Chapter 50
CHAPTER FIFTY
I t was hours before Georgiana had exhausted her tears and her frail form from weeping. Darcy left her sleeping in her room at Matlock House, two maids having been sent from Darcy House to attend her.
His poor, darling sister had been convinced that Wickham was in love with her. It was true that he had not been able to begin courting her in Ramsgate, but their meetings at the seaside had laid the foundation for the criminal’s suit. She told her brother of the constant correspondence she had received from him, surreptitiously addressed to her companion, wherein he slowly built up the fantasy that he was devoted to her and inserting the notion into her heart that she loved him as well.
Was that the packet of letters Sarah had handed him at the inn? His fists clenched at the thought.
Where had Darcy been ? It was all he could think as she poured forth her feelings to him in the disbelief of her grief. His place had been at her side, protecting her and guiding her and paying close attention to anyone or anything that might have been a danger to her. He would have sunk into despair at ever being able to make things right save for one thing: Elizabeth. With Elizabeth by his side, he felt confident—perhaps for the first time—that he could direct his sister on the path to womanhood.
He could not wait to see his beloved Elizabeth. Hoping that Georgiana’s utter exhaustion would prevent her awakening for many hours, Darcy called his coach and made his way to Gracechurch Street.
The house was more elegant than he had assumed it would be. Located in a fine neighbourhood lined with stately, if not opulent, homes, it stood out in its modern lines and perfectly maintained landscaping. When Elizabeth had mentioned her uncle in trade, Darcy was sorry to admit that he had envisioned a shabbily done-up, supercilious man with more thought to figures than fashion.
Mr and Mrs Gardiner welcomed him cordially. They were a finely-dressed couple who would blend in at any Mayfair dinner party. The matron’s low silk turban was prettily adorned with a string of seed pearls and mercifully devoid of the ostrich feathers the more ostentatious ladies of his sphere preferred. And the furniture, while not as grand as that which populated Darcy House, was elegant and fashionable, upholstered in modish, though modest, velvets and raw silks.
More impressive was the humble courtesy with which he was received. There was no simpering, no grovelling before him because of his wealth and position; he was simply a guest whom they were happy to entertain.
“Mr Darcy, you are very welcome, sir,” Mr Gardiner said. “Please, allow me to call my nieces so that we may be properly introduced.”
His wife had anticipated him, however, and a maid was already scurrying up the staircase. Before their wait could become an awkward silence, Jane Bennet appeared in the doorway with a curtsey and a knowing smile, followed closely by Elizabeth, who came straight to him, her arms outstretched.
Taking both of her hands in his, he inhaled deeply, breathing in her presence, her scent, her person. Her eyes shone up at him, and he would swear that his own were beaming with light as they took her in.
“Aunt Gardiner, may I introduce my betrothed, Fitzwilliam Darcy of Derbyshire. Mr Darcy, this is my aunt and uncle, Mr and Mrs Edward Gardiner.”
“Betrothed! That is wonderful, Elizabeth!” Mrs Gardiner offered, stealing Elizabeth for a congratulatory embrace.
“It is not official, of course,” Darcy said. “I must still ride to Longbourn to seek her father’s consent.”
“But, but—” Mr Gardiner spluttered. “I thought— What about the colonel?”
“As I said, Uncle, Colonel Fitzwilliam is the best of men, but we are only friends,” Elizabeth said with a laugh.
Darcy had thought her family might come to such a conclusion when he requested that Fitzwilliam accompany Elizabeth to rejoin her sister in Cheapside. It was only natural to assume the man on whose arm she appeared would be more than a friend—or to hope so, at any rate.
“Not only friends,” Darcy rejoined. “He is soon to be family, darling. Colonel Fitzwilliam is my cousin, the son of my uncle, the Earl of Matlock.”
“I know I said so upstairs, Lizzy,” Jane told her with a tearful laugh, “but I am so happy for you!”