Chapter 3 #2
His sister did not make friends easily; her shyness saw to that.
She barely spoke in company; she saved her many observations for family.
For her to offer correspondence to a new acquaintance suggested either remarkable comfort or remarkable desperation, and Darcy was not certain which possibility alarmed him more.
He read on.
Today she told me she might not be in Ramsgate much longer. I believed at first that she expected your arrival. I no longer believe that is the case.
I do not know the particulars of her situation.
I know only that she appears to find herself under some pressure, and that the circumstances seem to be moving faster than she would wish.
She has told me that she has written to you, asking you to come, and received no answer.
I cannot account for it, and I will not speculate, but I thought you would wish to know.
If I am wrong, I ask only your forgiveness for the intrusion. If I am correct, I felt it was right you should be made aware, and sooner rather than later.
I am, sir, your servant,
E. Bennet
Darcy set the letter down. Picked it up, read it again. Then he read it a third time, as though the words might rearrange themselves into something that made sense. Georgiana had not written to summon him to Ramsgate.
And who in the blazes was E. Bennet?
The name meant nothing to him. The phrasing was educated, the sentiment direct, but that told him little.
His aunt had introduced him to half the gentleman’s daughters in England, and a fair number of them were fortune hunters, social climbers, or simply meddlers who could not resist inserting themselves into other people’s affairs.
Yet the author of this letter had written to him because she feared for Georgiana.
It could be a stratagem. An attempt to manufacture a connexion where none existed, to position herself as Georgiana’s protector and thereby gain access to Georgiana’s brother.
Such schemes were not unknown; Darcy had fended off more than one ambitious mother who had attempted to befriend his sister as a means of befriending him.
Mrs. Danvers of Bath had been particularly determined.
Upon arriving in London, she had managed to install her daughter with Georgiana’s watercolour master, a man who was famously selective, despite the girl having neither interest nor talent.
Over time, he had later learned, she had changed the time of those lessons so that they were leaving the man’s rooms just as he was arriving to collect Georgiana for their weekly walk around Hyde Park.
Darcy had been impressed despite himself; it had taken genuine military planning.
But those women had not written letters. Darcy was not in the habit of entertaining correspondence from a woman he did not know. He ought to burn it.
He did not. Instead, he reached for Mrs. Younge’s letter. Perhaps she would mention this E. Bennet. Perhaps she would provide the information that would help him determine whether the woman was genuine or merely ambitious.
Dear Mr. Darcy,
I write to assure you that Miss Darcy continues in excellent health and spirits. The sea air has done her much good, and she speaks often of your planned visit with great anticipation.
The same phrases as her previous letters. The same reassurances. Darcy skimmed ahead, searching for anything of substance.
She has made an acquaintance among the other visitors, a respectable young lady whose family I have made enquiries about and found suitable.
A Miss Elizabeth Bennet, of Hertfordshire, here for her health.
I am pleased to report that they are often in company with Miss Bennet’s companion and myself, and that the acquaintance has done your sister good.
I would recommend allowing Miss Darcy to remain here a fortnight longer than planned, that she might continue to cultivate the acquaintance.
Miss Bennet draws her out in a manner I have seldom observed, and I believe your sister would benefit from the practice of a gentle friendship before she must navigate the wider demands of society.
Darcy stopped reading.
Mrs. Younge had recommended Miss Bennet. Had made enquiries and found her acceptable. Had attributed Georgiana’s supposed confidence, at least in part, to this new friendship.
If Miss Bennet were a schemer, Mrs. Younge would have seen through her.
The woman’s references had been impeccable; she was discerning, experienced, capable of distinguishing genuine connexion from mercenary design.
If she pronounced Miss Bennet respectable, then Miss Bennet was almost certainly respectable.
Which meant Miss Bennet’s warning was almost certainly genuine. Which meant— Darcy pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and forced himself to think clearly. One of them was wrong. Or worse, one of them was lying.
It could not be Mrs. Younge. He had hired the woman himself, had reviewed her references personally, had satisfied himself of her character before entrusting her with his sister’s care.
She had no motive to deceive him. She wrote regularly, reported faithfully, did everything a conscientious companion ought to do.
But if she was honest, then she was also remiss, for she had missed the threat of this Bennet woman.
On the other hand, Miss Bennet had no obvious motive either.
She had nothing to gain by inventing concerns about a girl she barely knew, and writing to a man she had never met merely risked the censure that came with such an improper correspondence.
If she had wished to ingratiate herself with the Darcy family, there were far safer methods than inventing a story and breaking propriety to advance it.
She appears to find herself under some pressure.
If Miss Bennet was telling the truth, then Georgiana was feeling pressured by Mrs. Younge. And if this was the case, then Mrs. Younge’s letters were not the reassurances they appeared to be.
He stood abruptly, his chair scraping the floor as it was pushed back.
He was being absurd. He was constructing conspiracies from the idle observations of a woman who had admitted that she might be wrong.
Mrs. Younge had been recommended by Lady Ellensby, whose judgment in such matters was, his aunt Lady Matlock assured him, beyond reproach.
But people could be turned. He had some experience with that.
Darcy crossed to the bell pull and rang for his valet.
His valet Franks appeared within moments, his expression professionally neutral despite the late hour and the obvious agitation of his employer.
“Sir?”
“I leave for Ramsgate at first light.”
To his credit, Franks did not so much as blink. “Very good, sir. And your appointments tomorrow?”
“Have Tracy cancel them.”
Franks’s eyebrows rose by perhaps a quarter of an inch, which was the most extreme expression of surprise Darcy had ever seen him display. “All of them, sir? Including Lord Billington?”
“Send my regrets. Tell him a family matter requires my immediate attention in Kent.” No one knew Georgiana was in Kent, but everyone knew his fractious aunt Lady Catherine lived there. They would believe he had been summoned.
“Very good, sir. I shall write the notes myself.” A fractional pause. “Mr. Tracy’s hearing is not entirely reliable for details.”
This was a generous way of putting it. Tracy’s hearing had not been reliable for the better part of a decade.
“The blue coat,” Darcy said. “Not the black. The black requires pressing.”
“I had anticipated the blue, sir. Shall I pack the brown trunk?”
It was a smaller trunk than the one he had taken to Matlock. Darcy stared at him. “I have only just told you we are travelling.”
“Yes, sir. But you have been reading letters from Ramsgate for the past quarter of an hour, and you rang with some urgency. The trunk seemed a reasonable inference.” Franks was already moving out into the passage and up the stairs towards the dressing room.
“Shirts for a week’s stay. Cravats for a week and a half. ”
Darcy found himself following Franks to the bottom of the stairs and calling after the valet. “I do not ruin that many cravats.”
Franks halted near the top and turned to address him properly. “You do not generally travel in haste, sir. I find it prudent to plan for contingencies.”
Darcy just gave him a nod, and Franks disappeared into the dressing room just past the landing.
His valet did not, however, close the door, and from the dressing room came the quiet, sounds of drawers and wardrobes opening and closing.
Darcy stood at the foot of the stairs, momentarily useless, and was struck by the absurdity of his position: master of Pemberley and Bereford House in London, one of the wealthiest gentlemen in Derbyshire, if not England, and yet at this moment he could not have packed his own trunk to save his life.
“I have informed the coachman,” Franks continued, his voice carrying from the dressing room with calm authority. “The carriage will be ready at six o’clock. Will you require anything else tonight, sir?”
Darcy looked at the two letters in his hand. He had not realised he had picked them up.
“No,” he said. “That will be all.”
Franks withdrew.
Darcy returned to his study and sat down at the desk.
He opened the two letters and placed them side by side.
Mrs. Younge’s reassurances, so careful and complete.
Miss Bennet’s warning, so reluctant and precise.
One painted a picture of a girl growing confident and happy.
The other painted a picture of a shy young girl in a serious predicament.
He could not reconcile them. Not tonight, not from London, not without seeing Georgiana’s face and reading the truth there for himself.
He folded both letters and placed them in the breast pocket of his coat. Then he extinguished the lamp and sat in the dark, listening to the quiet sounds of the house settling around him. The coffee Tracy had sent up despite Darcy’s refusal had gone cold. He drank it anyway.
Ramsgate was only a long day’s travel in the summer. He would see his sister tomorrow.