Oh, that I could have spared my own sisters from this self-same anguish! I peeled my burning eyes away from the page and sought solace in the bluish grey of rain-soaked fields. In a few moments, I regained enough composure to read the rest.
Georgiana is currently at Pemberley with her companion, Mrs Annesley. I do not intend to send her away simply because it would be more convenient not to have to pretend complacence where I feel none. She is extremely shy, having been motherless since the age of eleven, and possessed of a temperament of tenderness and modesty. Because of the gentleness of her heart, she was led into a circumstance, not five months ago, which ended in betrayal and sadly abused her spirits. She will not talk of it, and I forbid you to pry into this matter. Only know that she is wounded, and nothing will assure my displeasure more quickly or permanently than injury to the one person I love most in the world.
I had been put on notice, then. The intensity of his feelings on this subject must have led him to share more than hewould on any other, and I was glad of at least some insight as to what lay ahead.
If I knew anything, I knew how to deal with a sister. I had all manner of sisters. There was an angel, a devil, a fickle one who would play any part not taken by the others, and a moralist bent on lecturing and correcting. I had years of experience with injured feelings—slighted, annoyed, vexed, bored, resentful, and histrionic girls were nothing compared to the irrational agonies and ecstasies of my own mother. What my own family could not provide in the arena of female behaviour, my friends could. Charlotte Lucas was practical to the point of cold inhumanity, yet stalwart and loyal no matter the scandal. Her sister Maria was naïve, ignorant, fanciful, and afraid. I considered the frivolous and superficial Goulding sisters and Mrs Long’s competitive, pushing young nieces. I ran the gamut of all my female acquaintance through my mind in rapid succession, feeling equal to anything Miss Darcy could dish out.
Whether I felt equal to anything Miss Darcy’s brother could dispense in the way of plain-speaking—which he adopted in his correspondence—I doubted. With trepidation, I read the last of his letter, which outlined his expectations with regards to his sister.
Miss Darcy would not be made uncomfortable, unhappy, suspicious, fearful, or miserable. She was not to be recruited against him; she was not to think anything amiss with her new sister-in-law’s feelings; she was not to be made to feel unwanted or in competition for his affection. The splatters and deeply scored lines in this missive attested to his fury over having to imagine these possibilities. He wrote in closing,
You will burn this note at the earliest opportunity.
Yes, I would burn it. There was too much personal suffering in this letter to risk discovery.
“Are you well, ma’am?” Wilson asked.
“Hmm? Oh yes. I am only a little downhearted at the grimness of this sky. Perhaps I shall close my eyes. I am sure you did not get enough rest yourself. You were up late and rose at least an hour earlier than I. You should sleep too if you are able.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
A wry smile forced its way to the very corner of my lips. “I am in earnest, you know. I would rather you be well rested when we reach the inn for our first overnight. I am not precisely without demands, and will want a hot bath and, I am sorry to say, a book at the bottom of my trunk that I forgot to retrieve.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Wilson paused and then said, “I am sure you know, Mrs Darcy, you should never speak as though you are incommoding me.”
“Do I seem terribly inexperienced when I do so?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Very well. I shall abuse you without remorse.”
“And I shall not think you a tyrant, ma’am, for you are not the least bit demanding even when you think you are asking a great deal.”
“I see we shall get along very well, Wilson. Now sleep, and when we wake, you will tell me the history of your life.” By the widening of her eyes, I comprehended how unaccustomed she was to even gentle teasing, and with a faint smile, I then reassured her. “But if you would rather not, perhaps we should make a list of gowns and the like I will need at Pemberley.”
6
FITZWILLIAM DARCY, LONDON
Her first question pertains to my sister. What an artful baggage, to profess consideration for my sister’s feelings! How well she pretends to be blissfully unaware of the damage this marriage has done to my sisters’ prospects for a respectable match.
“Harrison, where is the paper?” I was snappish and barked out my question. Nothing was where I wanted it to be. My entire household looked wall-eyed and squeamish but still capable of scrutinising me like they would a two-headed toad. “Damnation!” I growled when the paper appeared underneath my quill. Harrison silently left the room, and I began to speak aloud, albeit in a low grumble.
“Very well. What shall I call you? ‘Dear Baggage?’ I suppose ‘Madam’ will have to do. I swear by all that is holy, I will never speak your given name.”
7
ELIZABETH DARCY, THE GREAT NORTH ROAD
At the second change of horses, Mr Darcy took me aside. He looked pinched and grey.
“If you do not object, I will join you in the carriage,” he said stiffly.
“Of course I do not object. You must be dreadfully wet and cold. What of my maid? Should she wait for the second carriage with the trunks?”
“No.”
“Very well, sir.”
