Page 79 of A Question of Character

“Lizzy.”

“I said nothing.”

“You did not need to.”

Elizabeth laughed then, partly from embarrassment and partly because Jane’s pleasure was so evident. For once, she did not protest.

Mr. Darcy had promised to call when she returned to Hertfordshire.

She had come home early, it was true. He might not know it. He might still be at Ramsgate, occupied with Georgiana, Mr. Bingley, and whatever estate difficulties had drawn him into Kent. There was no reason to expect him yet.

Nevertheless, when she slept that night, her last waking thought was not of Ireland, nor Wickham, nor even Lydia’s surprising alteration.

It was of a gentleman standing in Hyde Park, one glove in his hand, asking whether he might come to Longbourn.

ten

A Changed Man

Darcy brought Georgiana to London three days after Mrs. Younge’s dismissal.

He had told himself the removal was practical. Ramsgate had become impossible. Every street suggested the secrecy that had taken root there; every cheerful visitor upon the promenade might, for all he knew, have passed Mrs. Younge without suspecting she had nearly delivered his sister into a ruinous marriage. London, with its servants, relations, and the solid walls of Darcy House, offered greater command. Georgiana could be watched without appearing imprisoned. Letters could be intercepted. Wickham could be found.

None of this improved Georgiana’s spirits.

She obeyed him. That was almost worse than defiance. She came down to breakfast when summoned, answered when spoken to, practiced if asked, and sat by the window with embroidery in her lap while her needle remained idle between her fingers. His sister did not plead for Mrs. Younge. She did not speak Wickham’s name. Her eyes followed Darcy sometimes with a hurt restraint that made every meal an exercise in self-reproach.

He could not decide whether she was repentant or merely wounded.

Perhaps she did not know herself.

On the fourth morning in town, Colonel Fitzwilliam arrived before noon, boots dusty, coat unbrushed, and temper already engaged before he crossed the threshold. Barton admitted him directly to Darcy’s study, where Darcy stood over a half-written letter with more lines crossed through than preserved.

Richard took in the desk, the open drawer, the fire burning too hot for the season, and Darcy’s face.

“Tell me everything.”

Darcy did.

He gave it with as much order as he could command: Bingley’s summons to Kent, the miserable estate, the hired carriage upon his return, Mrs. Younge in the hall, Georgiana’s joy, wedding. He did not embellish. He did not soften. Richard interrupted twice, once to curse under his breath and once to demand whether Wickham had been in the house.

“No,” Darcy said. “Had he been, I might have killed him.”

Richard’s jaw worked. “I would have assisted.”

“That is not helpful.”

“It is honest.”

Darcy moved to the window, then back again because standing still had become intolerable. “Mrs. Younge is gone. No character. Barton watched her trunks packed and sent her from the house. Georgiana has been brought here. I have ordered all letters delivered first to me.”

“And Wickham?”

“I began a letter.” Darcy took the page from the desk and handed it over. “I did not send it. I wanted to speak to you before proceeding.”

Richard read it, scowled, and flipped the page over, though nothing had been written on the reverse. “This is too civil.”

“It was the third attempt.”