Chapter 12
LATE AFTERNOON brOUGHT thin gray light through the windowpanes of the Netherfield study.
The shadow of a sparrow crossed the glass, while now and then a bough bent beneath the wind.
Darcy claimed the writing desk in the corner because it faced the wall and offered nothing to distract him from his correspondence.
Its surface held a new blotter, the inkstand, the letter before him, and a quill lying across the unfinished page.
He wrote with his wrist lifted to avoid smudging, and the letter occupied most of a single sheet. The text kept to the margins with deliberate evenness and never crowded the page. Near the top, one hard stroke of the pen crossed out a single phrase.
Darcy had begun the letter four hours before and left the words visible as a warning to himself.
He had not written his sister since leaving her at Rosings.
The first paragraph, courteous and unmarked, described his journey: the condition of the roads, Bingley’s hospitality, and the state of the stables at Netherfield, which he declared inferior to Pemberley but passable.
He wrote: “The climate in Hertfordshire is milder and the fields greener than in the north, or so the locals claim. The sheep here require less shelter, but the fences require more repair.”
He glanced back at the top of the page, where he had written “The local society is thin and would not suit you” and then cut it. A full line lower, the replacement read: “Society here is lively and, to the eye of an outsider, more varied than in London.” Though minor, the improvement was necessary.
The second paragraph concerned Bingley. “He is in excellent spirits and pleased with both the house and the neighborhood. He has dined with several families nearby and intends to invite them all to Netherfield in return. I believe he has found the occupation he wanted.”
Darcy stopped there. Georgiana knew Bingley well enough to supply the rest, including his untidy hair, his neglected cravat, and his conviction that good humor excused both.
The paragraph shifted to Miss Bennet. Darcy wrote: “It should not surprise you to learn that he has found a particular favorite among the families here. The eldest daughter of the house at Longbourn is the object of his admiration, and, as far as I can judge, her feelings are similar.” He left it at that, resisting the urge to add his own assessment of the situation.
He went on: “The Bennet family is large, and Mrs. Bennet is as active in company as we were told. Her daughters are a varied collection, the younger two possessed of more liveliness than discipline. Bingley described the estate as comfortable, though somewhat in need of repair. There is also a working collie whose discipline is superior to that of most of the household.”
He lifted the pen, then set it down for the briefest of pauses.
In the next paragraph, the text narrowed in focus.
The first sentence took two attempts before it satisfied him: “I met a young lady of uncommon intelligence, though my opinion of her formed before the introduction.” He added beneath it: “I first encountered Miss Elizabeth Bennet without knowing her name or her connection to the neighborhood, and mistook her circumstances.” He read both and left them uncrossed.
He continued: “At the assembly, she answered rudeness with more wit than resentment. I begin to think my first opinion of her was mistaken.”
There he stopped. He could not say more without risking the kind of candor Georgiana might treasure but Lady Catherine would dismiss as weakness.
He reviewed the paragraph, saw the two versions of the admission, and resolved not to cover either.
If Georgiana cared, she could see both the impulse to conceal and the decision not to.
He finished with a passage about Sarah. “I mentioned Sarah earlier. I believe you would admire her discipline, which reflects well on her mistress. She is a working collie and manages the Longbourn flock with a skill you would approve.” He let the implication rest and, after a moment, added: “Bingley says that everyone in the house trusts her and, unlike some people, she only takes instruction from those she knows.”
He let the ink dry before folding the sheet, pressed his initials onto the seal, and waited for it to set. The room had grown cooler, and the faint smell of rain entered through open windows. He placed the finished letter with the others destined for the evening post.
For a full minute he sat without moving, his left hand over the blotter and his gaze on the desk.
Near the chimney, the clock ticked with a soft, wooden sound.
He did not think of the day, the dinner to come, or the endless repetition of country routine; his thoughts remained on the sentence he had crossed out and the correction written beneath it.
He opened the drawer, set the quill with its fellows, and closed it.
Darcy rose, straightened his coat, and went to the window.
The landscape outside had changed color in the past hour.
A band of cloud lay low on the horizon, and beyond it, the field that divided Netherfield from Longbourn burned gold.
The hedgerow at the boundary, still unrepaired, held its uneven line against the sky.
Wind moved through the grass, drawing it flat and raising it again.
Across the field he saw a figure walking with a dog at heel. He could not make out the face at that distance, but the stride was familiar. The dog ran ahead, circled back, then waited, attentive, until the woman called her on.
He stood at the glass, the desk behind him, and watched until they vanished into the next field. Then he closed the curtain against the last of the sun and left the letter where it was.
The Rosings sitting room Georgiana preferred for reading was small, with a writing table near the inner wall and two shelves of books that were hers alone.
The room was a refuge from the grander spaces of the house, its lamps shrouded in parchment and the rug a faded wool that Lady Catherine found too plain for public rooms. Georgiana read best at dusk, when the corners receded and the furniture retreated into shadow.
That evening, the fire had burned down to a single coal, and the lamp at her elbow cast a circle of light across the desk.
She opened Darcy’s letter with the bone knife she kept for the purpose and read it through, eyes moving down the column without doubling back. She preferred to understand the whole before returning to certain passages.
The opening lines, as always, covered his usual complaints of weather and travel. She traced them with her hand, smiling at his account of the air in Hertfordshire, the inferiority of Netherfield’s stables, and Bingley’s unflagging good spirits.
In the next paragraph, she found the expected account of Bingley’s attachment to the eldest Bennet daughter.
The description was so like her brother that she read it twice: “He has found a particular favorite among the families here. The eldest daughter of the house at Longbourn is the object of his admiration, and I think her feelings are similar.” There was a dryness in the word “object” that made Georgiana press her lips together, though she did not smile.
The account of the Bennet household followed. She pictured each line: the noise of the mother, the wildness of the youngest daughters, and the remark about the interior, which was neither kind nor unkind. Georgiana turned the page and found the next paragraph written within narrower margins.
She read the first sentence: “I met a young lady of uncommon intelligence, though my opinion of her had formed before the introduction.” The next line repeated the thought: “I first encountered Miss Elizabeth Bennet without knowing her name or her connection to the neighborhood, and mistook her circumstances.”
Georgiana’s finger rested beside the ink.
She noticed the line near the top that Darcy had crossed out, something about local society being “thin and not what you are used to,” struck through with the certainty he usually reserved for errors in calculation.
It was rare for him to leave a correction visible.
She compared the discarded phrase with its replacement, then returned to the paragraph about Miss Elizabeth.
“At the assembly, she answered rudeness with more wit than resentment. I think my first opinion of her was mistaken.” Georgiana read the sentences twice, imagining what it cost him to write them.
She paused over the paragraph about Sarah, remembering a working dog from their own childhood, a short-lived spaniel with too much wit for obedience, and read the lines again: “She is a working collie and manages the Longbourn flock with a skill you would approve.” Georgiana thought of the girl Darcy described and decided she might like her.
Beginning again, she paused after each paragraph and noted how her brother had left his correction visible rather than conceal it. When she finished, she folded the sheet along its original creases, aligned the edges, and set it on the desk with the writing beneath.
She did not reply at once. Instead, she opened the left-hand drawer of the writing table and placed the letter on top of a neat stack, each one dated and tied with a length of faded thread. She pressed her palms to the surface and held them there until the warmth faded.
She heard Lady Catherine’s voice from the hall, muffled by distance and the thickness of the door but carrying its usual authority. Georgiana sat with her hands flat on the wood, her eyes on the golden ring reflected by the lamp.
Georgiana waited a few minutes, as if expecting the letter to speak again, then closed the drawer, turned down the lamp, and stood.
Lady Catherine’s voice ceased in the hall. A servant answered, but Georgiana could not distinguish the words before footsteps approached the sitting room and the door opened without a knock.