Chapter 7 #2
Georgiana flushed with pleasure. Elizabeth felt heat rise to her own cheeks and could not account for it. She certainly did not require this man’s approval.
“I frequently give people things to think upon,” she said, reaching for lightness. “It is one of my more tiresome qualities.”
“I do not find it tiresome.” The words came out quietly, almost as though he had not meant to say them aloud.
Across the table, Mrs. Morgan caught Elizabeth’s eye and raised one eloquent eyebrow.
Elizabeth looked away.
“Elizabeth, I meant to tell you when you arrived. That gown becomes you very well,” Georgiana offered shyly, as the meat course was cleared away. “The colour is most flattering.”
Mrs. Morgan smiled at Elizabeth but made no comment.
“Thank you, Georgiana.” Elizabeth smoothed her skirt.
“Is blue your favourite colour?”
“One of them. What is yours?”
“It changes. Pink, perhaps.”
There the conversation stalled again. The silence extended. Georgiana’s expression became pointed. “Brother,” she prompted. “Do you not agree that Elizabeth looks well?”
Mr. Darcy looked at Elizabeth, his gaze travelling from her face to the blue muslin with an intensity that made her want to squirm.
“The gown is very—“ He stopped. Started again. “Blue.”
And they were back to awkward again.
Georgiana stared at him. “That is not a compliment, Brother. That is an observation.”
“I was attempting . . . the shade suits you.”
Mrs. Morgan had developed a sudden fascination with her napkin. Georgiana shook her head slowly from one side to the other.
“My gown is blue, and it suits me,” Elizabeth repeated, glancing at Mrs. Morgan for help. Her companion merely lifted her shoulders. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy. I am thoroughly complimented.”
“You are welcome.” He said it grimly, like a man who had survived an ordeal and had no confidence that he would survive the next. “I fear I have not the facility for flattery that some possess.”
“Brother,” Georgiana protested, “Everyone says that Pemberley is thriving under your care. I suppose you are not complimented enough for that.”
“I do that work not for compliments, but because it is my duty. It is expected of me.”
“So is noticing when a lady looks well,” Georgiana said sweetly.
Mrs. Morgan set down her wine. “In his defence,” she said to Georgiana, “he did identify the correct colour.”
“Mrs. Morgan,” Elizabeth said, aghast, “you are supposed to be helping.”
“I am. I am helping Mr. Darcy.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth, then hesitated. Mr. Darcy was watching her with an expression that was not quite a smile but was perhaps making an effort in that direction. He was simply a man who had arrived at the dance tonight without the music.
“You have been very kind to your sister,” Elizabeth said. “That speaks well of your character.”
“Better than his compliments,” Mrs. Morgan said to Georgiana.
“Considerably,” the girl replied.
Mr. Darcy looked around the table at three women apparently united in gentle conspiracy against him and said, with exaggerated dignity, “Your gown is exceptionally blue, Miss Bennet.”
A laugh, a real one, startled out of her. Georgiana beamed. Mrs. Morgan looked extremely smug.
Mr. Darcy smiled a little.
“Shall we remove to the music room?” Georgiana rose with the energy of a general who has achieved her objective. “I should very much like to play, if no one objects.”
“Please,” Elizabeth said warmly. She was grateful for the distraction, for something to listen to that was not her own confused thoughts.
Georgiana settled at the instrument and began a gentle air. Elizabeth let herself sink into the music.
“You play beautifully,” she said, when Georgiana paused between pieces. “I confess I am envious. My own playing is no more than adequate.” She caught Mr. Darcy’s eye and smiled slightly. “And I do mean adequate in the truest sense.”
“You are too kind,” Georgiana said. “I practice every day. There has been little else to do here. I had hoped to explore Ramsgate more, but Mrs. Younge always found reasons we could not go out.” A shadow crossed her face at the name, quickly suppressed.
“I should have liked to visit the warm seawater baths. I have heard they are very pleasant.”
“They are,” Elizabeth said. “Mrs. Morgan and I have been attending every Tuesday.”
Georgiana’s eyes lit up. “Have you truly? What are they like?”
“Very soothing. One has a private room with a tub filled with heated seawater. It eases the aches wonderfully.” Elizabeth glanced at Mrs. Morgan, who nodded encouragingly. “You ought to come with us tomorrow morning, if you have time before you depart.”
“Oh!” Georgiana turned to her brother, hope and longing plain on her face. “Brother, might we?”
Mr. Darcy frowned. “The carriage is ordered for eight o’clock. The arrangements are made.”
“I know, but . . . please. Just one more day? I have so wanted to go, all summer long, and now there is finally a chance.” Georgiana clasped her hands together.
“I shall be there to chaperone, if that is a concern,” Mrs. Morgan said.
Mr. Darcy’s gaze moved from his sister to Elizabeth, then back again. Elizabeth saw the hesitation in his face, the reluctance to alter his plans warring with his evident wish to see Georgiana happy.
“The baths take about an hour,” Elizabeth offered. “There is a bookshop on the next street. We could collect you there when we are finished, and you would be on the road to London before noon.”
“I intend to travel directly to London,” Mr. Darcy said. “To do so we must leave early.”
“Please, Brother.” Georgiana’s voice was very soft.
Her brother’s expression softened. Elizabeth suspected that Georgiana could have asked for the moon in that moment and he would have found a way to procure it.
“Very well,” he said. “One more day. But then we must return to town, Georgiana.”
The girl’s face broke into a radiant smile. “Thank you, Brother! Oh, thank you!” She turned back to the pianoforte, her fingers finding the keys with renewed energy, and began a livelier piece.
Elizabeth leaned back in her chair. She had done well, felt well, throughout dinner.
But this was her first foray back into being a guest in someone’s home for the evening, her first time speaking quite so often and so sportively, and the effort had tired her.
She began to feel the familiar heaviness, the tightness in her chest that preceded a cough.
She suppressed it. Once, twice, a third time.
On the fourth attempt, she failed.
The coughing fit was brief but mortifying. When it passed, she found Mr. Darcy watching her with sharp attention. When she stopped, he handed a glass of wine to Mrs. Morgan.
“Elizabeth, sip this,” she said, pressing it into Elizabeth’s hands.
“I am well.” She pressed one hand to her chest, willing her breath to steady. “A tickle in the throat. Nothing more.” She took a sip of the wine. It helped.
“You are certain?”
“Quite certain. Pray do not concern yourself.”
He said nothing more. But a few minutes later, Elizabeth looked up to find a chair positioned by the fire that had not been there before.
She looked at Mr. Darcy. He was watching Georgiana play, his expression carefully neutral.
He had done this without comment, without making her feel like an invalid.
Elizabeth’s pride would have liked to refuse. But her pride would only carry her so far, and the chair looked very comfortable indeed. She sat. The warmth from the fire seeped into her tired limbs. “Thank you,” she said quietly.
He turned his head to address her. “It is nothing.”
“Thank you,” she repeated.
The careful neutrality returned. “You are welcome.”
Elizabeth let Georgiana’s melody wash over her and tried not to think about the girl’s brother. She had believed him cold. Proud. Haughty. He was proud, but he was clever, too. He had a sense of humour, though evidently not enough practice using it.
The evening drew to a close. Georgiana rose from the pianoforte and came to take Elizabeth’s hands.
“We shall meet you for the baths tomorrow. I am greatly anticipating the visit.”
In the hallway, Mr. Darcy helped her into her pelisse. His hands were careful as he draped the fabric over her shoulders.
He spoke low, so only she could hear. “Thank you. For this evening. For my sister’s sake.”
“It was my pleasure.”
“Was it?”
She looked at him. The severe lines of his face were softened by candlelight. There was something in his eyes that had not been there three hours ago.
“Yes.” She paused before saying, “I shall see the both of you tomorrow.”
“At ten o’clock,” Mrs. Morgan said.
“Goodnight, Mr. Darcy.” Elizabeth said.
“Goodnight, Miss Bennet.”
She walked into the evening with Mrs. Morgan at her side and one of the Darcy footmen trailing behind. It was not yet dark, but Mr. Darcy was very proper, she supposed.
“Well,” Mrs. Morgan said at last. “That was instructive.”
“Was it?”
“He noticed you were fatigued before you owned it yourself. And he did something about it.”
“He moved a chair.”
“He noticed you needed a chair moved and moved it without making a fuss.” Mrs. Morgan paused. “There are men who would have made a great production of it. Drawn attention to your weakness and his own thoughtfulness. He acted to preserve your dignity.”
Elizabeth said nothing. She had not realised, until she sat in the chair Mr. Darcy had provided, how much she had wanted to be cared for in such a way. Mrs. Morgan was all that was good, but she was a nurse, and nurses could not always be gentle. Mr. Darcy had been.
“I am not insisting that you should like him. I am only suggesting that perhaps he is not so very bad after all.”
“No.” Elizabeth pulled her pelisse closer against the evening chill. “But it can hardly matter now.”