Chapter 10
Darcy guided Mrs. Bingley into the dining room and helped her into her seat, then proceeded to the head of the table.
Georgiana had pleaded a headache and was above stairs, but everyone else was present.
He had chosen to place Miss Bennet next to himself today in the hopes of learning more about her.
In retrospect, that was a dubious decision, as Miss Bingley was now eyeing Miss Bennet with envy in her predatory eye.
He hoped that there would be no unpleasant scenes at the table tonight.
“Have any of you had the opportunity to read Lord Byron’s recent poem?” Caroline Bingley asked as the servants placed dishes around the table and poured the dinner wine.
“I have,” Elizabeth said, spooning potatoes onto her plate.
“I have not,” Darcy said, and then added, more to be provoking than anything else, “I am not inclined to waste my time reading a poem written by a dissolute spendthrift. I can only imagine that the poem is absurdly pretentious.”
“Oh, Mr. Darcy, I could not agree with you more!” Miss Bingley exclaimed. “It is such a pity that the bourgeois have taken so much to his lordship’s puerile writings.”
“I have read it, and found it captivating,” Elizabeth declared.
“Mr. Darcy, while I may not approve of Lord Byron – and I confess that I do not know a great deal about his lifestyle – I think it unreasonable to avoid what might be an excellent piece of literature merely because you disapprove of the author.”
“Oh Elizabeth!” Caroline cried out, “I am certain you would agree that Mr. Darcy knows far more about literature than you do. He is, as Charles has told us many a time, a most gifted scholar.”
“That may be,” Elizabeth answered, “but that does not mean that Mr. Darcy is an expert on every type of literature. He says he has not read Byron’s work, so how could he know much about it?”
“Elizabeth is correct, Darcy,” Bingley said with a grin. “If you are to truly lambaste the man’s work, you ought to at least read some of it.”
Darcy fought a smile and said, “I suppose that is true enough. I cannot suppose you brought a copy of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage with you, Miss Bennet?”
“I fear not, sir. My father was fortunate enough to obtain one of the quartos of the second printing, but he would not entrust such a treasure to his wandering daughter.”
“I never had much use for poetry myself,” Mr. Hurst grunted, startling the entire table, as he was usually too busy eating at dinner to bother with talking.
“I enjoy good poetry, and I consider Lord Byron an excellent poet,” Elizabeth said, and then added slyly, “I fear that Jane is responsible for my exposure to bad poetry.”
“Now Lizzy,” Mrs. Bingley said, turning pink and smiling at her sister, “it was not my fault that Mother read Mr. Dowding’s poetry to the entire family.”
“It was not, of course, but oh my, the poor man certainly admired you, but he was not gifted with words.”
“A former admirer, Jane?” Louisa asked curiously.
“Yes, a friend of my uncle Gardiner’s, who was much taken with Jane when she was but fifteen,” Elizabeth said with a chuckle.
“She was far too young for marriage, of course, and I am thankful that business concerns drew him away before he felt it necessary to produce any more verses to my sister’s blue eyes. ”
“Perhaps Mr. Dowding has improved with time,” Jane said charitably. “I will say that I read only a few pages of the Childe Harold and gave it up. I enjoy novels more than poetry.”
“What novels do you like, Mrs. Bingley?” Darcy asked.
“Oh, I am very fond of Robinson Crusoe,” Jane answered, “though of course I would be horrified if I was actually shipwrecked on a deserted island and was fearful of being attacked by wild animals or starving to death. I enjoy reading about it, though.”
“I am very fond of that book as well,” Darcy admitted. “I daresay I have read it in full at least twenty times.”
“And do you approve of its author, Daniel DeFoe?” Elizabeth inquired archly. “He was certainly as much a spendthrift as Lord Byron, and I would argue that he was a most reprehensible husband and father.”
Darcy leaned back in his seat and allowed his lips to curve up in a smile. “Do you think so, Miss Bennet?”
“I do, why…”
Darcy found himself listening intently to the young lady’s arguments, which were cogent and well informed, even as his heart rejoiced within him.
Unlike Caroline Bingley, Miss Elizabeth Bennet showed no inclination to pander to his remarks or venerate him unduly.
These were not the actions of a woman anxious to capture a husband by fair means or foul.
It seemed that Georgiana had found a truly honorable friend.
/
“Georgiana?”
“Yes, Fitzwilliam?” Georgiana asked as Darcy stepped into his sister’s private sitting room. The girl had a book in her hand and Darcy recognized it as a book on agricultural techniques, no doubt one his sister had read many times before.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Oh, I am well enough,” Georgiana answered, carefully placing a marker in her book and setting it aside.
“I did not really have a headache, but I was nervous about being with Miss Bingley tonight after dinner. She keeps provoking me to play for you and the others, and I despise playing in front of numerous people.”
“I know,” Darcy said, walking over to sit near his sister. “I am sorry, my dear, and it is entirely appropriate for you to use a headache as an excuse.”
“I do not like it because it is not true, but I understand that sometimes we say something is true, and everyone knows that it is not true, so it is not really a lie.”
Darcy tilted his head and said, “Yes, I think that is an accurate description of the matter.”
“It is like when we are here and someone comes to call, and the butler says that you are not at home. It is not that you are truly absent, it is that it is not polite to say that you do not want to see the person, so instead Thompson says you are not at home. That way, no one’s feelings are hurt.”
“Precisely,” Darcy said with relief. He had had similar conversation with Georgiana many times before, and this was the first time his sister had truly seemed to understand such social niceties.
“Miss Bennet and I talked about this today,” his sister explained, her gaze shifting to the window, beyond which the sun was sinking in the west. “I did not want to come to dinner tonight because of Miss Bingley, and Miss Bennet explained that it is kinder to say I am ill than to argue with Miss Bingley openly.”
“That is true,” Darcy said in wonder. It seemed that Miss Bennet was truly a miracle worker. “It seems you are fond of Miss Bennet, Georgiana.”
“Oh, I am, Brother, very much! I will be very sad when she leaves.”
Darcy sighed. Naturally Miss Bennet would return home in time, and yes, that would be extremely painful to Georgiana. His precious sister did not love easily, but when she did, her attachment was fierce and unwavering.
“They will be here for more than another week,” he said finally, “and perhaps we will see them in London or Pemberley again someday. Bingley is a valued friend, and I hope we will see him, his wife, and her sister in time.”
Georgiana, who had been looking woebegone, cheered up at these words. “That is true, and while I dislike London, I will gladly go if I could see Miss Bennet.”
“What of Mrs. Bingley?” he asked curiously. “Do you find her pleasant?”
“Oh, yes, she is very kind, though rather quiet. Miss Bennet says she has been ill lately and is spending much time in her bedchamber. Is that because she does not want to be in our company?”
Darcy suppressed a groan. What was he to say to that? He (and Miss Bennet) had finally managed to convince Georgiana that it was reasonable to claim illness to avoid discourtesy. Now would his sister think that every time someone claimed to be ill, they were actually disinclined for company?
He made a sudden decision and turned toward his sister, his expression grave. “Georgiana, I have a secret to tell you, but you must not speak of it to anyone but to me, Mr. and Mrs. Bingley, and Miss Bennet. If you do talk to them about this, you must do it privately.”
Georgiana looked alarmed. “Very well, what is it?”
“Mrs. Bingley is expecting a child, and is feeling unwell because of her pregnancy. She is genuinely feeling sickly.”
Georgiana blinked. “Is it not a good thing to bear a child?”
“A very good thing! It is merely … well, there are times when a husband and wife choose to keep such a thing private for a season.”
“Why?”
Darcy felt an urge to pull at his hair, but instead said, “Sometimes a pregnant lady loses her baby during early pregnancy, and if such a thing comes to pass, she and her husband do not always want everyone to know about it.”
“Oh, because people might say hurtful things?”
“Yes.”
Georgiana stared at him, her brow puckered, and then her forehead smoothed and she nodded. “I understand.”
“Good,” he said with relief. “Now, I will leave you alone. Good night, my dear.”
“Fitzwilliam?” she said, holding out a staying hand. “When are we going to Ramsgate this summer?”
Darcy gulped and stared at his sister, berating himself inwardly. Once again, he had assumed that Georgiana would grasp something which, to him, was obvious.
“I … I did not think we would go to Ramsgate this year,” he finally said in a halting voice.
Now her blue eyes grew wide with bewildered unhappiness. “Not go to Ramsgate? We always go to Ramsgate, Brother! Why would we not go this year?”
Darcy blew out a quick breath as he prayed for guidance. He reached out to clasp his sister’s hands in his own. “I … I assumed you would not wish to return because of what happened last summer.”
“Because of Mr. Wickham? He will not be in Ramsgate, will he?”
“No, certainly not,” Darcy said harshly, and then winced as his sister flinched. “No, I promise you that he will never be permitted to get near you again, Georgiana.”
“Then I do not understand. I wish to go. My birds are there!”
“You have birds here too, Georgie,” Darcy answered rather helplessly.
“Not wild birds,” his sister said. Her blue eyes were pools of grief, and Darcy felt his own heart breaking. “This is all my fault. I did not know … I did not imagine…”
“Of course you did not,” Darcy said swiftly. Indeed, he knew it was not Georgiana’s fault in the least. It was his; he had allowed his sister to trust Mrs. Younge, who proved traitorous. And George Wickham – well, Georgiana had only fond memories of their times together when she was but a child.
“Perhaps we can go to Ramsgate,” he found himself saying. “I thought that last summer’s painful experience would give you a distaste for the town and even the birds, but I see that I was wrong. Let me see what I can do.”
“Thank you,” Georgiana said, lowering her eyes. “I would like to go, but I understand if it is not possible because of my actions.
He lurched forward and pulled his sister to his strong chest. “I love you, Georgiana. I will always love you.”
She lifted slender hands and caught onto his arms. “I love you too, Brother.”