Page 31 of A Most Unwelcome Acquaintance

He opened the drawer, set the quill with its fellows, and closed it.

Darcy rose, straightened his coat, and went to the window. The landscape outside had changed color in the past hour. A band of cloud lay low on the horizon, and beyond it, the field that divided Netherfield from Longbourn burned gold. The hedgerow at the boundary, still unrepaired, held its uneven line against the sky. Wind moved through the grass, drawing it flat and raising it again.

Across the field he saw a figure walking with a dog at heel. He could not make out the face at that distance, but the stride was familiar. The dog ran ahead, circled back, then waited, attentive, until the woman called her on.

He stood at the glass, the desk behind him, and watched until they vanished into the next field. Then he closed the curtain against the last of the sun and left the letter where it was.

The Rosings sitting room Georgiana preferred for reading was small, with a writing table near the inner wall and two shelves of books that were hers alone. The room was a refuge from the grander spaces of the house, its lamps shrouded in parchment and the rug a faded wool that Lady Catherine found too plain for public rooms. Georgiana read best at dusk, when the corners receded and the furniture retreated into shadow. That evening, the fire had burned down to a single coal, and the lamp at her elbow cast a circle of light across the desk.

She opened Darcy’s letter with the bone knife she kept for the purpose and read it through, eyes moving down the column without doubling back. She preferred to understand the whole before returning to certain passages.

The opening lines, as always, covered his usual complaints of weather and travel. She traced them with her hand, smiling at his account of the air in Hertfordshire, the inferiority of Netherfield’s stables, and Bingley’s unflagging good spirits.

In the next paragraph, she found the expected account of Bingley’s attachment to the eldest Bennet daughter. The description was so like her brother that she read it twice: “He has found a particular favorite among the families here. The eldest daughter of the house at Longbourn is the object of his admiration, and I think her feelings are similar.” There was a dryness in the word “object” that made Georgiana press her lips together, though she did not smile.

The account of the Bennet household followed. She pictured each line: the noise of the mother, the wildness of the youngest daughters, and the remark about the interior, which was neither kind nor unkind. Georgiana turned the page and found the next paragraph written within narrower margins.

She read the first sentence: “I met a young lady of uncommon intelligence, though my opinion of her had formed before the introduction.” The next line repeated the thought: “I first encountered Miss Elizabeth Bennet without knowing her name or her connection to the neighborhood, and mistook her circumstances.”

Georgiana’s finger rested beside the ink. She noticed the line near the top that Darcy had crossed out, something about local society being “thin and not what you are used to,” struck through with the certainty he usually reserved for errors in calculation. It was rare for him to leave a correction visible. She compared the discarded phrase with its replacement, then returned to the paragraph about Miss Elizabeth. “At the assembly, she answered rudeness with more wit than resentment. I think my first opinion of her was mistaken.” Georgiana read the sentences twice, imagining what it cost him to write them.

She paused over the paragraph about Sarah, remembering a working dog from their own childhood, a short-lived spaniel with too much wit for obedience, and read the lines again: “She is a working collie and manages the Longbourn flock with a skill you would approve.” Georgiana thought of the girl Darcy described and decided she might like her.

Beginning again, she paused after each paragraph and noted how her brother had left his correction visible rather than conceal it. When she finished, she folded the sheet along its original creases, aligned the edges, and set it on the desk with the writing beneath.

She did not reply at once. Instead, she opened the left-hand drawer of the writing table and placed the letter on top of a neat stack, each one dated and tied with a length of faded thread. She pressed her palms to the surface and held them there until the warmth faded.

She heard Lady Catherine’s voice from the hall, muffled by distance and the thickness of the door but carrying its usual authority. Georgiana sat with her hands flat on the wood, her eyes on the golden ring reflected by the lamp.

Georgiana waited a few minutes, as if expecting the letter to speak again, then closed the drawer, turned down the lamp, and stood.

Lady Catherine’s voice ceased in the hall. A servant answered, but Georgiana could not distinguish the words before footsteps approached the sitting room and the door opened without a knock.

Lady Catherine entered carrying a folded paper in one hand and a pair of spectacles in the other. She stopped when she found Georgiana standing beside the writing table.

“You are sitting in darkness.”

“There is still light enough, ma’am.”

“There is not. I could not see the handle.” Lady Catherine crossed to the lamp and raised the wick. The flame brightened beneath the parchment shade, restoring the furniture to the room. “Mrs. Jenkinson claims the west passage lamp has gone out. I have told her it cannot have gone out unless someone neglected it.”

Georgiana glanced at the lamp. “Perhaps the oil was low.”

“They measure the oil every morning.”

Lady Catherine laid the folded paper on the table, though she continued to hold the spectacles. “You have received a letter.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“From your brother.”

Georgiana rested one hand against the closed drawer.

“He writes when he is away,” Lady Catherine continued. “Though I do not approve of his leaving you here while he indulges Mr. Bingley’s sudden affection for Hertfordshire.”

“He did not leave me here. He brought me to Rosings because you expected me.”

“I always expect you here.”