Page 100 of A Question of Character

Darcy returned to his chair. “That is the second time today I have been asked that question. I am beginning to dislike it.”

“Questions one dislikes are often the ones worth answering.”

“Who has been instructing you in philosophy?”

Bingley shrugged. “No one. I keep all my wisdom in reserve so you may be perfectly astonished when it appears.”

Darcy picked up the map from the table and unfolded it, grateful for practical matters. “Show me Netherfield.”

Bingley leaned forward eagerly, all animation restored. He pointed out the road from London, the village, the neighboring estates, and the position of the house with such satisfaction that Darcy felt some portion of his own heaviness yield. Hertfordshire. Meryton. Longbourn a few miles away.

“Here,” Bingley said, tapping the map. “Netherfield. And somewhere near it, your Miss Bennet.”

Darcy looked at the neat lines of ink marking roads he would soon travel.

“Not my Miss Bennet,” he said.

Bingley grinned. “Not yet?”

Darcy folded the map with more care than necessary.

“Not yet.”

Georgiana went to her room, her heart racing in her chest. Time was necessary, time for her brother to cool his ire, time for her to formulate the best strategy to convince him to change his opinions. With his journey to Hertfordshire, she would be granted exactly what she needed.

Her new companion, Mrs. Annesley, was a dear woman. Attentive and aged, the lady was completely trusting. As long as Georgiana confided in her and she could report growth and healing to her brother, the woman largely left her alone.

Georgiana spent many hours in her room “in solitary reflection.” In truth, she wrote letter after letter to her gentleman. The dear man always replied. His words of love carried her through their long separation. His letters arrived wrapped in papers she included with her missives that had her name and direction written in her own hand. Fitzwilliam never suspected a thing.

It was duplicitous, but her brother refused to listen to reason. He had drawn his own conclusions, and Fitzwilliam rarely—if ever—admitted fault. No, it was up to her to ensure he eventually saw the truth.

thirteen

A Gentleman's Attentions

The news of Netherfield reached Longbourn at breakfast, which Mrs. Bennet afterward declared the most fortunate time for receiving intelligence, since one had the whole day remaining in which to discuss it.

“My dear Mr. Bennet,” she cried, entering with ribbons still untied beneath her cap and triumph in every step, “have you heard? Netherfield Park is let at last.”

Mr. Bennet did not lower his paper. “Is it? Then I hope the tenant knows what he has undertaken. A house that has been empty so long may have acquired habits difficult to correct.”

Mrs. Bennet, who had expected inquiry and therefore resented philosophy, planted herself before him. “You must not make light of it. A gentleman of large fortune has taken it.”

“That is considerate of him. Netherfield would have looked very odd with a gentleman of small fortune inside it.”

Kitty giggled. Lydia, who had been buttering toast with more energy than accuracy, perked up at once.

“A gentleman? Is he handsome?”

“My dear Lydia,” Mr. Bennet said, “your concern for the architectural happiness of Netherfield does you credit.”

“I do not care for Netherfield’s architecture,” Lydia replied. “I care whether he dances.”

“Then let us hope his fortune has been invested in feet.”

Mrs. Bennet pointed a teaspoon at her husband. “You may laugh, but it is a very serious thing. Mrs. Long says he is single, very agreeable, and worth four or five thousand a year.”

“Mrs. Long is generous. Most people require acquaintance before assigning agreeableness.”