Chapter 12
“I practiced billiards throughout the winter, Darcy,” Bingley said as the two gentlemen climbed the steps leading to the main door of Pemberley. “I flatter myself that I have improved greatly.”
Darcy cast a skeptical look at his friend and said, “I thought you were far too busy courting Mrs. Bingley to bother with games.”
“Nonsense,” Bingley retorted with good humor. “I did devote many of my daylight hours to Jane, but my evening hours were my own.”
“Whom did you play with?” Darcy asked as he stepped into the front door of the mansion. The butler and a liveried footman waited within and relieved Darcy and Bingley of their hats.
“I played with Hurst,” Bingley explained, grinning, “and make no mistake, the man is remarkably skilled at the game.”
“Is he?” Darcy asked. He had thought that Hurst’s only great skills were for eating and cards, though the man also seemed to enjoy shooting pheasants.
“Yes. Now I hope you will excuse me, but I must see how Jane is doing this morning.”
“Of course,” Darcy agreed. “I enjoyed our morning ride very much, and I will see you later.”
Bingley nodded, turned, and bounded up the stairs, his face alight with excitement.
Darcy, watching him go, was aware of an unaccustomed twinge of envy.
He was still uncertain of the wisdom of Bingley’s choice of wife in terms of her wealth and connections, but without a doubt, the younger man was madly in love with his wife and she, in turn, was openly affectionate toward her husband.
Would he ever be fortunate enough to find such a wife?
As master of the grand estate of Pemberley, Darcy was expected by the upper crust of society to marry a woman of fashion, accomplishments, connections, and wealth.
But while his mind knew and accepted such demands from the Ton, his heart misgave him.
He did not want a marriage of convenience. He did not want to share a bed with a woman whose only interest in him was his affluence and good birth. He did not wish to stare across the table, day after day, month after month, year after year, at a woman with no similarity of mind.
Perhaps that was why he had never seriously considered offering for a woman, even though he was eight and twenty.
He must marry, of course; Pemberley needed an heir.
But he had attended numerous assemblies, routs, dances, and Venetian breakfasts in London, and been the focus of flirtatious glances, vapid speeches, and pursuit by matchmaking mothers and their eligible daughters, and he had never felt an iota of the love which Charles Bingley so obviously felt toward his handsome wife.
“Is there anything you need, sir?”
Darcy turned in surprise toward Reynolds, his butler, who had served the Darcys for some thirty years now. He realized he had been standing stock still, staring as Bingley disappeared up the stairwell, which was unusual behavior on his part.
“Erm, do you know where Miss Darcy is?” he asked Reynolds.
“Yes, sir. Miss Darcy is in the music room.”
“Thank you.”
It would be pleasant to spend a few minutes with Georgiana, so long as Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley were not hovering over her. Furthermore, if they were present, he owed it his young sister to be certain that her guests were not making her uncomfortable.
He walked down the main corridor toward the music room, the polished wooden floor clicking under his booted feet, the white plastered walls decorated elegantly with beautiful and expensive paintings.
Pemberley was glorious, he knew that. It was natural enough that eligible young women were more interested in his possessions than his person, though certainly he had received plenty of compliments about his tall figure and handsome face.
He wanted a woman to love him for himself, not for his money, his lands, his position in society, or his looks.
He wanted a woman who would engage him intellectually, but who was also kind, diligent, loving and yes, amusing.
He knew himself to be a dour fellow and would do better with a cheerful wife.
But where could he find such a woman? Certainly not at Rosings in Kent, where his cousin Anne de Bourgh, heiress to Rosings, dwelled with her autocratic mother.
Lady Catherine was absolutely determined that her daughter marry Darcy in order to combine the two great estates.
Darcy had only a cousinly affection for Anne, who was frail and quiet. No, he would not marry Anne.
He sighed. It seemed an insoluble problem. He had prayed for many years that the Lord on High would send him a compatible wife. So far, He had not. Perhaps Darcy needed to lower his sights and marry a high born woman whom he believed he could tolerate.
Either that or he needed to be patient and wait on God. After all, David had waited years to be crowned King of Israel, and the Israelites had waited forty years in the desert to enter the Promised Land.
He stopped in front of the door to the music room, opened it, and stepped in.
To his relief, the only people present were Georgiana, who was playing the pianoforte, and Mrs. Annesley, who was seated comfortably nearby knitting something blue.
The older lady looked up and smiled at him, and he quietly took a seat next to her, though there was no actual reason to be noiseless.
He knew the expression on Georgiana’s face well; the girl was in her own world now, one full of harmony and melody.
Darcy closed his eyes and allowed both body and mind to relax as the complex chords rippled through the air.
Under his closed eyelids, he felt liquid form.
He worried about Georgiana – oh how he worried about her!
She was so fragile and uncertain in some areas of life that came easily to most, yet so incredibly gifted in others.
Musically, she was a near genius. The notes flowing from the instrument were perfect, the timing exquisite, the fingering difficult but exact.
How could someone so adept, so brilliant in some areas, struggle so much in relating to others, in understanding that some people, like George Wickham, were treacherous?
He opened his eyes and released a soft sigh. He had forgotten perhaps the most important thing of all in his contemplation of the perfect wife; she must love Georgiana and be patient with her.
The song came to its magnificent end, and both Mrs. Annesley and Darcy clapped a few times, causing Georgiana to turn in surprise, which shifted to pleasure when she saw who had joined her companion on the couch.
“Brother, I did not know you were here!” she said, standing up and shaking out her skirts.
“I entered only a few minutes ago, my dear,” Darcy said, “and I enjoyed the end of…”
“The third movement of Beethoven’s Sonata No. 14 in C sharp minor,” Georgiana said. “I am still playing it a little too slowly, but I am making progress.”
“Indeed you are,” Mrs. Annesley agreed, bestowing an approving look on her charge. “You played it beautifully, Miss Darcy.”
“Thank you,” Georgiana said with a slight smile, then turned her clear eyed gaze on her brother. “Fitzwilliam, I would like to speak to you in private.”
Darcy felt a distinct surge of anxiety, which he firmly beat down.
Georgiana, who trusted too easily, had learned the wisdom of coming to him alone when faced with a question or problem.
Her desire to see him alone did not mean anything catastrophic had occurred; she might well be interested in acquiring a guinea hen for all he knew!
“Of course,” he said heartily. “Please join me in my study, Georgiana. Mrs. Annesley, we will see you shortly.”
“Of course, sir,” the lady answered, gathering up her knitting and departing through the main door. Darcy took a few steps after her, then halted and said, “Perhaps we ought to walk through the library into my study.”
“Why?” Georgiana asked.
“Because we have less chance of coming across someone who wishes to speak to us.”
“And whom we do not wish to speak to, like Miss Bingley?” his sister asked with a grimace.
“Precisely.”
The twosome thus made their way to the side door of the music room, which led into the library which, in turn, led into the study, whereupon Darcy released his sister’s arm and looked down upon her expectantly, only to be distracted.
“You look lovely today, Georgiana!” he said approvingly.
“Thank you, Brother,” the girl responded, looking down on her yellow muslin, which was fitted perfectly for her tall, slender form. “I feel peaceful today, and this dress suits me well enough.”
“I am glad,” her brother answered with satisfaction.
From her earliest days, Georgiana had been very sensitive to the feeling of fabric and tight clothing.
As a small child, she had screamed and howled until her nurse discovered that she could not bear the lace in contact with her tender skin, nor could she, then or now, wear woolen clothing.
Even now, she preferred to wear overly large dresses, though Mrs. Annesley had gently coaxed her to don more form fitting clothing when she was in company.
It said much for Georgiana’s state of mind that she had willingly adorned herself in a well-fitting dress many hours before dinner.
“I spoke to Miss Bennet at length this morning,” Georgiana said, breaking into his musings. “She was very encouraging, but I told her about what happened at Ramsgate last summer, and she said that I should tell you all about it.”
Satisfaction gave way to horror. “What?”
/
“It is heavenly, is it not, Charles?” Jane Bingley asked her husband, drawing in a long, full breath of scented air.
“It is,” Bingley agreed, though his eyes were on his wife’s exquisite countenance such that he hardly noticed the roses surrounding them.
“It is wondrous,” Elizabeth declared, looking around her with satisfaction. “Longbourn’s rose garden is pleasant enough, but compared to Pemberley’s – well, it is like comparing a pond to an ocean.”
“I agree,” Jane said, her face glowing. “It smells delightful, and whether coincidence or not, I feel less queasy when surrounded by so many fragrant blossoms.”
“Perhaps we ought to plant a rose garden at Netherfield?” Charles suggested, eager to please his darling wife.
Jane tilted her head and considered, then said, “I think we should wait until we are certain we wish to live at Netherfield for many years. It takes time and money for roses to grow, and if we choose to move farther north…”
“You would truly be at peace with such a move?” Charles asked.
Jane chuckled and said, “I think it quite likely that we would both enjoy living farther from Longbourn. I love my family, of course, but my mother can be intrusive, and she might well grow more so when we have a child.”
“That is true,” Elizabeth agreed, wandering over to stand in the shade of a rose trellis, “especially if you have a son.”
“Son or daughter, I care not,” Bingley said stoutly, “just so long as you and the child are safe. I only hope…”
He trailed off and his countenance darkened. Childbirth was a chancy business, and many a woman died in the process. He loved Jane to the very depths of his soul, and such a thought was terrifying. How could he live without her?
“I am the very image of my mother,” Jane said into his ear, “and she birthed all her children with ease. Do not worry, my love.”
He kissed her gently on the lips and then turned an embarrassed look at Elizabeth who was staring intently at a particularly large red blossom, though the smirk on her face indicated she was quite aware of what was going on behind her.
“Jane,” she said casually, “we have been outside for some time. Perhaps you should go inside and rest? The sun is very hot today.”
“Yes, my dear, you must not overheat,” Bingley agreed hastily.
Jane nodded and said, “I confess to being rather warm and tired, though it is difficult to withdraw from such a lovely place. All the same, I am ready for a nap.”
“You should eat a small nuncheon as well, as that helps you feel better,” Bingley said. “Elizabeth, I hope you do not mind if we leave you?”
“Of course not,” his sister by marriage replied. “I will see you both later.”
The couple smiled and returned to the house, leaving Elizabeth alone, surrounded by flowerets bobbing in the soft breeze.
She glanced at her watch and noted it was still an hour before noon, and Miss Darcy had said that she would not be visiting the peafowl for an hour.
She could walk elsewhere, or visit the library in search of a book, or…
“Miss Bennet.”
She turned in surprise to discover Mr. Darcy standing some five yards away, his expression even more serious than usual, which was saying something.
“Mr. Darcy! How you startled me!”
“My apologies, Miss Bennet,” the man said stiffly, walked a little closer, and then said quietly, “I sought you out so that we could speak of your conversation with my sister this morning.”
“Of course,” Elizabeth said, glancing around, “Perhaps we could find a private, but not confined place, where we are certain not to be interrupted but where there is no suggestion of impropriety?”
Darcy relaxed at these sensible words, considered, and said, “Do you like horses, Miss Bennet?”
“I like to watch them, though I am not a horsewoman.”
“Would you care to observe one of my finest mares with her new filly?”
“Very much, Mr. Darcy.”