Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Darcy had his own share of vexations whilst at Netherfield Park.
After escorting his sister home to Pemberley in the wake of the Ramsgate debacle, he secured for her a new companion, Mrs Annesley, the widow of Kympton’s former rector.
The lady possessed a sobriety of judgement and a worldly understanding which rendered her peculiarly suited to the task of aiding his sister after her heartbreak.
To Mrs Annesley, Darcy had disclosed the whole of the unhappy business: how it had extended no farther than a few whispered professions of love, a kiss pressed reverently upon the hand, and one, less excusable, bestowed upon the cheek.
That Georgiana had been preserved from greater misfortune was a source of gratitude to him; however, the recollection still filled him with bitterness towards the man who, out of a false sense of injury, had schemed to rob his sister of both fortune and reputation.
Mrs Annesley, having herself witnessed something of Mr Wickham’s dangerous charm, offered no censure of Miss Darcy, whose youth and inexperience had left her singularly vulnerable to his designs.
Instead, she guided the young lady and helped her recognise what part she did play and how she could prevent such things from happening to her in the future.
Thus a month was passed at Pemberley, during which time Darcy scarcely quitted Georgiana’s side.
He studied her every expression, marked each fluctuation of her spirits, and sought, by innumerable small attentions, to restore her composure.
The more he endeavoured to aid her, the more conscious she became of his vigilance; and her colour, her voice, and even her manner at the pianoforte betrayed an uneasiness she could not overcome.
At length Mrs Annesley ventured to speak.
“My dear sir,” she began, when they were alone in the morning parlour, “your devotion to Miss Darcy does you credit, but I cannot help observing that your very solicitude oppresses her. She cannot recover her ease while she lives beneath the weight of your watchfulness.”
Darcy looked up sharply. “Oppresses her? You mistake me, madam. I only seek to assure her she is safe, that nothing of what passed at Ramsgate shall ever threaten her again.”
“Miss Darcy knows your heart too well to doubt your love; but she is ever conscious of your eye upon her, and it robs her of all freedom,” replied Mrs Annesley with a touch of firmness that was unexpected from a lady in her position.
Still, she pressed on. “She believes herself judged, pitied, and found wanting. Such thoughts, however unfounded, will not depart while you remain at her side so constantly.”
His brow darkened. “Your remedy, madam, is that I should leave her? You ask me to abandon her to recover without me when it was my negligence that exposed her in the first place? You cannot comprehend what you demand.” His voice rose in his frustration.
Mrs Annesley’s tone softened further as she sought to soothe her employer, walking the fine line between gentleness and a firmness that would not allow for argument.
“I comprehend only this—that your presence, however affectionate, has become a trial to her. Trust me in this, Mr Darcy. Allow me to guide her in my own way for a time. I will write to you, as will she. You shall hear of her improvement, and should she falter, you may return at once.”
Turning away from her, Darcy clasped his hands behind his back as he forced the words through a tightly clenched jaw. “To entrust her wholly to another’s care—every fraternal impulse rises against it. I have failed her once—ought I to hazard failing her again?”
“You do not hazard failure by entrusting her to one who loves her welfare,” Mrs Annesley said gently. “But you may hazard her peace if you persist in surrounding her with your concern.”
Darcy struggled with this advice, torn between his affection for his sister and a conviction that to remain was to do her further injury. At length, he yielded to the companion’s request.
“Very well,” he said at last, heavily. “I will remove to London. But let there be no delay in your letters, madam; I must know each particular of her progress. If I am needed, merely send the word, and I will hasten back at a moment’s notice.”
“You shall have them,” Mrs Annesley assured him. “I promise you, sir, you will not be disappointed.”
Darcy inclined his head, even as his heart reproached him bitterly for what felt, in his estimation, like a desertion of duty.
Once he had consented, further delay was impossible.
Late in the summer, he quitted Pemberley with a mind ill at ease.
He respected Mrs Annesley’s judgement, and if Georgiana’s comfort required his absence, he would go, yet every mile increased his sense of having abandoned his sister in her time of need.
Even his cousin, Georgiana’s other guardian, agreed with the decision, feeling that the presence of ladies was precisely what his young charge required just now.
In town he busied himself with his steward and other necessary affairs, and letters from Mrs Annesley arrived regularly with reports of Georgiana’s progress.
Still, they brought him little comfort. He could not forget how near she had come to disgrace nor banish the fear that Wickham, unrepentant and bold, might contrive another attempt upon her.
In that one matter he felt some degree of relief, for Georgiana was now well protected, and she had learnt enough of Wickham’s character never to be deceived again.
When his friend Charles Bingley pressed him to join him at Netherfield Park, Darcy yielded, hoping the diversion of helping his friend, along with being in the country where he might find more comfortable amusements, would restore his spirits.
Even in Hertfordshire, he discovered that his unsettled mind rendered him ill-suited for company.
His manners, already marked by reserve, assumed a greater severity when forced in the company of his friend’s sister, who he had not expected to be there since his friend had mentioned it was to be a shooting party.
That, on the day after his arrival, he was obliged to attend a country assembly, and that remaining at home was rendered impossible by Miss Bingley’s actions, was in itself a source of vexation.
Even in Town, Darcy was wont to censure the follies of such gatherings, being quick to condemn the behaviour of others, impatient of frivolity, and generally disinclined to cultivate new acquaintances.
At this time, however, his mind was still more unsettled; it wandered incessantly to Georgiana—what she might be doing, how she might be faring, whether she felt his absence, or whether, as Mrs Annesley had suggested, she was only the more at ease without him.
It was little wonder, therefore, that the neighbourhood soon pronounced him proud and disagreeable, for he made no effort to engage with any beyond his immediate party.
To those unacquainted with his private struggles, his silence appeared disdainful, and his reserve was readily mistaken for haughtiness.
Although he had warned his friend before leaving that he was disinclined for company, Bingley had nevertheless pressed him to dance. Darcy knew his duty as a gentleman was to join the dancers, yet he could not make merry whilst his thoughts remained fixed upon his sister.
When Bingley approached, all good humour and warmth, he leant near with a smile. “Darcy, I must have you dance. I believe that is my partner’s sister there behind you, and as she is unengaged for this dance, I daresay she would be delighted for your attention.”
Darcy attempted civility. “You know I rarely dance and do not care for such diversions. Excuse me, Bingley, but I told you earlier that I am not inclined to dance this evening.”
But Bingley persisted, his cheerful insistence unshaken. “Come now, I will not hear of it. She is a very pretty girl, and I could almost wager you will enjoy yourself. Only look—she sits just there. Allow me to introduce you.”
His patience giving way, he muttered, “She is tolerable, I suppose, but not handsome enough to tempt me.”
The words were no sooner uttered than he regretted them, for he knew at once they ought never to have been spoken.
There were few gentlemen in attendance and several ladies were sitting out; it was his duty, as a gentleman, to dance regardless of his humour.
Having escaped his lips, the words could not be recalled, and he had no notion how to atone for so needless a slight.
Darcy could not be certain that she had heard; indeed, he almost persuaded himself she had not. Scarcely a moment after the ill-judged remark, she had turned, and their eyes had met.
The encounter had been blessedly brief. She showed no overt offence, no dramatic display of affront. There had been an intensity in her gaze that unsettled him. A faint heat rose along his cheek. Whether it sprang from guilt or merely from the warmth of the crowded assembly, he could not have said.
After a moment’s hesitation, he looked away first.
Soon after, she moved off, clearly having espied a friend across the room. Against his better judgement, Darcy watched as the two ladies conversed. Something her companion said drew from her a laugh.
The sound surprised him. It was light and unforced, entirely at odds with the injury he feared he might have given.
Relief stirred—she did not appear wounded—but it was accompanied by something less comfortable.
If she had heard him, she did not seem disposed to resent it.
If she had not, then he had spoken with needless cruelty.
Neither conclusion afforded him ease.