Into Kent (7 page)

Chapter Seven

The next day in the mid-morning, Georgiana came again to find her brother in his library.

“Am I disturbing your work, Fitzwilliam?”

“Not at all. There is a notable dearth of work to be done, just at present; most every one is putting aside their affairs now, until after Christmas”

Georgiana wandered over to the large globe in the corner. Turning it slowly, she said, “Father liked this globe.”

“Did he?” Darcy replied.

Georgiana nodded, “When he took time from his work or his reading, he would show me places on it, and tell me their stories.” Darcy smiled, but had no such memories to share; his own time with his father in the libraries of Grosvenor Square and Pemberley were less personal, but no less important, as it was largely in them that he had learned to be Darcy of Pemberley.

Georgiana asked, “Might I ask a question?”

“Of course,” answered Darcy with a smile. “Something to do with your dinner?”

“
Please
do not call it that! It is not
my
dinner; say rather it is Aunt Eleanor’s dinner.” She sat down in a deep chair and curled her feet in under her; leaning back against the cushions, her face was sad: “No Fitzwilliam, it is…something else. I was listening just now, as Aunt Eleanor and Mrs. Annesley were talking about the entertainments they had gone to as girls: they went with their sisters. And afterward, they told each other about the men they had talked to, and whispered and giggled together the whole night long.” She laid her head down on her arms. “Will I ever have a true sister, Fitzwilliam? I had so hoped that Miss Elizabeth Bennet…” her voice trailed off without finishing.

Darcy had never before been aware that his sister was in any way affected by his parting with
Elizabeth, other than how she might regret the loss for his sake. The sadness in her voice was almost more than he could bear; realising she was in pain on this point released his own in some way, as though the injury he saw reflected in her eyes were more real, more tangible, than his own.

He rose from his desk and came to stand by her chair. In softest tones of compassion and remorse he told her, “I am so
very
sorry, Georgiana: I should never have written to you about her. It never occurred to me that there might be disappointment for you in all this. In truth, I had no idea that it might come to this at all—that either of us might be…disappointed.”

In this Darcy was less foresighted than he would wish to be. While he knew himself to be distanced from most of his circle, he did not grasp how this isolation rendered his feelings susceptible of being wounded—especially when, as in the present case, the injuries came at him through one of those few to whom he was close. His sympathetic affection for Georgiana, who was closer to his heart than any other, provided a ready conduit through which his wayward emotions might run; his sense of
her
pain and distress caused his own to well up in a shocking rush, unexpected both in strength and kind.

Darcy stroked his sister’s temples—as his mother had done for him as a boy, and as he had done to comfort Georgiana when she was ill as a child—saying with an attempt at humour, “Quite the pair, are we not? ‘Lucky at play, unlucky in love’—is not that the saying? We must surely have earned some luck at cards this past twelvemonth, then.” Georgiana tried to smile, but shook her head, her eyes rimmed in tears. His sensibility of his sister’s trials at Wickham’s hands, her lonely childhood as a near-orphan, and most particularly, how much she must rely on him to fill those voids the events of her young life had created, could only increase his pain. Seeing the mild and the delicate come to grief will ever touch the heart of the strong, and to see Georgiana so, quite nearly rent Darcy’s in two.

Coming to himself, though, Darcy tried to force down his feelings, and to say the right thing as her guardian and older brother. “Come, Dearest, we must resist. We cannot know what may yet betide, but we must look to what we
do
have: you have friends, I know, and we can always look to our family.” It did not seem that Georgiana felt his words any more than he did himself.

“Acquaintances I am friendly with,” Georgiana said disconsolately, “those I have; but no true…no one to confide in. I should
so
like to meet Miss Bennet. Tell me more about her, Fitzwilliam—please?”

Darcy was uncertain how he might do so without discovering to her just how much the loss of
Elizabeth had cost
him
, but Georgiana looked altogether so forlorn, so young and vulnerable, indeed, that he could not but give in to her request. Pulling a chair next to her, he sat down and began the narrative of a tale he had gone over in his mind, many and many a time: “I first saw her at an assembly…”

“The one where Miss Bingley wanted to tell you how to dress?”

Darcy smiled to recall that evening. “Yes, that was the one. I remember her dancing; she has a natural grace, and such a fine tempo she hardly seems to
dance
at all: it is hard to say whether she follows the music, or the music follows her; she almost flows
with
the music—inside it, if you follow my meaning.”

“Did you ask her to dance that night?”

“I did not; we had not been introduced, and I was, I fear, rather out of sorts to be there at the dance at all. We met again, at Netherfield, and were introduced; I thought her very lovely, and found the sound of her voice very pleasing, but we had no conversation that day. On another occasion we dined together at a small dinner party, and I first heard her wit. Next, at an evening party where we were in company together, our host attempted to give me her hand for a dance; she resisted, mostly out of pique at being thus accosted, I think: that was the first time she declined my hand; but her manner in doing so was charming. Then at Netherfield, one evening when Miss Bingley was playing, I asked her to dance—but she thought I was only teazing, and turned me down again.”

“Then at Mr. Bingley’s ball?”

“At the ball she accepted me. We danced a minuet; I was…” Darcy looked away with a slight shake of his head, unable to speak his memories of how it had affected him to take Elizabeth’s hand. He said simply, “I was very happy to stand up next to her.”

“What is she like, Fitzwilliam?”

Darcy sighed deeply. He said, “Well, she is very caring: she came to Netherfield to tend to her sister, and walked three miles through the fields on the morning after a soaking rain to get there; then she barely left her sister’s side for three solid days. Her sister had not asked her to come, Miss Bingley told me—she did it on her own, to be of comfort to her sister. She is forthright, and strong where she knows herself to be in the right, but her manners are always gentle and considerate, even under the provocation Miss Bingley at times would offer her. And she loves to teaze in fun, and to play with words and ideas: her conversation is a treat like no other I have known.”

“Hers is a happy temper, then? She smiles often?”

This question affected Darcy deeply—so often had he seen her in imagination, smiling at him in the life they might have had together. He set his jaw and looked away, that his sister might not see how much he felt. “Yes,” he said softly, “she smiles very often.” Turning back and kissing her hand, he stood up. “I have things I must do now, Dearest,” said he in a stronger voice, “and you ought to be helping to prepare for to-morrow; the dinner, whosever it may be, is nearly upon us, you know.”

Georgiana obligingly stood up and gave him a quick hug before going. Darcy sat back down at his desk; he remained there without moving for a very long while, staring unseeing at the walls of the library.

Chapter Eight

By Friday evening, preparations for the party were well in hand: the kitchen and larder were stuffed to capacity, as deliveries had been nearly incessant through the previous two days. The ball-room had been transformed into a grand drawing-room, and richly decorated, while the drawing-room itself was to be used for cards. Lady Andover and Miss Darcy were both showing signs of fatigue, but seemed pleased with their progress.

Their party that evening was confined to the family and Darcy’s friend; dinner was a simple affair, as far as the menu went, for an overworked kitchen staff had not the resources to meet the usual standards of the house; but though the bill of fare might be simple, it was all done superbly well. When every one was seated, Lord Andover, with a sympathetic eye to his wife’s fatigue, asked her to join him in a glass of wine, for which she smiled her gratitude. As the soup came out, almost every one, it seemed, breathed a sigh, and let go their various struggles from the day.

At table, Cousin George contrived to remind Darcy most amusingly of why he had looked forward to seeing him again, as he was in rare conversational form, drawing upon himself the notice and ire of both his parents, and the incredulous diversion of the rest, save possibly Georgiana. During dinner, the concerted efforts of Lord and Lady Andover—most notably the latter—were in play to constrain his near complete want of tact; he sat next to his mother, who, whenever she was displeased with anything her eldest might say, showed a highly developed skill in striking exposed parts of his person with a spoon. The first occasion of its happening, St. Stephens cried out, rubbing the back of his hand, and the whole table looked at him; his mother, ignoring his outburst, asked him in the most decorous manner to pass her the salt. Her husband looked at her thoughtfully, then poured them both more wine. Georgiana had rarely been in company with her eldest cousin, and, not having perceived the blow, knew not what to make of his exclamation, no more than she had his impertinences and extravagant airs: she caught sight of her aunt’s second strike, however, and her shriek of surprise fairly drowned out St. Stephens’ own; she quickly lowered her eyes to her plate and pretended hard she had been mute since birth. Bingley laughed outright, but, turning immediately to Darcy, covered his lapse by saying, “Darcy, did I tell you what Stroudmeyer said the other day? It was so droll…” and led off in a low voice to an anecdote that, in truth, had but little humour in it; this was of use to Darcy, as his gravity, too, had begun to fail him.

St. Stephens, who had always been a slow student, spoke again: “Speaking of amusing stories, t’other night Fox was saying about that strumpet of his…Yeogh! —Mother, by the fiends of…Gad! —Mother, will you stop that!”

“Finish your soup, George, dear,” the lady said calmly, taking a sip of her wine, “the others have finished, and the fish will be getting cold.” Bingley was forced to excuse himself from the table at that moment, and Darcy was very near joining him. He caught Georgiana’s eye and gave her a private wink, at which she giggled openly before cutting off abruptly.

“Georgiana, dear,” said her aunt, still unruffled, “something seems to have slipped. Goodwin?” The butler came to Georgiana’s chair and, with preternatural gravity, bent down and feigned retrieving her napkin from the floor, his bulk effectively covering her face from her cousin’s view while she recovered her composure. Colonel Fitzwilliam, seated next to his father, turned a burst of laughter into a coughing fit, for which his father very obligingly struck him on the back.

“Edmund,” enquired his mother, “are you quite well?”

This, of course, only made matters worse for Edmund. “One, moment, Mother,” said he with difficulty, “I shall be well in just one moment.”

“All is well, then,” Lady Andover said with a complacent smile. “Goodwin, the fish?”

After this, all signs of the stress of the days prior fell from the party—save for Lord St. Stephens, admittedly, although his pouting face served rather to increase the high spirits of the table. Darcy was pleased that both his sister and his friend had been able to enjoy even a momentary lightness of spirit, even though it came at the expense of his cousin’s lack of manners, and through the rest of the meal he would periodically share a private look of amusement with each. Every one shared a most congenial air during the remainder of dinner, and even St. Stephens came out of his ill-humour to laugh at one of Bingley’s jests; the occasion reminded Darcy that no man is wholly without some benefit, of use to his fellow beings: even if it is only to ease their cares by his heedless folly.

The following evening was, of course, The Dinner. With what exertions Georgiana, her aunt, and Mrs. Annesley had brought the menu, decorations, and in sum, the whole scheme, to fruition, only the three of them might know. But it all proved highly successful, and even Georgiana had to confess that she had gained a great deal by working alongside her aunt. As the ladies had descended before the guests were to arrive, Darcy was startled to see his sister, looking very grown indeed, come down on her Cousin Edmund’s arm, in a new gown of very fashionable cut.

“Does not your sister look well?” asked his Aunt Eleanor, beaming with pride and pleasure.

“Very well, indeed,” Darcy replied. He took Georgiana’s hand and bowed over it gallantly, just to see her blush, which she did, and very prettily, too. He tucked her arm under his and escorted her to the front entranceway, where they were to receive their guests.

To attend the dinner, Lady Andover had selected a large number of old friends and family, to make Georgiana feel at ease, mixed in with enough new acquaintances to lend novelty to the conversation; her intentions, at least where Georgiana was concerned, were not entirely successful, however. As Darcy walked his sister and their aunt and uncle towards the entrance hall to greet the arriving guests, she whispered to him earnestly, “Fitzwilliam, I shall faint—I know I shall! I do not know even half these people!”

Darcy looked at her with concern; she did, in truth, look pale. “Stand next to me, Dearest, and do not let go of my arm. Remember: you need only smile and curtsey; you are only to be seen, so you will not speaking to them, unless they address you directly—which none of them unknown to you will do.” Georgiana looked him in the eye a long moment: she nodded and gathered her determination, but said nothing.

Darcy began to understand her misgivings as the reception line grew and grew; he asked his sister in an astonished whisper, “Good Heavens, Miss Darcy—are you sure our aunt did not send out more invitations without telling you?”

She whispered back, terrified, “Would she do that, Fitzwilliam?”

“No, no, Dearest; I am sure she would not—I was only joking; but there are quite a number, are there not?

“Aunt Eleanor said she meant to see me get a proper start in Society.”

“Well, I must say, this ought to do it.”

Aside from having to move Georgiana into a more forward position once or twice, Darcy thought she bore up well. He saw his aunt lean in and whisper to her with smiles and encouragement more than once, and between them they managed to keep Georgiana from being too overwhelmed during the three-quarters of an hour they stood there together.

For Darcy, these affairs were rather more work than pleasure; even just greeting the new guests was laborious—more an exertion of the mind than of the body, however. Not having his friend’s great enjoyment of people in general, just holding himself in an attitude of expectant pleasure as each couple came up to convey their compliments, was a wearisome and unrewarding task. It helped that Georgiana was at his side, as he felt he must set an example of fortitude for her sake.

Afterwards, on the way back up the stairs, Darcy quietly told his sister, “In all honesty, Dearest, I do not like performing that office, any more than you; by the end, I thought my jaw would crack.”

Georgiana looked at him in surprise, but then giggled behind her hand when he winked. “By the way,” Darcy asked, “did you mark Lady Swyndham?”

“Which was she?” Georgiana asked, furrowing her brows as she cast back in her mind over the many people she had seen pass.

“Just recall the largest lady to arrive—or gentleman, either, for that matter—with a very high coiffure, and a rather prominent string of pearls,” Darcy prompted. Georgiana nodded, her eyes wide. “You should see her on the dance floor: she moves as if she weighed no more than a feather; it is truly remarkable. And do you recall Sir Reginald Crevis? Tall, serious-looking man, black coat, and a very full beard? He is an enormously successful banker, and well-bred in his manners; but, upon my honour, the man is an absolute witling. I have heard it said that, had he no valet, he would go about Town all day in his nightshirt.” Georgiana giggled again, and with such little stories and anecdotes about their guests, Darcy contrived to entertain her and revive her spirits as they returned to the dining-room.

For Darcy, however, dinner itself was something of a trial. Seated at one end of the table, he had his uncle on his right, and his cousin George had seated himself to Darcy’s left, thereby putting Lady Andover’s table out of order; Darcy’s aunt was unfortunately at the far end with his sister: he felt the want of Her Ladyship’s restraining influence on St. Stephens throughout the meal. The conversation at his end of the table—a monologue, really, dominated by the viscount—Darcy found to be a challenge to both his equanimity and his manners; he had to remind himself frequently of his realization the night before, that no man was without some benefit to his fellow beings.

Towards the end of the meal, shortly before the ladies were to retire, Darcy’s cousin addressed his father thus, in a voice that carried half-way down the hall: “Father, some of us are going ‘round to a chase
on St. Stephens’s Day—I ought to be in luck, eh? —and I have been meaning to ask if you should care to join us; my good friend, Mr. Fox, will be there; he would, I’m sure, be delighted to see you.”

“Thank you, George,” his father answered in much more regulated tones, “but as you know, my plans are already fixed; and our dear Georgiana has gone to such trouble…”

“Trouble?” St. Stephens sniffed disdainfully, making application to his snuff box. “This? It may do for Derbyshire, but it don’t answer for London! You should have seen Carlton House last month, at the Prince’s masquerade.” Darcy, who was not only insulted by his cousin’s comments, but also despised the use of snuff at table, drew himself up and turned a thundering brow on his cousin. His uncle placed a restraining hand on his arm.

“George,” said His Lordship dryly, “do please
attempt
to think before you speak; you are seated at your cousin’s table, and speaking to her brother.” To Darcy he said, “Georgiana is doing marvellously well: I doubt London will have seen such a Christmas these twenty years.”

“Come, come, Father,” said St. Stephens disparagingly, “that is precisely the point. No one of fashion follows these worn-out old customs. Beef pudding? —Lord, who could believe it! At this rate I shouldn’t be surprised if we were actually to have mince pies and plum pudding at Christmas dinner. And you know I always speak my thoughts, Father: if one does not speak out, how is one to correct the behaviour of others?”

“I am well aware of your readiness to speak—it is the thinking part of which I remain uncertain,” replied his father dryly. More sharply he added: “And in order to instruct others in correct behaviour, one must be at least passing familiar with it oneself—I fear, boy, you are under-qualified for the rôle.”

St. Stephens only laughed merrily, as though his father had made a fine jest. Lord Andover’s features became momentarily blank. “Crosses to bear,” he muttered under his breath.

Darcy let down his shoulders and smiled at his uncle, as though to show appreciation at a jest, though he knew there was little enough humour meant. He was well aware Lord Andover recognised his eldest son was lacking in certain aspects of his character, nor did he disagree; Edmund was beyond all comparison the better man, but there it was—the inheritance was George’s, and, as he was unfortunately of robust health, there was nothing to be done—except to hope for a providential hunting accident.

St. Stephens rose to his feet, announcing to the whole room with some ostentation: “Well, I regret that I must ask you all to excuse me; I have an important appointment with certain gentlemen who stand very high in the first circles of our nation.” With a bow to Georgiana he said, “I pray you will forgive me, dear Cousin. Would you be so good as to have a footman stay up? I shall not return until late.”

To this, poor Georgiana could only return a confused nod of the head; even she, who seldom felt the wrong-doings of others, could not but feel the thoughtless affront being offered by her cousin. At her side, her aunt was ominously fingering her flatware and frowning at her firstborn, as though wondering if she might hazard throwing something, without putting others at risk.

“You were speaking just now of behaviour?” Lord Andover asked his heir softly. “But no doubt this is an important matter of state, and demands the sacrifice of your better feelings—dog race?”

“Lord, Father, no one goes to dog races now,” chided St. Stephens. In an enthusiastic undertone he added: “No, two of the finest pugilists in England are to toe the mark down by the river, beyond Cheapside. Fox said he might attend, and there’s even a rumour that the Prince himself might be there. If I don’t hurry I shall miss it.” Straightening up he asked, “Should you care to join me?” and, evidently not wishing to snub his host, he added: “And you too, Darcy, of course; you would be very welcome to come along.”