Chapter 30 #2
Elizabeth stood on the landing, one hand resting upon the banister.
She must have come from Georgiana, for her face bore the marks of a long and anxious vigil, yet there was no weakness in it.
Weariness, yes. Worry, yes. But beneath both lay the same steady courage he had seen in a flooded cellar, on Oakham Mount, and in Bingley’s study when she had offered all she possessed to save his sister.
Their eyes met.
The tightness in Darcy’s chest eased by a fraction.
The problem was still vast. The time was still too short. Wickham still held a weapon pointed at Georgiana’s peace.
Yet Elizabeth stood before him, thinking, steady, unwilling to yield.
And suddenly, for the first time that day, Darcy felt that perhaps the impossible was only something they had not yet outwitted.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth had not meant to remain at Netherfield after staying the night with Georgiana.
Indeed, when the others departed after the dreadful interruption to what ought to have been a night of celebration, she had supposed her stay would last only until Georgiana could be quieted, until Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam had determined enough to reassure her, until some semblance of order had returned.
But Georgiana had woken before dawn with a cry that brought her maid hurrying into the corridor, and when Elizabeth reached her, the girl had clung to her hand with such desperate terror that leaving became impossible.
Mrs. Hurst, to Elizabeth’s surprise, was the one who settled the matter most neatly.
“My brother will send to Longbourn,” she said, with more kindness than Elizabeth had expected from any member of Miss Bingley’s family save Bingley himself.
“Miss Elizabeth, you must stay. Miss Darcy plainly requires you, especially with her brother and cousin gone for the day, and there can be no impropriety when my sister and I are both in the house. Besides, after such a shock, no one should be moved unless absolutely necessary.”
Miss Bingley, who had entered the room late and pale from what Elizabeth suspected was more irritation than sympathy, murmured something proper about being delighted to be of assistance.
Yet after breakfast she made herself conveniently scarce, appearing only long enough to prove she was not negligent before withdrawing again on the plea of letters, accounts, or some household matter that seemed to require an unusual degree of privacy.
Elizabeth could not entirely resent it. Miss Bingley’s absence made the day easier for Georgiana, and Elizabeth was in no mood to endure civility barbed with words sharper than the ladies’ needlepoint.
Darcy left for London shortly after breakfast with Colonel Fitzwilliam.
Elizabeth watched them depart from an upper window, though she kept far enough back that she would not be seen.
The morning was gray, the roads still heavy from rain, and the horses shifted impatiently beneath their riders.
Darcy looked up toward the house once before mounting, not at the particular window where Elizabeth stood, but toward the rooms above as though his thoughts had gone to Georgiana. Or perhaps, foolish as it was, to her.
“Do not ride like a madman,” Elizabeth whispered, one hand pressed to the cold glass.
He could not hear her. He swung into the saddle, spoke briefly to Richard, and within moments they were gone down the drive.
Elizabeth remained at the window until the last glimpse of them vanished beyond the trees. Only then did she close her eyes.
“Please,” she prayed softly. “Keep him safe. Keep them both safe. Let him be wise. Let him not ride too hard from fear, nor do anything reckless because he believes he must carry all of this alone.”
The prayer was brief, but not the last. She found herself returning to it throughout the day: when Georgiana’s hand trembled over the teacup, when Mrs. Nicholls entered with word that the Meryton inn had indeed admitted a gentleman of Mr. Wickham’s description, when Bingley paced the breakfast room like a man who had forgotten sitting was possible, when every clock in the house seemed determined to mark the passing hours too slowly and too loudly.
Georgiana did not speak much that morning.
She sat in the music room because Elizabeth suggested it and because her maid, with quiet good sense, had agreed that Miss Darcy might find the pianoforte a comfort.
For some time, however, Georgiana only rested her fingers upon the keys without pressing them.
Her face was pale, her eyes shadowed, and every unexpected sound in the passage made her flinch.
Elizabeth sat beside her on the bench, not too near, not crowding her. “Would you like me to play first?”
Georgiana shook her head, then nodded, then flushed as if even indecision were a failure. “I do not know.”
“That is a perfectly reasonable answer. I rarely know what I wish to do when I am overset, except perhaps run away into a shrubbery, and that is not always practical.”
A faint, unwilling smile touched Georgiana’s mouth.
Elizabeth took it as victory. She opened the music before them and chose something simple, sweet, and familiar enough not to demand attention.
She played the first page alone, deliberately imperfect in places, with a lightness that made no claim to performance.
After a few minutes, Georgiana’s breathing steadied.
Her hand moved toward the lower keys, hesitated, then joined softly.
They played badly together at first.
Elizabeth considered that an even greater victory.
There was no audience to please, no standard to meet, no accomplishments to display for admiration.
There was only music, halting and gentle, and Georgiana slowly remembering that her hands could do something besides shake.
When she faltered, Elizabeth continued. When Elizabeth lost her place, Georgiana found it for her.
Once, after Elizabeth made an error so dreadful that even she could not pretend it belonged to the composer, Georgiana gave a quiet little laugh.
The sound nearly brought tears to Elizabeth’s eyes.
“There,” Elizabeth said. “You see? My faults are of use after all.”
Georgiana looked down at the keys. “I do not like that he saw me afraid.”
“Mr. Wickham?”
She nodded.
Elizabeth let her hands rest in her lap. “I do not believe fear gives him power unless we allow it to make us forget what is true.”
“What is true?”
“That he came to frighten you because he needed you frightened. That is not strength. It is strategy.”
Georgiana swallowed. “He looked so certain.”
“Villains often do. It saves them from needing evidence.”
That earned another tiny smile, though it trembled. “You make him sound ridiculous.”
“I should like nothing better than to make him ridiculous.”
“He is dangerous.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, because lies would not comfort her. “But dangerous is not the same as unbeatable.”
Georgiana’s eyes filled again, and Elizabeth reached for her hand.
“I thought I was safe,” the girl whispered.
Elizabeth’s fingers tightened around hers. “You are not alone. That is not quite the same thing, I know. But it matters.”
“It does,” Georgiana said, so softly Elizabeth barely heard it. “It matters very much.”
The day passed in such small labors. Music.
Tea. A little broth at Mrs. Nicholls’s insistence.
A short walk in the gallery because Elizabeth would not have Georgiana sit in one chair until fear stiffened her into it.
Another prayer for Darcy when she passed the front windows and saw how low the clouds hung over the road.
Another still when afternoon came and there was no sign of him.