Chapter 30 #3
Jane sent a note from Longbourn, tender and anxious, with assurances that their mother had been persuaded not to call, though only by the combined efforts of Mr. Bennet, Mr. Philips, and the promise of hearing everything proper later.
Elizabeth smiled over that despite herself.
Her mother’s curiosity, once attached to a possible scandal, would have required a military defense.
Perhaps Colonel Fitzwilliam ought to be posted at Longbourn as well.
Bingley sent word up twice that Elizabeth and Georgiana were to command anything they wished.
The third time he came himself no farther than the doorway of the music room, looking with such open concern at Georgiana that she blushed and murmured a shy thank you.
He did not linger, which Elizabeth appreciated.
His kindness had the rare merit of knowing when not to press itself upon its object.
Miss Bingley appeared before dinner in an elegant gown and with an expression of careful sympathy.
“Dear Miss Darcy,” she said, “I do hope you are recovered enough to join us for dinner. A little society may be just the thing.”
Georgiana’s hand tightened on Elizabeth’s.
Mrs. Hurst, seated near the window with some work in her lap, glanced up. “Or it may not. Miss Darcy shall do precisely as she wishes.”
Miss Bingley’s lips thinned almost imperceptibly. “Of course.”
Elizabeth could have kissed Mrs. Hurst for it.
Georgiana did not dine below. Mrs. Hurst ordered trays sent up for them both, and Elizabeth stayed with her without pretending reluctance.
They ate little, but more than Georgiana had managed earlier.
Afterward Elizabeth read aloud until Georgiana’s eyes grew heavy, and when the girl grew restless again, they returned to the pianoforte and played softly by candlelight.
The music room seemed removed from the rest of the world. Outside, darkness pressed against the windows. Inside, the candles flickered, the instrument gave its gentle answers beneath their hands, and for a little while the horror of Wickham’s voice—There is my beautiful bride—seemed farther away.
But Darcy was still on the road.
Elizabeth’s thoughts turned to him again and again.
She imagined every rut, every slick bend, every careless wagon that might slow or startle a horse.
She imagined Darcy urging his mount too hard because Georgiana’s terror drove him forward.
She imagined Richard matching him, laughing perhaps, but no less reckless beneath it.
Then she rebuked herself for borrowing trouble and prayed again that both men might return safely.
The next evening, near dinnertime, Georgiana’s composure broke once more. It was not as violent as the night before, but it was sadder. She sat on the edge of the bed, her hair loose over her shoulders, and whispered, “What if my brother does not come back before Mr. Wickham’s time is ended?”
“He will,” Elizabeth said.
“What if he cannot find anything?”
“Then he will find another way.”
Georgiana looked at her with desperate trust. “You truly believe that?”
Elizabeth thought of Darcy’s face when he had said he would give away Georgiana’s dowry before he allowed Wickham to have her.
She thought of him declaring that Wickham would not succeed, that he would marry Elizabeth and save Georgiana both, even if it required Pemberley, flight, and the Americas.
She thought of his honor, his stubbornness, his tenderness, and the way he had looked at her as though her willingness to help had given him strength rather than injured his pride.
“Yes,” Elizabeth said. “I believe it.”
Georgiana leaned against her then, and Elizabeth held her until, at long last, the sound of hooves in the driveway were heard.
Georgiana turned sharply toward the window, fear and hope mingled in her face. For one awful instant neither of them moved. Then Elizabeth rose and crossed to the glass.
Two riders.
Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam.
Relief swept through her so swiftly that she had to grip the curtain to steady herself.
Darcy dismounted below with the weary stiffness of a man who had spent too many hours in the saddle, but he was whole.
He was safe. He turned toward the house before speaking to the groom, and though he could not see her through the upper window, Elizabeth felt, absurdly and wonderfully, that he had come back to her.
“Your brother is returned,” she said.
Georgiana closed her eyes and began to cry—not as she had before, not with panic, but with release.
Elizabeth went to her at once, took her hands, and held them until the first storm passed. Then she kissed Georgiana’s forehead with more affection than ceremony.
“I shall go down and learn what they discovered. You need not come unless you wish.”
Georgiana shook her head. “Tell him I am glad he is safe.”
“I will.”
“And tell him…” She faltered. “Tell him I am trying to be brave.”
Elizabeth smiled through the ache in her throat. “I think he already knows.”
Then she left Georgiana with her maid and went quickly down the stairs, her heart beating faster with each step. Whatever news Darcy had brought, good or ill, they would face it now.
Together.