As soon as he was certain no passers-by were near enough to overhear, he turned to his sister riding beside him. “I am sorry if my appearance on Monday gave you cause for alarm. It was naught serious, but I ought to have told you that sooner.”
“There is no need to apologise.”
“Yes, there is. It was selfish of me not to consider how seeing me thus might distress you. I have been careless with your feelings too often of late, and I apologise. I shall endeavour to be more attentive in future and to cancel no more engagements.”
“I do not need you to be more attentive,” Georgiana replied, her voice quiet but her tone uncommonly severe. “I can live very well without ices at Gunter’s orRomeo and Juliet. You must truly think me a child yet if you believe my only concern is for my own entertainment.”
Darcy returned his gaze to the distant trees, frowning in consternation. “It was not my intention to cause further offence.”
“You misunderstand me. I am not offended or feeling neglected. I am concerned—foryou.”
He tugged his horse’s reins, needlessly adjusting its heading. Was there a woman alive he did not misunderstand? “I see. Thank you.”
“I understand,” she said with a quiet sigh.
“Would you care to enlighten me? Because I do not.”
That earned him a sad smile. “It grieves me to see you unhappy, Fitzwilliam. I wish it were in my power to relieve your pain, yet I am too young to be of any use as a sister, too old to be your daughter and too much a woman to be your friend. I fear the years that separate us will forever be an obstacle.”
It was a poignant summation of their relationship. Compared to Elizabeth’s intimacy with Miss Bennet, Darcy’s attachment to his sister was markedly patriarchal. What can a young man do with a baby sister, after all, but dote on her? Yet, he was no longer so very young, and she was assuredly no longer an infant. Perchance they had, at last, reached an age where they might enjoy a more equal friendship. After all, a full eight years separated him from Elizabeth, and he craved her companionship like nothing else. “Not as much as they have been, I think,” he offered with a gentle smile.
A mix of hope and delight overspread her countenance as she enquired whether that meant he would now tell her what troubled him. He baulked at the prospect—then, just as quickly, imagined Elizabeth laughing at him for it. She would no doubt accuse him of being unsocial and draw from him more than he intended to reveal, as she had done on so many occasions. There was no doubt she would have better understood, better respected him, had he been less reserved.
“I have,” he began, his eyes fixed on the trees ahead, “through my mistaken pride, lost the chance to wed a lady whom I greatly admire. It has been difficult to accept both my mistakes and my loss.”
Georgiana gasped softly. “I had no idea you liked her so very well.”
He looked at her sharply. “Of whom do you speak?”
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
He looked back to the trees, hoping his mortification was not obvious.
“It is her you admire, is it not?”
He breathed deeply but then conceded with a nod. “How did you know?”
“You spoke well of her in your letters, and Mr Bingley said you enjoyed her company.”
He pressed his lips together in vexation. Bingley—indiscretionpersonified.
“What did you mean,” Georgiana went on, “when you said your mistaken pride had lost you the chance to wed?”
“I would not dwell on this, Georgiana. Suffice to say that her opinion of me is not as great as my own has been, and my arrogance gave her reason to believe other, less favourable reports of my character.”
“What reports? Who does she know that would speak ill of you?”
His instinct was to shield Georgiana from the painful truth, yet his pledge to treat her more equally forbade it. It was nonetheless with great caution that he informed her of Wickham’s part in his present misery. Her response surprised him, being more furious than distraught.
“Has he not done us enough harm? He is entirely unrepentant!”
Her horse skittered sideways, startled by her outburst. Darcy grabbed for its reins, easing the beast closer to his own.
“Unfortunately, yes, he is. I doubt he will ever improve.”
“Then I pity the next person he importunes, for it is too much to hope he will not impose upon anybody else.”
A horrible foreboding blossomed in the pit of Darcy’s stomach. Elizabeth had never sought Fitzwilliam’s corroboration of the account of Wickham’s character he gave in his letter. He knew not whether she had even read it. Part of him hoped she had not, for it was full of bitterness and resentment. Yet, if she had not, and she was still enamoured of the fiend… Repugnant visions of Wickham’s filthy hands on her and her reputation in tatters filled his head.
