Chapter 10 #7
“I am,” Elizabeth answered simply. “They have shown me, all my life, that good manners and good judgement are not confined to those who possess carriages and acres. My uncle is as much a gentleman as any man I know. My aunt is everything that is amiable, and quite as well-informed as many ladies who never set foot east of Hanover Square.”
Some of the pressure in Darcy's chest eased. The faint sharpness of the air, the holly in her basket, the easy steadiness of her voice—all seemed suddenly more distinct than they had a moment before.
“If that is so,” he said slowly, “then it would be unjust to remove Georgiana from the very people who might comfort her. Mrs. Annesley has advised that she remain. I am resolved to follow her judgement.”
“It would indeed be a pity to disappoint her,” Elizabeth agreed. “She has been looking forward to meeting them. Jane has written to my aunt about her, and you may trust Mrs. Gardiner to tread softly where nerves are concerned.”
He had not known Georgiana had expressed such anticipation. The notion that she might be disappointed by his over-caution pricked him.
“I had also thought,” he began, “that my presence at a family Christmas dinner might be an intrusion. Your father invited me, but I—”
“But you intended to decline,” Elizabeth finished for him. “On the grounds of delicacy?”
He hesitated. “I did not wish to impose myself upon your family party. A stranger at such a season—”
“A stranger?” she repeated, one eyebrow lifting.
“You have been in and out of this house for weeks, Mr. Darcy. My mother has claimed you as an ornament to her dinner table, my father as a foil to his humour, and my sisters as a subject for their gratitude. Georgiana has taken root in our guest chamber. I begin to suspect you are less a stranger than you suppose—and that, in such circumstances, refusing a place at our Christmas table would be a far greater insult than accepting it.”
A laugh threatened, and he turned it into a cough. “You make it sound as though I had invaded Hertfordshire.”
“You arrived with an army of footmen and enough trunks to establish a colony,” Elizabeth said.
“I should call that an incursion at least. Yet since you are here, you may as well see the Gardiners for yourself. Then you may judge whether Gracechurch Street must always signify inferiority in your eyes.”
He met her gaze. There was laughter in her eyes, but also a challenge—an invitation to be better than his earlier thoughts.He met her gaze. There was laughter in her eyes, but also a challenge—an invitation to be better than his earlier thoughts.
“There is one other matter,” he said, his voice turning more grave.
“I had a letter this morning from Colonel Fitzwilliam. He writes that Wickham has been found—at London, in lodgings of no great comfort. He is said to be ill, some fever or other disorder. A surgeon attends him, and though there is hope of recovery, his circumstances are pitiable.”
Elizabeth’s countenance grew serious. “I am sorry to hear it. However undeserving he may be, one cannot wish such suffering on any man.”
“No,” Darcy agreed quietly. “It is that very thought which troubles me. Georgiana must be told, I suppose, yet I dread the effect. She has been easy and cheerful of late—I would not darken her peace if it can be avoided.”
“Then perhaps she need not be told all at once,” Elizabeth said after a moment’s reflection. “If his illness worsens, she should hear it—from you, and gently. But if he recovers, let the news reach her when it can bring no fresh pain. Compassion is not always best shown by haste.”
He looked at her with something like relief. “I am glad to have your judgement on it. You see the matter as I would wish to see it myself.”
The silence that followed was one of understanding rather than constraint. Then, with a faint smile, he said, “If Mrs. Bennet will still have me, I shall stay to dinner on Christmas Day.”
“I have no doubt my father will consider it a great sacrifice on your part,” Elizabeth replied. “He may even be persuaded to forgive you the footmen.”
When she smiled then, it was not entirely at his expense. The change it wrought in him was disquieting, and by no means displeasing.
Battledore
That afternoon the cold had driven the younger girls indoors. Elizabeth, at work by the chimneypiece, had given up any pretence of counting her stitches. Kitty’s pencil-tapping and Lydia’s restless circuits of the room were too much in evidence to be ignored.
Kitty sat at the small table by the window, tapping a pencil against the wood whilst she watched the lane between long blinks of boredom. Lydia, having exhausted every view from every pane, began to drift about the room, picking things up and putting them down again.
She stopped at Georgiana’s work-basket. “What a mass of thread,” she said, taking up the scissors to snip at a loose end. “I should go distracted if I were forced to sit still over such nonsense. Kitty, shall we play at battledore? There is space enough if we move that chair.”
Elizabeth saw Mrs. Annesley look up so quickly that her thimble slipped from her finger.
“Pray do not trouble the furniture, my dear Miss Lydia,” she said, her tone all apology.
“If you begin to move chairs, I shall be quite at a loss. In London, when a room is arranged for company, no one ventures to alter it but the mistress of the house. A poor companion like me would never dare. I should never wish Mrs. Bennet to think I set myself at the head of the family.”
Lydia blinked at her. “Set yourself—what? We are only in the drawing room. Mamma will not mind.”
“Oh, I am persuaded she is all goodness,” Mrs. Annesley replied, with a little anxious laugh.
“It is only my own silly terror. Years in Town have quite ruined my nerves. If I saw a young lady playing at battledore amongst the chairs, I should think some great shock had unsettled her—such romping is only permitted in the schoolroom. In a drawing room, one amuses oneself just as Miss Kitty does now, or as Miss Darcy does, so that if a stranger were to step in, he would find every thing in composure.”
Kitty, thus unexpectedly held up as an example, stilled her pencil. Elizabeth watched her lay it down and reach for the book that had been propped open beside her, turning a page with exaggerated care. Georgiana kept her eyes on her needle, though the corners of her mouth trembled.
Lydia’s gaze travelled from the chairs she had meant to drag into a line, to Georgiana’s quiet figure, to Kitty, now sitting as straight as a poker. For a moment Elizabeth could almost see the struggle between defiance and the fear of appearing ridiculous.
“I am not a schoolgirl,” Lydia muttered, dropping the shuttlecock back into the drawer. “I can sit and work as well as any one.”
“How delightful,” Mrs. Annesley said, with gentle delight. “Longbourn is the model of propriety. I shall be afraid to take Georgiana anywhere else. She will be spoilt by such examples.”
Kitty coloured, but she kept her back from touching the chair and her hands quiet in her lap.
Lydia flung herself into the nearest seat with a huff.
Then, catching Mrs. Annesley’s eye, she jerked her feet back beneath her petticoats and seized a strip of muslin from the basket as if she had meant to hem it all along.
The movement was so abrupt, so very unlike Lydia’s usual ease, that a little giggle escaped Kitty before she could contain it.
Lydia opened her mouth to laugh in return, then closed it again. She nudged Kitty sharply with her elbow. “Do not laugh so loud,” she whispered. “If any one hears us from the lane, he will think you are in hysterics.”
Elizabeth bent her head over her work to hide her smile. Longbourn, a model of propriety, was a picture she thought worth every stitch Mrs. Annesley chose to take in hand.