“There, you see,” Elizabeth said as they came through the front door. “I can hear Georgiana at her practice still.”
“She is a good girl,” Bingley remarked. “Vastly less trying than my own sisters were at her age.”
He could not have known the very great anxiety this comment would cause her, and Elizabeth did her utmost to conceal any sign of it, but his reference to Georgiana’s sturdiness of character sent her mind racing down a most unwelcome path. She excused herself on the pretext of some menial task and went to her husband’s study to fretfully await his return.
“And has he stopped her writing to anybody else?”
“He did not say, but that is not the worst of it.”
“Pray, cease pacing and come to it then.”
Elizabeth obliged him insofar as she ceased pacing, yet she continued to prevaricate. “I am almost afraid to tell you, for I know how angry you will be.”
Darcy was already a good way beyond angry—with Jane, with Bingley, with Mrs Bennet, and with Ashby and his bloody wife. He watched Elizabeth bite her lip and rub her temples and grew angrier still at all those who continued to obtrude on her happiness. “Tell me.”
“Jane knows about Georgiana’s near elopement.”
He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth.
“I am sorry, Fitzwilliam. I meant not to break your confidence, only on the very day I returned home from Hunsford, Jane and I met Mr Wickham in the street. He was so vile, so charming, that I could not bear to see Jane taken in, so I told her. But I trusted her then. I never dreamt she might?—”
Darcy stepped forward and took her by the shoulders. “Calm yourself. I do not blame you for telling Jane. She is your sister. You could not have known how she would change.”
She let out a shaky breath and gave a weak smile of thanks. “But think you she will tell Lady Ashby?”
“I know not.”
“I should never forgive myself were Georgiana’s reputation tarnished because of me.”
“It would not be any fault of yours if it were,” he said firmly, pulling her into his embrace. “Leave it with me, love. I shall deal with it.”
Knightsbridge
11thFebruary
Ashby,
I am in no way surprised Darcy has written you such a letter if your wife has indeed been playing arson with his reputation, and neither ought you to be. I shall overlook the colourful rant you sent me on the assumption that you were not brave enough to direct it at him. Frankly, you ought to count yourself fortunate that his threats ended where they did and were not extended to include the removal of one or both of your ballocks.
May I presume, dear brother, that this is the reason for Lady Catherine’s displeasure? Your wife is making friends hand-over-fist, is she not? I suggest you encourage her in future to better select her enemies. The wives of men such as Darcy are not generally prudent marks.
Do not trouble yourself writing to Father. He will not intervene, and neither will I, for we both dislike your wife as much as you do. Knowing you prefer an uncomplicated existence, my advice is to shake off your indignation and concede to Darcy’s embargos.Opposing him will only cost you money and respect—and possibly a ballock.
Your younger and eminently wiser brother,
Fitzwilliam
Friday 19 February 1813, Derbyshire
Darcy gritted his teeth. “Your turn, Bingley.”
“I beg your pardon.” Bingley ceased staring from the window and turned over a card.
Darcy played another of his and returned to waiting. After a minute, he cleared his throat.
Bingley turned over another card.
“For crying out loud, that was a king!” Darcy exclaimed, tossing his hand down in disgust. This was precisely the inattention that had forced a premature end to their game of Vingt-et-un and Piquet before that, reducing them in desperation to playing Beggar-My-Neighbour.
