She nodded.
Elizabeth let her hands rest in her lap. “I do not believe fear gives him power unless we allow it to make us forget what is true.”
“What is true?”
“That he came to frighten you because he needed you frightened. That is not strength. It is strategy.”
Georgiana swallowed. “He looked so certain.”
“Villains often do. It saves them from needing evidence.”
That earned another tiny smile, though it trembled. “You make him sound ridiculous.”
“I should like nothing better than to make him ridiculous.”
“He is dangerous.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, because lies would not comfort her. “But dangerous is not the same as unbeatable.”
Georgiana’s eyes filled again, and Elizabeth reached for her hand.
“I thought I was safe,” the girl whispered.
Elizabeth’s fingers tightened around hers. “You are not alone. That is not quite the same thing, I know. But it matters.”
“It does,” Georgiana said, so softly Elizabeth barely heard it. “It matters very much.”
The day passed in such small labors. Music. Tea. A little broth at Mrs. Nicholls’s insistence. A short walk in the gallery because Elizabeth would not have Georgiana sit in one chair until fear stiffened her into it. Another prayer for Darcy when she passed the front windows and saw how low the clouds hung over the road. Another still when afternoon came and there was no sign of him.
Jane sent a note from Longbourn, tender and anxious, with assurances that their mother had been persuaded not to call, though only by the combined efforts of Mr. Bennet, Mr. Philips, and the promise of hearing everything proper later. Elizabeth smiled over that despite herself. Her mother’s curiosity, once attached to a possible scandal, would have required a military defense. Perhaps Colonel Fitzwilliam ought to be posted at Longbourn as well.
Bingley sent word up twice that Elizabeth and Georgiana were to command anything they wished. The third time he came himself no farther than the doorway of the music room, looking with such open concern at Georgiana that she blushed and murmured a shy thank you. He did not linger, which Elizabeth appreciated. His kindness had the rare merit of knowing when not to press itself upon its object.
Miss Bingley appeared before dinner in an elegant gown and with an expression of careful sympathy.
“Dear Miss Darcy,” she said, “I do hope you are recovered enough to join us for dinner. A little society may be just the thing.”
Georgiana’s hand tightened on Elizabeth’s.
Mrs. Hurst, seated near the window with some work in her lap, glanced up. “Or it may not. Miss Darcy shall do precisely as she wishes.”
Miss Bingley’s lips thinned almost imperceptibly. “Of course.”
Elizabeth could have kissed Mrs. Hurst for it.
Georgiana did not dine below. Mrs. Hurst ordered trays sent up for them both, and Elizabeth stayed with her without pretending reluctance. They ate little, but more than Georgiana had managed earlier. Afterward Elizabeth read aloud until Georgiana’s eyes grew heavy, and when the girl grew restless again, they returned to the pianoforte and played softly by candlelight.
The music room seemed removed from the rest of the world. Outside, darkness pressed against the windows. Inside, the candles flickered, the instrument gave its gentle answers beneath their hands, and for a little while the horror of Wickham’s voice—There is my beautiful bride—seemed farther away.
But Darcy was still on the road.
Elizabeth’s thoughts turned to him again and again. She imagined every rut, every slick bend, every careless wagon that might slow or startle a horse. She imagined Darcy urging his mount too hard because Georgiana’s terror drove him forward. She imagined Richard matching him, laughing perhaps, but no less reckless beneath it. Then she rebuked herself for borrowing trouble and prayed again that both men might return safely.
The next evening, near dinnertime, Georgiana’s composure broke once more. It was not as violent as the night before, but it was sadder. She sat on the edge of the bed, her hair loose over her shoulders, and whispered, “What if my brother does not come back before Mr. Wickham’s time is ended?”
“He will,” Elizabeth said.
“What if he cannot find anything?”
