That line alone—he had stopped there, the first time, and simply stared. How long had he held his breath before reading on?
Darcy crossed to the hearth now, hands clasped behind his back. The fire crackled softly, as if keeping him company in silence. The study was warm, but his thoughts were elsewhere: in the green lanes of Hertfordshire, where she walked with robins singing nearby, seeking peace not from dislike of her family, but to hear her own thoughts.
She longed for stillness. He understood that, more than he could ever say.
The door opened behind him.
“Fitzwilliam?”
He turned.
At the threshold stood a young lady—tall, fair, and dressed with understated elegance. There was a composure to her figure, but in her eyes a softness still touched by shyness. She was Georgiana Darcy, sixteen years old, and his only sister. Her quiet manner often gave strangers the impression of timidity,but Darcy knew better. She was thoughtful, sensitive—and recovering.
“I hope I am not intruding,” she said gently.
“Not at all, Georgiana,” he replied at once. “Come in.”
She stepped closer, smiling as if expecting good news. Her brother caught that gleam and decided not to disappoint her.
“I meant to tell you at dinner—there’s a letter from Mr. Bingley,” she said. “There’s to be a ball at Netherfield later this month, as I told you he might. He invites us both—if you think it suitable.”
Georgiana looked slightly uncertain, unsure what to say first. But she would have accepted.
His gaze rested on her. “Would you like to go, Sister?”
Her answer did not come immediately. “I think I would,” she said at last. “If you come too. I have not danced in such a long time… half a year maybe, but it seems like an eternity.”
He heard the unspoken word Ramsgate in the space between her sentences and offered a quiet nod.
“Then we shall attend.”
Her face brightened. “Truly?”
He managed a faint smile. “Yes, truly. I think it will do you good.”
She lingered a moment longer, watching him. “You seem… thoughtful today.”
“I also received another letter.”
“From Hertfordshire?”
Darcy raised an eyebrow.
“You do not hide the direction well,” she said with a small smile. “Is it—was it a kind letter?”
He hesitated. “Yes. It was very kind.”
“Then I am truly glad,” Georgiana said simply. “I shall not disturb you further.”
After she left, he returned to the desk and laid a hand gently upon Elizabeth’s letter. It was not time to write again—not yet. The words must be chosen carefully, and nothing rushed.
But the silence within him felt changed.
Hope had entered the room—quietly, but unmistakably.
***
That evening, long after Georgiana had retired and the household had grown still, Mr. Darcy sat once more at his desk. A fresh sheet of paper lay before him—untouched, expectant—its quiet expanse more daunting than any estate ledger or legal memorandum he had ever signed.
