Page 8 of A Question of Character

Georgiana considered this with visible interest. “Is she pleasant?”

“Yes.”

The answer was too brief, and Georgiana, who could sometimes be very young and at other times disconcertingly perceptive, studied him over her teacup.

“Very pleasant?” she asked.

Darcy took a bite of toast and discovered it was quite without flavor. “She converses well.”

His sister’s smile appeared and vanished behind the rim of her cup. “That is high praise from you.”

“It is accurate praise.”

“I should like to meet her.”

“You may have the opportunity in two days’ time.”

“Will you call upon Mrs. Gardiner today?”

“Yes. It would be appropriate to deliver the invitation in person.”

“Naturally.”

There was a note in Georgiana’s tone that sounded suspiciously like their cousin Richard. Darcy chose not to encourage it. He shifted the conversation toward her music, asked after a new piece she had been practicing, and listened while she described a difficult passage in the second movement. By the time breakfast ended, she had promised to play it for him before dinner, and he had promised to say nothing if she began it twice.

Still, when he went to his study, the morning did not proceed as it ought. A letter to his steward required a firmer hand than he could summon. An account from Pemberley’s carpenter invited several questions, and Darcy read the same line regarding roof repairs three times before he admitted that his attention was of no use to anyone.

He rang for Barton and requested the carriage.

Gracechurch Street was not so far removed from his usual haunts as many in his circle would have pretended. Darcy had never possessed much patience for men who spoke of trade while wearing coats paid for by fortunes made two generations earlier in sugar, shipping, coal, or clever marriages. Mr. Gardiner’s house, when Darcy arrived, had the look of prosperity without ostentation. The brass knocker shone, the steps were well swept, and the servant who admitted him took his card with precise efficiency.

Mrs. Gardiner was at home.

So was Miss Bennet.

That information, delivered with no significance by the footman, struck Darcy with such absurd pleasure that he removed his gloves more slowly than necessary, lest he enter the drawing room with an expression Barton would have considered undignified.

Mrs. Gardiner received him with her usual warmth. “Mr. Darcy, how kind of you to call so soon.”

“The kindness is yours in receiving me.” Darcy bowed, then faced the young woman seated near the window with a book in her lap.

Miss Bennet rose.

He had remembered her well. That was the first thought, followed instantly by the second, which was that memory had been inadequate. Her brown hair was arranged in an elegant simplicity that suited her far better than the towering constructions some ladies favored. A few curls framed her face without appearing coaxed into submission, and her gown, though not of the newest or most costly fashion, had been chosen with excellent judgment. The color warmed her complexion, and the cut allowed grace without any attempt at display.

“Mr. Darcy,” she said, curtseying.

“Miss Bennet.” His bow was not deeper than propriety required. He hoped it was not. “I trust you suffered no ill effects from yesterday’s exertions at the exhibition.”

“It is the ordinary fatigue of having formed too many opinions in too short a space of time.”

Mrs. Gardiner took her seat with an expression that suggested she had no intention of preventing conversation. “Elizabeth slept very well.”

“Aunt,” Miss Bennet protested, though there was laughter in her eyes.

“It is true, my dear. Mr. Darcy will not think less of you for possessing human requirements.”

“On the contrary,” Darcy said. “I am relieved to learn Miss Bennet is mortal. Yesterday had left the matter somewhat in doubt.”