"I am sorry, but I do not need more soup."
The girl curtseyed and moved away.
Across the table, Georgiana caught her eye briefly and said nothing.
Her expression suggested she was very pleased indeed.
When at last the evening drew to a close, Jane took leave of Bingley with the composed warmth she brought to everything, and Bingley received her farewell with poorly concealed reluctance. Georgiana embraced Elizabeth briefly and said she hoped to call at Longbourn on Friday. Elizabeth told her she would be delighted to see her.
Darcy accompanied them to the door.
He was civil, attentive, entirely correct. Yet the distraction Elizabeth had noticed at dinner had not left him.
"Good evening, Mr. Darcy." Elizabeth curtseyed just before she and Jane stepped into the carriage.
"I am glad you came." A smile touched his features, one she suspected cost him some effort. "Thank you for spending the day with Georgiana."
"It was entirely my pleasure."
The sincerity in his voice admitted no doubt.
Elizabeth believed him.
The sisters took their leave and started for Longbourn.
NINE
5thNovember 1811
Netherfield.
Darcy
Darcy brooded for hours over what was troubling him. It had taken everything he possessed to maintain a civil countenance through dinner, for Georgiana, for Elizabeth, and for the general obligations of an evening that deserved better than a distracted him. He had managed it. Barely.
The moment the Bennet carriage disappeared down the drive and the house settled into its evening quiet, the pretence ceased to serve any purpose.
The last name he had expected to hear in Hertfordshire was George Wickham.
Colonel Forster had mentioned it in passing between one unremarkable observation and another. Several new officers had recently joined the militia, he had said, all of them doing their part to keep spirits high. This Wickham in particular had distinguished himself. Charming. Agreeable. The sort of man who could win a room without appearing to try.
It sounded exactly like the Wickham Darcy knew.
He told himself it might not be the same man.
England was large enough to contain more than one George Wickham. A name alone proved nothing.
Yet he could not put the matter from his mind.
During the luncheon he had been sorely tempted to ask Forster to produce the man at once. To single out one name from several, however, would have invited questions Darcy had no desire to answer. He had therefore held his tongue, finished the meal, and carried the knowledge home with him like a stone lodged beneath his ribs.
Darcy rose and crossed to the window.
The grounds of Netherfield lay dark and silent beneath the night sky and offered him no answers.
His thoughts turned inevitably to Georgiana.
She was somewhere in this house, sleeping peacefully.
