Chapter 9 #3
My cheeks burned. I recalled Georgiana’s last letter, written in a trembling hand, in which she confessed to a growing attachment—nay, affection—for a young man whom she dared not name to her family.
“She mentioned,” I said carefully, “that she has become acquainted with someone whom she finds kind and attentive.”
Mr. Darcy’s eyes darkened. “Did she say who?”
“No, sir,” I replied truthfully. “She did not tell me his name. Only that he is not—of her rank. She fears you and your son would disapprove.”
He let out a slow sigh, and for a moment, he looked older, wearier. “That is most concerning. My daughter is easily led. I fear Georgiana may be drawn into some imprudent attachment, or worse.”
“But surely, she is under the protection of her companion, Mrs. Younge?” I gasped, suddenly aware of the truth, recalling the last, barely legible lines of Georgiana’s most recent letter: He loves me truly, Lizzy.
G—my beau—says he will make me happy, and I believe him—though I know my father would never approve.
I do not know what to do, for I cannot bear to hurt them.
But I think… G means to ask me to marry him.
Oh, that he, my father, and Fitzwilliam were reconciled!
The words had sent a chill through me, more alarming than ever.
“Mr. Darcy,” I said, striving to keep my voice steady, “forgive me if I overstep, but I believe—if Georgiana is indeed in Ramsgate, and if she has formed an attachment of which you do not approve—it might be wise for you to see her at once.”
He stopped short, turning to face me fully. “Do you think she is in danger?”
I met his gaze, willing him to understand. “I think, sir, that young ladies—especially those as, dare I say it, as naive as Georgiana—are sometimes easily persuaded. If she is in the company of someone who does not have her best interests at heart…”
He drew a sharp breath. “I see. You do not know the name of this man?”
“No,” I said softly. “She only said that he is the son of a steward, not a gentleman, but that he is kind, and handsome, and loves her. She is young, and—” I could not finish. The thought that Georgiana might be swept away by some fortune-hunter, or worse, was too dreadful.
He was silent for a long moment, and I saw his jaw clench.
At last, he spoke. “Thank you, Miss Bennet. You have done me a great service, though I know it must have been hard for you to speak. You are quite right—whatever her wishes, I cannot allow Georgiana to place herself in such peril. I must act at once.”
He turned, and we began to walk briskly back toward the house, the pace of our steps betraying our mutual agitation. As we neared the edge of the woods, he stopped again and pressed my hand in both of his, the gesture so earnest that I felt tears prick my eyes.
“I shall send an express to Fitzwilliam in London,” he said, his voice urgent. “He must go to Ramsgate immediately. I will follow myself, as soon as arrangements can be made. I cannot thank you enough, Miss Bennet.”
I shook my head, unable to speak for a moment. “Please, sir, only promise me that you will not blame Georgiana too harshly. She is young, and her heart is tender. She means no harm.”
His expression softened, the stern lines of his face giving way to a look of deep gratitude. “I promise you, Miss Bennet. I will do all in my power to protect her—and to understand her. I only hope we are not too late.”
We reached the edge of the forest. Mr. Darcy released my arm and strode quickly toward the house, his long figure upright, yet decidedly alone.
I watched him go. Had I betrayed Georgiana’s confidences?
Indeed, I had. Had I done the right thing?
Undoubtedly. Though I feared Georgiana would never trust me again.
When I returned to the house, I found only Uncle Philips present, and Mr. Darcy already at a writing desk.
He sealed the letter and summoned his footman to have it sent immediately by express to London.
He looked up as I entered, and for a moment, our eyes met.
No words were necessary. In that moment, I understood the depth of his love for his children; yet, more puzzling, his willingness to trust me with his fears.
That evening, the house felt more empty than I had ever known it.
Mama had retired early to her bed, worn beyond measure by the reading of the will, by Mr. Collins’s lack of civility, and—perhaps the most tiring—having to accept the condolences of the neighbourhood, when all she wished was to curl up and seek solace from the relentless sorrow of losing her life partner, the one man whom she had known on first meeting him at the Meryton assembly to be the only one for her.
There were no echoes, no creaking floorboards.
Mary was silent in her room; no giggling Kitty and Lydia from under the coverlets.
Jane was still away, not yet having returned from her wedding tour.
The poor darling, to return to a house in mourning, and she newly married!
Mama and I would assure her that only three months of mourning were necessary; that she was now tied to Mr. Bingley, and must put his comfort and well-being ahead of all else.
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