Chapter VI
Georgiana received him with unaffected pleasure, her happiness in his return too sincere to be overlooked.
He was glad to see her.
Indeed, in Georgiana’s society, he found more ease than he had expected. Her gentleness, her dependence upon his judgement, her quiet and affectionate trust, all soothed a mind which had lately known little rest. With her, he was more nearly himself than he had been since leaving Kent.
She received him with a warmth untouched by reserve or ceremony.
She spoke at once – as she only ever did with him – of all the small occurrences of the house during his absence, interrupting herself more than once in her eagerness to be understood.
Whatever alterations disappointment and self-reproach had worked in him during the preceding months, none were required in her presence.
Georgiana loved him too entirely to observe with severity what others might have condemned and trusted him too completely to suppose him capable of serious fault.
To be loved so entirely humbled him.
There was comfort in being loved without question.
Georgiana’s regard neither rose nor diminished according to success, consequence, or the world’s opinion; it attached itself to him simply because he was her brother, and would, he knew, survive faults far greater than any he had yet confessed even to himself.
And yet, painful as the acknowledgement was, he became increasingly sensible that such affection, though precious, was no longer sufficient for his happiness.
For the first time in his life, he had desired another sort of attachment entirely – not dutiful, not familial, not founded upon long habit and natural tenderness, but freely given by a woman whose esteem had come to matter to him more than he had ever believed possible.
And that love he had lost.
Or rather, he corrected himself, it had never been his to lose.
The reflection cast a momentary shadow over feelings which otherwise might have been peaceful. Still, Georgiana, happily unaware of the direction of his thoughts, continued speaking with such unaffected pleasure at his return that he could not long remain wholly melancholy in her presence.
He had always considered her happiness among the first duties of his life.
Yet, now, seeing the eagerness with which she listened to every account of his journey and the quiet satisfaction which his mere presence restored to her, he felt more strongly than before how much of her comfort depended upon him.
The thought awakened not pride, but tenderness.
That evening, after he had refreshed himself and changed from travelling dress, they spent several hours together in the small drawing room Georgiana most preferred – a room less magnificent than the principal apartments, but more frequently inhabited, and therefore more comfortable.
Georgiana, whose natural timidity disappeared almost entirely when alone with her brother, soon began to speak with animation of the preparations she had undertaken for the approaching guests.
She had altered the arrangement of flowers in the blue drawing room no fewer than three times and now sought his opinion on a fourth.
Darcy gave it gravely.
Georgiana changed it again the following morning.
***
Later that evening, after Georgiana had withdrawn and the house had gradually settled into quiet, Darcy remained for some time alone in his study.
The windows stood partly open to the softness of the summer night.
Beyond them, the grounds descended into shadow; the last light lingered faintly upon the western horizon, while nearer at hand the familiar sounds of Pemberley – distant footsteps below stairs, the closing of a door somewhere in the servants’ wing, the low stirring of leaves beyond the terrace – blended into that peculiar stillness which belongs only to large houses at rest.
Ordinarily, such tranquillity had always soothed him. Now, however, his thoughts remained wakeful. And among them, unexpectedly persistent, returned the recollection of the visitors he had encountered earlier that day.
It was a small circumstance, perhaps, one which, a few months before, he would hardly have remembered the following morning. Yet now it returned to him with unusual distinctness.
Not merely because the conversation had been agreeable. But because it had altered something in his understanding of himself.
He had resolved to examine his conduct honestly. He had determined – sincerely determined – to become less proud, less careless of others, less governed by habits of reserve which had too long passed with him under the name of discernment.
Yet resolutions formed in solitude are easily made. The difficulty lies in their practice. And today, for perhaps the first time, he had consciously attempted that practice.
Formerly, upon learning that visitors were in the house, he would almost certainly have avoided them, not from deliberate unkindness, but from long habit. He had never seen any necessity in making himself agreeable to strangers whose opinions could signify nothing to him.
Now he questioned that habit.
The recollection of Elizabeth’s voice – calm in accusation, severe in honesty – had risen before him upon hearing that Mrs. Reynolds was engaged with visitors.
You are the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.
The words retained power still. And with them came others, less painful perhaps, but more humbling.
Your manners impressed me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain for the feelings of others.
He had once resisted the charge. He no longer could. And so, instead of withdrawing, he joined them. The scene returned to him now with remarkable clarity.
Mrs. Reynolds, upon perceiving him unexpectedly at the doorway, had started.
“Mr. Darcy!” she exclaimed. “Sir, I beg your pardon – we were just finishing.”
There had been in her manner that respectful alarm which servants often displayed when their master appeared unexpectedly among visitors. She had evidently prepared herself to dismiss the party at once.
Darcy remembered, too, his brief hesitation. The old instinct – the instinct to escape observation, to preserve distance – had still existed. But only for a moment. “Pray continue, Mrs. Reynolds,” he had said. “You must not allow me to interrupt the tour.”
Mrs. Reynolds looked almost surprised. “Very good, sir.”
It was then that the visitors themselves turned fully towards him.
He remembered noticing first that there was nothing remarkable in their appearance. They were respectably dressed, evidently genteel, though without display. Yet something in their countenance and manner engaged him more than appearances ordinarily did.
The gentleman stepped forward first. “Mr. Darcy, I presume,” said he. “Permit me to apologise if we intrude.”
“Not at all, sir.”
Mrs. Reynolds hastened to perform the introductions. “Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, from London.”
Darcy bowed.
There had followed one of those pauses which, in former times, he might easily have allowed to lapse into stiffness. Yet conscious now of his own responsibility in such moments, he forced himself to continue. “I hope Mrs. Reynolds has shown you everything to your satisfaction.”
“Indeed, she has,” replied Mrs. Gardiner warmly. “Though I suspect we have exhausted both her patience and her knowledge with our many questions.”
Mrs. Reynolds looked genuinely affronted by the possibility. “Oh no, madam!”
Darcy found himself – somewhat unexpectedly – almost smiling. “I believe,” he said, “that Mrs. Reynolds considers Pemberley a subject upon which she can never be sufficiently questioned.”
The housekeeper coloured with pleased embarrassment. “Well, sir, there is not a finer place in Derbyshire.”
“Nor, I think,” said Mr. Gardiner, looking around with thoughtful admiration, “one more judiciously situated. The approach alone would justify its reputation.”
Darcy thanked him with simple civility, though inwardly he observed the remark with interest.
They had continued speaking together for several minutes, longer than Darcy would once have believed either necessary or desirable.
Yet the effort did not oppress him as he had expected.
Mr. Gardiner’s observations upon the estate were intelligent without pretension; he admired what deserved admiration, but with the judgement of a man more interested in propriety and natural beauty than mere display.
Mrs. Gardiner, meanwhile, possessed that rare ease of manner which neither flatters nor intrudes.
There was sense in everything she said, and good humour in the manner of saying it.
Darcy found himself listening with genuine attention. Indeed, there was something in both of them which quietly unsettled several of his oldest prejudices.
They were evidently connected with trade; of that he could not doubt. Yet he had known many persons of far greater consequence whose manners possessed infinitely less refinement.
The reflection was not entirely comfortable. And perhaps for that reason, it remained with him.
“You are fortunate in the water here, Mr. Darcy,” said Mr. Gardiner after a pause, glancing through the long window towards the grounds below. “From the little I have seen of the stream, I should suppose it excellent for fishing.”
Darcy followed the direction of his gaze.
“The river is well stocked, sir, though I fear I neglect it more often than my steward approves.”
“Then your steward and I should disagree very amicably,” returned Mr. Gardiner with a smile. “For I think a gentleman entitled to such scenery may be forgiven a little negligence.”
Darcy almost smiled in return. “I shall remember your defence when next I am reproached for it.”
Mrs. Gardiner, meanwhile, had turned again towards one of the paintings. “And does Miss Darcy enjoy the country as much as you do, sir? If you do not mind my asking…”
“Not at all. My sister is attached to Pemberley,” Darcy answered, more readily than he usually spoke of private matters. “Though she has not yet learnt to prefer solitude as much as I once imagined myself to do.”
Mrs. Gardiner smiled. “You speak as though solitude were a difficult accomplishment.”
“Perhaps,” said Darcy after a slight pause, “it is only agreeable until one grows too accustomed to it.”
The words escaped him almost unexpectedly. The openness of the remark surprised even himself.
Mrs. Gardiner looked at him with a degree of attention which made him momentarily regret having spoken so openly. Yet before the conversation could proceed further, Mr. Gardiner said, “Our niece, who travels with us, would particularly have admired this room.”
Darcy looked towards him.
“Indeed?”
“She has a taste for this sort of prospect – and for walking. Lambton has pleased her exceedingly.”
There was something in the remark – something too slight to have attracted notice under ordinary circumstances – which nevertheless caused Darcy’s attention to sharpen.
“A niece?” he repeated.
“Yes. My sister’s daughter. She…”
At that instant, Mrs. Reynolds stepped forward with respectful urgency. “If you please, sir, the library remains to be shown.”
The interruption broke the moment entirely.
Darcy stepped aside at once.
“Certainly, Mrs. Reynolds. I must not detain you further.”
He bowed to the Gardiners. “I hope the remainder of the house may continue to please you.”
“It already has exceedingly,” said Mrs. Gardiner warmly.
“And not merely the house,” added her husband with evident sincerity.
Darcy inclined his head, perhaps more affected by the remark than he chose to show.
Then, with another bow, he withdrew.
And only the following morning did he understand how near he had unknowingly stood to hearing the name of Elizabeth Bennet.