8. A Most Unwelcome Discovery
eight
A Most Unwelcome Discovery
The sea possessed a curious talent for disguising the passage of time.
The first weeks of June slipped by in Ramsgate with remarkable sameness.
Sunlight glittered across the harbor; fishermen called to one another while preparing their boats; visitors crowded the promenade whenever the weather proved agreeable; and each evening the tide altered the familiar shoreline just enough to persuade one that tomorrow would differ from today.
It seldom did.
Darcy had discovered, to his surprise, that routine became tolerable when it contained Elizabeth Bennet.
Without her, every hour appeared slightly diminished.
His business occupied the mornings. Correspondence from Pemberley arrived regularly, accompanied by reports from his steward concerning tenants, rents, repairs to boundary walls, and the endless practical concerns attached to a great estate.
Ramsgate itself required attention as well.
Servants sought direction, tradesmen submitted accounts, and his solicitor wrote twice regarding an inconvenient disagreement over a neighboring property.
The work filled his hands.
It did very little for his thoughts.
More than once, while sorting estate papers, he found his attention wandering to Gracechurch Street.
A particular observation of Elizabeth’s would intrude without invitation.
Sometimes it was a jest. Sometimes merely the recollection of her expression when she believed herself especially clever.
Once, to his lasting annoyance, he caught himself wondering whether Ireland possessed agreeable bookshops.
He folded another letter and reached for the next.
It concerned sheep.
That, at least, demanded less sentiment.
A knock interrupted him.
“Come.”
Georgiana entered without hesitation, carrying a small basket upon her arm.
“I thought you had forgotten luncheon.”
“I nearly had.”
“I told Mrs. Younge you would.”
Darcy smiled despite himself.
“Then I am grateful someone has greater confidence in my absent-mindedness than I do.”
She set the basket upon his desk and began removing its contents with domestic seriousness. Bread, cheese, cold ham, and two peaches appeared one after another.
“You have been out already?”
“We walked through the village.”
“And found sufficient temptation to empty half the baker’s shelves, I perceive.”
“It was Mrs. Younge’s fault,” Georgiana answered with suspicious innocence. “She declared seaside air increases one’s appetite.”
“I have heard the same.”
“It may even be true.”
She crossed to the open window. The cries of gulls drifted upward from the harbor below.
“I wish Miss Bennet could see this.”
The remark came so naturally that Darcy did not answer immediately.
Georgiana continued, watching a small cutter making its way toward the harbor entrance.
“She would like the fishing boats. And the children searching for shells. Yesterday we found a tiny crab beneath the rocks. Mrs. Younge would not permit me to bring it home.”
“I suspect the servants are grateful.”
Georgiana laughed.
“I thought perhaps Miss Bennet would have enjoyed it.”
“So she might.”
“Do you suppose Ireland has crabs?”
“I have never considered the question.”
“You should.”
“Should I?”
“Miss Bennet would.”
Darcy rested one elbow upon the desk.
“You speak of her often.”
Georgiana nodded and moved away from the window. “I miss her.”
“So do I.” The admission escaped him with less caution than he ordinarily employed.
Georgiana regarded him for a brief instant before lowering her eyes to smooth an imaginary crease in her glove.
“I think she misses us too.”
Darcy nodded. “I hope so.”
“I know so.”
Before he could ask the grounds for such certainty, another servant appeared with the afternoon post.
Among the letters lay one addressed in Bingley’s familiar hand.
Darcy broke the seal.
The contents were precisely what one might expect from Charles Bingley: cheerful, enthusiastic, and moderately orderly.
Bingley had at last found an estate in Kent that appeared to answer nearly every wish he had expressed over the past several months.
The house was of respectable size, the surrounding land in good condition, and the owner inclined to lease upon favorable terms. Darcy’s opinion was requested immediately, for Bingley confessed himself incapable of deciding whether he admired the place because it was excellent or because he had grown tired of searching.
Darcy read the letter twice.
Kent.
The journey from Ramsgate was neither difficult nor particularly long.
He folded the pages thoughtfully.
“I shall have to leave you for a few days,” he said.
Georgiana looked up.
“Must you?”
“Bingley has discovered an estate and wishes me to inspect it with him.”
She came nearer.
“Will you be gone very long?”
“No more than a week, I think.”
“I shall manage perfectly well.”
He searched her face, though he could not have said precisely what he sought.
Georgiana’s color was good. Her spirits had improved steadily since arriving at Ramsgate.
Mrs. Younge took her walking most every afternoon, and the sea air appeared to agree with her exactly as the physicians had predicted.
“You are certain?”
“I am nearly sixteen, William.”
The use of his shortened Christian name was calculated. His sister rarely called him thus anymore.
He surrendered. “Very well.”
“I promise not to perish of loneliness before your return.”
“I should hope not.”
Georgiana took one of the peaches from the basket and held it between both hands, turning it until the light from the window caught the bloom upon its skin.
“Where in Kent is the estate?”
“Near to Rosings Park, if you can believe it—if Bingley has written the name correctly.”
“Is it far from Ramsgate?”
“It is within a day’s journey, provided the roads behave themselves.”
Georgiana considered this with more satisfaction than his departure warranted. “Then you will not be so very far away.”
“No.”
“And Mr. Bingley is kind.”
“Very.”
“Then you ought to go. He values your judgment.”
Darcy looked down at Bingley’s letter, where three enthusiastic sentences had been written across one another in the margin. “He values my judgment when it confirms what he already wishes to do.”
“That is a common form of wisdom.”
“Who has been instructing you in philosophy?”
“Miss Bennet,” Georgiana said, and bit into the peach before he could reply.
Darcy was obliged to content himself with arranging Bingley’s letter beside the Pemberley accounts and pretending the name had no power to alter the room. Georgiana chewed with great innocence, though her cheeks had colored.
“I shall write to Bingley this afternoon,” he said. “If I leave tomorrow, I may meet him the following day.”
“So soon?”
“You have just argued I ought to go.”
“I did. That does not mean I must like packing.”
“You will not be packing.”
“No, but Barton will, and he always looks offended when trunks are required in warm weather.”
Darcy reached for a sheet of paper. “Barton looks offended by existence when the temperature rises.”
Georgiana laughed and came to kiss his cheek before returning to the window. “Mrs. Younge promised we might walk to the circulating library tomorrow. I shall choose something for when you are gone.”
“Nothing too foolish.”
“Miss Bennet likes novels.”
“Miss Bennet possesses excellent judgment.”
“Then novels cannot be foolish.”
“I have been trapped.”
“Yes,” Georgiana replied, pleased with herself. “Very neatly.”
Darcy wrote to Bingley with more brevity than his friend had used, though the answer contained all that was necessary.
He would come. He would examine the house and grounds.
Bingley was not to sign anything until Darcy had seen the terms. He added, after some hesitation, that Ramsgate had proved agreeable and Georgiana much improved, then stopped before he mentioned Miss Bennet.
Bingley would seize upon that name with intolerable delight and all the subtlety of a brass band.
By evening, the household had learned of his departure.
Mrs. Younge received the news with composed regret and assured him Miss Darcy would be quite safe in her care.
She spoke with such propriety that Darcy felt a passing shame for the reluctance that stirred in him.
He had no reason to distrust her. Georgiana liked her, relied upon her, and the woman had shown every willingness to arrange walks, music, and those small diversions by which a young lady’s spirits might be preserved.
“Should you wish any particular restriction observed during your absence,” Mrs. Younge said, folding her hands before her, “I shall be happy to comply.”
“No restriction beyond the ordinary. Georgiana is not to walk alone, of course, nor receive visitors without your knowledge.”
“Certainly.”
“And the carriage may be used whenever the weather is uncertain.”
“You are very thoughtful, sir.”
Darcy gave a short nod. “I am leaving her in your charge.”
Mrs. Younge lowered her eyes in acknowledgement. “I shall not forget it.”
That ought to have satisfied him.
It did, nearly.
The next morning arrived bright, windy, and salt-scented, with gulls making a scandalous amount of noise above the roofs. Darcy found Barton in the dressing room, arranging shirts with the grave resentment Georgiana had predicted.
“You are displeased,” Darcy observed.
“I am never displeased, sir.”
“That is untrue.”
Barton smoothed a cravat into the portmanteau. “I am professionally inconvenienced.”
“By Kent?”
“By sudden Kent.”
Darcy took up his gloves from the chair. “You may console yourself that Bingley’s suddenness is seldom malicious.”
“I shall try, sir.”
“You need not sound so doubtful.”
“I beg your pardon, sir.”
The apology was delivered with such perfect emptiness that Darcy abandoned the subject.
Georgiana was waiting below when he descended. She wore a morning gown of pale blue, her bonnet hanging by its ribbons from one hand, and her hair arranged more carefully than was usual before breakfast. Mrs. Younge stood a little behind her with a shawl folded over one arm.