Chapter Eight
A Word
On her return from her morning walk Elizabeth saw Darcy’s curricle approaching Longbourn. He was alone, driving himself.
She might have continued up the drive and entered by the front door before he reached it. Instead, she found herself slackening her pace, waiting whilst he drew up and handed the reins to the stable boy.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, as he alighted. “You have been walking.”
“I have. The morning was too fine to waste indoors.” She fell into step beside him as they moved towards the house. “You are calling early to-day.”
“I have business in Meryton this afternoon. I thought to see Georgiana before I attend to it.”
They walked on in silence for a few moments. The sound of their steps upon the gravel was the only interruption to the stillness between them.
“Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said at length, “might I speak with you about Georgiana?”
He stiffened slightly. “Has something occurred? Is she unwell?”
“No, nothing of that sort. It concerns the companion you are engaging.”
“That matter is well in hand. I do not require—”
“I know you do not require assistance,” Elizabeth said gently, yet with decision. “I thought you might wish to know Georgiana’s feelings on the subject.”
Darcy stopped. “What feelings? She said nothing to me yesterday.”
“No. She would not.” Elizabeth turned to face him. They stood upon the path between the drive and the house: private enough for conversation, yet sufficiently in view to be proper. “She fears to appear ungrateful or troublesome. Mr. Darcy, she is quite anxious about your selection.”
“I have been most thorough in my enquiries—”
“I do not doubt it. May I suggest that thoroughness in enquiries and understanding of Georgiana’s mind are not necessarily the same thing?”
His expression hardened. “You question my understanding of my own sister?”
“Not your understanding of her in general,” Elizabeth replied.
“Only your understanding of her particular preferences. You have been away from her these many weeks. You have not seen how she has begun to settle herself here, to discover what she likes and what she does not. She has her own preferences.”
“She is recovering from an ordeal. Naturally her preferences may be unsettled—”
“They are becoming more settled, not less. She has formed a decided attachment to Mary, for instance. They share an interest in music and in serious reading. Mary’s temper suits her—quiet, steady, thoughtful. Georgiana feels safe with her.”
Darcy frowned. “I am glad she has found companionship with Miss Mary.”
“She has also discovered what does not suit her. She cannot yet take pleasure in Lydia’s high spirits, though she admires Lydia’s courage.
She finds my mother’s effusions overwhelming, though she is beginning to feel the kindness beneath them.
” Elizabeth paused. “Above all, she has a strong dislike of pretence. It pains her when people say one thing and mean another.”
“What has this to do with my choosing a companion?” Darcy asked, still stiff.
“Only that Georgiana has her own wishes, Mr. Darcy. She is not merely a child to be managed, but an individual, with her own sense of what makes her comfortable and what does not. A companion will be with her every day. Ought she not to have some voice in whether that person’s temper suits her?”
Darcy was silent for some moments. When he spoke again, his tone was controlled. “Are you suggesting that I consult a fifteen-year-old girl on a matter of such consequence?”
“I am suggesting that you allow her to meet the candidates before you fix your choice.” Elizabeth’s voice remained even.
“You need not yield your authority as her guardian. You may still refuse any person you judge unsuitable. Allowing Georgiana to form her own impressions—to tell you whether she feels at ease with these ladies—would not lessen your authority. It would prove your trust in her judgement.”
There was another pause. Elizabeth waited, giving him time.
“Your observations have merit,” he said at last, as though the words did not pass easily. “I own I find it disconcerting how often your observations have merit.”
“I shall endeavour to offer more foolish counsel in future, if that would better suit your peace of mind.”
She was almost certain his mouth moved. “I would be grateful for the effort.”
They stood there a moment longer. The tension between them was lessened, if not entirely removed.
“You must allow, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said, “that Hertfordshire society has not quite answered to your expectations.”
“On the contrary,” he replied, after a moment, “I have found more to respect here than I anticipated. Your father’s understanding, your elder sister’s manners—”
“But not our connexions,” she supplied, smiling. “You need not be afraid to own it. We have relations in trade, a mother who talks too much, and younger sisters who talk before they think. It must be a severe trial to a man of your habits.”
He coloured, but did not contradict her. “I confess,” he said at last, “that your family circumstances are... different from those to which I have been used. The world is not always charitable to such disparities.”
“No,” Elizabeth agreed lightly, though the admission pricked. “It seldom is. I shall try to remember that my connexions are an inconvenience to everyone but myself. Perhaps we ought to go in to Georgiana. She will be anxious to see you.”
He inclined his head, and they walked together towards the house.
As they ascended the stairs, the silence between them was less hostile than it had done for many days. At the upper landing, Darcy spoke again.
“My sister has come to depend upon your company a great deal.”
“She has been easy with me,” Elizabeth replied. “Though it required some time for her to grow comfortable.”
“She trusts you.” It was not put as a question.
“I believe she does.”
“She was never at ease with Mrs. Younge,” Darcy said, his voice low. “I see that now. She was always guarded in that woman’s presence, always anxious. I ascribed it to Georgiana’s natural shyness. I did not think to enquire whether there might be another cause.”
Elizabeth considered. “You engaged Mrs. Younge in good faith, upon such information as you had.”
“That does not excuse my neglect in attending to my sister’s comfort.” He paused outside Georgiana’s door. “I ought to have asked her plainly whether she was content. I assumed my judgement was sufficient.”
“Then perhaps you might begin asking now,” Elizabeth said quietly.
He looked at her. She met his gaze without flinching. Something altered in his expression—acknowledgement, and the beginning of a different sort of respect.
He knocked.
“Enter,” came Georgiana’s voice from within.
Choose
They entered to find Georgiana alone, embroidery in her lap. She looked up, and her face brightened at the sight of them together.
“Fitzwilliam! Miss Elizabeth! Have you been walking together?”
There was something in her tone—a hopefulness, perhaps—that made Elizabeth glance quickly at Darcy. His expression remained impassive.
“We encountered each other on the drive,” Darcy said, taking a seat near her. “Miss Elizabeth was returning from her walk.”
“How delightful.” Georgiana set aside her needlework, though her smile dimmed slightly. “I wish I might walk. I have not been out of doors in weeks.”
“You are recovering well,” Darcy said. “Perhaps—” He paused, considering. “We shall discuss that presently. First, I wished to speak with you about the companion arrangements.”
The smile faded slightly, replaced by a more guarded expression. “Yes?”
“I have been remiss,” Darcy said. “I made plans to engage a companion without consulting you—without considering that you ought to have some voice in the matter.”
Georgiana's eyes widened.
“Miss Elizabeth has pointed out, quite correctly, that a companion will be attending you daily. You should meet these candidates before I make my final determination.”
“You wish me to meet them?” Georgiana's voice was scarcely above a whisper.
“I do. I have narrowed the selection to three ladies, all of whom possess excellent references and suitable backgrounds. Yet I cannot know from references alone whether you will be comfortable in their company. I propose to arrange for each of them to call here, that you may form your own impressions.”
“Will they consent to such an arrangement?” Georgiana’s hands gripped one another. “To be interviewed by some one they would be attending?”
“If they will not,” Darcy said firmly, “then they are not the sort of companion you deserve. Any woman who considers herself too elevated to meet with you beforehand is not someone I would trust with your care.”
The anxiety left Georgiana's face. “When will they come?”
“Within the week, I expect. I shall write to them this evening.” He glanced around the chamber. “How have you been occupying yourself to-day? You seemed to have been alone when we arrived.”
“Mary was here earlier. We were looking at some sonatas. She has a remarkable understanding of musical composition—as good as a master.” Georgiana picked up her embroidery again. “Jane brought me this work yesterday. She thought I might enjoy it.”
“Are you finding it agreeable? The work, I mean.”
“Well enough. Though I confess I am better at music than needlework.”
“What would you prefer to occupy your time?” Darcy asked. “I must return to London to-morrow for a day or two to conclude some business. I could bring you whatever you require—books, sheet music, drawing materials. If you wish for your harp, I can have it sent down from town.”
Georgiana’s eyes brightened. “Oh! If it would not be too troublesome.”
“It shall be done,” he said. “You shall not be without it another week.”
“Truly?”
“Of course. You have been confined to this chamber for weeks now. The least I can do is ensure you have suitable amusement.”