Chapter 26 #3
“Yes. My aunt has been very kind. She never had a daughter, and I think perhaps she has treated me as the daughter she did not have.” Georgiana’s voice softened with affection. “She is not indulgent exactly, but she is very good. And my uncle is gentler than he wishes people to know.”
Elizabeth smiled. “Many gentlemen seem to suffer from the fear of being thought gentle.”
Georgiana’s eyes flickered toward Darcy. “Yes.”
The look was so quick and so fond that Elizabeth’s heart gave a quiet ache.
“You miss Pemberley, though.”
“Very much. But I suppose I would have left for school or for some governess arrangement even if I had not gone to Matlock House. I was very young when my father died, and my brother had so much to manage. He did everything he could for me.”
There was no complaint in her voice, only devotion and a sadness too old for a girl of sixteen. Elizabeth thought of Darcy’s letter to Georgiana, of the pin money given back for roofs and repairs, of a brother and sister both trying to bear adult burdens too soon.
“I am sure he did,” Elizabeth said gently.
Georgiana looked at her then with something like gratitude, as if Elizabeth had understood the part she could not say.
“And have you other family you see often?” Elizabeth asked, hoping to turn her toward easier ground.
“Only my cousins and aunt and uncle. Richard—I mean, Colonel Fitzwilliam, of course. Lord Milton, who is Richard’s older brother, though he is not so solemn as his title of viscount sounds.
And cousin Anne, but she is always in Kent.
She does not write, and she never travels. We are not very close.”
Elizabeth kept her voice light. “I have heard a little of Kent recently. My cousin, Mr. Collins, is the parson at Hunsford.”
Georgiana’s eyes widened. “The gentleman who remained behind with Miss Mary?”
“The same.”
“Oh.” Georgiana seemed to search for something kind to say and failed.
Elizabeth took pity on her. “He is very devoted to Lady Catherine.”
“That is one way of expressing it,” Georgiana said, then looked horrified at herself.
Elizabeth laughed softly. “Do not fear. It is also a very generous way of expressing it.”
Georgiana’s shy answering smile made Elizabeth feel as though she had been entrusted with something delicate and precious.
They reached Meryton soon after, and Lydia led the charge toward the milliner’s with Kitty close beside her and Colonel Fitzwilliam pretending terror at the force of their advance.
Jane and Mr. Bingley followed at a more leisurely pace, absorbed in one another with a sweetness so transparent Elizabeth wondered how either could believe themselves unobserved.
Georgiana paused beside a display in the window, then turned toward Darcy. “Brother, would this ribbon suit me, do you think, or is it too bright?”
Darcy stepped nearer at once, studying it with a sadness he did not try to hide. “The last time I chose a ribbon for you, you were twelve years old. I confess, am no longer certain of your tastes.”
“Since when do you admit to not knowing something?” Her smile flickered, conciliatory rather than teasing.
“Since my sister grew up without my noticing. Two years is a poor excuse, but it is the one I have.”
“Two years and four months,” she said, quietly.
“You counted.”
“Of course.”
Darcy’s throat tightened, and for a moment he could not answer. Then he covered her hand with his own. “I am here now,” he said. “And I mean to learn you all over again, ribbons and all.”
Georgiana laughed, and Darcy smiled at her in a way Elizabeth had never seen directed toward anyone else: unguarded, tender, and almost boyish with affection.
Elizabeth stood a little apart and watched them.
Over the next several days, she saw that expression often.
Georgiana remained at Netherfield with Colonel Fitzwilliam, and the two households fell into an easy exchange of calls, walks, music, and dinners.
Elizabeth soon learned that Darcy’s care for his sister was not merely the care of a guardian for a ward, nor of a brother whose affection expressed itself in protection alone.
He wanted to know her. He asked about her music, not simply whether she practiced, but whether she liked the pieces she played.
He listened when she spoke of a girl at Matlock House whose friendship pleased her, and again when she admitted another had intimidated her.
He knew which books she had enjoyed, which ones she pretended to understand, and which ones Lady Matlock thought suitable.
He praised her when she spoke with courage and gave her silence when speech became too difficult.
He did not make her feel foolish for being shy.
He did not make her earn his attention by being amusing.
He did not retreat into a book when her concerns were young, small, or inconvenient.