The Academy had offered her a refuge from that mortifying recollection—a place where, among companions of her own age or somewhat older, she had begun to learn life’s mixed lessons and to leave childhood behind.
Throughout the summer, she had hoped to return, especially after that grand ball—the first to which she hadever been invited. When Fitzwilliam told her that she was not to go back, for he was soon to be married and wished her to accompany them on their wedding tour and afterwards to remain all winter at Pemberley, she scarcely understood him. So certain had she been of her return that her brother’s words seemed incredible. Heavy tears fell down her cheeks. She dared not plead her cause in words, for she would not have known how. In that house, she was still a child, without rights or voice—not Georgiana Darcy, sister of Fitzwilliam Darcy, but merely a dutiful girl expected to obey.
She sought refuge with her aunt, yet for several days remained silent even there, so deeply rooted within her was the notion that she was still a child.
But one evening, shortly after dinner, as they sat together in Lady Matlock’s drawing-room, her tears burst forth without restraint—this time accompanied by despairing sobs. Present were Lady Matlock’s daughter-in-law, Lady Redmond, and Lady Elizabeth, who had arrived a few days earlier for the wedding preparations.
In an instant, Lady Redmond was at her side and gathered her in her arms with anxious tenderness.
“What is it, Georgie? What has happened?” she asked, wiping the girl’s tears.
Through her sobs, Georgiana managed to tell them what had occurred—how her brother had forbidden her return to the Academy.
“Yes, he told me the same,” Lady Elizabeth said, at which Georgiana’s tears broke forth anew. “He wishes you to accompany us upon our honeymoon, and afterwards to Pemberley.”
Georgiana nodded, still unable to speak; it was precisely what Fitzwilliam had said.
“Miss Darcy,” Lady Elizabeth began after a moment’s hesitation, “I hope these tears are not on my account—that my marriage with your brother causes you any distress.”
Georgiana shook her head forcefully, yet not at all reassured. Lady Elizabeth continued, “You may be assured that I am no less desirous than your brother that you should be with us.”
“And when will you be…with Mr Darcy?” inquired the viscountess eagerly, for Lady Redmond adored a family wedding.
“The day is not yet fixed.”
The reply echoed strangely through the room, especially to a woman of the world like Lady Matlock, who lifted her head from the journal she had been turning and looked keenly at the young lady who spoke of her own marriage. Something in Lady Elizabeth’s tone displeased her—not insincerity, but rather a kind of indifference ill-suited to a subject that, in the life of most ladies, would have inspired nothing but delight.
“You have not fixed the day?” she repeated, though she would have been the first to hear of it—had there been anything to hear. But she desired particulars; she wished to discern what lay behind that reserve. It was not that Lady Elizabeth would have removed Georgiana from their company—no, the matter was of another nature, something connected with the wedding itself. The absence of the bridegroom was remarkable, for since Lady Elizabeth’s return to London, he had scarcely been seen among them. Indeed, she recalled that even in August Darcy had appeared little, and chiefly at dinners where the fiancés could not be alone. It was Richard, rather than her betrothed, who had most often entertained her—a circumstance decidedly out of order.
“No, Darcy has fixed nothing,” observed the colonel, who had just entered the room. It was his custom to visit his mother at that hour after dinner, when he was in town.
Lady Matlock laid aside her journal, which now held no interest for her. She might not have known Lady Elizabeth well, but she knew Richard as only a mother could understand her youngest son—the one whom she considered ill-used by the cruel laws of inheritance. Poor boy, he was obliged to work, and from his youth her chief concern had been to secure his future.
“Sit down, Richard,” she commanded, for she had the sensation that, standing near the door, he might at any moment depart—and she had no intention of allowing him to escape before she understood what required understanding. For there was much to comprehend. Richard adored Darcy, yet his tone was full of resentment and suppressed anger.
Her eyes turned instinctively towards Lady Elizabeth, who had coloured deeply at the sight of the colonel and sought to hide her embarrassment behind the journal that had fallen to the floor and which she now replaced carefully upon a table.
“Sit down, Lady Elizabeth,” ordered Lady Matlock. “Do not fidget so. What is happening here?”
“Nothing,” both Lady Elizabeth and Richard replied almost at the same instant—a coincidence that served only to heighten the suspicion of the shrewd dowager. Even Georgiana ceased weeping, and upon Lady Redmond’s countenance appeared a look of complete satisfaction. This was precisely what she enjoyed: a touch of intrigue and a great deal of amusement.
“Richard!” Lady Matlock spoke in the tone she had used when he was a boy, concealing some mischief—for the tone had not changed, nor his response; he confessed, as he had always done, since his mother usually contrived to set right whatever trouble he had caused.
“When we were in Kent, Darcy made a proposal of marriage to…Elizabeth—”
“Yes, yes, we know that,” interrupted Lady Matlock impatiently.
“Oh, not Lady Elizabeth—Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” came the clarifying reply, for he had spoken the name too familiarly, and it was one, it seemed, that he had used often.
An exclamation of astonishment rose in the room. Georgiana started up in alarm, a child wishing to withdraw when adult subjects arose, but her aunt fixed her with a commanding look.
“Sit down, Georgiana. You are of an age when other girls are married. This is your family—you are a sister, not a child. And in general, pray remain seated; you all tire me with your restlessness.”
Silence fell, but it did not endure.
“Now,” said Lady Matlock, “I wish to hear the entire story—from the beginning to this very day.”
Richard began at once, as though he had been waiting to unburden his soul for a long time.
