Darcy remained by the fire after he departed. The matter was closed. The threat ended.
And for the first time in a long while, he felt something like peace.
The next week, Darcy and Georgiana departed for London.
Inside the coach, Georgiana sat bundled in her winter cloak, hands folded in her lap, her face turned to the window. She did not fidget, nor cry, nor ask how much longer the journey might be. She was perfectly still.
The silence that had followed their final conversation about school sat between them like a cold weight.
“I have arranged for your maid to stay with you the first two nights,” Darcy said softly. “And I have spoken to Miss Minchin regarding your music. She has added an extra lesson each week.”
Georgiana nodded once, without looking away.
“Aunt Matlock will expect you for Easter,” he continued. “She has asked if she might take you to the theatre.”
No reply.
Darcy folded his hands tightly in his lap. How he hated this—to watch her close herself off, this sweet, clever child he had sworn to protect. Yet he also knew she could not remain a child much longer. There was no keeping the world at bay forever.
When at last the carriage turned onto the narrow street where Miss Minchin’s School for Girls stood—a grey stone building with high windows and iron gates—Georgiana flinched.
The carriage stopped. The door opened.
Darcy stepped down first and offered Georgiana his hand. After a brief hesitation, she took it. Her fingers were cold even through his glove.
Miss Minchin appeared, tall and angular, her expression neutral, bordering on stern. “Mr Darcy. Miss Darcy. We are prepared for your arrival. Your chamber is ready, Miss Darcy, and we have placed the piano near the west window, as requested.”
Georgiana stood beside him, shoulders straight but her face pale. Her lips trembled before she bit down gently, determined not to cry.
Darcy turned to her and placed his hands on her shoulders.
“You are brave, Georgie,” he said, voice low and warm. “And capable. This is only the beginning, not the end. You may write whenever you wish—and if you are unhappy, we will reassess everything. Do you understand?”
She nodded, blinking fast.
“I shall come to see you in a fortnight. And if you need anything before then—”
“I know,” she whispered.
He kissed her forehead. Then he let go.
Georgiana turned and followed Miss Minchin into the quiet, orderly halls. The door shut behind her with a firm thud.
Darcy remained on the steps for a long moment, staring at the closed door. Then, with a heavy heart, he returned to the carriage.
As they pulled away, he did not look back.
Not because he did not care—but because he did.
Chapter Seven
The first hints of autumn had touched the trees at Longbourn, brushing the edges of the leaves with amber and gold. The air held the faint, earthy scent of dry fields and distant hearth fires—September’s quiet promise of change. Elizabeth sat beneath the old elm, her book quite forgotten in her lap, as a breeze stirred the curls at her temple and sent a few leaves skittering across the lawn.
She was eighteen now—only just—and her thoughts drifted to the week before, when her father declared her “out” over tea with his usual dry humour. The party her mother promised before her death never happened. Elizabeth did not mind…not much, anyway.
Aunt Philips had insisted on escorting her and Jane to the Meryton assembly later that week. The scent of starch and lavender had clung to the carriage as her aunt fussed over hems and hairpins, chattering about propriety as though Elizabeth were being sent into a lion’s den instead of a modest country dance.
“Now, Jane, if you but apply yourself, I am certain John Lucas could be brought up to scratch. You are twenty now—goodness, if your mother, my dear sister, were alive, she would bemoan and fret. Why, you are nearly on the shelf!”
