“I saw the pigeons today,” Georgiana said, selecting a spear of asparagus with careful grace. “Three of the white ones came back.”
Darcy looked up. “Only three?”
She nodded. “Tomkins thinks a hawk took the fourth.”
“A reasonable guess.”
“Perhaps.” She tilted her head. “But I do not know. They circled twice before landing—as if they were not quite certain this was the right place.”
He raised a brow, amused. “You think they have forgot where they live?”
“I think…” She smiled faintly. “They seemed a little agitated. Broken feathers, and they fought over their boxes. But that may only be my fancy.”
He glanced toward the window, where the last threads of twilight clung to the horizon. “Changing of the seasons. Everything is restless this time of year. Were you in the gardens long today?”
She nodded. “And I played after. A new piece. Something Miss Bingley sent me in the last parcel.”
Darcy dabbed at the corner of his mouth. “The Allegretto?”
“No. The other one.”
“The adagio?”
“The one in G minor.”
He gave a wry smile. “That explains the long faces among the roses.”
Georgiana laughed, quiet and genuine. “It’s meant to be cheerful, I think. But it feels like snow.”
Darcy only nodded. When supper ended, Georgiana moved to the pianoforte, lifting the lid as if she were peering in on an old friend. The notes fell clear and light, but somewhere in the middle registers they caught, briefly—a breath of hesitation in an otherwise faultless performance.
Darcy poured a modest glass of brandy and opened a letter from Bingley that had arrived that afternoon, letting the paper rest flat on the table beside his plate. Georgiana was still at the pianoforte, her fingers drifting through a light Italian air—something crisp and cheerful, more habit than performance.
I have now nearly settled at Netherfield. It is just as I left it before the contract was completed—though the west field was wetter than expected, and the kitchen garden overrun with herbs I do not remember seeing before. Mrs Nicholls has taken it upon herself to introduce ‘seasonal flair’ into everything, so I’ve had three courses with mint this week, and I fear it’s turning me virtuous.
I trust you are well. Come visit if your affairs allow. I could use your opinion on the stables, and the company would not go amiss.
Darcy smiled faintly and refolded the letter. Bingley’s notions of “seasonal flair” had always bordered on botanical anarchy. He set the paper aside.
Georgiana, having finished the piece, trailed a hand along the keys and stood. “Do you ever feel,” she asked idly as she crossed to the sideboard, “that September has too many endings in it?”
He glanced over, brow raised.
She shrugged, pouring herself a small glass of watered wine. “It is nothing. Just a thought. The light changes. The trees shed. Everything pulls back.”
“Nature’s economy,” Darcy said. “It spends freely in spring, then counts its pennies in autumn.”
“Spoken like a true landowner.”
He inclined his head. “I am told the habit suits me.”
“Mrs Reynolds says the bees have grown sluggish. She blames the cooling weather. But I think they’re just tired of being bees.”
Darcy gave a short breath of amusement and reached for the letter still folded beside him.
“Bingley writes,” he said, as though it had only just occurred to him. “He asks if I will visit.”
She looked up from her cup. “Will you?”
