Chapter Twenty-Nine #2
Elizabeth returned to her room in a daze.
Once the door was locked, she cast the note into the fire, watching until it was nothing more than blackened ashes.
Then, as though the weight of the past five years had returned in full, she stood and crossed the room, collapsing on her bed, face buried in her pillow, and wept.
All the fear, all the guilt, all the shame that had been dormant resurfaced—fresh and sharp.
She had sworn to protect Tommy, to keep him safe, and to love him as her own.
But now someone knew. Someone threatened the fragile peace they had built.
And she did not know how long it would hold.
The fire in the library crackled quietly, providing a steady warmth against the grey skies outside.
Rain still lashed at the windows in sweeping gusts, but Darcy barely noticed.
He sat in a high-backed chair, one leg crossed over the other, a letter in his hand—Georgiana’s delicate handwriting unmistakable on the thick paper.
His heart lifted. It had been weeks since her last correspondence, delayed, no doubt, by weather or the inefficiency of the post. He opened it carefully, the scent of rosewater drifting faintly from the folded paper.
My dearest Brother,
What a joy it was to receive your last letter.
I read it twice over and smiled so much that Mrs Annesley said my face might freeze that way!
You will be glad to know that I am well.
Truly well. My spirits are much improved—so much so that Mrs Annesley says I am becoming quite the chatterbox. Imagine that!
My studies continue steadily. I have made particular progress in Italian and am reading Dante (with some help).
My pianoforte practise is much more enjoyable now that I feel less anxious.
I have finally mastered the Mozart sonata you once played for me in the blue salon—I wish you could hear me now.
Mrs Annesley insists I perform it at Christmas.
Speaking of Christmas, may I come to Netherfield this year? I should like to see you, and I miss Richard terribly. Has he arrived yet? You said he would come soon. Tell him I expect a proper letter next, not merely a postscript in yours.
You mentioned a certain Miss Elizabeth Bennet in your last letter. Your words were brief, but they painted a most intriguing picture. You wrote of her wit and her ‘fine eyes,’ if I recall correctly. I should like to meet her very much.
Give my warmest regards to Mr Bingley, and tell him I am pleased to hear about his success in Hertfordshire. And Richard—tell him if he teases you too much, I shall scold him personally.
Yours always, Georgiana
Darcy finished reading and allowed himself a rare, unguarded smile. Georgiana’s humour was returning. Her melancholy had lifted. It brought him a profound sense of relief.
He stood, crossed to his writing desk, and reached for a fresh sheet of paper. Dipping his pen, he began his reply.
My dearest Georgiana,
Your letter has brought more joy than you could imagine.
I am proud of your progress—and your resilience.
Mrs Annesley’s praise is praise indeed, and I am glad to know you are treating her with the affection and trust she so deserves.
You sound more like yourself than you have in a long while, and for that I am deeply thankful.
Yes, Richard arrived safely and has been his usual impertinent self, though he is a welcome addition to our household. He mentioned he has yet to write to you, and promises a letter posthaste to avoid your “personal scolding.”
You ask about Miss Elizabeth Bennet. I shall speak plainly: I am officially courting her.
She is unlike any lady I have ever met—clever, warm-hearted, and brimming with wit.
I confess, Georgie, that I think often of what you might say to her, and how you two would get along.
I believe you would become fast friends.
She has a way of seeing directly into one’s character with surprising clarity, and yet she is full of compassion.
As to Christmas—yes. You are most welcome. I would not have the holiday without you. Richard has agreed to travel to Pemberley a few days after the ball—on December second—to collect you and Mrs Annesley. You will be amongst friends and family, and I believe the change of scenery shall do you good.
Until then, continue your music, your reading, and most importantly, your laughter. You are always in my thoughts.
Your devoted brother, F. Darcy
Darcy let the ink dry, folded the letter with care, and sealed it. As he stood to leave the library, he found Richard walking in with a newspaper tucked under one arm.
“You have a letter, I take it?” Richard asked.
Darcy held up the sealed envelope. “From Georgiana.”
“Good news?”
“The best. She is thriving—and she wishes to come to Netherfield for Christmas.”
Richard’s face lit up. “Excellent. It will do her good. Did you tell her about Elizabeth?”
“I did. And about our courtship.”
Richard grinned and clapped a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “About time. You have my approval—not that you need it.”
Darcy offered a quiet chuckle. “She asks if you have written. I told her you would collect her after the ball.”
“I suppose I’d best prepare for that letter, then,” Richard said, shaking his head in mock resignation. “Miss Darcy will not be denied.”
As the cousins settled into the evening, the grey skies outside began to clear at last—mirroring the hope Darcy felt blooming in his heart.
The dining room at Netherfield was warm and well-lit, a comforting contrast to the stormy evening outside.
Silver glinted in the candlelight, and the scent of roasted meats, fresh rolls, and spice-laced pudding lingered in the air.
Seated at the head of the table, Bingley wore his usual open, cheerful expression as he engaged his guests in pleasant conversation.
Darcy sat midway down the table between Richard and Miss Bingley, the latter of whom was doing her utmost to pull his attention away from his own thoughts. Her fan fluttered intermittently, and her posture—too straight, too studied—revealed the effort she spent arranging herself for admiration.
Richard had just finished a jest about country gentlemen’s obsession with their estates when Darcy took the opportunity to broach a topic he had held in reserve all day.
“Bingley,” Darcy said, resting his hand lightly against the table, “I have a request, if I may.”
“Of course, old man,” Bingley said, his brows lifting. “What do you need?”
“I would like my sister, Georgiana, to join us here for the Christmas season.”
There was a moment of quiet.
Then Miss Bingley spoke—too quickly.
“Oh, Mr Darcy,” she said with affected warmth, “what a delightful idea. Miss Darcy would be most welcome. Indeed, it would be an honour to receive her here.”
She turned her eyes towards the others, smiling graciously, though her fingers tensed around her wineglass.
“She is so accomplished for her age. Few young ladies can compare to her—such taste in music, such elegance in her manner! And her playing on the pianoforte is divine.”
Darcy shifted his eyes to her coolly. “Indeed,” he said evenly. “She writes with great animation and is eager to meet the company here.”
At that, Miss Bingley’s fan snapped shut a bit too abruptly. She composed herself and turned to Mrs Hurst, murmuring something about how pleased she was to hear of Georgiana’s visit.
Richard leaned in and whispered, “She sounds thrilled.”
Darcy concealed his amusement behind a sip of wine.
Soon after, the ladies excused themselves from the table. Miss Bingley rose first, sweeping away with graceful determination, followed by Mrs Hurst and the others. Their voices trailed behind them in soft murmurs as they passed through the door.
The men sat back, more relaxed now that the social performance was half over. Bingley, who had been watching his sister depart, turned back with a twinkle in his eye.
“Well, Darcy,” he said, a touch of mirth in his voice, “you’ve gone and done it.
My poor sister will not know what to do with herself.
Three such exalted personages in one house—Darcy, Fitzwilliam, and Georgiana Darcy.
I daresay she’ll spend the next fortnight floating about as though she were Lady Catherine de Bourgh herself. ”
Richard laughed, lifting his wineglass in a toast. “To exalted company!”
Darcy allowed himself a rare smile. “She need not trouble herself on Georgiana’s account. My sister is neither exalted nor pretentious.”
“She will be a pleasant addition,” Bingley said more sincerely. “And it will be good for her to see you…well…so engaged.”
Darcy met his friend’s eyes, and though he said nothing, the gratitude was plain.
Richard, noticing the exchange, added, “You are not quite the same man who arrived in Hertfordshire, cousin. For the better, I might add.”
Bingley stood. “Come, let us rejoin the ladies before Caroline declares herself the empress of this drawing room.”
They left the dining room with light spirits, unaware of the shadows still lingering elsewhere—both in Longbourn and in the mind of one determined Mr Wickham.