Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst were deep in the pages of Le Beau Monde, while Hurst read aloud to them titillating bits of London gossip from a lately delivered newspaper. Bingley was trying his best to ignore their bursts of scandalized laughter and concentrate on Badajoz, his interest having been caught since their reading of it the day before. In this effort he was ill-fated, having been forced to look up repeatedly as Hurst now insisted upon regaling him every few minutes with the results of last week’s races and boxing matches. Darcy sighed heavily and turned back to his letter. There was no help to be garnered from that quarter, to be sure.

A rap at the door and the entrance of Stevenson, silver tray in hand, brought all activity to a halt. The tray, supporting a single letter, passed under breathless scrutiny until it was presented to Darcy. Recognizing the hand that wrote its direction, he swiftly took possession of the post and secured it in his coat pocket.

“A letter, Mr. Darcy?” Miss Bingley’s query betrayed the power of a rampant curiosity.

“A letter, yes, Miss Bingley.” Darcy rose and bowed to his hostess and host. “If you will excuse me. No, don’t get up, I beg you,” he tossed to Bingley, who had begun to struggle out of his chair. In a few long strides he was out of the room and into the hall to the library. Shutting the door of that welcome sanctuary firmly behind him, he went to the hearth, stirred up the coals to a soft glow, and dropped into one of the chairs drawn close to catch the feeble warmth. With fumbling, nerveless fingers, he lit a nearby lamp and withdrew the letter from his pocket.

It lay there in his hands, and on his life, he could not find the will to loosen the seal. Turning it over several times, he read its direction again: “Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, Netherfield Hall, Meryton, Hertfordshire,” in the unmistakable hand of his beloved sister. What should he find within? Dearest sister, are you destroyed? In an agony of dread, Darcy leaned forward, took a deep, trembling breath, and quickly broke the seal.


15 November 1811

Pemberley Manor

Lambton

Derbyshire


Dear Brother,

Your letter of the 11th was of such a tender and amusing nature that I have placed it among my keepsakes to treasure always, as I do your care and affection for such a troublesome sister as myself. Your noble, generous determination to shoulder the responsibility for all that occurred last summer leaves me much affected. I would not presume to contest you, but you must allow me, dear Brother, to bear that which truly falls to my account. You must know that the contrition it called for was needful, indeed, instrumental, in my recovery, not unlike the painful impasse between you and Father which you mentioned. (Yes, I do indeed remember your strokes and the sorrow of our father, although the frights that prompted them have long been forgotten!) I would not have you dwell upon it more. It is done, confessed, and forgiven. I am free of it, save as a lesson learned, and desire that you regard it no longer. I assure you, Mrs. Annesley and I are too much engaged to do so!


Too much engaged…regard it no longer. Darcy’s eyes scanned the paragraph again, fearful he had missed something. Not have you dwell upon it…free…a lesson learned. He collapsed into the comfort of the chair, his eyes closed, pressing the letter against his lips. The throbbing at his temple quieted as relief spread sweetly through his body. Wickham has not troubled her further. Evidently, his appearance here had nothing whatever to do with Georgiana. Darcy savored the alleviation of his fears for little more than a moment before turning once more to the questions of why Wickham was in Hertfordshire and how he would manage him. They seemed fated to meet commonly if he prolonged his stay at Netherfield.

“If I prolong my stay,” Darcy murmured to himself. No one would question his leaving for London. There was always the excuse of unexpected business. He was committed to remain for the ball, but after? Unbidden, a pair of utterly bewitching eyes set above a lovely, dimpled smile recalled themselves to his remembrance. Should he regret leaving? He looked down at the unfinished letter in his hand and lifted it again to the light.


Please extend my compliments to Miss Bingley. She is all politeness to ascribe “perfection” to my small talents. I hope I am sensible to the exactness of her taste and can only be honored that she holds my efforts in such esteem. To your friend Mr. Bingley, please forward my congratulations on his acquisition of a pleasing situation. With you to guide him, his efforts cannot but be successful.

Now, dear Brother, with the remainder of your letter I am more than a little astonished. I cannot think how anyone could deem you, who have been the most considerate and kind of brothers to me, an “unfeeling, prosy fellow.” Miss Elizabeth Bennet must be an Unusual Female indeed to have defended against your argumentation, dismissed you in such a manner, and taken you into dislike. Perhaps she is one who holds to first impressions, and your acquaintance, in her estimation, did not begin well? That it was a lapse in social grace which occasioned this discord between you I cannot believe. I hope that this letter finds you reestablished in her good opinion, as I cannot bear that someone should so misjudge your character, so dear you are to me!

I close with a fervent wish to see you and pray that God may keep you until you join us for Christmas. There is so much I would say, so much I have learned, but it must wait until I behold your dear face. As you honored me as Pemberley’s “treasure,” so I remind you that you are its heart. Return soon!


Your loving sister,

Georgiana Darcy


Darcy’s eyes lingered over the elegant signature, and then, slowly, he folded the letter along its creases and tucked it securely into his coat’s inner pocket. Georgiana, my dear girl! he mused, templing his fingers and resting his chin upon them as he stared into the glowing coals of the hearth. He tried to imagine her as she wrote, so astute in her perception and advice to him, but he could not picture it. Such a creature was in complete opposition to the one he had placed in Mrs. Annesley’s keeping only five months before! He laughed softly then at her disbelief that all the world did not see him as she did, complimented by her complete faith in his ability to retrieve his standing in Elizabeth Bennet’s skeptical eye. How close she had come to the mark! Indeed, their acquaintance could hardly have begun less favorably!

As ridiculous as he knew it to be, his sister’s confidence in him caused a glimmer of optimism to rise from the morass of irresolution he’d fallen into these several days past. A determination to correct Elizabeth’s estimation seized him. He ticked off the circumstances in his favor: Wickham would not be present, there would be a week’s worth of absence from which to garner topics of conversation, the general conviviality a ball afforded, the distraction provided by a large number of people, and finally, the surprise of his partiality and condescension.

His original motive for writing relieved, he rose with new energy from his hearthside reverie and returned to the society of his hosts and the penning of his letter. Later, over glasses of brandy and sherry, he merely smiled when Miss Bingley observed that she had rarely seen anyone so amused by the composition of a letter to his family.

Chapter 9

The Illustration of His Character

A lingering inclement weather descended upon the county, enveloping the land in a chill mist that often resolved itself into rain. Miss Bingley decried its tiresome arrival, looking upon its unwelcome stay as a daily personal affront. Her brother regarded it with some trepidation, fearful of its effect on attendance at the ball, but Darcy’s satisfaction with their enforced isolation mystified his companions. The days before the ball passed as he and Bingley worked on plans for the improvement of Netherfield and, when the weather allowed, on their expertise out in the game fields. Several evenings were spent abroad at influential houses in the shire, and a few afternoons were devoted to discovering the reliability of tales concerning legendary local breeding stock. As he intended, to all outward appearances Darcy seemed unconcerned with the approaching ball. But in truth, he was preparing for it assiduously.

His strategy was elegant in its simplicity: pique Elizabeth’s curiosity by his absence from all venues of intercourse with her and then, at the ball, make her the unmistakable object of his attention. The surprise and confusion engendered by such action would, he hoped, allow him to claim her hand for at least one set, during which he would offer a well-crafted apology for his lamentable manners at their first meeting. He trusted in Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s unpredictable wit to inspire their conversation from there on. Surprise…the complete suddenness and partiality of his address! Darcy smiled to himself as he imagined her flustering prettily. She would be fairly caught and without resources. Then, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, we shall begin again.

Therefore, when invited to accompany the Bingleys on their call upon the Bennets to issue the invitation to the much-anticipated ball, he solemnly declined and instead occupied himself in correspondence with his man of business, then spent a profitable hour or so with Trafalgar out in the fields. He carefully avoided anyplace where he might meet Elizabeth Bennet, his only glimpse of her before the ball occurring at Meryton Church on Sunday, and even then, no more passed between them than an acknowledging nod on his part, matched by its cool reception on hers.