Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
CAUGHT OUT
Darcy awaited the arrival of the carriage containing his sister with mixed feelings. He wanted to see her, he did. He wished to talk with her, hear her play, watch her sketch, learn how she did, see for himself that she was recovering from her humiliation at the hands of George Wickham.
He had not seen Elizabeth in three days.
She had been speechless in the face of his offer to teach Edward to ride.
He did not know, truly, how she felt about it—he had departed so quickly, she had been given little time to respond.
Speechless but happy? Speechless but horrified at the thought of undergoing such an afternoon as she had already experienced that day?
He was half-horrified at himself, as well. What the devil made him think he could help a child like Edward learn to ride, much less to reason and speak?
It made sense that Elizabeth would not have been at church—Edward probably would not do well at sitting for an hour or more, listening to old Mr Palmer’s squeaky voice droning on. But he could not deny his disappointment.
What was I thinking? What shall I say to Georgiana? How can I explain?
Naturally, he could say nothing to her at all, simply go for a daily morning ride.
He did not owe his young sister explanations for anything he might choose to do.
But Georgiana missed little, and she was an excellent horsewoman—it was an activity they had always enjoyed sharing.
She would want to ride out with him. She would wonder why he rode without her, and where he rode.
She would ask, possibly before the Bingleys, and then they would wonder as well.
He missed Elizabeth. He wanted to see her, speak with her. Why this longing? Why her, of all people?
His carriage pulled into Netherfield’s drive, exactly when Frost had estimated his return from London. With a sigh, he strode outside to greet Georgiana. Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst quickly joined him on the portico.
“Charles is off riding the property with his steward. Why he did not change their appointment to a later hour so he could welcome Miss Darcy to Netherfield is beyond me,” Mrs Hurst apologised.
“He is such a flibbertigibbet,” Miss Bingley pronounced, adding her own critique. “He simply does not think.”
Darcy was certain that his friend was probably thinking far too much.
“Fitzwilliam!” Georgiana cried, running to him as she had when she was but a wee lass. In no way did she behave as a sixteen-year-old young lady nearly ready for ballrooms. She threw her arms about him in a tight embrace.
And he was glad. He did not want her to be changed from the affectionate, sweet innocent she was, despite the social politics of the ton.
“I am so happy to see you!” she enthused.
“I thought I would either stay in town alone forever and ever—or else be required to go to Matlock, and you know how my aunt dislikes when I forget about time while playing the pianoforte or drawing! She tells me my head is in the clouds, and does not understand or even smile when I tell her that the clouds are so much lighter and brighter above the dirty fog in London!”
He laughed and was glad he had sent for her; she was not simply a responsibility, a charge upon his honour—she was all he had left of his mother and father and the happy family he had once known. She was his bright spot, his dear one.
Dash it, Bingley would be fortunate if she would look upon his suit with approval when she was a little older!
At least Miss Bennet was home, as of yesterday, and his sister would not have to sit in comparison—it would not be fair.
Georgiana was yet only sixteen years, while Miss Bennet at twenty-two naturally had an advantage of maturity, as well as her fine looks.
Not that it appeared she held any unusual fondness for Bingley—indeed, Darcy had observed her closely, and she seemed almost indifferent to him.
Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst shepherded his sister and her companion upstairs to show her the rooms they had prepared—they, at least, were excited by the honour of hosting her, if their brother was not.
Darcy slipped out of the house early the following morning, feeling guilty and yet angered that he should have to bear any burden of guilt at all.
“I will ride out to Fox Hollow; if I can see there are signs of activity within, I will simply ask to take Edward—and I will try to teach him something, heaven knows what—and bring him home within the hour. Later, I will take Georgiana out for a ride.”
What if Edward does not respond well to a brief lesson? his conscience prodded him. Will you leave him to Elizabeth to comfort and calm?
“I shall tell him that he will have no more rides if he hurts her,” he assured himself aloud.
“Devil take it, I am not responsible for teaching him anything except riding, regardless of the reasons for my foolish impulsiveness.” Edward’s ability to reason, he knew, was immature even for his young age.
Telling him not to respond in his usual manner would likely be as helpful as saying nothing at all.
“She ought to take the boy back to Longbourn, if he is apt to be so ill-behaved,” he told his horse.
Mabel knickered at him, as if in disagreement.
“I know, I know. He is a taking little lad, even with his rotten temper. It seems wrong to condemn him without trying whatever is within reason.”
Yet, several times in the past four days, he had been tempted to do exactly that—send a note to Elizabeth telling her that, due to the arrival of his sister, he would be unable to spare the time.
“Disguise of any sort is my abhorrence,” he muttered. “I have the time; I simply cannot spare the attention.”
Mabel huffed.
“Come now, last time he was upon your back, he was no prince,” Darcy told the beast.
Unexpectedly, he heard hooves cantering up the road behind him.
Devil take it, Bingley rose early for once and caught me out.
He was conscious of a surprising feeling of…
what? Frustration? For all his resentment, he realised, he had wanted to see Elizabeth, talk to her again, see how she did.
Even, he had looked forward to showing Edward a real ride, without a leading rope—showing him what it felt like to trot, to gallop.
He would have to send the note after all. He knew what that note ought to say.
It was not frustration; it was regret, real and thick. I do not know myself.
But it was not Bingley who trotted around the bend, but Georgiana, a wide grin upon her face, riding astride on her mare, Lady. She was not wearing a woman’s riding habit, either, but the breeches she wore only at Pemberley.
“Fitzwilliam!” she called joyfully. “There you are! The stable boy said you had gone in this direction and I hoped to catch you!”
“I am caught. I am not certain you are fit to be seen, however,” he said, looking askance at her apparel. “I thought we had an agreement—only at home.”
“I caught you, I caught you!” she giggled, then frowned at his obvious dismay. “Oh please? I wanted a real ride. It is why I rose so early. I can be home before anyone else leaves their beds, no one will ever know, not even Mrs Annesley, I promise!”
Since he found the female riding habits restrictive at best and dangerous at worst, he could sympathise…but what other young lady would take a chance upon being caught out in such an ensemble?
“Very well, this once. It is the country, but not our own country, where your name, local goodwill, and the privacy of our lands protect you.”
“Thank you! You are the best brother in the world!” Suddenly she looked at him with astonishment.
“But where is Gallant? Why are you riding that horse? She has hardly moved in all the time I have been talking to you! Oh, Fitzwilliam, she is so nice and patient! But you do not like horses so docile! Is Gallant injured?” She rattled off her questions and comments almost all in one breath.
I knew it, he thought. I knew she would catch me.