Chapter 4
Fitzwilliam Darcy stared out of the window of his London townhouse, unable to see much beyond the thick, oily fog that penetrated every inch of the scenery beyond. It added to his mood, this gloomy grey miasma—making everything reek of damp and dankness.
He heard his study door creak open, but he did not turn round to see who had disobeyed his orders not to be disturbed.
Whoever it was would go away without so much as an acknowledgment from him.
After what seemed several minutes, however, he heard the gentle clearing of a throat.
Realising that his housekeeper, of all people, would not waste her time and his with such persistence had it not been something she deemed an emergency, he schooled his features into impassivity and turned to face her.
To his surprise, it was not Mrs Cauthorn who had invaded his private domain.
Instead, sixteen-year-old Georgiana stood near the door, as if she required an escape at any moment.
It had been so long since his sister had approached him for any reason at all that he was, briefly, confounded. Quickly, however, he found his tongue.
“Georgiana, my dear. Will not you come in and have a seat?”
“I-I do not like to disturb you,” she hedged, still practically clinging to the doorway.
“You are not,” he assured her, ashamed that he had kept her standing there in trepidation.
Instead of seating her across from him at his desk, he pulled two chairs closer to the fireplace, hoping it would help her to be more comfortable with him.
Since her thwarted elopement with the vile Wickham, her embarrassment and mortification had left her awkward and silent in Darcy’s presence.
Hesitantly, she sat, saying nothing. She was clutching a letter, he saw.
From Fitzwilliam, perhaps, or their aunt Lady Matlock?
Had one of them upset her? Lady Matlock had not liked that he had brought her home to him shortly after returning from Netherfield, but he had seen Georgiana’s misery in the carefully worded letters she sent him.
It was why, he had told himself, he had been so eager to depart Hertfordshire.
He had not been able to leave, however, until after removing Miss Elizabeth from harm’s way.
After learning at the Netherfield ball, to his dismay, that Lieutenant George Wickham had already attempted sinking his hooks into her, he had not wasted a moment.
With Colonel Forster acting as his agent, he had arranged for the withdrawal of Wickham from the militia and his advancement to the regulars, with a station for him in Newcastle.
Wickham believed the opportunity to have been granted him by his generous commanding officer.
Forster had fulfilled the role wonderfully, glad to rid himself of an officer who had already given him pause on a couple of occasions, and was horrified by the information Darcy had provided about his newest lieutenant.
Those measures completed, Darcy had gathered up Bingley and hastily departed the countryside.
Unfortunately, he had not achieved much of anything happier for Georgiana since arriving home.
If only he could forget everything—and everyone—in Hertfordshire!
Alas, Bingley’s constant refrains of desolation precluded it.
His efforts to prevent his friend from rejoining his sisters took up far too much of his time.
Blast them for inexplicably remaining at Netherfield after complaining day and night for months about everything and everyone near it!
Forcibly controlling the direction of his thoughts, he faced his sister with what he hoped was an amiable expression.
“Have you received a letter?” He nodded at the envelope she clutched. “Do you have any news of interest?”
“I…um, yes,” she said, looking down at her hands. “It is…it is from Lady Catherine.”
This was not particularly surprising—she was likely hoping to cajole the Darcys into a visit much sooner than their annual Easter one.
Still, their aunt was capable of great criticism, and although she had no idea of Georgiana’s recent escapade, the letter could be a hurtful one. “Was she unpleasant?”
“No. Not to me. It is…an odd letter.”
“Odd? How so?”
“She spends most of it talking about…about Miss Bingley and-and someone else.”
He reared back. “Miss Bingley? She has met her ladyship, once, a couple of years ago in London. I cannot imagine them to be on any great terms of correspondence.”
“N-no. Lady Catherine’s vicar seems to be the source of her information.”
He recalled, suddenly, that Miss Elizabeth’s cousin was, in a strange coincidence, his aunt’s parson.
Could he still be in Hertfordshire? Could he have mentioned anything of her to his aunt?
Might there be news of her in the letter Georgiana held?
He had to work to prevent his avid curiosity for the letter’s contents from showing. “What information did she relate?”
For several moments Georgiana did not answer, and withholding his impatience from his expression took most of his will. What if something awful had happened to Miss Elizabeth? “Was it upsetting news?” he could not help but ask.
She took a deep breath. “I recall you saying…well, not exactly speaking it…but intimating that you do not find Miss Bingley, um, agreeable, in a personal sort of way.” His eyebrows raised at her introduction of this particular topic. She blushed a fiery red. “It is not my business, I know.”
“I am certain you must have a reason for bringing up the subject, and I am interested in your motive,” he said cautiously.
“You are correct in that I am aware of Miss Bingley’s, hmm, hopes, and I believe I have done all I can to discourage her from them.
If she has mentioned them to Mr Collins, however, to the point where he is gossiping about it to Lady Catherine, it may be that I need to ask Bingley to speak to her. ”
“Oh, no—I mean, not exactly. Except perhaps… I mean the part about Mr Bingley speaking to her because, well…she is not always very, um, nice, is she?”
Nice? No, Caroline Bingley was not nice. Why, her jealousy of Miss Elizabeth had been obvious throughout almost every conversation.
A needle of discomfort threaded through his thoughts at the recollection of some of those tête-à-têtes.
Had he not contributed to her sarcasm and mockery by listening to and even encouraging it at times—only to give himself excuses to think of and talk about Miss Elizabeth during every possible moment?
“Have you anything else to propose for my domestic felicity?” he had asked Miss Bingley, inciting her worst behaviour for the purpose of his own selfish enjoyment.
Remembering Miss Elizabeth’s sudden appearance in the garden as he had been engaged in listening to Miss Bingley’s contempt, he wondered now.
Did Miss Elizabeth overhear her scorn, overhear my sardonic responses?
If so, could she have realised that it was not with irony he spoke, despite his cynical tone?
Disguise of any sort was abhorrent to him, but he had not adhered to his own standards.
“What does our aunt write regarding what Miss Bingley has said or done that you find so disturbing?” he asked warily.
Georgiana chewed on her lower lip as if trying to pick the proper words to describe it.
“It is only that Lady Catherine says that Mr Collins told her that a woman to whom he is related behaved in a forward, ingratiating manner towards you at a ball held by Miss Bingley. You had no other choice but to abandon the country to escape her and her machinations, he said, and Miss Bingley is so outraged by this behaviour that she has planned what he terms ‘a fine revenge’. Mr Collins has apologised repeatedly—for what, I cannot tell…for being related to this person, perhaps? And believes that after this woman, whoever she is, receives her comeuppance at Miss Bingley’s hand, she will be humiliated.
Why would Mr Collins wish to see his own relation chastised?
Why should Miss Bingley act as though she holds a kind of-of stewardship—over you, I mean, authorising her to punish anyone?
And then…when I read the details of this supposed plan—I cannot even imagine the purpose of such a scheme.
I cannot understand why Lady Catherine approves of… of ruining someone’s Christmas!”
She took another deep breath. “Well, I found her missive curious and unkind, and I wondered—I wondered whether you would approve of-of any of it.”
It was all he could do to stop himself from snatching the letter out of her hand, but he strove to keep his voice calm and reasonable.
“Perhaps I might read this letter and judge for myself whether our lady aunt and Miss Bingley and Mr Collins have crossed any lines of good sense and prudence?” he asked gently.
“Oh! Yes, yes of course.” She passed him the letter.
He opened it and began to read.