Page 43 of Companions of Their Youth
Her breath caught for the briefest moment, and her eyes flicked toward Charlotte’s profile.Could it be…?
She did not allow herself to finish the idea. It would be wrong—cruel, even—to let her mind wander down that particular path. Charlotte had always been good to her. And Kitty, though at times exasperating, was her sister in every way that mattered.
And if—if—her mother had once sought comfort from their neighbor, who was she to judge?Remember, Lizzy; leave it to God. You only need concern yourself with your own actions.
A noise from the far side of the room drew their attention—men’s laughter, their younger sisters giggling behind their hands, and Mrs. Bennet loudly asking Lady Lucas if she had noticed how charming Mr. Bingley’s sister’s gown had been.
Elizabeth smiled faintly and allowed herself to be drawn back into the conversation.
And so the afternoon passed, full of tea and talk, laughter and long glances between friends old and new. The Lucases lingered longer than they intended, as was often the case when speculation proved more delicious than the refreshments.
But eventually, the shadows lengthened, the sun dipping low and golden behind the hedgerows. One by one, coats were fetched, curtsies made, and farewells exchanged.
Elizabeth lingered at the window a moment longer, watching the Lucases retreat down the drive. A breeze stirred the curtain at her shoulder. She had not thought of Mr. Darcy again after that exchange before the fire—but now, as she stared out at the fading light, she found herself wondering if he, too, was watching the sun go down, and whether his thoughts had returned to her as hers so unexpectedly had returned to him.
Chapter 9
Darcy sat stiffly in the drawing room, posture as straight as ever despite the low flame flickering in the hearth. The lamps had been lit, tea had been poured, and the Bingley sisters had returned to their habitual pastime: critiquing everyone who did not resemble them.
“I do not know when I have been in such rustic company,” said Miss Bingley, her lace cuffs trembling faintly as she stirred her tea. “The ladies were overdressed and unrefined, and the gentlemen either too old or too young. Not one appeared to be the least bit genteel.”
Louisa Hurst gave a small, half-hearted nod from her chair, but her eyes flicked nervously to her brother, whose face was growing red.
Miss Bingley’s voice turned syrupy. “Surely, Mr. Darcy, you cannot delight in Charles forcing you into acquaintance with those of a status so far beneath your own?”
Bingley cleared his throat and shot his sister a warning look. Mrs. Hurst avoided her sister’s bewildered eyes, adjusting her shawl and looking down at her teacup.
Miss Bingley’s brow furrowed faintly as she turned toward Darcy again, awaiting agreement.
He raised one eyebrow. “Quite the opposite. The gathering reminded me very much of the ones I attend in Lambton—the village nearest Pemberley.”
She blinked. “Oh. But surely in Derbyshire the people aremuchmore refined? Your estate is there, after all.”
Darcy allowed a short, dry chuckle. “As Pemberley lies nearly four days from London, and Meryton scarcely half a day, one might argue the people of Hertfordshire aremorepolished by proximity to the capital. It is along a main road for trade, is it not?”
Miss Bingley paled slightly.
He continued, his tone perfectly pleasant. “Your brother is introducing himself to a community where he will be a figure of influence for the next year. It is his duty as a gentleman and a tenant of consequence to treat his neighbors with courtesy. As his guest, it is my responsibility to show him to best advantage.”
A brittle silence followed.
Miss Bingley uttered a faint, “I see,” and busied herself with a slice of cake she clearly had no desire to eat.
Darcy turned to Bingley and said more mildly, “I must admit I enjoyed myself more than I expected. The music was passable, and the assembly a valuable opportunity for acquaintance. It is an excellent introduction to life as landed gentry.”
Bingley smiled, clearly pleased.
Darcy set down his teacup and stood. “If you will excuse me, I find I am more tired than I realized. The journey yesterday and tonight’s activity have caught up with me.”
He bowed and quit the room.
As the door closed behind him, Miss Bingley’s voice rose—shrill and sharp with indignation. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he ascended the stairs. He hoped Georgiana would not grow into such a woman—but the latest letters gave him little hope.
In his room, he lit the lamp on his writing desk and broke the seal on two letters that had arrived just that evening. The first, unmistakably, was in Georgiana’s hand. The writing was familiar—he had taught her to form her letters himself when she was six years old—but the tone was acid, the ink pressed hard into the paper with angry strokes.
Deplorable and Odious Fitzwilliam,
I hate you. I shall never forgive you. You have ruined everything. Colonel Fitzwilliam is a brute, and Mrs. Younge is a jailer. They say I must write to you, but they cannot make me say what they want. I hope you are miserable. I hope you miss me. But there is no possible way you can be as miserable as I am without my dear George.
