9. A Most Beloved Sister
CHAPTER NINE
A MOST BELOVED SISTER
The budget could have waited until Thursday. Any man with a scrap of composure would have left it to languish on the mahogany desk, untouched until the proper hour.
But Darcy was already halfway across the garden, household expenditure folded in his breast pocket.
Trustees had their prerogatives. Letting a shopping expedition of this scale proceed without a signed authorization?
Unthinkable. Irresponsible. Practically criminal for a responsibility he held most diligently.
Besides, his sister had asked about the excursion twice at breakfast, and once more upon the stairs, her eyes bright with a social hunger he had not seen in years.
If Miss Mary Bennet had seen fit to extend an invitation through the garden gate, and if Miss Courtenay were involved, then the question of chaperonage became a matter of state.
He could hardly send his sixteen-year-old sister into the bustle of Bond Street without first conferring with the mistress of the neighboring house.
These were legitimate grounds. Unassailable, really. He had reviewed them over coffee with the same scrutiny he gave a tenant’s lease, and if the logic felt a bit threadbare, well, he would not tug at the seams. No one could fault a man for being thorough.
“Brother, you are walking very fast,” Georgiana said, half-trotting to keep pace on the gravel.
He slowed, a flush of heat rising to his collar. “Forgive me. I was merely… considering the accounts.”
“Are you nervous?
“About a duty? Never.”
“You adjusted your cravat in the hall mirror. Twice. And you are checking your pocket now to see if the papers are still there, though you put them there not three minutes ago.”
“The knot was uneven,” he muttered, though he forced his hand away from his coat pocket.
Georgiana caught his arm, giving it that small, conspiratorial squeeze she had deployed since childhood. It was her way of letting him know she had seen straight through his defenses and was rather enjoying the spectacle.
“I am glad we are going over,” she said, her voice light with a newfound confidence. “Miss Mary and I have been working on a Clementi duet that requires two pianofortes, and Miss Courtenay has offered to turn pages. I believe Miss Elizabeth means to walk Nettle in the square before luncheon, and?—”
“You appear to have a comprehensive itinerary.”
“I have friends,” Georgiana said, with a wonder that caught him off guard, because the word friends in his sister’s mouth still carried the bruise of a girl who had not had any for a long time and was learning to trust again. “It is rather a lot of friends at once. I am not used to it.”
He patted her hand and said nothing, because the moment was too large and tender for the short walk between Number 34 and Number 33.
They reached the gate in thirty steps. The sound of women’s voices drifted over the rose beds—a bright, choral buzz that made the morning feel full in a way his own silent halls never managed.
Mrs. Alford admitted them into a drawing room alive with four young women preparing for an expedition: bonnets in various states of selection, a pair of gloves being debated.
Jane Bennet sat amidst the swirl with a grace that suggested she had been ready for an hour and was too well-bred to mention it.
Miss Mary Bennet sorted sheet music with the focus of a young woman who prioritized sonatas over shopping. But where was Elizabeth?
The woman his godmother had favored for him, Miss Allegra Courtenay, stood at the window, adjusting the ribbon on her bonnet. She had known him since he was thirteen and awkward, and she never held the awkwardness against him.
“Mr. Darcy. What a pleasant surprise. You have brought Georgiana—how lovely.” Allegra crossed to his sister and took both her hands.
“Mary and I have been plotting the Clementi. We shall need you at the second pianoforte by four o’clock, or we shall be forced to transpose for one instrument, which would be a crime against Muzio Clementi. ”
Georgiana’s face opened with that bright, uncertain joy he was beginning to treasure. “I have been practicing the secondo all week.”
“I know. I could hear it through the wall,” Allegra teased, though her eyes were kind.
Darcy wondered what else drifted through the wall, but he was too busy noticing Elizabeth’s absence. He cast in his mind her likely location—either the study or the library, or had he missed her and Nettle in the garden?
“Miss Elizabeth is reviewing accounts,” Jane offered, having observed the direction of his glance. “She was quite determined to finish the household vouchers before the carriage was prepared.”
Darcy felt the sudden, cooling relief of a man who had found his bearings in a storm.
“The vouchers,” he repeated, his voice regaining its customary, authoritative tone. “Yes. I have the updated expenditure in my pocket. It is… essential that I discuss them with her before she commits to any further purchases.”
“On a Wednesday?” Jane’s expression did not change, but the question held a gentle edge. The Bennet sisters, it seemed, were all possessed of blades; they simply wielded them at different angles.
“The shopping expedition necessitates an advance approval of expenditure. I thought it prudent to attend to it before the ladies departed.”
“How thoughtful of you,” Jane remarked without inflection.
“The study is through there, Mr. Darcy,” Allegra said. Her voice carried nothing more than helpfulness.
Elizabeth sat at the desk, spine straight with concentration.
Ink smudged her fingers—again—and her dark hair was pinned up in a style that had Allegra’s fingerprints all over it.
Morning light caught her focused eyes and the curve of her cheek, and Darcy reminded himself firmly that he was here about the budget.
“Mr. Darcy.” She looked up without surprise, which meant she had either heard his voice or the dog had warned her. “It is Wednesday.”
“I am aware of the day.” He bowed stiffly.
“Our meetings are on Mondays and Thursdays.” She laid her pen aside, the movement slow and deliberate. “Has the world tilted on its axis since yesterday, or has the Bank of England issued a sudden decree regarding Wednesdays?”
“The shopping expedition requires expenditure authorization, and I thought you would prefer to have it settled before you departed rather than discovering that your trustee had neglected to approve the funds.”
“How remarkably considerate.” She set down her pen and gestured to the chair opposite. “You might have sent a note.”
“A note would not suffice for the bank’s requirements,” he countered, producing the document from his pocket and laying it between them with the precision of a peace treaty.
“This document is your authorization at the bank. It confirms your status as mistress of your own accounts. Once registered, the principal houses will honor your name without question. I have estimated a four-hundred-pound initial wardrobe budget for the three of you. It covers the gowns, walking costumes, and the necessary finery for the Season. Miss Courtenay will guide you to the appropriate modistes.”
“Four hundred pounds.” Elizabeth looked at the figure the way she had looked at the beeswax candle budget. “For clothes? Mr. Darcy, that is a small fortune in Hertfordshire. It would buy a flock of sheep and the field to put them in.”
“For a household of your standing, it is modest.”
“Modest.” She snatched up the pen, scratched a quick, decisive signature, and slid the page back to him with a flick of her smudged finger. “There. Your efficiency is admirable, Mr. Darcy. Anything else?”
There was a great deal else, and none of it could be said, and most of it could not be thought without violating the terms of a letter he had written in a fever of humiliation, in which he had promised never to renew the addresses she had so decisively refused.
But there were adjacent territories that a trustee might legitimately explore.
Darcy took the paper, his fingers brushing hers for the briefest, heart-stopping second. He felt the charge of it travel straight up his arm, but he merely folded the sheet and tucked it away.
He remained standing, though every instinct told him to retreat. The conversation had been handled—the business settled—and yet he could not leave without addressing a mistake he wished to rectify.
“Lady Sophia mentioned that Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst had called.”
Elizabeth’s pen paused over the ledger she had reopened.
“They did,” she said. “Miss Bingley was all warmth and congratulation. She spoke very highly of this house, of my fortune, and of her brother’s admiration for, as she phrased it, our entire family.”
“Her brother.” Darcy kept his voice level, which cost him, because the name Bingley brought with it the weight of everything he had done to her most beloved sister and the accusations Elizabeth had flung at him after his mangled proposal. “Mr. Bingley is in London, I believe.”
“At Hargrove’s. Miss Bingley was not inclined to volunteer the information, but she was not proof against Allegra’s inquiries.” The ghost of a vindictive smile crossed her face. “I wonder, Mr. Darcy, if Miss Bingley will keep Jane’s presence in London from her brother again.”
Naturally, the question wasn’t about Miss Bingley. It had everything to do with his interference in Jane and Mr. Bingley’s happiness, and Elizabeth was circling around it like a wolf scenting blood.
“Your sister has remarkable composure, Miss Elizabeth, but I wonder if she possesses the strength to reopen the wound.”
The study grew unnaturally quiet. From the drawing room, the sounds of Georgiana’s laughter and the rustle of silk drifted in like music from a different house, an entirely different life.
Elizabeth set down her quill. “You are concerned for my Jane.”
“As your trustee, your sister’s welfare falls within my purview.”
“And as what else, Mr. Darcy?”