Duty and Desire: A Novel of Fitzwilliam Darcy, Gentleman

Darcy settled back into the dark green squabs of his traveling coach as the tollgate at Hampstead vanished behind them in the half-light of early morning. Unbuttoning his greatcoat only enough to reach inside his waistcoat, he pulled out his pocket watch and held it up to the feeble light. It was a quarter past seven, which meant that they had taken less than an hour to navigate the streets of the city and pass through the toll. Now, the road before the horses lay wide and free. The smart snap of his driver’s whip cracked against the approaching dawn, assuring Darcy that James, his coachman, was not unaware of these excellent conditions or of his master’s impatience to be home. The coach surged forward.

Home! Darcy closed his eyes and relaxed into the dip and sway of the coach. He had barely allowed himself to think of Pemberley or even the journey there until the truth of his departure made itself apparent to all his senses. Now he could think of it, for the obstacles had all been swept away yesterday as if by miracle.

Hinchcliffe had laid the last bit of business before him by eleven, giving him ample opportunity for a light luncheon and an invigorating turn about the square before his appointment with Lawrence. That interview had gone surprisingly well, and Darcy left Cavendish Square for his club with the famed artist firmly commissioned to see Georgiana for preliminary sketches within a week of their arrival in Town. A multitude of carriages in the street and servants about the doors forewarned him that Boodle’s would be crowded, and for distaste of more undesired attention, he almost turned away. But as he made his way around the salons and card tables, the talk had been all of a young peer newly returned from the Continent whose maiden speech before Parliament had sent the Tory majority into a choking fury.

“The fellow’s a lunatic,” more than one of Darcy’s fellow members had voiced. “Or worse,” had been the usual rejoinder concerning the impassioned but ill-judged speech in defense of the loom-smashing followers of “General Lud” against the current Bill that called for their summary execution.

“He must relish living dangerously,” Lord Devereaux ventured as he threw down his hand in response to Darcy’s king of diamonds, “for he also is in a fair way of becoming Lady Caroline’s new pet…and Lamb’s latest humiliation. Did you observe them at Melbourne’s on Friday?” Darcy’s ears had pricked up at the reference to the scandalous evening of his, or rather, his valet’s triumph.

“Good Lord, yes! What a display!” Sir Hugh Goforth replied, “Thought Lamb would call the fellow out for encouraging his wife in such an outrageous start. If she were my wife, the lady would now be stitching handkerchiefs behind locked doors on my remotest estate, and my Lord Byron would be awaking about this time in the hold of an India-bound ship.”

A chorus of nods had agreed with this avowal, and not long after, the game broke up. Darcy called for his coat and took his leave shortly thereafter without even one inquiry about the accursed knot. As Boodle’s door closed behind him, he’d thanked Heaven that the actions of the dangerously foolish Lord Byron had so quickly displaced his notoriety in the public mind.

The last appointment of the day had been the one he had most dreaded. His preoccupation with the coming evening could not have been more obvious. Fletcher, while carefully preparing him for dinner at Aldford Street, had been forced to issue discreet instructions in order to get the task done. All his concentration on the evening ahead of him, Darcy had not noticed his funereal appearance until he had entered Bingley’s drawing room at the appointed hour and was greeted by a pair of startled looks.

“What is this, Darcy! No bad news, I hope!” Bingley had risen and quickly come to his side, while his sister had laid a hand to her heart and brought a handkerchief to her lips.

“Bad news?” Darcy stared at the two in confusion. “I should think not! Why should you think that?”

“Your dress, Darcy.” The worry on his friend’s face changed into amusement. “For a moment I thought the King had died! What is your man thinking of, turning you out like a great black crow?” He’d laughed as he circled round his friend to observe the entire effect.

Darcy had looked down then at the unrelieved black of his costume and pursed his lips in ire at Fletcher, but there was naught he could do. What cannot be mended must be borne, he had reminded himself, but his valet’s message was very clear.

“Mr. Darcy looks like nothing remotely resembling a crow, Charles.” Miss Bingley had recovered herself and advanced toward them. “It is the fashion now for gentlemen to dress with such understated elegance, à la Brummell. Mr. Darcy is merely in advance of the style, which you would do well to emulate, Brother.” Darcy bowed over her hand and was surprised to feel it grip his own in signal, but of what, he knew not.

“Well, if not a crow, then a raven…a very Brummellian raven, if you must have it so, Caroline!” Bingley laughed, but the smile behind his eyes was faint. “But come, Darcy. Dinner is ready, and it is just the three of us tonight.” He sighed then and lapsed into silence as they crossed the room and hall.

“You must wonder to see me in Town, Mr. Darcy.” Miss Bingley eyed her brother nervously, and her voice quavered. “Charles was most surprised, thinking he had left me well situated in Hertfordshire, which, of course, he had. But, alas, I am not as enamored of the country as my brother…at least, not of Hertfordshire. I ask you, sir, what would I do with only Louisa and Hurst for company! And at this season!” She laughed, but its pitch rang false. Darcy noticed Bingley flinch at the sound.

“The neighborhood was at your feet, Caroline,” Bingley said quietly. “You would not have lacked for company, I am certain.”

“Perhaps you are right, but I should have greatly missed our friends in Town. And the shopping, you know! What is Meryton to London for shopping?” Miss Bingley had looked to Darcy for confirmation.

“I would gladly have squired you on a shopping expedition,” Bingley replied before Darcy could come to his sister’s assistance. “There was no need to close Netherfield.” She began to protest, but he cut her off. “But this is ground already covered, and I am sure we do not wish to bore Darcy with family squabbles.” Miss Bingley colored at his words, casting a brief, pleading look in Darcy’s direction.

Darcy hesitated. The atmosphere was fraught with tension, and for perhaps the first time, he was finding it difficult to read his friend. Had Miss Bingley followed his instructions, or had the two gone toe-to-toe over Miss Bennet? Bingley offered him no clues; his eyes focused upon his plate as servants flittered about, performing the well-choreographed motions of serving a gentleman’s dinner.

Miss Bingley delicately cleared her throat. “How went your interview with Lawrence today?” Bingley’s eyes came up, his countenance suggesting that he was willing to be amused.

“Quite well, actually,” Darcy replied, thankful to be relieved of the responsibility of lighting upon a topic of conversation. “I expected to be treated to all manner of high, artistic sensibilities and nerves, but Lawrence was quite civil, and his studio was in every way respectable.”

“No paint thrown against the walls or scandalously clad models lying about, then?”

Darcy laughed. “No, nothing of the kind. I am sorry to disappoint you, but it was all rather businesslike. I was shown to his study, offered tea, and asked what sort of portrait I had in mind. We then repaired to his studio, where he showed me samples of his finished work and some in progress. We agreed upon a date for Georgiana’s first sitting, I was thanked for my patronage and shown out the door. Done and done in a matter of three-quarters of an hour!”

“Shocking! All my notions of artists are tumbled over,” Bingley quipped in a manner more like himself. “I suppose I must content myself with Lord Brougham’s description of L’Catalani’s hysterics on Thursday last to sustain my impression of the artistic temperament.”

The rest of their dinner was taken in the same light manner. Miss Bingley relaxed and talked somewhat as they ate but refrained from her customary domination of the conversation. Instead, she occupied herself with indulgent attention to her brother’s stories, punctuating them with meaningful glances in Darcy’s direction, the content of which he could only guess. By the time Bingley had excused Darcy and himself to his study after dinner, she was biting her lower lip, but whether in vexation or agitation of nerves, Darcy could not tell.

Charles again fell silent as they strolled to the study, and not finding a creditable way of relieving it, Darcy had followed suit. The door had not even clicked behind them before Charles was extending a heavy, cut-glass tumbler of light amber liquor toward him. His own he held up in salute and downed it entire as Darcy looked on in consternation.

“Charles…” he began, but was stopped by the closed eyes and uncharacteristically grim line of his friend’s mouth. Bingley opened his eyes then and tilted his head at him.

“Do you remember our conversation at the coaching inn? You warned me there of my propensity to exaggerate.” Bingley’s gaze bore into his own, and it required a good deal of command on Darcy’s part not to look away.

“Yes, I remember,” he replied quietly.

“Also, you cautioned me of becoming so enthralled with the phantoms of my imagination that I would estrange myself from my family, friends, and society in general.” Bingley withdrew his gaze and turned to pour another round from the decanter.

“You were more than tolerant of my advice, Charles,” Darcy offered, still unsure of his friend’s state of mind. Bingley held out the decanter to him, but he refused it.

“I have thought a great deal about what you said, Darcy. I have argued with myself and, in my mind, with you as well.” He bent and snatched away the scattering of papers from the chairs by the hearth, then indicated they should sit down. “I have spent the last two days since her surprising arrival testing what I believed true against Caroline’s observations.”

Darcy now remembered squirming in his chair at this point in Bingley’s narrative, but he hoped it had not been so. Bingley had paused and looked into the flames of the hearth for so long a time that Darcy had been hard put to maintain a disinterested attitude. Then, with a small sigh, his friend had continued.

“I have also thought long on Lord Brougham’s admonition, and in the light of the love my friends and family bear me, I have come to a conclusion.” He lifted his eyes again and with a self-deprecating smile confessed, “You were right, Darcy. I have greatly misled myself in believing Miss Bennet offered anything more than her friendship. It was all my own doing. No blame should ever be attached to her, ever.” He took another swallow from his glass. “She will always be my ideal of womanhood…her beauty, her gentleness. I shall carry her always with me, but to further my desires would only cause her distress; and that I could not bear,” he ended in a whisper.

As the coach sped north through the gathering dawn, Darcy recalled how he had looked down into his glass, unable to think of what he should reply. He had achieved his object with, as it seemed, fewer tedious confrontations than he had feared and had retained Bingley’s friendship in the bargain. Yet he could not entirely rejoice in his success. Relief, he concluded, was his chief emotion. There was little danger of encountering the Bennet sisters ever again. Charles would survive his heartbreak and not blame Darcy for it. But it pained him to see Charles, whose habitually sunny disposition had supported his own more reserved one on so many occasions, so dispirited.

“It is for the best,” he had finally uttered, and he found himself repeating the maxim now.

“Mr. Darcy?” In the opposite corner Fletcher struggled to attention from a doze that had begun mere blocks from Grosvenor Square. “Pardon me, sir. Did you say something?”

“‘It is for the best,’ Fletcher. It usually is; is it not?”

His valet gave him a brief, curious look before sliding back into his restful position against the cushions. “If it has been placed in the hands of Providence, sir, it is invariably so.”

“Heigh-yup, there!” Darcy leaned forward, almost pressing his face against the coach’s window as James encouraged the team’s leader to take the curve that would bring them into Lambton at a safer pace. He knew their temperament, as the horses were Darcy’s own, kept against his return at the last posting inn before Lambton; and their eagerness to get back to their familiar stable boxes was keeping James well occupied with the ribbons. Snow lying a foot deep glinted and winked at Darcy under a brilliant but chill winter sun as the coach jounced and labored through the ruts carved into the road. It was late afternoon as they approached the village, yet despite the dusting of snow that morning, Lambton bustled in its own country way, shaking out its apron and getting on with its small concerns as confidently as any great London establishment.

The horses were reined in to a walk as they entered St. John Street and passed the village’s now-frozen pond. Several big lads armed with brooms were ranged against one another on its icy surface waiting for one of their mates to launch the stone down a path cleared of the morning’s offering. Before they were lost from view, Darcy saw the stone curled and the other lads furiously brushing the ice to assist its slide.

“Strapping curl, that,” Fletcher commented as he sat back again after joining his master at the window. Darcy grunted a cordial agreement, his attention already engaged in taking note of any changes in the village since his departure in early fall. New rooftile here and a bit of whitewashing there were the only differences, but the snow hugging the corners and o’erhanging the eaves of the snug houses and familiar establishments of Lambton framed a view for him second only to Pemberley itself in dearness.

A shout from the street caused Darcy and Fletcher to look ahead. With effort Darcy repressed the smile of anticipation on his face as the keepers of both the Green Man and Black’s Head inns emerged from their doors on opposite sides of the street at the same moment. For several years now it had been a point of honor between the two to be the first to greet any Darcy equipage that passed through the village. Last fall Matling, of the Black’s Head, had hustled out his wife to add her curtsy to his tug of the forelock when Darcy had left for London, causing old Garston of the Green Man to look daggers at his rival as the coach had passed. Today, Darcy could see, Matling had his wife by his side once more, and he nodded an acknowledgment of the pair’s greeting as he passed by. But as Matling looked to the steps of the Green Man to crow his victory, Darcy observed the pleasure his regard had brought fade away, to be replaced with a terrible scowl.

“Mr. Darcy, look, sir!” Fletcher’s voice almost choked with laughter as he motioned at the opposite window. There on the steps of the Green Man, arranged from the oldest to the youngest, were all of old Garston’s grandchildren, curtsying or tugging, with Garston himself beaming and tugging behind them.

The children gave a cheer as Darcy, shaking his head at the innkeepers’ rivalry, waved to them. When the carriage turned the corner, he settled back into the seat with a grin matching that upon his valet’s face. The horses were permitted to pick up their pace a bit as they reached the end of the line of shops on St. John and turned onto King Street. In moments they passed the village well, its pure waters famous for staving off the Black Death of one hundred and fifty years before. Next came the tree-bordered lane that led up a gentle hill to St. Lawrence’s Church, whose embattled tower and spires had stood against the world for five hundred years, answering to Heaven for three of those centuries for the well-being of Darcy souls. Then it was over an ancient stone bridge spanning the Ere, which met and meandered along Pemberley’s border, and on to the gates of the park five miles beyond at as spanking a pace as the road would allow.

“It will be good to be home, sir,” Fletcher offered as Darcy once again turned to the window, eager for the long-desired sight of his ancestral lands and home.

“Mmm” was all he replied as the coach pulled into the lane and up to the imposing gates that were, even now, being flung open in welcome. Pemberley’s gatekeeper waved the team and coach through and, pausing to tug at his forelock, lifted a wide smile in greeting to the travelers before scurrying to close the wrought-iron barrier behind them.

“Is that a sprig of holly in Samuel’s cap, Fletcher?” Darcy nodded appreciatively at his gatekeeper’s warm welcome.

“I believe it is, sir. Yes, indisputably holly. Entirely appropriate, because of the season, sir.”

“Ah, yes…the season.” Darcy fell silent once more, his attention wholly focused on their passage down the long drive. The private lane wove its unhurried way through the wood that girdled the outer reaches of the park. Designed a century ago under the aegis of Darcy’s great-grandfather, it required approaching visitors to slow their horses to a collected trot and then rewarded their patience with more than a few charming views of the secluded glades and tumbling streams that formed the natural beauty of Pemberley’s lands.

The great trees bordering the lane were heavy-laden with snow, and in the late afternoon sun, they cast long, lavender shadows across the lane and into the wood beyond, enveloping the coach in a frosty stillness that defied the reality of its steady progress. Darcy opened the window and took a deep breath of the sharp air, savoring the familiar, tangy taste of it like a fine wine. They were almost there. The team quickened their gait, their excitement transmitting itself to the occupants of the coach moments before they broke free from the wood at the crest of the hill. Suddenly, all of Pemberley lay before them.

The mellow walls of the west façade glowed rosily in the light of the setting sun, the corners cooling to violet as they glanced away from the fading glow. Despite that orb’s impending retreat, the windows of Pemberley seemed to gather the remaining fire. Themselves ablaze with reflected glory, they mirrored the red-gold rays out upon the surrounding snow, the effect immeasurably heightened by its twin reflected in the frozen pond below. Seeing it, Darcy felt his heart turn over and the weight of the past weeks lighten.

They began their descent from the crest immediately. The horses, atremble with desire for home, broke into a canter from which no one in the coach wished to dissuade them. The pounding of their hooves beat at counterpoint to the creak of leather and wood and the rattle of glass as they reached the bottom of the hill. Rounding the last curve of the lane, they flung stones and mud about in a grand show of homecoming. As they reached the straight-laid approach to Pemberley Hall, Darcy could hear James calling to the leader while he worked the ribbons upon the team’s tender mouths. The horses slowed to a trot, then a fast, stiff-legged walk, and finally, a stroll that brought the coach to a gentle stop before the arched entrance of Pemberley’s enclosed courtyard.

Grooms from the stable caught at the ribbons of the leader, welcoming the horses home with rough affection. A small army of footmen appeared to wrest the trunks from the coach’s boot while the butler himself opened the coach door.

“Welcome home, Mr. Darcy! Welcome home, sir!” Reynolds’s voice shook slightly as Darcy climbed down from the coach.

“Reynolds! It is good to be home…more than good.” Darcy smiled back at another of his people who had known him since boyhood and then looked up at the greenery that bedecked the archway into the courtyard. “You have received my instructions, I see.”

“Yes, sir! We have made a beginning, but Miss Darcy wanted to consult with you more particularly before we proceeded any further with decorations.” Reynolds leaned forward conspiratorially and whispered, “She’s been happy as a grig, sir, going through all the gewgaws in the attics and inspecting the Christmas linen and plate. Thanks be!” He straightened then and turned to direct the disposal of the trunks while Darcy strode through the archway.

As Darcy lengthened his stride toward the double-flighted stair leading into the hall, he looked up to catch a flash of color at the second-floor window that commanded the most favorable view of the approaching. He stopped and with narrowed eye searched the window for another glimpse. None was vouchsafed to him; so, with a smile to himself, he proceeded up one of the stairs, his hands already working at his greatcoat buttons so as to divest himself of encumbrances as soon as he was inside the doors. The task was completed as the doors swung open and the coat neatly shrugged off into the care of a footman, but to no purpose. Georgiana was not in the hall. He looked about questioningly but recalled himself as Mrs. Reynolds and the upper staff bowed their greetings to the master.

“Mr. Darcy, welcome home, sir!” The housekeeper repeated both the words and the heartfelt sincerity of her husband’s greeting.

“Mrs. Reynolds! Thank you. It is very good to be home, ma’am.” Darcy grinned down into the face of a woman who had been intimate with the life of his family since he was four years old. “Is Miss Darcy not here to greet me?”

“Miss Darcy will receive you in the music room, sir, as is proper, she being no longer a moppet-miss, arunning down the stairs the moment you come home,” Mrs. Reynolds scolded him affectionately. “Now it is you who must run! Up to the music room with you, sir, to a sight that will gladden your heart.” Her words caught in her throat for a moment as her old eyes misted. “As it has gladdened this old soul’s.” She whisked a handkerchief from her apron pocket and wiped her eyes as she motioned with the other hand to the stairs. “Go on with you!”

“Yes, ma’am,” Darcy responded obediently, then qualified it with a sly smile. “If you will have dinner early this evening. The talents of the new cook at the Leicester Arms were somewhat questionable; thus, I have not partaken of more than bread, cheese, and local brew since before noon.”

“No more than we suspected, sir.” Mrs. Reynolds sniffed. “Miss Darcy has planned a fine welcome dinner that will be ready at six o’clock, if it pleases you, sir.”

“Miss Darcy has?” Darcy looked up the stairs in wonder. “You will excuse me, ma’am.” He nodded to her curtsy and made for the stairs to the first floor. A spark of hope made common cause with his ever-vigilant caution in all things touching his sister as Darcy hurried up to the music room. A few quick strides from the top, he slowed his pace in happy expectation of being welcomed with enticing strains from the pianoforte or a soft, melodious voice, but neither fell upon his ears. Only the tick of the great hall clock celebrated his approach.

What is Georgiana about? His brow furrowed in puzzlement. She had not come down to welcome him home nor, would it appear, was she occupied in greeting his arrival with song. Perhaps Mrs. Reynolds was mistaken and his sister did not await him in the music room. He stopped at the conjunction of the hall he now traversed with another, which led to the private family rooms, and bit his lower lip as he peered down each in turn, the accumulating silence preying upon his hopes. Could it be that he had deluded himself? Had the changes in her letters been merely his wishful thinking?

In an unease that increased with every step, Darcy continued down the darkening hall until he reached the edge of the softly glowing island of light that fell from the music room door. He stopped just outside its reaches and tried to throw his senses before him, as if he might in some way gain a premonition of what awaited him within. But no impression was gifted to him. Denied even a modicum of foreknowledge, he took a deep breath and quietly crossed the threshold.

She was sitting on one of the pair of divans that faced each other across a low table, her back to the window, her figure erect but pliant. She was attired becomingly in a fine blue wool frock edged with knitted lace, which, while modest, left no doubt that she had bid girlhood adieu. Her eyes were downcast, apparently fixed upon her delicately formed hands, which lay in her lap, allowing him only a view of the dark, glossy curls that framed her brow. There has been no change. Darcy’s shoulders sagged, his disappointment a keen-edged threat to the hope he had nurtured for the last several weeks. The temptation to despair nearly overtook him, but he thrust it away. Georgiana needed him, needed his strength; and in this, he vowed he would not fail her.

“Georgiana?” he ventured softly.

At her name, his sister’s head came up, and to Darcy’s amazement, merry stars danced for joy in the eyes that met his own. She rose gracefully from the divan, a shy smile wreathing her face, and, without a word, stretched out her arms to him. Without knowing how he came there, he found himself across the room, standing over her. “Georgiana!” he choked out, and in the next moment his arms were wonderfully engaged in holding the dearest of sisters against his heart.

“Dear Brother.” Georgiana breathed gently against his waistcoat. Darcy blinked rapidly several times before allowing her to pull away sufficiently to look up into his face. “I cannot tell you how happy I am that you are home!”

The purity of expression upon her face, so completely in opposition to her woeful melancholy of the summer past, bereft him of speech. He could only look with thankful wonder into the placid depths uplifted to him. Georgiana blushed at his scrutiny and rested her burning cheek once more upon his chest before he could assure her of his own joy in being home.

“I had meant to receive you properly,” she murmured against the haven within which he still held her. “I had meant to be quite formal, you know, and say, ‘So, you are home, Brother’ and ‘How was your journey?’” She pulled back from his embrace. “But it all flew out of my head when you came and stood over me. Oh, dear, dear Brother!” The smile she bestowed upon him gave Darcy’s heart to turn again within his chest, and once more he could not speak.

“Will you have some tea now before you dress for dinner? It is all here on the table.”

“Y-yes,” he managed to respond, “tea would be perfect.” He released her with reluctance and allowed her to lead him down onto the divan beside her. The dimple they both had inherited from their father peeped out from her softly rounded cheek as she set about pouring. It deepened yet more as she turned to present him his cup.

“There, you have not been gone so long that I have forgotten how you like it, but do tell me if I have remembered amiss.” He took the cup and sipped at it cautiously, determined to pronounce it perfect regardless of the taste. But there was no need of prevarication. It was just as he liked, and for some inexplicable reason, that fact seemed to loose a wave communicating sweet relief from the heavy, haunting guilt he had carried since spring. The sigh that escaped his lips was unquenchable. Georgiana laughed softly but, at the curious light that arose in his eyes, lowered her own to her cup in some confusion.

“You have remembered exactly, dearest,” Darcy hastened to assure her, hoping to see the dimple again, but Georgiana remained preoccupied with her cup. Although a hundred questions concerning her transformation fought one another to be voiced, he hesitated to broach the subject, fearful that its mention would shatter the wonderful peace that sheltered them at this moment. It would be better not to stray outside the bounds of polite social intercourse, he decided, until he was more sure of her condition. “Should you like to hear of my journey home?” he inquired gently, “or would you rather hear of London?”

At his question, her delicate chin rose slightly, but she still did not look at him, preferring instead to examine the intricacies of the tatting of her napkin. “Truly, Brother, I should like most of all to hear of Hertfordshire.” Her gaze flickered quickly to his face and then away. Darcy could not guess what she saw there, for his surprise at her request was complete, and he had had no opportunity to school his features.

“Hertfordshire!” he repeated, somewhat hoarsely. Something inside him clenched, and a sudden remembrance of lavender and sun-kissed curls sent shards of longing to pierce and shred what remained of his equanimity.

“Yes,” she replied, her dimple returning as she tilted her head and looked directly at him. “Your letter from London told nothing of the ball. Was it well attended?” The reanimation of her manner put Darcy in a quandary. How devoutly he wished to forget Hertfordshire or, at least, to relegate it to those times when he was safely alone and able to come to grips with the memories it conjured up. So quickly its mention had discomposed him, sending him into places he dared not go without great care. Yet this dangerous subject was the one thing that his sister most desired of him!

“Yes,” he answered her, looking away, “it was extremely well attended. It was not long before I began to believe that the entire county was in attendance.” He hoped his dampening tone would discourage any further probing.

“And Mr. Bingley? He must have been pleased that so many honored his invitation.” Georgiana smiled in anticipation of her brother’s affirmation of Bingley’s pleasure.

“Bingley was quite pleased.” Darcy paused, ostensibly to indulge in more of his tea but, in truth, to order his thoughts. “I should say that Miss Bingley was pleased as well. At least at the start of the evening,” he amended. A questioning look appeared on Georgiana’s face, but she did not pursue his qualification. Her interest, as he would discover, lay elsewhere.

“Did he dance with the young lady you wrote of? Miss Bennet?”

“Yes,” Darcy replied curtly.

“Did he show her any particular attention?” Darcy looked closely now at his sister but he could detect no ulterior interest in Bingley’s affairs in her bright eyes. No, she does not ask this for herself, he decided. She does not think of him as anything other than my friend.

“He very nearly made a fool of himself over her, I regret to say,” he replied in a voice rather more harsh than he had intended, “but he has come to his senses and put Miss Bennet behind him. I do not believe he will return to Hertfordshire,” he ended firmly but softened at his sister’s paled countenance. “It was nothing very shocking, Georgiana, just poor judgment on his part, I assure you. He is well out of it and a wiser man for it.”

“As you say…but poor Mr. Bingley!” Georgiana’s face clouded, and she looked down into her cup. After a few moments of silence between them, wherein Darcy deemed the subject closed, he put down his own cup and, relieving Georgiana of hers, possessed himself of her hands. They lay soft and compliant in his strong, corded ones, and she did not resist as he brought first one and then the other to his lips in tender salute.

“Do not concern yourself, dearest. He is a man grown and can take his knocks. You know his happy nature. He will recover.”

Georgiana returned him a serious regard. “But what of Miss Elizabeth Bennet? Did she correct her opinion of you? How shall I meet her if Mr. Bingley does not return to Hertfordshire or wish to renew the acquaintance?”

Darcy almost dropped her hands in astonishment. “Is this the meaning of your distress? You wish to meet Miss Elizabeth Bennet! Pray…why, Georgiana?”

His sister gently pulled her hands from his grasp and, with his eyes intent upon her, rose from the divan and walked to the old pianoforte at the window. She ran her fingers along its smooth, polished side before turning back to him and his question.

“I told you in my letter that I cannot bear to think that someone you admire does not return your admiration and, indeed, thinks ill of you. I would know whether she admitted her error.” She looked to him for confirmation but, seeing his face, hurried to add, “Oh, not in words, perhaps, but in her regard? Did you part on amiable terms?”

“As a gentleman, I cannot say whether the terms were regarded amiably on Miss Elizabeth’s part. That would be for her to affirm or deny,” Darcy replied carefully, his curiosity at his sister’s interest in Elizabeth overcoming his determination to put away all thoughts of her.

“Were they amiable on your part, then?” The innocent, hopeful look Georgiana cast him gave him to wish he had tried more faithfully to follow her sisterly advice.

“I followed your advice to the best of my poor ability.” He smiled ruefully as he joined her at the instrument. “I was as amiable as I am able to be on a ballroom floor.”

“You danced with her, then?”

Darcy could have groaned. The more he attempted to conceal, the more his sister seemed to learn. At this rate, she would soon be in possession of the entire story. He looked in wonder at her as she stood there before him, her eyes so alive with interest. Her transformation was astonishing—nay—miraculous, and Darcy meant to know exactly how it had taken place. He would start tomorrow. He made a mental note to interview at first light the woman under whose care Georgiana had overcome so grievous a wound.

He shook his head at her, refusing to answer her question, then smiled down into her upturned face. “My dear girl, if you would have a moment-by-moment account, you must provide me greater sustenance than a dish of tea. Now, what have you ordered for this dinner Mrs. Reynolds spoke of? For I warn you, I am that hungry!”

The dimple that cleft his cheek was swiftly matched by its feminine counterpart as Georgiana returned his loving gaze. Softly, she slipped into his arms once more. “Oh, Fitzwilliam, I am ever so glad you are home!”

His arms tightly woven about her, Darcy looked thankfully to Heaven and then, burying his face into her gathered curls, could only find the strength to whisper in reply, “No more than I, dearest. No more than I.”