You were deceived,” he said, drawing back enough to look at her face, though his hands still held her fast. “You were deceived by those who ought to have protected you. That is not folly.” He checked himself with an effort. “Are you hurt? Did he do you any injury?”
“No. I escaped before—” The sentence died on her lips.
Darcy’s fingers gripped her shoulders, then loosened.
“You escaped. You preserved yourself.”
“Miss Bennet and her sisters protected me,” Georgiana said, turning towards Jane. “They found me in their barn. They hid me from Mr. Wickham when he came. They sheltered me when I had no friend in the world.”
Darcy’s gaze followed hers to Jane, and then, beyond her, to Elizabeth.
“In that case,” he said, “I am in their debt to a degree I can never hope to repay.”
His eyes rested for a moment on Elizabeth’s face. A conflict of sentiments seemed to pass across his features. Gratitude and displeasure were both plainly there.
“I owe them everything,” Georgiana continued with earnest warmth. “They have been all kindness to me, Fitzwilliam. They have helped me to understand that what occurred was not my own wickedness.”
Darcy’s expression altered slightly.
“Indeed.”
The quiet weight he gave the word made Elizabeth’s shoulders stiffen.
“Yes,” Georgiana said. “Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth made me see that I was misled by those older and more artful than myself, and that you would not despise me for it.”
“I could never be disappointed in you,” Darcy said, turning back to her. His tone softened almost beyond recognition. “Never, Georgiana.”
She began to cry then, not violently, but with a steady, painful quietness. He drew her against him once more. The Colonel moved towards the window, looking out, and appeared to busy himself with the curtain, giving them what privacy the small room allowed.
Jane, after a glance at Elizabeth, stepped back into the passage.
Elizabeth lingered a moment longer. The sight of Darcy, now wholly absorbed in comforting his sister, sat strangely with the idea of him she had formed on the snowy road.
Whatever might be said of his pride or severity, his attachment to Georgiana was not in doubt.
Elizabeth withdrew at last and closed the door softly behind her.
From within, the low murmur of voices continued—Darcy’s deeper tones, Georgiana’s broken replies, and now and then the Colonel’s quieter contribution.
“That was the gentleman from the lane?” Jane asked in a low voice.
“The same,” Elizabeth replied. “I am not altogether at ease when I recollect the manner in which I received him there.”
“You acted for Miss Darcy’s safety,” Jane said. “It was impossible to be certain of him then.”
“He has no such uncertainty now,” Elizabeth answered. “There can be little doubt he recognises me, and I fear he is far from satisfied with my conduct. I do not much look forward to the explanation that must follow.”
They descended together. Mrs. Bennet was waiting in the hall below, full of inquiries as to Mr. Darcy’s looks, his politeness, his opinion of the blue chamber, and whether he had expressed himself as grateful as so great an obligation deserved.
Elizabeth replied as briefly as civility permitted.
Her thoughts were already occupied with the conversation she knew could not long be avoided.
Of Obligations and Daughters
Darcy descended the stairs perhaps a quarter of an hour later, the Colonel at his side. From the drawing room, where she sat with her sisters, Elizabeth heard their steps and the murmur of voices in the hall.
“Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Bennet said. “I trust your sister is tolerably comfortable?”
“She is, sir,” Darcy replied. His tone was measured. “I am deeply obliged to you for the care she has received in your house.”
“You need not thank me. My daughters contrived the whole without my knowledge or consent.” There was a dry note in Mr. Bennet’s voice. “I confess they have shown more sense in the business than I had suspected them of possessing.”
“They have shown uncommon compassion, sir,” Darcy returned. “To receive a stranger in such circumstances, and to protect her as they did, does your family great credit.”
“They could scarcely turn a half-frozen girl out of our barn,” Mr. Bennet said. “Even in Hertfordshire we retain some notions of Christian charity.”
“My sister was much alarmed, I understand,” Darcy said after a moment. “Colonel Fitzwilliam informed me that the man who lured her away presented himself here.”
“He did.” Mr. Bennet’s tone sharpened slightly. “A plausible gentleman, with a story of a silly young wife who had run away from his excellent guardianship. I did not find it convincing. I saw no cause to assist him.”
A brief pause followed.
“I was, however,” Mr. Bennet added, “entirely ignorant that the object of his enquiries was at that moment concealed under my own roof. My daughters appear to have discovered talents for secrecy and stratagem that recommend them strongly to the stage.”
Darcy’s answer came more curtly.
“Mr. Wickham is a dangerous man. Had he found her here—”
“He did not,” Mr. Bennet said, with calm finality. “She was well hidden, and he has quitted the neighbourhood with more haste than dignity. I am told his departure coincided nearly with your arrival in Meryton. I draw my own conclusions.”
“Cowards are quick to run when their schemes miscarry,” Darcy said. There was a faint sound, as of a hand rest heavily upon the newel post. “I must ask, however—how long may my sister remain at Longbourn? I have no wish to encroach upon your hospitality.”
“That, I think, is principally for you to settle,” Mr. Bennet replied.
“The little tale we will give out—that a young relation of my old friend, Colonel Fitzwilliam has been taken ill upon the road, and remains here to recover—will serve us for some weeks. My daughters are more than equal to the business of attendance, and my wife shall be persuaded to treat the whole as a matter of the first importance.”
Darcy was silent a moment, as if turning this over.
“It would be rash to remove her immediately,” he said at length. “Her disappearance from London, and the dismissal of her companion, must be accounted for with consideration for the potential for rumour. To reappear too suddenly would excite just the enquiries I most wish to avoid.”
“The matter may be managed with tolerable discretion, if we proceed with a little thought,” Mr. Bennet observed. “She may remain here until you are satisfied your arrangements elsewhere are secure.”
“In that case,” Darcy said, “I am afraid I must trespass longer on your kindness. I shall, however, send to town without delay for proper attendance. A companion of approved character, and a maid, ought to be with her as soon as a chaise can bring them.”
“As you judge best,” Mr. Bennet answered. “In the meantime, you may rely upon it that she wants for nothing essential.”
Darcy hesitated, then spoke with a stiffness that suggested the offer cost him some effort.
“I must also beg that you will allow me to contribute to the expense her stay occasions you. It is not my habit to—”