Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Darcy had written his sister’s name three times before he allowed himself to continue.
My dear Georgiana,
He paused, pen hovering. Brutus lay at his feet, chin on his paws, eyes half-lidded but alert enough to register the slightest shift of movement.
The library windows stood open to the afternoon; voices drifted faintly from elsewhere in the house, the murmur of activity that Netherfield never quite escaped.
I hope this letter finds you in good health and spirits. I trust Pemberley remains much as I left it, and that you have not been overburdened by visitors or correspondence in my absence.
That would do for civility. He read it once, then continued, more cautiously.
I write to ask after a matter which has occurred to me of late, and upon which I find my own recollection insufficient. Do you remember, among Father’s books, a small volume kept apart from the others—bound plainly, without title upon the spine?
He stopped. The phrasing felt clumsy. Too abrupt.
He crossed out kept apart and rewrote the line above it.
a volume he did not often bring out, but which you may recall seeing inside the cabinet in the drawing-room.
The pen dragged slightly at the curve of the dash. Darcy set it down and pressed his fingers to his brow.
The door opened without knock or permission. “Oh, Mr Darcy, there you are!”
Miss Bingley entered as though she had been expected, though he had not summoned her. She carried a folded paper and an air of decision.
“I wondered where you had gone. Mrs Nicholls has settled the matter of the menu, and Sir William has been most obliging about a referral for the musicians. Though I do hope that one flutist we had the dubious pleasure of hearing at the Assembly will find himself indisposed for the occasion. We must decide whether the supper will be laid in two courses or three.”
“I am occupied,” Darcy said, without looking up.
“Oh, yes, but this will only take a moment. Now, I understand the, ah… the locals are still quite satisfied with two courses, but I fancy three, in the French style. It has become quite the fashion in London, of course, but shall the provincials of Meryton think us unpatriotic?”
“Have two, then.”
“Two! I daresay Netherfield can bear the expense of a lavish party, Mr Darcy!”
He shook his head, his eyes never leaving his letter. “Then amuse yourself by having a third. I must beg your pardon, Miss Bingley.” He dipped his pen again.
If it is still there, I should be obliged if you would send it to me. But not to Netherfield, as I anticipate I shall stop in London some while this Season.
That was too much. He struck through obliged and replaced it with glad.
Miss Bingley glanced at the page. “Writing to Miss Darcy?”
“Yes.”
“How conscientious of you.” She moved closer, peering with open curiosity. “I hope you are not alarming your sister with tales of militia officers and provincial excitements.”
He angled the paper away. “I am not.”
“Good. Dear Georgiana is far too sensible to be troubled with unnecessary speculations.”
The word struck too close.
Darcy’s jaw tightened. He continued writing, his hand firmer now.
You need not trouble yourself to search for it if it is no longer at hand. I ask only because a reference was made recently that put me in mind of it, and I find I dislike not knowing whether my memory has embroidered the thing beyond recognition.
He stared at the sentence. The word reference sat there like a lie. And he knew very well that the book was certainly “at hand,” for it was precisely where he had told her to look.
He drew a line through the entire paragraph.
Miss Bingley cleared her throat. “Mr Darcy, I should dearly like to know your opinion—truly, do you think a third course—”
“I have no opinion on the matter,” he said, evenly.
She laughed. “You always say that, and yet you always do. Mrs Nicholls insists the supper must follow the dancing without delay, or the room will lose its air. I told her you would know best.”
“I care little for the matter.”
Miss Bingley watched him a moment longer, then sighed. “Very well. I shall tell them you are being inscrutable again.” She turned toward the door, then paused. “You will join us shortly?”
“In time.”
She left, but not until she had hovered in the still-open door, as if waiting for him to call her back. Darcy did not look up until the door closed and her footsteps faded outside.
He looked down at the letter.
The page bore his sister’s name, the opening civility, and then a confusion of crossed lines and half-erased intentions. What remained read like the work of a man attempting to approach a subject without admitting it existed.
He added one final line, smaller than the rest.
And tell me, if you would, how the grounds fare. Whether the lower walk has altered at all since Michaelmas, or if the old markers near the beech stand as they always have.
That, at least, was harmless.
He folded the paper once. Twice.
Then unfolded it again.
The questions, laid bare, looked worse than foolish. They looked suggestible. He imagined Georgiana reading them, her brow knitting, her voice cautious as she sought to answer without understanding what he had failed to explain.
Darcy tore the sheet cleanly in half. Then again.
He gathered the pieces and dropped them into the fire, watching until the edges curled and the words vanished entirely. He would have to write a clean draught.
Brutus shifted at his feet, as if dissatisfied with the conclusion.
“Yes,” Darcy said quietly. “I thought so too.”
He rose, pushing back his chair, and left the library without looking again at the desk.
Darcy left the library by the side passage, taking the stairs two at a time more from irritation than haste.
The upper corridor lay quiet, the afternoon light stretching long across the carpet.
He had gone no farther than the turn toward his chamber when he nearly collided with a footman ascending with a small stack of letters balanced upon a salver.
“Mr Darcy, my apologies.” The man halted at once. “I was just coming up with the post. This arrived for you.”
Darcy stopped. “Thank you.”
The footman offered the salver. Darcy’s eye passed over the familiar hands and seals without interest until it reached the last.
Rosings.
The crest was unmistakable. The wax had been impressed with decisive force, as though hesitation itself were a fault to be corrected.
He took the letter. “Please lay the others on the writing desk in the drawing room. I will attend to them later. That will be all.”
“Very good, sir.” The servant withdrew.
Darcy did not open it at once. He turned the letter over once in his hand, then again, as though the seal itself might yield something before he was obliged to break it.
The corridor felt suddenly exposed. Too open.
He folded the paper against his palm and continued on toward his chamber, shutting the door behind him before he allowed himself to pause.
Only then did he look at it properly—the familiar crest, the decisive press of wax, the unmistakable weight of expectation it carried.
He broke the seal.
My dear Nephew,
It has come to my attention, through channels I need not name, that you are presently established at Netherfield in Hertfordshire, and yet have not thought it necessary to apprise your family of this circumstance.
I find this omission remarkable, given the proximity of events which have, for some time now, required attentiveness rather than absence.
Darcy rubbed the bridge of his nose and read on.
Mr Collins has written to me with an account of his recent introduction to the neighbourhood, and of the conversations which have naturally arisen therefrom.
I am pleased to learn that he has comported himself with the propriety I have always encouraged, and that he has taken it upon himself to speak with appropriate seriousness on matters of inheritance and responsibility.
Such subjects ought not to be treated lightly, particularly at a moment when long-standing arrangements are due for consideration.
He stared at the words harder as his thumb pressed more firmly into the edge of the paper.
I cannot suppose that your presence in Hertfordshire is accidental.
If you imagine that silence will delay what has long been in preparation, you mistake both the nature of obligation and the patience of those who have preserved it.
Certain arrangements do not lapse simply because one chooses not to attend to them.
There are places, Darcy, where duties must be acknowledged, whether or not one finds the subject agreeable.
The pen nib had pressed harder here; the strokes grew darker, less ornamental.
You are, of course, aware that your own position presents a convergence of duty and heritage such as not been seen in a dozen generations.
Mismanaged though it was, it shall not now be squandered through inattention or misdirection.
I had hoped that the advantages of your birth, so carefully aligned, and at no small cost, would have produced a more immediate understanding of what is now required.
Darcy’s teeth met hard enough to ache. He read the line again, then a third time, as though repetition might render it less offensive.
It did not.
Anne’s constitution has improved sufficiently that there can be no further excuse for delay, and it would be folly to pretend otherwise.
The suitability of her situation has never been in question; indeed, it was precisely this suitability that was once expected to answer a deficiency elsewhere.
That it has not done so as fully as one might have wished does not render the design void, only incomplete.