5. A Growing Attachment
five
A Growing Attachment
Darcy had never placed much confidence in declarations of sudden attachment.
He had heard too many of them in drawing rooms, ballrooms, and careless conversations between gentlemen who mistook admiration for constancy and novelty for affection.
A lady could be lovely across a room. She could be witty through one dinner.
She could occupy a man’s thoughts for a week merely because she had refused to flatter him when every other person had done so.
Darcy knew all that. He had observed it, disapproved of it in others, and considered himself safely beyond its influence.
Two months after meeting Miss Elizabeth Bennet, he was obliged to admit that his superiority had not survived the experiment.
He was in love with her. Darcy had once imagined love would arrive after years of careful acquaintance, mutual esteem, and deliberate reflection. Instead, it had stolen upon him between ordinary afternoons and cups of tea.
The conclusion had arrived without drama, which irritated him slightly.
A man ought, at the least, to receive some warning before the whole arrangement of his future altered.
Instead, it had been built from ordinary things.
A laugh in a bookshop when she teased him over sermons.
The way she listened when he spoke of Pemberley, giving his home her full attention as though a hill in Derbyshire were worthy of her notice.
Her kindness to Georgiana. Her irreverence before Lady Matlock.
Her very annoying ability to make him say more than he intended and enjoy the consequences.
He had reached the point where every morning held one central question: whether he would see Miss Bennet before dinner.
It was a lowering condition.
He could not bring himself to regret it.
That afternoon, before the Gardiners were expected for tea, Darcy found Georgiana in the small sitting room she preferred when Mrs. Younge did not require her presence elsewhere.
His sister sat with her embroidery in her lap, though very little progress had been made.
The needle hung from the linen, thread loose, while Georgiana stared toward the window.
The sight checked his step.
“Georgiana?”
She stirred and drew the needle through the cloth with unnecessary industry. “Yes, brother?”
“I have interrupted deep work, I see.”
“It is a border.”
“A border may be profound. I have been lectured by ladies who considered it a matter of national consequence.”
Georgiana gave a brief smile, then bent over the embroidery again.
Darcy took the chair across from her. The room smelled faintly of beeswax and the early violets Mrs. Reynolds had sent up from Pemberley in a covered basket, a foolish expense he had approved with no hesitation after remembering how his mother had liked them.
Georgiana had arranged them herself in a low glass bowl and had changed the water twice a day. Now the blossoms drooped at the edges.
“You have been distant these last few days,” he said.
Her needle stopped.
“I do not mean to be.”
“No accusation was intended.”
She resumed stitching, though he doubted the work improved beneath such nervous attention. “I am perfectly well.”
“So you have said whenever Mrs. Younge or I have asked.”
Georgiana’s mouth stiffened at Mrs. Younge’s name, or perhaps Darcy imagined it.
He had become too ready to interpret every small change in his sister, particularly since her spirits had become uneven again.
She was cheerful in Miss Bennet’s company, eager in music, affectionate with Mrs. Gardiner, and then withdrawn the moment their guests departed.
Darcy had told himself this was natural.
Young ladies did not overcome shyness merely because one charming acquaintance entered the room.
Still.
He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, abandoning the dignity he used when addressing tenants and solicitors. “Is it because I have been much occupied?”
Georgiana looked up. “Occupied?”
“With the Gardiners. With Miss Bennet.”
Her cheeks colored. “No.”
“You may tell me if it is.”
“It is not that.”
“I have not neglected you intentionally.”
“I know.” She set the embroidery down, smoothing the linen over her knees. “Fitzwilliam, you have not neglected me at all.”
“I have thought of it more than once.”
“Then you have worried unnecessarily.”
“That is one of my more practiced talents.”
The faintest amusement touched her face. “Richard says the same.”
“He says a great many things he has not been asked to say.”
“He is often right.”
“Do not tell him so. It would be intolerable.”
Georgiana’s smile lasted longer this time. Darcy relaxed a little, though the heaviness beneath her manner had not dispersed. He chose his next words with more care.
“You must know that no one can take your place with me.”
Her eyes flew to his.
“I do know it,” she said. “I never thought Miss Bennet would. I am very happy you met her.”
The simplicity of the answer disarmed him.
Darcy sat back.
“You are?”
“Yes.” Georgiana’s hands clasped together over the embroidery. “She is kind, and clever, and she does not treat me as though I am made of sugar. I like her very much.”
“That is a sound recommendation.”
“She makes you happy.”
He had no reply prepared for that. Georgiana rarely spoke so plainly, and when she did, Darcy was left remembering she had observed him all her life with the seriousness of a child who noticed much and said little.
“I enjoy her company,” he said.
Georgiana examined him with a look too like Richard’s for comfort. “That is what you say when you do not wish to say more.”
“I was unaware I had become so easily read.”
“By those who love you.”
He reached for one of the violets that had fallen beside the bowl and rolled the frail stem between his fingers. The flower had bruised purple at the edge.
“Then I am fortunate the number is small.”
“Fitzwilliam.”
“I did not mean that as a complaint.”
“No, but you should have more people who love you.”
The seriousness in her face made him wish, briefly and uselessly, that he could give her the same ease with which Miss Bennet teased him. Georgiana wanted his happiness without quite knowing what to do with the possibility of it.
“Perhaps,” he said, “I am improving my circumstances.”
“I hope you are.”
A knock came at the door, and a footman entered to announce Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner and Miss Bennet.
Georgiana rose so quickly the embroidery slid to the carpet.
Darcy bent to retrieve it. “There is no need to flee. They are not an invading army.”
“No, but I promised Miss Bennet I would show her the new music you purchased.”
“She may survive a delay of thirty seconds.”
“She may,” Georgiana said, taking the embroidery from him, “but I may not.”
Then she was gone, leaving Darcy with the violets, the empty chair, and the uncomfortable suspicion that his sister’s happiness had become attached to more than one secret.
He had a moment to consider it before the Gardiners entered the drawing room.
Miss Bennet came last.
Darcy had, over the past several weeks, trained himself to greet her without betraying the exact degree to which her presence improved a room.
This required effort. Today she wore a gown of pale yellow muslin, simple enough for afternoon tea and charming enough to render simplicity an accusation against excess.
Her bonnet had been removed downstairs, and her dark curls were arranged with a blue ribbon he remembered from some earlier outing.
She greeted Georgiana first, which pleased him and annoyed him, since he was not yet saintly enough to prefer virtue over being noticed.
“Miss Darcy,” she said, taking the younger girl’s hands. “I have been promised new music and shall be inconsolable if I am deceived.”
Georgiana brightened. “I have it in the music room. Mrs. Younge said it is too difficult, but I do not think so.”
“Then we shall judge her severity together.”
“You need not wait for Mrs. Younge’s opinion today,” Darcy said. “Thursday afternoons are hers. She generally spends them calling upon acquaintances or attending to her own affairs.”
Georgiana nodded. “She insists I ought not begrudge her a half day after enduring me the remainder of the week.”
“And do you?”
Georgiana smiled. “Never. She always returns with some interesting story.”
Elizabeth looked past Georgiana toward Darcy with mischief in her eyes. “Good afternoon, Mr. Darcy. I trust you will not object if I steal your sister for half the visit.”
“I shall endeavor to bear it.”
Mrs. Gardiner removed her gloves and laid them upon a side table. “Do not pity him, Elizabeth. Mr. Darcy will have your uncle to console him.”
Mr. Gardiner, who had entered with a parcel beneath his arm, held it up. “I have brought samples of the porcelain pattern we discussed. If that does not console any man, he deserves his misery.”
“I am already improved,” Darcy said, accepting the parcel.
The party fell into the comfortable disorder that had begun to characterize their visits.
Mrs. Gardiner took the chair near the window.
Mr. Gardiner and Darcy examined the porcelain samples at a side table, though Darcy’s attention had an irritating habit of slipping toward the music room door.
Georgiana and Miss Bennet had disappeared there with such speed that even Mrs. Gardiner made no attempt to restrain them.
After a few minutes, Elizabeth’s laughter sounded from the adjoining room, followed by Georgiana’s softer answer. Darcy bent over a painted saucer and tried to care whether the border leaned too heavily toward blue.
Mr. Gardiner tapped the porcelain with one finger. “You have not heard a word of my excellent judgment.”
“Half of it,” Darcy said.
“Which half?”
“The excellent portion.”
“That is a convenient answer from a man who was listening through the wall.”
Darcy looked up.