Jane and Elizabeth made their way over to a more secluded corner, near the window that was closest to the hearth. Elizabeth took Jane’s hand, seeing that their mother’s comments had made her uneasy. “Are you well, Jane? I do not believe there is anything to trouble yourself about. Mama means well.” She smiled, waiting until Jane met her gaze. “And you are the prettiest girl in the county. I must heartily agree with her about that.”
“I do not want to catch anyone. I want to be loved. Is that such an impossible request, do you think?” Jane asked. Elizabeth knew her elder sister would do anything for the sake of her family. But practicality was one thing, and the desires of the heart, quite another.
“I do not think it is,” Elizabeth told her quietly. “It is my deepest hope for you. As, indeed, it is for myself. Jane, you must not let Mama bully you into marrying someone you do not wish to. Mr Bingley may be rich, but that does not mean he will make a good husband.”
“That is excellent advice, and I will heed it, to the best of my abilities,” Jane said, eyeing their mother warily. Even now, Mrs Bennet was still chattering on about Mr Bingley and how his thousands would save the family, if only Jane could do her part in enticing the young man. “It will be difficult to go against Mama once she has decided something. And if Mr Bingley truly were to like me, and if I could thereby do so much for my dear family…”
“We can only hope he proves to be a charming young man, a kindred spirit,” Elizabeth said.
Jane soon took up her embroidery, but for her part, Elizabeth was glad to simply sit and think. Did she ask for too much in being utterly unwilling to marry without love?
Surely not. She did not expect a man of Mr Bingley’s wealth. Only a gentleman whose character inspired trust and respect, whose wit inspired hers, and whose greater knowledge of the world could be a trusted guide. Property and funds in the Exchange were nothing to the greater treasure that Elizabeth demanded, the treasure of a man who loved her with all her heart, and whom she loved with every fibre of her being.
Perhaps itwastoo much to ask, but Elizabeth did not intend to marry for anything less.
Chapter 3
Darcy sat at the writing desk in the guest room he had been given at Netherfield Park, trying again to draft a letter to Georgiana. How many failed attempts had he made already, over the days and weeks since learning of her elopement? Darcy could no longer say.
Dear Georgiana,
I am in Hertfordshire visiting Bingley…
He stopped. Georgiana was Mrs Wickham. He could no longer write to her with the easy affection they had shared all their lives. Not only would it belie his own anger and distress, Georgiana might not even wish it. Darcy crumpled the first attempt and tossed it in the fire, pulling out a second sheet.
Dear Mrs Wickham,
I am writing to you from Netherfield Park, an estate in a small neighbourhood in Hertfordshire. You will recall my good friend, Charles Bingley. He recently let the estate and asked me to come for an extended visit. But I must confess that I am not able to settle…
He stared at the letter. This draft might as well have been written to a stranger, for all it contained of the deep connection he had once felt for the little sister who was almost a daughter to him. If easy affection was impossible, then surely cold disapproval was no better. After several minutes of staring at the lacklustre words, Darcy crumpled the paper into a tight ball. He walked over to the hearth and threw the letter in, watching as the flames consumed the paper. It was futile to try to bury his feelings.
Though most of his waking hours had been consumed in consulting with lawyers and worrying over his sister, Darcy had not been able to bring himself to write to Georgiana since news of the elopement had reached him. That fateful summer day, something had been severed between them. And while Darcy did not hesitate to assign the lion’s share of the blame to Wickham, he found that hurt had gradually come to take nearly as large a place in his feelings as concern and distress for her.
It would have been easy to go and see her, at least in a practical sense. The monthly stipend arranged by Darcy’s lawyers in lieu of the full dowry was paid to their London address. The distance was nothing, but the thought of seeing Wickham — of seeing Georgiana as Wickham’s wife, living with him in the same house — was impossible. Darcy could not bring himself to go.
The substitution of an allowance for the full dowry would at least ensure that Wickham could not run through all of Georgiana’s inheritance, as he had done with the last sum of money he’d been given. A fact Wickham had made perfectly clear he was unhappy about in a scathing letter to Darcy a few weeks prior. He was furious with the situation and haddemanded that Darcy reverse the settlement. But Darcy had no intention of yielding.
Georgiana would be at least somewhat shielded from Wickham’s whims, but he was helpless to protect his sister’s person or her spirits. What was Wickham doing to her? Thank Heaven above that Wickham had always been one to use charm rather than force or ugly words. He would not dare to strike Georgiana, not while he still hoped to gain access to her full dowry. Likely he would keep his pleasant mask up as long as possible. But Georgiana was under his control now. Even in the absence of any deeper threat, that alone was unacceptable.
A knock sounded on his door, and he turned slowly, calling for the person to enter. Bingley stuck his head around the door before coming in and closing the door behind him. “How are you, old chap? We have not seen you since breakfast, and we were starting to worry. Caroline said I should come up and ensure you were not moping again.” He held up a packet of letters. “And these came a little while ago. I told the butler I would deliver them to you.”
“Thank you,” Darcy said dully. “I supposed am moping,” he admitted, “but I shall not come down just yet.” Though he would not explain as much to her brother, he did not have the strength to listen to Caroline Bingley’s sniping or gossip. Unfortunately, his family had endured the seat of honour in far too much gossip as of late. He could only hope things calmed down before he was forced to show his face in London again. What Wickham might do, and what mortification Georgiana would feel!
Or at least, so he hoped. Perhaps he judged his sister too generously, for while Darcy did not hesitate to assign most of the blame to Wickham’s manipulations, she was not entirelyinnocent in what had happened. Though less to blame by reason of her youth and innocence, Georgiana had made her choice. Even at sixteen, she had known better, and it would take years to outlive the scandal that had resulted.
Perhaps she simply did not care, Darcy thought with something approaching despair.
Bingley looked at him narrowly. “You are not well, are you, Darcy?”
“I am fine,” he lied.
Bingley clearly saw through the falsehood. He joined Darcy at the hearth, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I know that things have been difficult as of late, my friend. Is there nothing I can do to help take your mind off things? I hate to see you moping about like this.”
“What can you do?” Darcy asked. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and began to pace. “My sister has disgraced herself. I thought I raised her better than to run off and elope with the first man who —” He was about to say something he would regret, so he let his words trail off. He was not usually a man possessed of a volatile temper. But he had been under such immense strain. He was finding it difficult to keep himself from lashing out at others, even his dearest friend.
“Forgive me,” Darcy said, raking his fingers through his dark hair. Exhaustion, of spirit if not of body, felt like a weight on him. “I have never felt this helpless before.”
Bingley nodded. “I do not blame you, my friend. We are men. We feel the need to fix every problem we face. Unfortunately, not every problem can be fixed.”
