Chapter 14
March in London was sometimes as inclement as any winter day, Darcy thought. Fierce gusts of wind shrieked, and heavy clouds had made the sky dark long before evening came. Lashes of rain beat against the windows of Darcy House.
For all that, the drawing room was comfortable and cosy. An ample fire kept the room at a comfortable temperature, while the many candles made the room bright enough to read.
The evening had passed quietly. Supper had been taken without company, and the household, freed from obligation, had settled into that ease which comes only in the absence of strangers.
Georgiana sat at the pianoforte. Darcy had taken his place somewhat apart, not so distant as to suggest inattention, but far enough to allow her the space she preferred when she played.
Mrs Annesley sat likewise at a comfortable distance, her embroidery resting idle in her hands, her attention fixed with a kind of gentle encouragement that never intruded and yet was always felt.
The piece Georgiana had chosen was not one intended to display brilliance.
It required steadiness more than panache, and feeling more than execution.
She played it with care, her touch light but not uncertain, and though there were moments in which her confidence faltered slightly, they passed quickly enough to leave the whole impression unbroken.
Darcy listened without interruption.
He had heard her play better. He had also heard her play worse.
What pleased him was not the quality of the performance, but the manner in which she sustained it.
There had been a time when even the smallest hesitation would have undone her entirely.
That it did not do so now was, to him, of far greater consequence than any technical improvement.
When she finished, the last notes lingering only briefly before giving way to silence, Mrs Annesley was the first to speak, setting aside her work as she turned toward her. “My dear Miss Darcy, that was very well done.”
Georgiana turned slightly on the bench to face her, her expression composed, though not without a trace of uncertainty. “I thought I lost it in the middle,” she said, her hand still resting lightly against the keys.
“Not in any way that detracted from the whole,” Mrs Annesley replied. “You recovered yourself immediately.”
Darcy had risen as she spoke. He came nearer, wishing to encourage her. “You did not lose it,” he said. “You considered it.”
Georgiana’s expression softened into a faint smile at that. “That is a kinder way of describing it.”
“It is a more accurate one,” he returned.
She accepted the compliment with a slight inclination of her head and a small smile.
For a few moments, the conversation remained on the music itself.
Mrs Annesley observed on a passage that might be improved with practice, and Georgiana responded with a seriousness that showed she had already been aware of it, while Darcy contributed little, though what he said was attended to.
The tone of the exchange remained one of easy familiarity, in which nothing was pressed and nothing required defence.
At length, Georgiana closed the music and rested her hands lightly upon it, as though reluctant to disturb the quiet that had followed.
After a moment, she looked up. “Mrs Annesley,” she said, with a deliberation that distinguished the request from the conversation that had preceded it, “may I speak with my brother in confidence?”
Darcy looked at her in surprise, wondering what Georgiana might wish to say that could require privacy.
Mrs Annesley understood her immediately and rose without hesitation. “Of course, my dear. I have some letters to attend to.” She gathered her work, and with a look that conveyed both discretion and approval, left the room.
The door closed softly behind her, and the quiet that followed was of a different kind.
For a moment, neither spoke. Georgiana did not at once turn from the pianoforte, but remained as she was, her gaze lowered, her hands still resting where they had been.
Darcy waited without impatience. He had learned long ago that to press her too quickly was to defeat the very purpose of encouraging her to speak.
At length, she turned. “Brother,” she said, “I wished to ask you something.”
Darcy drew a chair nearer as she spoke, though not so close as to press her, and seated himself, hoping that his posture invited confidence rather than demanded it. “What is it?” he said.
Georgiana hesitated, seemingly not from uncertainty, but from the difficulty of beginning.
When she spoke, it was with a steadiness that suggested she had considered her words before asking for the opportunity to say them.
“I have been thinking about what you told me,” she said. “About George Wickham.”
Darcy did not allow his expression to alter or his tone to sharpen. “I see.”
“I know that what happened is past,” she continued, her fingers shifting slightly against the edge of the instrument as she spoke. “And that I have been told I ought not to dwell upon it. But I cannot help thinking that I was very foolish.”
“You were very young,” he said. “You are very young still.”
“I was not so young that I did not understand what I was doing,” she replied, lifting her head slightly. “Or at least, I believed I did. That is what I cannot forget. I thought him everything that he was not, and I did not question it. I do not see how I could have been so easily deceived.”
Darcy did not answer immediately. There was nothing in her manner that required contradiction, but neither was it a subject to be dismissed with general assurances.
He had long known that Georgiana’s gentleness made her particularly vulnerable to self-reproach, and to deny it outright would only weaken the comfort he meant to give.
“You were deceived,” he said at last, “because he intended to deceive you.”
Georgiana looked at him more directly. “But others were not deceived.”
“Others did not stand in your situation,” Darcy replied.
She was silent for a moment, considering it. “I ought to have known him better.”
“You knew only what he chose to show you,” he said. “And what he showed was designed to be believed.”
Georgiana lowered her gaze again. “I still feel that I was to blame.”
Darcy considered her carefully before answering. “If blame is to be assigned,” he said, “it belongs first to the person who acted dishonourably. That you trusted where you ought not to have done is unfortunate. That he abused that trust is the greater fault.”
She did not immediately look convinced, though she listened. “It is not that I doubt what you say,” she said quietly. “Only, I cannot think of it without feeling ashamed.”
Darcy leaned forward slightly, wishing he might find the words to convince her. “Then you must think of it differently.”
Georgiana looked up again.
“You would not judge another person so harshly in the same situation,” he continued. “You would consider their youth, their inexperience, and the circumstances in which they were placed. You would not suppose that they ought to have seen through what was deliberately concealed from them.”
She hesitated. “I do not know.”
“I do,” he said with quiet firmness.
Georgiana was silent for a moment, then said, with a trace of curiosity, “Has anyone else been so deceived?”
Darcy paused. It was not a question he had expected, though it was not unreasonable. He might have answered in general terms and left it there, but he had already determined, once, that truth was better given plainly than withheld for the sake of comfort.
“Yes,” he said.
Georgiana looked at him more intently. “Someone you know?”
“Yes.”
There was a brief pause. “Who?”
Darcy considered only a moment longer. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet, among others.”
Georgiana’s expression altered at once. “Miss Bennet?”
“She was not deceived in the same way,” Darcy said, as he shifted slightly where he sat, “but she had formed an opinion of him which was not correct, and which might have put her at risk. When I became aware of it, I thought it necessary to speak to her.”
Georgiana studied him. “You told her?”
“I did.”
“And she believed you?”
Darcy met her look. “She listened to me, and yes, in the end, she believed me.”
Georgiana was quiet for a moment, then said more slowly, “From all you have told me, Miss Bennet must be very clever.”
“She is,” Darcy said.
“And older than I am.”
“By some years.”
Georgiana seemed to consider this. “Then, if she could be mistaken, it is not so surprising that I was.”
Darcy nodded. “Not in the least.”
She drew a breath, as though something in her mind had settled. “I am glad you told me,” she said.
“I would not have you judge yourself more severely than is just.”
Georgiana looked at him again, though now with a different kind of attention. “You must think very well of Miss Bennet,” she said.
Darcy did not immediately answer. “I think her a person of understanding,” he said at last.
Georgiana’s gaze lingered. “And of judgement.”
“Yes.”
There was a slight pause.
“And of character.”
Darcy did not dispute it.
Georgiana did not speak again at once, but the expression with which she regarded her brother had altered.
There was less uncertainty in it now, and more of that quiet composure which had, of late, begun to replace her former hesitation.
When she did speak, it was with greater steadiness than before.
“You said once that you would think her a suitable friend for me. I hope we may have the opportunity to meet one day.”
Darcy inclined his head slightly, watching her with a degree of attention that was less guarded now that the difficulty of the earlier part of their conversation had passed. “That would be most pleasant,” he said. “I believe you would like her.”
“She seems very different from most people we meet,” she said, turning the idea over as she spoke.
“She is.”