Chapter 8
The bells of Meryton church were still ringing when Darcy handed his sister down from the carriage into the churchyard. A thin Sunday congregation was filing in beneath a sky the colour of pewter, breath clouding in the cold, and Darcy scanned the faces with a want of composure that shamed him.
He was under no illusion as to why he had come. Whatever errands had carried him into Hertfordshire, it was Elizabeth Bennet he wished to be near and to protect as best he could.
But a man might know his own heart and still be glad of a decent excuse to follow it.
He had written to Bingley that business would bring him to Hertfordshire once more, and he'd be available to attend to matters related to Netherfield.
Bingley had given him several non-emergent tasks which would serve as cover for his stay, alongside Mrs Annesley's visit to her cousin.
None of it was false. Every errand was real, every reason sound.
That they were also, one and all, a screen behind which he might do the thing he had no business doing—look upon Elizabeth Bennet once more—he knew quite well.
He found he did not much mind. A man denied the thing he wanted could at least be grateful for the small mercy of a pretext that let him want it with some measure of dignity.
Beside him, Georgiana had grown pale and quiet, and he pressed her gloved hand where it rested upon his arm.
Since Ramsgate she had shrunk from strangers and from society both; that she had agreed to this journey at all he counted a small miracle, and he would not have her overtaxed.
An outing to church had seemed the right and proper way to start their stay here.
"You need not speak to anyone you do not wish to," he murmured.
"I know." She managed a smile. "But I should like to. Truly, Fitzwilliam. I have been shut away long enough and we are here on an important mission after all."
The Bennets stood a little apart near the lychgate, a family in unrelieved black. Mrs Bennet, swathed in bombazine and crape, was already dabbing at her eyes. Beside her stood the eldest Miss Bennet, serene and lovely even in mourning, and next to her—
Elizabeth.
She had not seen him yet. She stood with her head bent toward a small figure at her side, a fair-haired child in a grey cloak too large for her, and something in the tenderness of the attitude caught at Darcy's chest and held it. Then she looked up, and her eyes found his.
The Lucases were with them—Sir William already bowing, Lady Lucas and Miss Maria at his elbow—and it was Sir William, predictably, who broke the silence.
"Why, Mr Darcy! Mr Darcy, upon my word! We had no notion—that is, what a very great pleasure! And this must be—?"
"My sister. Miss Darcy." Darcy bowed. "Forgive the intrusion. We did not mean to descend upon your congregation unannounced."
"Intrusion! Not in the least, not in the very least." Sir William beamed upon them both with undiminished good nature.
Mrs Bennet recovered herself with visible effort, her curtsy a shade too deep. "Mr Darcy. What a—what an unexpected honour. We did not look to see you in Hertfordshire again so very soon." Her gaze moved to Georgiana with frank and hopeful assessment. "And Miss Darcy. How very elegant."
Georgiana curtsied. "Mrs Bennet. I am glad to make your acquaintance, though I am very sorry it should be at such a time. Please accept my condolences upon your loss."
"You are very good." Mrs Bennet's handkerchief reappeared.
Elizabeth had said nothing. When Darcy at last permitted himself to look at her directly, he found her regarding him with an expression he could not read—guarded, certainly, but not, he thought, unwelcoming.
"Mr Darcy." She inclined her head. "You are a long way from town or was it Derbyshire you were returning to?"
"My sister's companion, Mrs Annesley, has family at Perkins," he said.
"We are come to see her settled there for a little while.
And Mr Bingley has asked me to look over Netherfield on his behalf, the lease being nearly out.
It seemed hardly worth bringing him the whole way from the north for so small a service. "
"How considerate of you." If there was any irony in it, she did not let it reach her voice.
The service claimed them then, and Darcy saw little of the sermon and less of his prayer book.
He was aware of the Bennet pew across the aisle, of Elizabeth's dark head bent over her book, of the fair-haired child beside her who fidgeted and was gently stilled by Elizabeth's hand.
He did not see MacKinnon. Perhaps he was not the religious sort.
When the congregation spilled back into the churchyard afterward, it was Jane who came to them. "Mr Darcy, Miss Darcy, an inn is a poor place to pass a Sunday. Will you not come back to Longbourn and take some refreshment before you return? It is but a step, and Mama would be glad of it."
Mrs Bennet, who a moment before had worn the harried look of a woman calculating whether her larder could withstand company, brightened at once. "Yes! Yes, indeed, you must come. We are in mourning and receive very little, but for such friends we shall certainly make an exception."
Darcy hesitated. Every principle of prudence counselled refusal. To sit in the same room as Elizabeth, to watch her pour tea and hold her composure and belong, however unwillingly, to another man's future—it was a species of torture he had no business inviting.
"We should be glad to," said Georgiana.
He looked down at his sister in surprise. There was a faint colour in her cheeks that had nothing to do with the cold, and something almost like resolve in the set of her mouth. She had not sought company in a twelvemonth. He could not, in that moment, bring himself to deny her.
"Indeed," he agreed.
***
At Longbourn the drawing room had been hastily supplied with what the household could muster, and the party disposed themselves about the fire. The Lucases had followed, and their easy neighbourly chatter filled the gaps that mourning and awkwardness might otherwise have left.
Darcy's gaze went to Elizabeth before he could prevent it. She sat near the hearth in her black bombazine. Perched upon a low stool at her side was the child he had glimpsed at church—a girl of eight or perhaps nine, fair-haired, with a pale pointed face and a stubborn set to her chin.
The sight of Elizabeth's hand coming to rest upon the child's shoulder when she fidgeted struck Darcy with sudden force. It was then he became aware that Malcolm MacKinnon had entered. He greeted him curtly before moving off into the corner.
Frowning faintly at the man's odd intensity, Darcy returned his attention to the room.
"It was kind of you to receive us, Miss Elizabeth," he said, "when you are so lately in mourning."
"You are welcome at Longbourn, Mr Darcy." She busied herself with the milk jug. "Though I confess I did not expect to find you at Meryton church of a Sunday morning."
"Nor I to be there." He hesitated. "I am glad of the chance, however. My sister has long wished to be introduced to your family."
Georgiana, thus prompted, turned to Elizabeth with a shy earnestness. "I had not the honour of knowing your father, Miss Elizabeth, but my brother has spoken of your family, and I am very sorry for your loss."
"Thank you, Miss Darcy. You are kind." For an instant Elizabeth's eyes met Darcy's; then she looked away.
It was the child who broke the small silence that followed. She had been staring at Georgiana with a directness too knowing for her years, and Darcy saw his sister falter a little beneath it.
"Moira." Elizabeth touched the girl's shoulder. "Where are your manners? Miss Darcy, may I present Moira MacKinnon? Mr MacKinnon's daughter."
Darcy felt his eyes widen. He had not known MacKinnon possessed a daughter—much less one who already leaned into Elizabeth's side as though she belonged there.
"I am very pleased to meet you, Moira," Georgiana said.
"You're verra fine," Moira announced. "Your gown is bonnier than anything we have in Broadford, Miss Darcy."
Georgiana blinked, then laughed—and Darcy realised he had not heard his sister laugh so freely since before Ramsgate. The conversation loosened, drifting to easier matters, and Lady Lucas asked after Moira's adjustment to Hertfordshire.
"I speak English quite well," Moira said. No false modesty, merely a blunt statement of fact. "Mrs Kathy taught me. The minister's wife in Broadford." A shadow crossed her face. "Though I like Gaelic better. It sounds more like the sea."
"Your English is excellent," Georgiana said, leaning forward. "I should never have guessed it was not your first language."
The compliment transformed the child. Her wariness fell away, and she sat up straighter upon her stool.
"I was about to begin lessons in French," she added, emboldened, "before Papa sent for me." The last words carried a child's unguarded resentment.
"I am fluent in French," Georgiana said. "My governess was Parisian."
Moira's eyes went wide. "Will ye teach me?"
Silence fell over the room. MacKinnon, who had been speaking quietly with Sir William, turned sharply, the colour leaving his face.
"Moira." His voice was gentle but firm. "Miss Darcy is a lady of consequence. She is no tutor."
Georgiana shook her head. "I should have been honoured, truly. But we will only be here a short while ..."
Moira's face crumpled.
"Well, I would imagine my business for Bingley will take at least a fortnight, and Mrs Annesley wished to remain with her family three weeks at least," Darcy said. "We could perhaps extend another week. I am certain she will not mind."
"But you ought not to stay at the inn that long," Lady Lucas said then.
Sir William beamed. "Indeed! Lucas Lodge has ample room for you, your sister, and your sister's attendant, should she seek respite from family obligations."
"Maria would so enjoy the companionship," Lady Lucas added.