2. A Fortunate Acquaintance #2
“From my aunt, yes. Also from yesterday’s conversation, though you spoke less of her accomplishments than of her virtues, which is generally a better recommendation.”
“She is shy with new acquaintance.”
“I shall try not to terrify her.”
Mrs. Gardiner glanced up from sorting silks. “Elizabeth’s methods of terror are chiefly verbal, Mr. Darcy. If Miss Darcy survives the first quarter hour, she will likely be safe.”
“I do not terrorize people,” Miss Bennet said.
“You have terrorized many foolish opinions.”
“That is an act of public service.”
Darcy looked down, ostensibly to settle his gloves upon the table beside his hat. “My sister has been too much among people who are either determined to flatter her or determined to awe her. I suspect a little ordinary conversation would be welcome.”
“Then I shall ask what music she likes and whether she prefers town or country, and I shall save all my most alarming opinions until our second meeting.”
“Very considerate.”
“I can be considerate when properly motivated.”
Mrs. Gardiner drew her needle through the cloth, her gaze briefly meeting Darcy’s. The look was maternal, amused, and far too knowing. Darcy shifted his attention toward the book Miss Bennet had set aside.
“May I ask what you are reading?”
She picked it up and displayed the volume. “Cowper.”
“Ah.”
“That is a dangerous syllable, Mr. Darcy.”
“Is it?”
“It may mean admiration, disapproval, or the reluctant tolerance of a gentleman too polite to object.”
“I intended admiration, though perhaps with caution.”
“Caution? Toward poetry?”
“Toward excessive melancholy in poetry.”
Miss Bennet opened the book to mark her place with a ribbon. “I will allow the objection. But melancholy, when well expressed, is less tedious than cheerfulness badly written.”
Darcy could not disagree. “A fair distinction.”
“You approve?”
“I do.”
“Then I must seek a more difficult argument.”
Mrs. Gardiner’s needle paused.
Darcy, aware that he had smiled again and equally aware that Mrs. Gardiner had witnessed it, cleared his throat. “Do you read much poetry, Miss Bennet?”
“When I am in the humor for it. At other times I prefer novels, histories, travel accounts, sermons if my conscience has been particularly neglected, and anything my father has attempted to hide because he thinks it unsuitable for my sisters.”
“That is a wide education.”
“It is an inconsistent one. I cannot always recommend the arrangement, though it has kept me from ignorance of several subjects and given me a dangerous confidence in others.”
“Dangerous to whom?”
“That depends upon the company.”
“Then I must choose my subjects carefully.”
“Or bravely.”
Their talk might have remained upon books had Mrs. Gardiner not mentioned Derbyshire.
Miss Bennet immediately asked whether the county was as beautiful as her aunt had always claimed.
Darcy answered with more animation than he usually permitted in a morning call.
It was difficult to speak of Derbyshire with indifference.
He described hills rising beyond wooded valleys, streams that ran clear over stone, the peculiar beauty of the Peaks under changing weather, and the road near Lambton where one turn revealed a prospect so unlike the one before it.
Miss Bennet listened with unmistakable interest.
“I envy those who belong to a place so strongly,” she said.
“Longbourn does not inspire such loyalty?”
“Longbourn inspires affection. That is a different thing. It is home, and I should defend it against strangers, but I do not think anyone has ever approached Meryton and been struck dumb by grandeur.”
“Grandeur is not always required.”
“No, but it must be convenient when one wishes to impress visitors.”
“Pemberley is not arranged for the sole purpose of impressing visitors.”
“Only partially?”
“Yes, and when the housekeeper has had warning.”
She gave him a quick, pleased look. “You are capable of making jokes about your own consequence. I shall remember that.”
“I beg you will use the knowledge with restraint.”
“I promise nothing.”
Mrs. Gardiner bent over her sewing, though Darcy suspected she was attending to every word.
“Have you traveled much, Miss Bennet?” he asked.
“Not nearly enough. I have been in Kent, once to Bath when I was younger, and now London. My aunt has promised that one day I shall see the Lakes.”
“The Lakes are beautiful, though I confess a partiality for Derbyshire.”
“Because it is your own.”
“In part.”
“And in the other part?”
“Because I believe it superior.”
“That is conveniently loyal.”
“It is also true.”
Miss Bennet leaned back in her chair, her book resting loosely in her hands. “Then I must reserve judgment until I have seen both, though I warn you, Mr. Darcy, I am not easily persuaded by partial witnesses.”
“I would not expect you to be.”
The answer came more plainly than he had intended.
Her amusement did not vanish; a different awareness entered the pause between them, brief enough to be denied by either if necessary.
Mrs. Gardiner chose that instant to ask whether his sister preferred Italian music or English airs, and the conversation resumed its correct path with admirable assistance.
Darcy remained half an hour.
He knew because the clock upon the mantel chimed the quarter, and Mrs. Gardiner, with all the benevolence of a woman who had decided to rescue him from himself, observed that Mr. Gardiner would be sorry to have missed him but delighted by the invitation.
Darcy rose.
“I have already trespassed upon your morning.”
“Not at all,” Mrs. Gardiner said. “We are very happy to receive old friends.”
“And new ones,” Miss Bennet added, then appeared to regret the frankness enough to lower her eyes to the book in her hands.
Darcy bowed. “Then I shall count myself fortunate on both accounts. I look forward to Thursday.”
“So do we,” Mrs. Gardiner replied.
Miss Bennet stood as he took his leave. “Good morning, Mr. Darcy.”
“Good morning, Miss Bennet.”
The footman brought his hat and gloves. Darcy stepped into the carriage a few minutes later, gave the direction, and sat back as the horses moved into the street.
Half an hour.
He had remained precisely half an hour.
It had been the proper length for a morning call.
It had also been, by some defect in the clock, absurdly brief.
Darcy entered the parlor to find Georgiana alone. “Where is Mrs. Younge?” he asked.
His sister jumped and shoved the letter in her hand into her work basket. She looked a little chagrinned… or perhaps that was guilt. Darcy brushed off the thought that his dear sister could be hiding anything from him.
“Mrs. Younge is resting. I fear I tired her on our walk in the park. The first signs of spring had me enthralled.” Georgiana grinned and stood, nudging her work basket partially behind the chaise with her foot.
“As you say.” Darcy grinned. “I called upon the Gardiners and Miss Bennet. I must say, I believe you will like the young lady very much. She has a way of drawing one out.”
His sister had too few female friends. He hoped she would form a bond with Miss Bennet, especially since he was himself completely enamored with the lady. Never had a female so bewitched him in so short a time.
“I will be pleased to meet her, then.” Georgiana came to his side.
“Now, come. I have mastered the Mozart, and I wish for you to hear it.” She pulled him to the music room, and he spent an agreeable half an hour listening to her play.
His thoughts wandered, though, to the dark-haired beauty who currently resided on Gracechurch Street.
Georgiana Darcy was not prone to dishonesty or dissembling.
Still, she had felt such panic when he had entered the room while she read George’s latest missive.
She knew her brother would not approve of her actions.
She was not out, after all, and corresponding with a man not of her family was expressly forbidden.
Mrs. Younge had facilitated their meetings since they had come across one another in Lambton some months ago.
Georgiana had been removed from school last December.
Oh, how grateful she was for that—she had been positively miserable.
Her dear brother had hired a companion and allowed her to live at home, continuing her studies with the help of a tutor.
Her companion had listened so kindly when Georgiana first confessed her admiration that trusting her had seemed the most natural thing in the world.
George and Georgiana. Their names sounded lovely together. She needed time to convince her brother that she was ready for marriage and would prefer to skip a presentation and season altogether. The thought of being paraded around the ton filled her with dread.
Surely Fitzwilliam will see and understand in time.
Her brother wanted what was best for her, and she was certain that meant marrying and never having to have a come out or face all the harpies waiting to tear her to pieces.
And George had promised he would never ask her to do anything that made her uncomfortable.
That alone proved the honor of his character.
Mrs. Younge had proposed a holiday to Ramsgate that summer. She had mentioned George joining them there, and Georgiana had agreed to forward the idea to her brother. It would be the perfect time for telling him everything.