Chapter Eight #2
“There is a volume of Haydn's sonatas that I have been wanting. And perhaps—if it is not too much—some poetry? Miss Mary has been reading Cowper to me, and I find I should like to read more of his work.”
“Cowper,” Darcy said. “A worthy choice. I shall bring you a complete volume.”
“Thank you.”
“It is no trouble.” Darcy returned his attention to his sister. “Anything else?”
“Some drawing paper, perhaps? Jane has been teaching me water-colours. I am dreadful at it, but I enjoy trying.”
“Then you shall have the finest paper I can procure.” He rose.
“I shall leave you to your needlework. Perhaps, should we have a mild day, you might take a walk with Miss Elizabeth. A short walk. Expect to receive callers within the week—and do not hesitate to tell me your honest impressions of them.”
“I will,” Georgiana said. “Thank you, Fitzwilliam.”
He bowed to her, then to Elizabeth, and departed.
When the door closed behind him, Georgiana looked at Elizabeth with an expression like wonder.
“What did you say to him?”
“Only what you wished me to say,” Elizabeth replied, coming to sit beside her. “That you had preferences worth considering.”
“He has never asked my opinion about such things before.”
“Then perhaps this marks a new beginning,” Elizabeth said gently. “One where your brother recognises that you are growing into someone with thoughts and feelings worth consulting.”
Georgiana smiled—a real smile, reaching her eyes. “I think I should like that very much.”
The Candidates
The library at Longbourn had become an interview room for the morning. Mr. Bennet, surprisingly amenable to the invasion, had retreated to the morning room with a book and a warning that if any of the applicants attempted to reorganise his papers, they would be ejected forthwith.
Georgiana sat in the high-backed leather chair, appearing much like a small bird perched on a throne. She gripped a sheet of paper upon which she had written three questions. Her knuckles were white.
“You need not employ any of them,” Elizabeth reminded her, adjusting the shawl around Georgiana's shoulders. “If they fail to please you, we shall send them back to London with our thanks and a basket of apples. This decision is yours.”
“I am ready,” Georgiana whispered, though her voice suggested otherwise.
Candidate the First: Mrs. Dalrymple
Mrs. Dalrymple did not enter a room, she besieged it. A woman of imposing height and even more imposing corsetry, she swept into the library with the bearing of a general inspecting troops. Heavy musk and the rustle of expensive, stiff silk announced her arrival.
She did not wait to be asked. She took the chair opposite Georgiana, arranged her skirts, and levelled a monocle at the young girl.
“Miss Darcy,” Mrs. Dalrymple boomed. “You are slouching. The Countess of Matlock would never permit a slouch. We must correct that immediately. A board strapped to the back is most effective.”
Georgiana shrank back. “I... I hope you had a pleasant journey, Madam?”
“The roads were abominable. The carriage Mr. Darcy sent, though well-sprung, was draughty. I shall speak to him regarding his choice of coachman. Servants require a firm hand, Miss Darcy, or they become slovenly. I trust you understand the importance of discipline?”
Georgiana turned toward Elizabeth in mute appeal.
Elizabeth stepped forward. “Miss Darcy has prepared a few questions, Mrs. Dalrymple.”
Mrs. Dalrymple redirected her monocle. “Who might this be? A governess? You are far too young to have any authority.”
“I am Miss Bennet. This is my father's house.”
“Ah. The provincial host.” Mrs. Dalrymple dismissed her with a wave of a gloved hand.
“Proceed, Miss Darcy. I tell you at once, I do not tolerate French novels, idleness, or unapproved correspondence. My last charge, Lady Honoria, attempted to write to a poet. I had the fire lit in her room and made her burn the letters herself. It was a valuable lesson in discipline.”
Georgiana's mouth opened, but no sound emerged. She glanced down at her list of questions—which asked about music and reading preferences—then back at the woman who advocated burning poetry.
“I... I think I have heard sufficient,” Georgiana managed.
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Dalrymple declared. “I have not yet examined your embroidery. Fetch your workbasket.”
“Mrs. Dalrymple,” Jane interrupted, opening the door with gentle firmness. “The carriage awaits to return you to the posting inn. Miss Darcy is fatigued.”
Mrs. Dalrymple rose, affronted. “Fatigued? At eleven in the morning? We shall certainly require the backboard.”
When the door closed behind her, Elizabeth turned to Georgiana. “Well, I believe we can definitively rule out any one who advocates binding young ladies to planks of wood. It narrows the field considerably.”
Georgiana's shoulders dropped with relief. “She was terrifying.”
“She was indeed. Though I confess I am now curious what crime poetry committed to deserve immolation. Perhaps it failed to rhyme properly.”
Candidate the Second: Miss Hartwell
If Mrs. Dalrymple was a siege engine, Miss Hartwell was a hurricane of lace and giggles. She was barely ten years older than Georgiana, with corkscrew curls that bounced as she walked.
“Oh, Miss Darcy!” she cried, rushing forward to seize Georgiana's hand before an introduction could be made. “What a pleasure! A delight! I said to Lady Sefton only last week, 'To serve a Darcy is the dream of my life!' Such a fortune! Such a brother!”
She winked—a gesture quite unlooked-for in polite company—which made Georgiana recoil.
“Do you... do you enjoy reading?” Georgiana asked, consulting her paper.
“Reading? Oh, la! I read the fashion plates, of course. Who has time for books when there is life to be lived? I hear you are terribly shy. We shall remedy that in a fortnight. A little rouge, a lower neckline—you have the figure for it, do not hide it—and we shall have beaux swarming like bees to honey.”
“I do not wish for beaux,” Georgiana whispered.
“Everyone wishes for beaux!” Miss Hartwell laughed, spinning to admire the library shelves.
“Are these all dusty old volumes? We must clear them out.
We require space for dancing practice. I know the latest steps from Town.
Lady Sefton's niece was clumsy as anything, yet I had her dancing the Boulanger before her presentation. We shall be the toast of the season, you and I. Thick as thieves!”
Georgiana's eyes darted toward the door. The prospect of being “thick as thieves” with this exhausting personage was clearly unbearable.
“Miss Hartwell,” Elizabeth interposed. “Miss Darcy is not out.”
“Oh, pooh,” Miss Hartwell waved a handkerchief. “A little liveliness is the best cure for melancholy. Come, show me your gowns. I wager they are all grey. We must order pink.”
“Thank you, Miss Hartwell,” Georgiana said, discovering a sudden, desperate resolve. “I prefer grey.”
“And libraries,” Elizabeth added as Jane opened the door. “Miss Darcy is remarkably attached to libraries. All those dusty old volumes. Quite immovable, I am afraid.”
After Miss Hartwell departed in a flurry of curls and protests, Georgiana sank deeper into her chair.
“At least she did not wish to burn the books,” Georgiana said faintly.
“Not burn them, merely remove them to make room for dancing. A subtle but important distinction.” Elizabeth smiled. “Though I grant you, the effect would be much the same. Shall we fortify ourselves with tea before the final candidate?”
Candidate the Third: Mrs. Annesley
The silence that followed Mrs. Annesley into the room was not awkward. It was restful.
She was a slight woman with kind eyes and a dress of sensible, dark bombazine. She waited at the door until Georgiana nodded permission to enter, and when she curtsied, it was with deferential grace that demanded nothing.
She sat where indicated and folded her hands in her lap. She did not examine the room with a critical eye. She did not assess Georgiana for deficiencies. She simply offered a calm presence.
Georgiana consulted her list. Her hands were shaking less.
“Mrs. Annesley,” she began. “Do you... do you hold with the burning of poetry?”
Elizabeth pressed her lips together to suppress a smile.
Mrs. Annesley blinked, surprised, but her expression remained serene. “I confess I do not, Miss Darcy. Unless the poetry is of such poor metre that it constitutes a crime against the language. In general, I find reading to be a solace, not a sin.”
Georgiana released a breath. “And... and dancing? Must one clear libraries for it?”
“I should hope not,” Mrs. Annesley replied, glancing at the wall of books with genuine appreciation. “It would be a tragedy to disturb such a collection. I am fond of a quiet life, Miss Darcy. The world is often quite loud enough without our adding to it.”
Georgiana lowered the paper. She turned to Elizabeth, and her shoulders dropped from their defensive hunch.
“I play the harp,” Georgiana said. “Sometimes for hours. The repetition can be tiresome for those obliged to listen.”
“I am fond of music,” Mrs. Annesley said softly. “I am also quite content to sit with my own needlework and my own thoughts. You need not entertain me, Miss Darcy. A companion's duty is to provide support, not to dictate your path.”
Georgiana studied her for a long moment. Then she turned to Elizabeth.
“Elizabeth?”
“Yes, dearest?”
“I should like to order tea now,” Georgiana said, a small, genuine smile touching her lips. “For Mrs. Annesley and myself. Perhaps we might discuss what books Mrs. Annesley enjoys. I find I am suddenly very interested in her opinion of Cowper.”
Elizabeth rang the bell, catching Jane's eye as she did so. “An excellent notion. I must warn you, Mrs. Annesley, that we take our poetry quite seriously at Longbourn. No burning allowed. It is a firm house rule.”
Mrs. Annesley's eyes crinkled with quiet humour. “I shall endeavour to remember that, Miss Bennet.”
The choice was made.
A Companion