Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
The letter from Bingley came via an express rider just as Georgiana and Darcy were deciding whether it was time to retire. Bingley’s note was to the point. Their aunt died quickly and without warning…at Longbourn. What in heaven was she doing at Longbourn?
Darcy experienced a twinge of sadness at the news, but could not say he felt more.
Immediately his mind went to plans and wardrobe.
With so many relations and a wide social circle, it seemed one always had to wear black or at least an armband.
He instructed their housekeeper and butler to ready his and Georgiana’s belongings for a month’s absence, unsure if it might be more or less, then went to his study.
While Georgiana was free to go to bed, he had to ensure that relatives had been notified, and that the accounts were settled and instructions left for his solicitor, as well as Pemberley’s steward and groundskeeper.
It was nearly four in the morning when he finally fell into his bed, and too soon a servant was waking him.
Dressed and energetic, Georgiana greeted him and insisted he must have tea and breakfast before their journey.
He agreed to a quick cup of tea but could not force himself to eat at such an early hour, saying they needed to begin their travel.
If they used post horses along the way, they could be at Rosings in two days, three at most. He would worry less if he had been alone, for he had made fast journeys before—one so recently it still turned his stomach—but with Georgiana being delicate, it would be more challenging.
No. Georgiana was not delicate. She had reminded him of this repeatedly, and he had to make himself believe it.
She had experienced disappointment and loss and heartbreak, yet managed to remain lively and joyful, qualities lost in himself.
She had had the benefit—heavens! Could he call it that?
Only to himself—of not having lived with their parents for long enough to have been ground down by their messages of superiority and restriction.
She had had the loving care of Colonel Fitzwilliam and of governesses and tutors who were kind—he had seen to that.
And himself. He had to give himself credit for being a good caregiver.
Though he had a reputation for being forbidding, he had never been so with his sister.
He had loved her from the moment he had beheld her as a baby.
He recalled the day vividly. He had returned from school for the summer—happy to leave the cruelty of older boys only too willing to tease or beat the younger ones for no reason other than distraction—and found himself being introduced to the most delicate, sweet-looking creature.
He wished to hold her, but his father said it was not proper, so he reached for the babe’s cheeks, satisfying himself with smaller connexions.
When she grasped onto his outstretched finger, a joy the like of which he had never experienced flooded through him, and she was his forever.
He often snuck up to the nursery to avoid his parents’ sniping at one another, as well as chatter about their disappointment that, after having waited so long for another living child, it was only a girl.
He thought a girl was best, for, as a girl, she might live a life at home and not be expected to spend nights crying in a dark dormitory missing a home that was not always pleasant but was certainly better than school.
She might not need to mould herself into the “right” kind of person, to pretend not to hurt, to not have the wrong interests, to not ignore peers simply because their social standing was lower even if they seemed to be more enjoyable company.
No, as a girl, she could be as she wished to be.
Or so he had thought in his youthful innocence.
He soon grew to understand the limitations she would face, but once he was her caregiver, he swore to do all he could to see that she was happy.
Yet he had failed. Recently, he had had cause to reflect on the quality of his care.
He had been away so often that she had been left in the hands of governesses and servants, and though they were kind, she claimed to be lonely beyond tolerance.
Eventually he had agreed to send her to school, and while those years had been remarkably happy ones for her, he had been fool enough to listen to her pleas to leave school at fourteen so she might enjoy London before the pressures of coming out.
While he did not regret the joy she had of that city, he never should have allowed her to go to Ramsgate with Mrs Younge.
Mrs Younge! At the thought of that woman, his stomach turned.
“Brother, you look peaked and we have only begun the journey. You ought to have eaten at least toast, as I suggested.”
He laughed and reached for her hand. “You are, as always, correct in your admonitions.”
“Shall I ask Mr Evans to stop and open the hamper?”
“No. At the first post, I can eat.”
Satisfied, she returned to reading her book.
Even the crease in her forehead as she concentrated on the pages charmed him.
How could he love a creature so much? Would he love his own children as much as his sister?
Yes, he believed he would. A year ago, he might have doubted it, but after meeting Miss Elizabeth Bennet, he knew he had the capacity to feel deeply and to want.
Oh, to want. It was more than wanting her safety and happiness, and more than lust. It was a want to be understood, desired, cared for.
Damn it, he wanted to be cared for. He did not merely desire to have his daily needs of food and clothing met by servants, for they were always ready with tea, fresh horses, and shined shoes.
No. He wanted someone to care whether he was happy.
His sister cared, but somehow Miss Elizabeth’s gaze and touch brought him to a place he had never been. It had made him feel essential, human.
Miss Elizabeth was at Longbourn. His aunt had gone there. Died there. Whatever had occurred?