CHAPTER 55 #2
Mrs. Albright’s gaze moved once to Miss Darcy’s wet hem, then returned to Elizabeth.
“Very good, madam.”
Georgiana’s eyes filled suddenly.
“I have caused a great deal of trouble.”
“No,” said Elizabeth. “You have arrived in the rain. That is not the same thing.”
It was not wit that made Georgiana’s mouth tremble, though it came near enough to it that Elizabeth took courage.
Mrs. Doddridge appeared a moment later, not flustered, not curious, but possessed of a shawl and the air of a woman who had long ago concluded that civilisation depended upon dry stockings and properly shut doors.
She offered her arm, not as one who offered comfort, but as one who had determined the next practical step.
Georgiana looked once at Elizabeth.
“No one will send you anywhere,” Elizabeth said. “No one will write to anyone until you are dry, warm, and have eaten something. When Mr. Darcy comes, you shall tell us what you choose to tell us once.”
Georgiana whispered, “Thank you,” and went upstairs.
The room, once she had gone, seemed to hold the rain more loudly.
Elizabeth stood still for a moment. There are anxieties which grow larger when fed by speculation, and others which refuse to be starved.
This was the second kind. Miss Darcy had come without permission, in rain, to a house she scarcely knew, because Elizabeth had given her an old card and no command.
Whatever had driven her there had not been small.
But Mrs. Marwood had taught Elizabeth that fear was no reason to rush into every room before the servants had laid a fire.
She went to the writing table and wrote quickly.
Fitzwilliam, come home directly. Georgiana is here, safe, but very much frightened. I need you.
She sealed it, gave it to James, and watched him depart into the rain.
By the time Georgiana came downstairs again, she no longer looked like a creature abandoned to the weather, though she did not yet look easy.
Evans had dressed her in one of Elizabeth’s old grey gowns, let down where it could be let down and softened with a shawl at the shoulders.
The sleeves were a little short, the waist not quite her own, but the gown was dry, warm, and respectable.
After the first shock of seeing herself in another lady’s clothes, Georgiana seemed almost relieved not to be wearing anything Mrs. Younge had chosen.
Tea waited in the small drawing room. So did broth, toast, and a dish of eggs which Cook had perhaps not forgiven but had nevertheless produced.
Elizabeth made her sit near the fire.
“You must drink that.”
Georgiana obeyed. Her hands still shook a little around the cup.
“And some broth.”
“I do not think I can.”
“Then we shall not ask thought to involve itself. You need only take three spoonfuls and we shall call it obedience to the house.”
That earned the faintest, weakest flicker of surprise.
Elizabeth counted the spoonfuls without appearing to count them. After the third, Georgiana took a fourth by accident and looked almost betrayed by herself.
“There,” Elizabeth said. “You see how dangerous Portman Square can be.”
Georgiana set the spoon down. “Will Mr. Darcy be angry?”
“My husband? Very likely.”
Georgiana went still.
“With Wickham, with Mrs. Younge, perhaps with every road, door, servant, and circumstance which made it possible for you to come here frightened. Not with you.”
The girl looked down.
“I am not certain I have done right.”
“Then you need not be certain yet. It is sometimes enough to have stopped doing what felt wrong.”
The words seemed to pass through Georgiana slowly, as warmth did.
She said nothing for some time after that.
Elizabeth did not press her. Rain worked against the windowpanes.
The fire settled. Somewhere below, the house moved with unusual quietness, all its doors and servants arranged around the fact that Miss Darcy was both present and not to be discovered.
At last Georgiana said, “You will not send to Darcy House?”
“Not before Mr. Darcy comes. Not before you are able to say what must be said. And not without care.”
“What if they come here?”
“Then they will discover that Mrs. Darcy is not receiving.”
Georgiana looked at her, almost bewildered by the simplicity of a closed door.
“And if they insist?”
“Then they will be disappointed.”
It was at that moment that the sound of a carriage in the square cut through the rain.
Georgiana’s cup rattled in its saucer.
Elizabeth rose at once. “That will be my husband.”
Georgiana stood too quickly, and would perhaps have set the cup down badly if Elizabeth had not taken it from her.
“Do not be afraid of him,” Elizabeth said.
“I am not. That is—” Georgiana stopped, ashamed of the disorder in her own answer. “I have not seen him properly in so long.”
“I know.”
Elizabeth went to the door before Darcy could be shown in.
He was already in the hall, rain on his greatcoat, his hat in one hand, his face so stripped of ordinary composure that for a moment she saw not the husband who had become at home in Portman Square, but the brother who had been kept outside a closed house for years.
“What is it?” he said.
“Georgiana is here.”
All colour left his face.
“Here?”
“Yes. She came in the rain. She is dry now, and warm, but very frightened. She has not told me the story. I thought she should not be made to tell it twice.”
He closed his eyes for one moment.
“Thank you.”
“She is ashamed of having come, and uncertain whether she has done right. Be very gentle, Fitzwilliam.”
His gaze returned to hers. The look in it was gratitude, terror, and something too old to be answered in a hallway.
“I will.”
Elizabeth put her hand briefly over his.
Then she opened the door.
Georgiana stood beside the chair, one hand pressed against the back of it as if furniture might be all that preserved her courage. Darcy stopped at the threshold.
For several seconds neither moved.
Elizabeth saw at once what the sight cost him.
This was not the child memory had preserved for him, not merely the shy little girl he had loved across distance and obstruction.
This was a young lady in borrowed clothes, frightened into composure, standing in his wife’s drawing room because nowhere else in London had seemed safe.
“Georgiana,” he said.
That was all.
Her face altered.
“Brother.”
The word broke something in both of them. Darcy crossed the room, but not quickly. He did not seize her into his own feeling, though Elizabeth saw the effort it cost him. He stopped before her, and when she seemed unable either to step forward or sit down, he knelt beside the chair.
“You are safe,” he said.
Georgiana covered her face.
“I did not know where else to go.”
“You did exactly right.”
She made a sound that was not quite sobbing and not quite speech. He reached for her hand and held it with such care that Elizabeth felt, in the very restraint of him, how much force he was governing for her sake.
For a little while, there was nothing more useful than silence.
At last Georgiana drew breath with difficulty.
“I must tell you.”
“Yes,” said Darcy. “But only as you can.”
Elizabeth sat near enough to be included and far enough not to command. Georgiana looked from her brother to Elizabeth, and perhaps it steadied her to find neither impatience nor pity arranged for her use.
“I have been very foolish,” she began.
“No,” Darcy said at once.
Elizabeth glanced at him.
He mastered himself visibly. “Forgive me. Go on.”
Georgiana’s fingers tightened in his. “I do not know whether I have been. That is part of it. I have been told so many things, and always as if I ought already to understand them.”
Darcy was very still.
“Mr. Wickham has been at Darcy House more often of late,” she said.
“Not always openly. Not always when there were calls. But often enough. I had always known him. Papa always—” She stopped, corrected herself, and continued with effort.
“Papa has always received him. Mrs. Younge said there was nothing extraordinary in it.”
Elizabeth did not speak.
“At first there was nothing I could name. Only that he spoke to me differently. As if there were some understanding between us which I had forgotten to acknowledge. As if I were childish not to know what was expected.”
Darcy’s hand tightened once around hers, then eased.
“What was expected?” he asked quietly.
Georgiana looked down.
“That I should trust him. That I should not let myself be governed by old quarrels. That a young lady may be made unhappy for life if she allows colder people to arrange everything for her.”
The room seemed to become very still.
“And Mrs. Younge?” Elizabeth asked.
“She said I was fortunate to have such an old friend. That many girls were handed to men they scarcely knew. That I ought not to make a romance of disobedience merely because there had once been family unpleasantness.”
Darcy’s face changed.
Georgiana saw it and hurried on. “I did not know what to believe. Mrs. Younge said I was too inexperienced to distinguish manner from intention, and that I must trust those who had been placed near me.”
Elizabeth’s mouth hardened, but she kept silent.
“After I met you in Bond Street,” Georgiana said to Elizabeth, “it became worse. Mrs. Younge watched me more. Mr. Wickham asked what you had said. Whether you spoke of my brother. Whether you had given me anything. I said very little. I thought if I said little enough, there would be nothing to use.”
“That was well done,” Elizabeth said.
The simple praise startled her.
“I do not know. It made him angry.”
“Then it was very well done.”
A faint flush rose in Georgiana’s face and vanished.
Darcy asked, “Did he threaten you?”