9. A Most Beloved Sister #2
The question was uniquely Elizabeth—light enough to be a tease, heavy enough to demand blood. He chose honesty; his previous attempts at anything less had failed too spectacularly to be repeated now.
“As a man who was acquainted with the circumstances of Mr. Bingley’s departure from Hertfordshire… And who is aware that those circumstances may have caused Miss Bennet… significant pain.”
Elizabeth’s chin lifted by the fraction of a degree he had noted at Hunsford as the precursor to a strike. He waited for it. He almost craved it—the clean, bright anger of a woman who refused to hide behind decorum.
“My sister’s composure,” Elizabeth said, her voice possessing a lethal steadiness, “is her own to manage. She has done so with a grace that would have shattered a lesser character. If those who observed her mistook that strength for indifference, the error was theirs.”
She paused, the morning sun catching the fire in her eyes. “Perhaps a more careful observer might have distinguished between the two.”
The sentence settled into Darcy’s chest with the slow, spreading heat of a blade that enters cleanly and is felt only in the aftermath. He had argued against this very point in that letter, where he had sought to justify his most acute observation.
Elizabeth was answering a ghost. She was refuting an argument she should only have known if she had read his letter. Every page. Every painful, prideful word.
He looked at her and felt the sudden, terrifying realization that there were no secrets left between them, only the ruins they both inhabited.
“The error,” he said, “is mine. Entirely.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened by a fraction, not surprise, but recognition that she had said too much and was wary of the consequences. She reached for the quill, thought better of it, and folded her hands on the desk, restoring the barricades.
“I did not say the error was yours, Mr. Darcy.”
“No. You said the error belonged to a less careful observer. I am merely identifying myself as the primary candidate.”
“You are identifying yourself as a great many things this morning.” The faintest edge of her old arch wit crept into her voice—the Elizabeth he had first noticed across a crowded assembly. “You are remarkably busy for a Wednesday, sir.”
“I have brought Georgiana for the shopping expedition. That required crossing the garden.”
“Which is but a short stroll, safely traversed by Mary several times a day. You are either a very thorough trustee or a careful brother.”
“I hope you recognize my qualities, Miss Elizabeth.”
“Hope is an ambitious word for a man discussing household budgets,” she countered. “And ambition, I have found, is a very dangerous guest in a library.”
He should have stopped. The conversation had crossed from business into the charged, uncertain territory where every sentence carried two meanings and neither party could afford to be caught reaching for the wrong one. He should have retreated with the papers across the garden to his own silence.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said instead. “I wish you to know that I am grateful for the kindness you have shown Georgiana. Bringing your sister Mary to London rather than… the others… it has been a profound gift. Georgiana has not had a friend of her own age since?—”
He stopped, because the sentence led to Ramsgate, and Ramsgate was a locked door. Elizabeth’s expression softened, as if sensing the jagged edge.
“Mary is my sister, Mr. Darcy. I brought her because I love her, and she deserved the opportunity. Georgiana’s friendship has been the greatest kindness of this bewildering upheaval.
Mary has never had someone who understood what music means to her.
” Her eyes glittered, blinking. “I would not take issue with anyone’s protectiveness toward a beloved sister.
It is not a quality I find objectionable in a brother. ”
The words landed softly, but their weight was immense. In the shorthand of their history, she had acknowledged Georgiana needed protecting, and that she, Elizabeth, understood, because she, too, protected her beloved sisters.
“Unless,” Elizabeth continued, her archness returning, “you take issue with Nettle’s influence. She has been teaching Georgiana to play fetch, and I confess Nettle’s standards are exacting. Your sister may never recover.”
“I have been subjected to Nettle’s standards myself. I believe I acquitted myself adequately.”
“You threw overhand with entirely too much force. Nettle was impressed but wishes you to know that finesse is valued over distance.”
“I shall endeavor to improve.”
“See that you do. Georgiana’s happiness depends on it,” she said, smiling, and his lips curved, approaching a smile.
And then, as if she realized they had been smiling at each other, she turned away with an expression of uncertainty, as if she had caught herself with a question she wasn’t prepared to answer.
“Well,” she said, rising from her desk, “you’ve been quite thorough this morning, Mr. Darcy.
The wardrobe is approved, Jane’s well-being is accounted for, and Georgiana’s social schedule is set.
Nettle’s recreational standards have been acknowledged, even if not quite met.
” She tilted her chin, a familiar, challenging angle.
“I do hope your shoulders are broad enough. This trusteeship seems to expand by the hour. I’d hate for you to feel strained by the demands of three Bennet sisters and the precise trajectory of dog balls. ”
“I’ve managed Pemberley’s tenants, Lady Sophia’s investments, and a dog that bit me on our first meeting. I believe my shoulders are quite adequate.”
“Then I shall endeavor not to add to the burden.” She smoothed her skirt and walked toward the door. Pausing at the threshold, she turned back, her fine eyes—always those fine eyes—holding a particular sparkle.
“Thank you for bringing Georgiana, Mr. Darcy. And for the budget. And for hovering, which I am sure you will deny, but which I recognize because you, sir, are a guardian who concerns yourself with everyone but yourself.” She paused.
“Now, please stop hovering. We have shopping to do, you have accounts to review, and Wednesdays, sir, are not yours.”
She vanished into the hall, leaving behind the scent of lavender and the echo of her laughter.