“I, I—”I just want to be admired for being a good man.
“Oh, say nothing about it. I am dead soon and will tell no one, and you may enjoy being thought of as a true gentleman a little while longer.”
She took up her book, and Darcy struggled with his conscience, as he had done daily in this place. He would be judged for his hateful thoughts toward his nephew, he would be judged for his hateful thoughts toward Wickham, and he would be judged for deceiving his wife.
While he passed over these thoughts, he took notice of the book hiswife was reading, and it piqued his interest. “I ought not to be surprised that you are not reading poetry, but that book is hardly proper.” He had no true concern over what she read; he only wanted to engage with her on lighter topics, to debate a little and not talk about himself.
“There are some witty passages inTom Jones. I want to remind myself of them while I still can.”
“I am sorry to hear you admire a book with such low themes. Indeed, I am sorry to hear you have even read it.” He suspected she knew that he was trying to provoke her. He admired how she gave her opinions decidedly and in so playful a manner.
She closed the book, but kept her finger inside, giving him an arch look. “Are you saying it is not a confession a modest lady would make? No one who cares for books can neglect Henry Fielding. Even one whoclaimsto prefer poetry over a novel or treatises. You have read it.” He nodded. “What say you of it?”
“I suppose, like anything, one must take the best of it and leave the remainder.”
Mrs Darcy shook her head. “To appreciate a book like this, you must acknowledge the worst of it in order to admire the best of it. You should know by now that I am not all polite agreement, Mr Darcy.”
“For which I am grateful every day. There is nothing worse than a woman who is all attention and deference, without a single unique opinion amid her constant, blind agreement.” He spoke from experience.
“You would prefer to argue with me over the morality and lowness ofTom Jonesrather than do anything else this afternoon?”
“Ifyoudo not, then open your book and I will leave you in peace. However, you are as equally impatient with less clever minds, and I imagine few in your circle can meet you equally in rational debate.”
They looked at one another a long moment, and another of those poignant, silent conversations passed between them with only a few expressive flashes of the eyes. Mrs Darcy pulled her finger from the book, and the pages fell shut.
“Well, I could bear your ignorance about literature better if you did not think so exceedingly well of yourself.”
She tried to appear serious, but a grin threatened to burst from her lips. Darcy laughed and happily settled in to pass a pleasant afternoon in argument and conversation. He would enjoy the respite from the painful conflict of feelings in him: to tell Mrs Darcy the whole truth before she died, or not.
Colonel Fitzwilliam had arrivedtwo days earlier, and Elizabeth accompanied the cousins to the churchyard after the day’s service, but kept her distance to allow them a moment of private familial commiseration. She loved Georgiana, of course, but her brief friendship could not compare to that of a brother more like a father, and a cousin who was more like a favourite uncle. Besides, she had already seen the inscription on the new stone.
Here rest the remains of
Georgiana
Daughter of George Darcy
Beloved and respected by all who knew her
Deeply lamented by her surviving relations
June 10 1812 aged 16 years
She saw Colonel Fitzwilliam give a mournful shake of his head and say something to Mr Darcy. Her husband adamantly shook his head, raising a hand to rest atop the stone. The colonel said something else, more emphatically, and Mr Darcy’s shoulders heaved before he nodded and, she noticed, dashed his gloved hand across his eyes. She then decided to await them at the house.
Mr Darcy was more at ease about his sister’s death in general. She felt that his guilt at how he hoped his sister would lose her child before it was born had lessened. Still, his guilt was not a burden to be set down lightly by so serious, so family-oriented a man, but Elizabeth saw hope for his equanimity.
They entered the drawing room not long after she returned. Elizabeth looked at Mr Darcy and recognised the return of that familiarshade across his face. The graveside visit had not been a good idea. He stood in the centre of the room and sighed, looking at the pianoforte that she knew he had sent down for Georgiana. Colonel Fitzwilliam hung back by the door, perhaps not knowing what to say yet not feeling as though he ought to leave.
She should as soon expect that the sun, moon, and stars would fall from their orbits as Fitzwilliam Darcy admit aloud that he needed comfort, and certainly not from his sister’s friend who had become his unwanted wife of convenience. Elizabeth went to him, and the expression in his eyes changed. They begged her to say something, anything, to ease the pain and grief that had settled into his heart again.
She reached for his watch chain, and drew up the mourning fob, turning the swivel so the words faced them.In Death Lamented As In Life Beloved.“My dear Mr Darcy, Georgiana was beloved by you. A regretted thought, a secret, mindless thought, does not undo that. Lament her death, but do not doubt that she and her child were beloved by you.”
Heedless of the presence of his cousin, Elizabeth did something she had only done a few times. She put her hands around his waist and pressed her cheek into his chest. Mr Darcy wrapped his arms around her in return, pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and relaxed into her arms. When was the last time anyone looked at him and saw someone with emotions and moods and needs the same as any other man? Who else in his life knew him well enough to comprehend those depths?
When he released her, she rested a palm against his cheek and gave him a smile he readily returned. Elizabeth’s breath came fast, and her heart began to pound. Lifting her gaze from his lips, she took in his eyes, so dark and expressive that she wondered if there was something more there than friendship.
“You have been a dear friend; thank you.” Mr Darcy’s voice was low. “You do so much for me, Mrs Darcy. Your attention, your good sense and kind manner ... ask something ofme. Ask anything of me.”
