Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
The day after she had comforted her young friend, endured the oddest tea of her life, and been insulted by the girl’s brother, was a Sunday. Miss Darcy was not in church.
Georgiana had attended service here the previous Sunday, so Elizabeth looked for her, scanning the pews as the congregation filed in. She expected to see that fair head bowed in prayer or perhaps lifted towards the vicar. She imagined Mr. Darcy beside her, stiff and watchful.
But they did not come.
Elizabeth tried to listen to the sermon. It was something about charity, or perhaps forgiveness. She could not have said which. Her thoughts kept drifting to Marine Parade, to the white-faced girl, to the coldness in Mr. Darcy’s eyes when he had offered her money to not betray his sister.
She had turned the moment over in her mind a hundred times since yesterday.
He had meant it as gratitude, or what she supposed passed for gratitude among wealthy men who always had things their own way.
He had looked at her and assumed that she was in need of his largesse, that she would expect some tangible reward for her assistance.
Elizabeth had reluctantly concluded that Mr. Darcy was not malicious.
He was simply so assured of his own benevolence that he had offered her payment as he might hand a servant a vail.
He had been genuinely baffled when she did not accept it with appropriate deference.
He could not conceive that she had acted on his sister’s behalf because she was an honourable person who would never betray a friend, much less an innocent like Miss Darcy.
No, he believed she would remain quiet only if he paid her to do so.
The congregation rose for the final hymn. Elizabeth rose with them, singing the words quietly and reminding herself, more than once, that forgiveness was a virtue. Jane ought to be here. She would know just what to say to make Elizabeth laugh at herself.
Beside her, Mrs. Morgan sang in a clear, no-nonsense alto. When the service ended, she took Elizabeth’s arm.
“You did not sleep,” Mrs. Morgan said as they filed out into the fine morning.
“I slept.”
“You slept poorly and you are tired. If you do not rest this afternoon, I shall lock you in your room.”
Elizabeth felt a tiny smile tug at her lips. “That seems excessive.”
Mrs. Morgan huffed, but Elizabeth imagined it was to hide a laugh. “I have locked people in rooms before for their own good. It is less excessive than you might imagine.”
She did not doubt it. She allowed herself to be steered towards their lodgings, grateful for the arm she was too proud to need and too tired to refuse.
She had slept poorly, her mind returning repeatedly to that dreadful quarter of an hour in the garden.
“I did not wish to marry without my brother’s consent,” Miss Darcy had said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“But Mrs. Younge said that I had given Mr. Wickham reason to hope, and that a lady who raises a gentleman’s expectations must answer them.
She said that waiting any longer for my brother was selfish.
That I was thinking of my own comfort and not of Mr. Wickham’s feelings. ”
Miss Darcy had been so ashamed as she revealed everything.
There had been a plan to elope early Monday morning, because although Georgiana wished to wait for her brother’s arrival—had in fact delayed this proposed trip nearly a fortnight while she waited for her brother to answer her letters—she had been convinced by Mrs. Younge that she had encouraged Mr. Wickham’s suit and that the only way to behave properly now was to accept his hand.
“I knew it was not right,” Miss Darcy had said at last, so quietly Elizabeth had leaned forward to hear. “Mr. Wickham said if I loved him, I would come away with him. But I could not marry him without my brother. I knew it was wrong, I just did not know how to say so.”
“They needed you to enter that carriage of your own free will,” she told Miss Darcy. “I presume you have a fortune of your own?”
Miss Darcy’s brow contracted, and she nodded.
“Then you would be considered an heiress, Miss Darcy. As it is against the law to abscond with an heiress without her guardian’s consent, they would not wish to force you.
And more practically, you would be no trouble on the long journey to Scotland if you were willing, even pleased.
But they did not convince you. You held firm, and you may congratulate yourself on that score. ”
Inside, Elizabeth had been fuming. How devious!
A companion paid by Mr. Darcy insisting that Mr. Wickham’s feelings take precedence over Miss Darcy’s?
Claiming that her desire to wait patiently for her brother’s permission to wed was the improper choice, when it was in fact the only proper one available to her?
She tried to control her temper. Because in the end, Miss Darcy had resisted their persuasion. Her instincts had served her well; that so gentle a girl had resisted was cause for rejoicing, but that she had been required to do so was cause for grief.
Elizabeth had lain awake much of the night thinking about the Darcys. The rawness in Mr. Darcy’s voice when he spoke to Mr. Wickham, his expression when he entered the garden, harried and desperate and entirely out of his depth.
And handsome. Goodness, even when under duress, the man was attractive.
Unfortunately, he was also insufferable.
Conceited. Haughty. But she considered Miss Darcy’s faith in her brother and had to admit that he had been tossed into a shocking situation.
That perhaps his insulting response had simply been .
. . a reflex, a brother attempting to protect his sister.
It did not assuage the affront, but it did offer an explanation which her pride could tolerate.
Their rooms were blissfully quiet. Elizabeth slept for a time, then rose and moved into the parlour with a book she had no intention of reading and a cup of tea that went cold beside her.
She wondered if Georgiana had eaten breakfast, if she had slept, if she was sitting alone with only her brother for company.
“You have turned four pages without pause,” Mrs. Morgan observed from her chair by the window. “Either the novel is very bad or your mind is elsewhere.”
“The novel is ill-conceived.”
“And your mind?”
“Elsewhere.” Elizabeth sighed and closed the book. “I am concerned for Miss Darcy.”
“As am I. But there is nothing to be done unless we are asked.”
A knock at the door interrupted them. They heard Hannah’s footsteps in the hall, the murmur of voices, and then the maid appeared with a folded note on a salver.
“For you, Mrs. Morgan. From Marine Parade.”
Mrs. Morgan met Elizabeth’s gaze. “How very prompt. One might think Mr. Darcy had been listening at the keyhole.” She took the letter and waited for Hannah to exit the room before breaking the seal and reading aloud.
Mrs. Morgan,
My sister is unwell. She will not speak to me. She will not eat. She asks for Miss Bennet repeatedly. I would be grateful if you might bring her to visit at your earliest convenience.
F. Darcy
Elizabeth frowned. No apology. No acknowledgment of their last exchange. Simply I need something, please provide it. If it were not for his sweet sister . . .
“The man has the social grace of a wardrobe,” Mrs. Morgan said, reading it over again.
“That may be overstating his skill.” Elizabeth stood. “But Miss Darcy is lovely, and she is the one who needs help.”
“You are going?”
“Of course I am going. And consequently, so must you.”
“You slept for an hour at most, Elizabeth. You are not in any condition to visit Miss Darcy today.”
“I am tired because I cannot sleep for worrying about Miss Darcy. Sitting with a frightened girl and convincing her to eat something does not require great reserves of strength.” Elizabeth rose to fetch her pelisse. “It will help me sleep better tonight.”
Mrs. Morgan’s expression suggested she disagreed, but she did not argue. “I shall come with you, then, as you asked so prettily.”
Elizabeth stopped, turned, and dropped a curtsy. “Dearest Mrs. Morgan, would you do me the very great honour of accompanying me to Marine Parade? I confess I cannot manage without you.”
“Better,” Mrs. Morgan said drily, reaching for her shawl.
They walked to Marine Parade. Elizabeth strolled slowly. The day was all blue sky and warm sunshine, which helped with her fatigue.
Mr. Darcy met them in the entrance hall. He looked as though he had slept as badly as she had. Perhaps worse. There were shadows beneath his eyes and a tightness around his mouth.
“Miss Bennet.” He bowed. “Mrs. Morgan. Thank you for coming.”
“You wrote that Miss Darcy was asking for me,” Elizabeth said. “Where is she?”
“My sister is in her chamber,” he said. “She has not come down since yesterday, even for meals. She will not speak to me except to ask . . .” He stopped. Drew a breath. “She asks for you.”
“Then I shall go to her.”
He appeared both relieved and irritated. “I will have tea sent up.”
“And perhaps something simple to eat.”
He nodded.
Elizabeth climbed the stairs with Mrs. Morgan. She found Georgiana’s chamber without difficulty and knocked softly.
“Miss Darcy? It is Elizabeth Bennet. May I come in?”
A long pause. Then an answer, barely audible. “Yes.”
The room was dim, the curtains half-drawn against the grey morning light.
Georgiana sat in a chair by the window, still in her nightdress with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders.
She looked impossibly young, her face blotched with the evidence of tears shed and tears yet to come.
It was as though she was one of Elizabeth’s own sisters.
“Oh, my dear,” she said, and crossed the room to kneel beside her chair.
Miss Darcy looked between Elizabeth and Mrs. Morgan but remained silent.
Mrs. Morgan nodded. “I shall be just outside if you need me.”