When she finished, the last notes lingering only briefly before giving way to silence, Mrs Annesley was the first to speak, setting aside her work as she turned toward her. “My dear Miss Darcy, that was very well done.”
Georgiana turned slightly on the bench to face her, her expression composed, though not without a trace of uncertainty. “I thought I lost it in the middle,” she said, her hand still resting lightlyagainst the keys.
“Not in any way that detracted from the whole,” Mrs Annesley replied. “You recovered yourself immediately.”
Darcy had risen as she spoke. He came nearer, wishing to encourage her. “You did not lose it,” he said. “You considered it.”
Georgiana’s expression softened into a faint smile at that. “That is a kinder way of describing it.”
“It is a more accurate one,” he returned.
She accepted the compliment with a slight inclination of her head and a small smile.
For a few moments, the conversation remained on the music itself. Mrs Annesley observed on a passage that might be improved with practice, and Georgiana responded with a seriousness that showed she had already been aware of it, while Darcy contributed little, though what he said was attended to. The tone of the exchange remained one of easy familiarity, in which nothing was pressed and nothing required defence.
At length, Georgiana closed the music and rested her hands lightly upon it, as though reluctant to disturb the quiet that had followed. After a moment, she looked up. “Mrs Annesley,” she said, with a deliberation that distinguished the request from the conversation that had preceded it, “may I speak withmy brother in confidence?”
Darcy looked at her in surprise, wondering what Georgiana might wish to say that could require privacy.
Mrs Annesley understood her immediately and rose without hesitation. “Of course, my dear. I have some letters to attend to.” She gathered her work, and with a look that conveyed both discretion and approval, left the room.
The door closed softly behind her, and the quiet that followed was of a different kind.
For a moment, neither spoke. Georgiana did not at once turn from the pianoforte, but remained as she was, her gaze lowered, her hands still resting where they had been. Darcy waited without impatience. He had learned long ago that to press her too quickly was to defeat the very purpose of encouraging her to speak.
At length, she turned. “Brother,” she said, “I wished to ask you something.”
Darcy drew a chair nearer as she spoke, though not so close as to press her, and seated himself, hoping that his posture invited confidence rather than demanded it. “What is it?” he said.
Georgiana hesitated, seemingly not from uncertainty, but from the difficulty of beginning. When she spoke, it was with a steadiness thatsuggested she had considered her words before asking for the opportunity to say them. “I have been thinking about what you told me,” she said. “About George Wickham.”
Darcy did not allow his expression to alter or his tone to sharpen. “I see.”
“I know that what happened is past,” she continued, her fingers shifting slightly against the edge of the instrument as she spoke. “And that I have been told I ought not to dwell upon it. But I cannot help thinking that I was very foolish.”
“You were very young,” he said. “You are very young still.”
“I was not so young that I did not understand what I was doing,” she replied, lifting her head slightly. “Or at least, I believed I did. That is what I cannot forget. I thought him everything that he was not, and I did not question it. I do not see how I could have been so easily deceived.”
Darcy did not answer immediately. There was nothing in her manner that required contradiction, but neither was it a subject to be dismissed with general assurances. He had long known that Georgiana’s gentleness made her particularly vulnerable to self-reproach, and to deny it outright would only weaken the comfort he meant to give.
“You were deceived,” he said at last, “because he intended to deceive you.”
Georgiana looked at him more directly. “But others were not deceived.”
“Others did not stand in your situation,” Darcy replied.
She was silent for a moment, considering it. “I ought to have known him better.”
“You knew only what he chose to show you,” he said. “And what he showed was designed to be believed.”
Georgiana lowered her gaze again. “I still feel that I was to blame.”
Darcy considered her carefully before answering. “If blame is to be assigned,” he said, “it belongs first to the person who acted dishonourably. That you trusted where you ought not to have done is unfortunate. That he abused that trust is the greater fault.”
She did not immediately look convinced, though she listened. “It is not that I doubt what you say,” she said quietly. “Only, I cannot think of it without feeling ashamed.”
Darcy leaned forward slightly, wishing he might find the words to convince her. “Then you must think of it differently.”
