Chapter 10 #2
“Do you?” Mrs. Morgan studied him. “I have watched you this past week, Mr. Darcy. You are a good man. But you are accustomed to directing people and situations to your liking. Elizabeth is not an estate, and she is not a girl of fifteen who needs protection. She is a woman who saw a girl in trouble, handled it better than either you or I, and the only reward she received was the destruction of her reputation.”
It was, Darcy reflected, the most thorough reproof he had received since his father’s death.
“What else would you have me do?” he asked.
“Please listen to what I am saying, Mr. Darcy.” The woman pinned him with a stare. “Ask her what she wants. And when she tells you, listen.” She shook her head. “I failed Elizabeth. If I can make up for some small portion of that by easing her way in this marriage, then I must.”
Mrs. Morgan departed as briskly as she had arrived, leaving him standing in the hall with the uncomfortable sensation that he had been seen very clearly by someone who was not particularly impressed with what she had observed.
He collected himself, then returned to his dressing room where Franks performed his ablutions and changed his clothing. At the appointed hour, he walked to Miss Bennet’s lodgings despite not being sure he would be able to see her.
The walk was not long, a quarter of a mile, perhaps.
A child ran past him trailing a kite that would not catch the wind.
Two women stood in a doorway, deep in conversation.
One of them glanced at him as he passed with a confused sort of curiosity, like someone who recognised a well-cut coat but could not place its owner.
By tomorrow she would know exactly who he was.
Gossip such as this moved more inexorably than the tide.
He turned onto the street where Miss Bennet’s lodgings stood and slowed his pace.
He had rehearsed what he meant to say, measured, careful phrases about arrangements and timelines and the practical necessities of a common licence.
But Mrs. Morgan’s words kept shouldering their way through his preparations, disrupting the orderly procession of his thoughts.
She is furious and frightened. Ask her what she wants.
It was sound advice, for he did not know what she wanted. He barely knew what he wanted, beyond the vague and desperate certainty that he must not make this worse than it already was.
Miss Bennet was in the parlour, sitting upright in a straight-backed chair rather than the more comfortable settee. Her gown was a light rose colour. She looked composed, pale, and wary.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said.
“Miss Bennet.” He remained standing until she gestured to the chair opposite. He sat. The distance between them was perhaps four feet, but it felt a hundred. “I hope you are well.”
“I had a difficult morning, but I am quite recovered, thank you.”
He nodded. They were not wed yet, so he could not tell her that he did not believe it.
“I have written a letter to my father. And to my sister Jane, so that she will make certain he opens it.”
What an odd thing to say. “I have written to your father as well. And to my cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam.”
“Is your cousin to be trusted?”
“With my life.”
She was quiet, then asked, “Is he to be trusted with mine?”
He looked at her. “Yes,” he said. “When he learns what has happened, he will protect you as he would protect me or Georgiana.”
She considered this. “Very well. I should like to meet him before the wedding.”
“Of course, if he receives the letter in time.” He could not leave Georgiana with anyone else.
A silence stretched out between them. She did not fill it, and he understood that she was waiting. Not for pleasantries, not for an attempt at reassurance. She needed to know how he planned to treat her.
“Miss Bennet,” he began, “I wish to know . . .” His voice trailed away. Mrs. Morgan’s voice was in his head: Ask her. He summoned his courage. “What do you need from me? Not what propriety requires, not what I think is best. What do you need?”
An expression of surprise flitted across her face, and he felt he had asked the right question. He sent up a silent thanks to Mrs. Morgan and waited. Miss Bennet studied him a moment longer, as though verifying that the question was genuine.
“I need,” she said carefully, “respect.” She paused. “I can bear a great many things, Mr. Darcy. I cannot bear being supposed nothing more than my husband’s ornament.”
Georgiana had related a conversation between Miss Bennet and herself, something about being more than something pretty to look at, and it occurred to him that she was the least ornamental woman he had ever met.
Then he was glad he had not said so aloud because it sounded more an insult than a compliment.
He was going to have to practise that. “I do respect you, Miss Bennet.”
It was the truth.
She nodded. “Thank you. It is only . . . I wish to be a partner and not a ward. I require a husband who can trust me.”
He thought of the two sealed letters on his desk. The things he had not written. The things he could not yet say about Wickham, about what his cousin would investigate, about the fears that had kept him awake through the night. She was asking him to share those burdens.
It was the most terrifying request anyone had ever made of him.
“Agreed,” he said. “If you will extend me the same courtesy.”
Her chin lifted, as though she had not expected a condition. “In what respect?”
“You told me when I entered that you were well. Mrs. Morgan, however, informs me you are not; you require a visit from the apothecary. Because she forewarned me, I can observe that you have artfully prepared yourself to look well without being well.”
Something flashed in her eyes—annoyance, perhaps. Then her shoulders dropped, just slightly. “The cough came back in the night. I believe it is the strain rather than a true relapse.”
“Thank you.”
“Do not thank me. It was difficult for me to admit that.”
“I know. That is why I am thanking you.”
She looked at him for a long moment. Then she extended her hand.
He stood to take that hand in his and bow over it.
When he released it, she sat with her hands in her lap, the quiet that followed heavy with everything they had not yet said and might never find the words for.
“I will leave you to rest, then,” he said, and held his hand up to keep her from rising.
As he reached the door, he turned to consider her. He had seen her laugh, deliver a witty retort, care for Georgiana with compassion. He wanted that woman in the room. She must want that too.
“The next time I call, should you prefer me to be reassuring, or honest?”
She lifted her brows. “Can you not be both?”
“I have not yet attempted both at the same time.” He paused and offered her a slight smile. “I thought it best to manage expectations.”
A little huff of breath escaped her. “Was that a joke, Mr. Darcy?”
“I believe it was,” he said, suppressing a smile. “I assure you I am as surprised as you are.”