Chapter One #4
The portrait of the king was a copy of Ramsay’s coronation portrait. In the painting, His Majesty was young and almost handsome. It was quite unlike the way the sovereign had appeared when Darcy had been blessed to be close enough to clearly see him.
Had it been too much concern for duty and morality that drove His Majesty to lose his wits at last? Farmer George had been, all in all, a good king.
Seventy years of duty would ruin the sanity of any man.
Darcy was filled with a deep melancholy. He loathed his duty. He loathed the thing in him that carried him forward, making him do what he believed he must, whether he liked the notion or not.
If only he could delay!
Darcy did not trust himself.
One delay.
One indulgence of his weakest self. It would mean nothing. Just a short deferment before he did his duty.
And that weakness would grow, and it would grow, and it would grow, and soon he would never do anything he did not wish to do, no matter how important it was.
An heir was of the utmost importance.
Not really. Nothing really matters. Nothing except Emily.
Darcy stared at the oil-rendered face of the young king who had become an old madman. He tried to take inspiration from the image. He tried to feel his former schoolboy reverence for the monarch and the mystic connection between His Majesty and every loyal Briton.
The king had lavished great care and attention on the education of the Prince Regent.
Even a concerned and devoted parent could produce a child with a temperament and habits the opposite of his own.
There was nothing that foresight and effort could do to make it impossible for a bad branch to grow from a good tree.
He should not be angry at the entailment. He should bless it.
Had he failed his father by becoming the sort of man that he was?
He had always tried so hard to do what was right.
A white face. An expression of shock. Only visible for an instant.
The eerie bluish light of a harvest moon.
Mary’s terrified face in that second before she hit the ground was imprinted on Darcy’s mind more deeply than the moment Emily was first presented to him, or when he had seen his father’s cold dead face after the old man could not be wakened in his bed.
She had briefly known she was falling before she hit the ground.
The bones of the legs cracking and the head smashing against the stone.
“My dear fellow! You had better dance.” Bingley grinned.
He had taken Georgiana down the line again in this set but had stepped out from the pattern to speak to Darcy.
“You have been quite social this evening, and I would hate to see you regress to your usual state of standing about the corners of every room in a stupid manner and staring at portraits.”
Darcy glared back at his friend.
Georgiana also approached. She frowned at her brother. “You do not look well.”
“I am perfectly content,” Darcy replied.
Anger at his current ill humour being noticed rushed through him. He hated this tightness in his chest. He hated the way that he could not manage emotions that in the past never required management.
Georgiana put a hand on his arm. “We can return to Netherfield early. You must not strain yourself.”
“I have a duty.”
“Oh no! I am satisfied. I have danced enough. But I am glad you brought me.” Her look was one of concern. The way she had looked at him ever since Mary died.
Darcy wondered whether Georgiana thought that he had killed Mary.
“Please, return to the line and find what pleasure you might tonight. I am done.”
At hearing this Bingley exclaimed, “Nonsense! Nonsense. Why, there are a great many pretty girls here, and you have only danced with a few of them. Nonsense.”
“None of my partners were pretty,” Darcy replied sharply.
Georgiana’s eyes went wide. “You must not say that. Even I know that.”
“I would not be so fastidious as you for a kingdom,” Bingley replied. “But look—Miss Elizabeth sits there. You cannot deny that she is pretty enough to tempt you.”
“I do not deny that,” Darcy said yet more loudly. “Rather she is too pretty to tempt me. I know the character of pretty women, and I shall never dance with another one. Leave me and finish your dance with Georgie. It is not polite to leave her standing about.”
“Oh, I do not mind,” Georgiana said. “But you ought to dance with Miss Elizabeth. She put me quite at my ease. I hope to pursue a further acquaintance with her.”
“Then you do so for your own sake,” Darcy replied. “Leave me in peace.”
He was on the verge of becoming furious with his own sister for attempting to be kind and of use to him. What had become of him? He had once been able to keep himself under good regulation. He felt suddenly on the verge of tears.
Georgiana put her hand on his arm. She smiled up at him and said, “If this is what you think is best.”
Bingley and Georgiana left.
Darcy glanced over again at Miss Elizabeth. She studied him with a disapproving frown, and her air made him suspect that she had heard most of his words.
He was not quite sure what he thought about that.