12. The Consequences of Ramsgate
twelve
The Consequences of Ramsgate
The month following their return from Ramsgate passed with exasperating slowness.
Darcy had imagined that once Mrs. Younge was dismissed and Georgiana safely established in London, the worst of the business would be over. Instead, each day revealed some new difficulty that admitted no simple remedy.
Mrs. Annesley had accepted the position of companion and proved every bit as sensible as her references suggested. She possessed neither Mrs. Younge’s excessive indulgence nor her talent for manipulation. Georgiana liked her instantly.
Unfortunately, respect did not restore happiness.
His sister rarely wept now. Darcy practically wished she did.
Tears might have relieved what silence merely concealed.
She attended breakfast, practiced the pianoforte when Mrs. Annesley persuaded her, accompanied them on brief drives through Hyde Park, and retired early each evening with a headache she insisted was improving.
She never mentioned Ramsgate. Nor Wickham. Nor Mrs. Younge. If Darcy attempted to approach the subject, Georgiana’s hands folded tightly together in her lap, her eyes fixed upon the carpet until he abandoned the effort.
Richard maintained she was ashamed. Darcy feared she was merely heartbroken. The distinction mattered—Darcy needed to understand so he could take the right path toward healing.
One afternoon, returning from another disappointing interview with the mother of a suitable young lady recommended as a possible companion, Darcy found Georgiana seated in the music room before the pianoforte.
The instrument stood open. No music sounded. Her fingers rested upon the keys without depressing them.
He remained in the doorway for several moments before speaking. “You have not played today.”
She startled. “I was about to begin.”
“I see.”
Neither of them believed it.
Darcy crossed the room slowly. “Mrs. Reynolds has written from Pemberley.”
A faint interest entered Georgiana’s face. “Has she?”
“She reports the tenants well. Mrs. Wilson’s youngest has recovered from his fever.”
“I am glad.”
“And the rose garden has produced more blooms than anyone remembers.”
Georgiana nodded.
“Mrs. Reynolds enclosed one for you.” He placed the pressed flower upon the music stand.
Georgiana touched it gingerly. “Thank you.”
He wanted to say something more. He wanted to ask whether she regretted what had happened, whether she still thought of Wickham. Did she blame him? Did she blame herself?
Instead, he said, “Mrs. Annesley proposes a drive tomorrow.”
“If you wish.”
The answer, so devoid of preference, exhausted him.
“I shall leave you to your music.”
He withdrew before she could see how completely helpless he felt.
The following morning brought Charles Bingley to his door.
Darcy heard his cheerful voice in the entrance hall before Barton announced him. It carried through the house with its customary warmth, unaffected by the burdens that had accumulated within Darcy’s own walls.
“Darcy!” Bingley entered the library without ceremony, shook his friend’s hand vigorously, then stopped short. “My dear fellow.”
“What?” Darcy swirled his drink in his glass.
“You look abominable.”
Darcy winced a smile. “I have been informed of that already.”
“By the good colonel?”
“Naturally.” Richard had urged Darcy to see to his own health.
“He is generally correct.” Bingley removed his hat and threw himself into the nearest chair with characteristic ease.
“I had expected to find you buried beneath correspondence, not wasting the day away in your library.”
Darcy cringed inwardly. “I owe you an apology.”
“For what?”
“You asked me to assist with your search.” He had been rather preoccupied with the mess from the summer.
“I did.”
“I failed you.”
Bingley waved the apology away before it was completed. “You had more important matters.”
“You knew?” How much had his cousin shared? Bingley was discreet but any whisper of the scandal could ruin his sister’s prospects.
“Richard wrote that Georgiana had suffered an unfortunate disappointment and that you required privacy. I asked no further questions.”
Darcy looked at him with renewed gratitude.
Bingley possessed many admirable qualities. Among the greatest was his instinctive understanding of when friendship required curiosity and when it required silence.
“I appreciate your discretion.”
“Nonsense.” Bingley leaned forward, resting his forearms upon his knees. “Besides, I discovered something useful while you were occupied.”
“Oh?” This piqued his interest.
“I found an estate.”
Darcy’s attention sharpened. “You have leased one?”
“I have.”
“Without my inspection?”
Bingley’s grin broadened. “I know. Remarkable, is it not? I have become positively independent.”
“I had not thought such a miracle possible.” He relaxed into their typical easy banter.
“Nor had my sisters.”
Darcy laughed outright, the sound surprising even himself.
“There you are,” Bingley declared triumphantly. “I thought you had mislaid that expression.”
“What expression?”
“The one proving you are still capable of amusement.” Bingley smirked.
“It appears for favored company.”
His friend rolled his eyes. “I shall treasure the distinction.”
Darcy sat opposite him. “Tell me about the estate.”
“I believe you will approve.”
“I hope so.” Bingley was not a fool, but he had little experience when it came to estates.
“It is called Netherfield Park.”
The name meant nothing.
“It is a handsome place,” Bingley continued. “Large enough for entertaining without becoming oppressive. Excellent stables. Productive land. The house requires very little attention.”
“Who recommended it?”
“My solicitor learned of it through another client.”
“And the owner?”
He leaned back and gave Darcy a self-satisfied grin. “Willing to lease immediately.”
Darcy nodded with growing satisfaction. “It sounds promising.”
“It is.”
“Where is it situated?”
Bingley reached for the map lying upon the side table but thought better of it. “Hertfordshire.”
Darcy’s hand, reaching for his coffee, stopped halfway. “Hertfordshire?”
“Yes.”
“Near where?”
“A market town called Meryton.”
Everything else Bingley had been saying vanished.
Meryton. The word alone conjured images with astonishing clarity. The Gardiners’ comfortable drawing room, Elizabeth laughing over some teasing remark, Hyde Park beneath early summer sunshine, and a promise exchanged before her carriage departed.
I shall return directly to Hertfordshire in September.
Might I call upon you then?
Yes.
He had intended to honor that promise. Now, through the happiest of accidents, Providence appeared determined to assist him.
Bingley watched him with open amusement. “You know the place.”
“I do. My...” Darcy cleared his throat. “My acquaintance, Miss Elizabeth Bennet resides within a few miles. Her father’s estate is Longbourn.”
“So that is why you suddenly appear interested.”
“I was interested before.”
“Not quite so intensely.”
Darcy made no attempt to deny it.
“No.”
Bingley leaned back laughing. “I ought to have guessed. Richard told me you had formed an attachment.”
Darcy shot him a warning glance.
“He said nothing improper,” Bingley assured him. “Just that there existed a lady who had accomplished what society has attempted unsuccessfully for years.”
“And what is that?”
“She persuaded Fitzwilliam Darcy to speak of someone besides estate management.” Bingley looked thrilled to be relaying the information.
“I have discussed other subjects,” Darcy said defensively.
Bingley laughed. “Indeed, such as taxes.”
“They concern estate management.”
“Horse breeding.”
“Also estates.”
“Pemberley’s drainage.”
Darcy surrendered. “I begin to perceive your point.”
“I hope so.” Bingley regarded him with unmistakable affection. “I am glad, Darcy.”
The simplicity of the statement caught him unexpectedly.
“So am I.”
“I have not seen you this...content...in years. Despite your pique when I arrived.”
The word sat oddly beside the last month’s misery.
Darcy looked toward the window.
“I have not been content recently.”
“No.”
Bingley’s expression sobered.
“But before whatever has troubled Georgiana.”
Darcy inclined his head.
“Miss Bennet has had that effect.”
“So, I gathered.”
Silence fell between them for several moments, companionable rather than strained.
Then Bingley cleared his throat with studied casualness.
“I wondered...”
Darcy knew that tone.
“What do you want?”
“I want nothing.”
“You always begin that way.”
“I merely thought...” Bingley smiled with disarming innocence. “Since I know no one in Hertfordshire except a solicitor, perhaps you might accompany me.”
Darcy waited.
“For a little while.”
“How little?” He regarded his friend steadily.
“A month.”
“No.”
Bingley’s face fell.
“I think perhaps two or longer should suffice.” Darcy held back a laugh as Bingley perked up in surprise.
Bingley chuckled. “You negotiate badly.”
“I negotiate optimistically.” Darcy folded his hands before him. “What precisely are you asking?”
“I should value your company for as long as you can spare. I have never managed an estate,” Bingley reminded him. “You understand such matters better than anyone I know. More than that...” He hesitated, unusually uncertain. “You are my friend.”
Darcy’s decision required no further consideration. “I shall come.” There was never any question, provided Georgiana is content to remain here with Mrs. Annesley.”
He was certain Richard could be persuaded to call weekly while his regiment was stationed nearby.
Bingley clapped his hands once. “Excellent!”
“You celebrate before consulting my sister.”
“I have every confidence she will not object.”
Darcy hoped he was right. And he hoped, within a fortnight perhaps, to stand once more in the Longbourn drawing room, to discover whether Elizabeth Bennet had missed him even a fraction as much as he had missed her.
“There is another matter,” Darcy said.
Bingley, who had been halfway through a satisfied survey of the library, focused his attention to him. “You say that with the air of a man about to remove half my pleasure.”
“I hope not.”