Chapter 4
Darcy paced through the library at Netherfield Park, wishing he might find something to engage him and knowing better than to expect it.
In their tidy but sparse condition, the shelves reflected the character of the house itself: handsome, comfortable, and designed for sociability rather than study.
He selected a volume almost at random, more from habit than anything else, and seated himself near the window, where the fading light of the afternoon fell across the page.
All the same, he did not read. As they had done repeatedly of late, his thoughts returned to the arrangements already in motion.
Netherfield would soon be left behind. After considerable persuasion from his sisters and more measured advice from Darcy himself, Bingley had agreed to remove the household to London for the winter.
Only now, after the decision had already been made, did Darcy feel distinctly ill at ease with his part in it.
At the time, urging Bingley away had appeared the sensible course.
After all, distance often clarified affections.
If an attachment were genuine, it would survive absence. If not, it was better discovered early.
With a candour he allowed himself only in solitude, Darcy acknowledged to himself that his judgement had not been free from personal inclination.
He had urged Bingley to leave Hertfordshire believing, in part, that he himself would not have remained much longer.
Christmas was approaching, and with it the expectation of returning to London.
Georgiana was waiting for him there. The thought softened something in his chest that had been tight for days.
He missed her.
That admission, at least, required no defence.
Georgiana was his responsibility, his comfort, and his dearest companion.
The months since Ramsgate had only deepened his vigilance, even as they had also strengthened their bond.
Her recovery had been gradual but steady, and her letters, always affectionate, had lately carried a renewed warmth that reassured him more than any report from her companion.
The letter he now held had arrived that morning.
Darcy set the book aside at last, unfolded the paper with deliberate care, and began to read.
My dearest Fitz,
I hope you do not find it tiresome that I write so often, but I find that setting my thoughts on the page makes the hours pass more easily.
There is something so comforting in knowing I can tell you anything.
I am well, in good spirits, and Mrs Annesley says I look stronger each day.
If I am improved, it is due in no small part to her kindness, and to yours.
I have practiced the pianoforte every morning, as you advised, and though I cannot pretend to the excellence you so generously attribute to me, I believe I am more steady than I was in the summer.
Truly, music is everything. When I play, my thoughts are more easily governed, and I am less inclined to dwell upon what I ought to forget.
I miss you exceedingly. London feels very empty without you, and though I am grateful for the society we keep, there is no one whose presence restores me so completely as yours. How I look forward to being together again for Christmas! I confess I am counting the days until your return.
Dear brother, I hope you will not be too much distressed if I turn again to that subject which has occupied so much of my thoughts.
I must tell you again how thankful I am for your care, and how deeply I regret the distress I caused you.
I think often of what might have been, and the thought is enough to make me tremble.
Had you not come when you did, I cannot imagine what my life would now be.
I see it too clearly. I should have been separated from you, from all who care for me, and cast into a situation from which there would have been no honourable return.
The shame of it would have followed me always, and the knowledge of my folly would have been my constant companion.
I know now how little I understood the danger I was in.
I believed myself admired, valued, and chosen, when in truth I was only convenient.
That I was so easily persuaded frightens me still, and I am ashamed to think how willingly I trusted where I ought to have been cautious.
I hardly know what would have been a worse fate — to have been his wife, knowing there could never be warmth, trust, or even respect between us, or to have been shamed forever.
It is dreadful to know he is out in the world somewhere, perhaps charming another foolish young girl even as he charmed me! How many young women will he lead astray before he can be stopped? I have not yet learned to forgive myself, but I do not believe I shall ever forgive him.
Forgive me if I speak too seriously. I know you do not wish me to dwell on the past, and I promise I am happier than these reflections might suggest. I look forward to seeing you, and to the comfort of your presence, more than I can easily express.
Your ever grateful and affectionate sister,
Georgiana
Darcy lowered the letter slowly, though his eyes remained fixed on the page long after the words had ceased to hold any meaning.
The room around him was quiet, and the faint sounds of the house were distant enough to be ignored, but his thoughts would not be stilled.
Georgiana’s handwriting, usually so graceful and even, was unusually blotted and rough.
He knew too well the effort it had cost her to set those reflections down, and the trust she placed in him by doing so.
Restlessly, Darcy rose from his chair and crossed to the window, though the view offered little in the way of distraction.
The grounds lay grey and still beneath the winter sky, stripped of ornament and interest. It suited his mood.
There was a severity to the scene that felt appropriate, a bareness that left no room for illusion.
He had not yet managed to think of Ramsgate without a shudder and a surge of almost uncontrollable anger.
Thanks be to Heaven, Georgiana did not know the worst of it even yet.
She was still an innocent; the deepest horror of Wickham’s intentions was known to himself alone.
Her letter spoke of fear and shame, of regret for her actions and gratitude for his intervention, but it could not fully convey what he himself had witnessed.
The reckless ease with which Wickham had pursued his design.
The indifference with which he had regarded Georgiana’s youth, her innocence, and the ruin that would have followed her compliance.
That such destruction could have been wrought without hesitation still chilled him.
Darcy pressed his hand briefly against the glass, grounding himself in the cold.
Last summer, he had believed that his intervention had resolved the matter.
Wickham had been chased away. Georgiana had been restored.
Silence, he had thought, was the price of peace.
To speak of it further would only prolong the injury.
Perhaps it was not so simple.
Georgiana’s words echoed his own unspoken fears.
If she had been so nearly deceived, how many others might be equally vulnerable?
Wickham had not altered his nature. He had merely altered his circumstances.
His charm remained intact, his resentments undiminished, and his inclination to seek advantage unchanged.
Unbidden, Elizabeth Bennet rose to his thoughts.
He resisted the image at first, annoyed at himself for allowing it, but resistance only strengthened it.
He saw her as he had that morning in Meryton, animated and at ease, her attention fixed upon a man who did not deserve it.
The memory returned with uncomfortable clarity, sharpened now by Georgiana’s account.
Elizabeth possessed intelligence and spirit, but she was not immune to confidence skilfully offered. Few were.
More than once, Darcy had told himself that Elizabeth Bennet’s opinion of him rendered any warning impossible.
At the Netherfield Ball, she had made it only too clear what she thought.
She believed him proud, unjust, and capable of deliberate unkindness.
By contrast, Wickham appeared injured, amiable, and wronged.
To speak would invite suspicion. To insist would provoke resentment.
He had already endured her censure once. He was not eager to invite it again.
That ought to have settled it, but it did not.
The thought of Elizabeth Bennet suffering harm through his silence was intolerable.
So, too, was the thought of her misinterpreting his concern.
To warn her would require him to speak of matters he had long kept private, and to do so without the shield of formality or reserve.
He had not yet reconciled himself to that vulnerability.
Discipline, he reminded himself, had always been his refuge. He governed himself by principle, not by impulse. It was that discipline which had guided him at Ramsgate, and it must guide him now.
But if principle was not guided by compassion, it was no virtue at all.
Darcy returned to the chair and sat, the letter still folded in his hand. Georgiana’s concern for others was not theoretical. It was born of terror and relief, of a knowledge too dearly gained. To ignore it would be a betrayal of the very trust she placed in him.
With that thought, Darcy made his decision. Elizabeth Bennet did not require his affection: she required his honesty.
That decision necessarily brought others with it.
If he truly meant to act, he could not afford to delay.
Netherfield would soon be left behind. Once he returned to London, the opportunity for a discreet discussion would be lost, and with it any chance to act without the interference of distance or regret. If he were to speak, it must be now.
He would warn her.
The decision, once made, brought with it a strange calm. It did not ease his apprehension, nor did it lessen the difficulty of what lay ahead, but it imposed order upon his thoughts. He would not embellish. He would not justify himself. He would speak only of what was necessary, and no more.
He would tell her before they left; he would go to Longbourn the very next day.
That resolution served another purpose, which he acknowledged with a mixture of relief and unease.
By limiting the moment, he limited himself.
He would not allow the conversation to wander into territory he was not prepared to enter.
His feelings, however deeply felt, must remain unspoken.
A warning, offered plainly and withdrawn without insistence, was all he could permit himself.
Darcy rose once more, folding Georgiana’s letter with care and placing it safely within his pocket.
When he left the room, his manner was composed; his purpose settled.
Perhaps Miss Elizabeth would dismiss it all out of hand, rage at him, call him a liar.
At least he would know that he had not failed her through cowardice.
He owed Elizabeth Bennet the truth, and that was what he would give her.