Page 113 of Dear Friend

“I begin to suspect there is nothing left.”

“There must be. You have spent three weeks avoiding half my questions.”

“I have answered a great many of them.”

“Very badly.” Georgiana pushed her needle through the cloth before glancing at him again. “You have told me she is clever, that she plays and sings, and that she laughs at you rather more often than anyone else dares. Whenever I ask anything interesting, however, you become remarkably difficult.”

Darcy raised a brow. “Perhaps your definition of interesting is the difficulty.”

Georgiana smiled. “What does she do when she is angry?”

The newspaper lowered another inch. His sister remained bent innocently over her embroidery.

“Why do you ask?” Darcy said.

“You said you quarrelled.”

“I said we disagreed.”

“You returned to London three weeks before Christmas looking as though you wished never to speak to anyone again.”

“Georgiana.”

“I was worried about you.”

The quiet admission checked his reply. Darcy folded the newspaper and laid it beside him. He had told Georgiana only that something had passed between himself and Elizabeth before he left Hertfordshire, and that the fault had been principally his. He had considered telling her more, as he had told Richard he would, but every attempt brought him against the same difficulty. The letters were Julia’s and the words Elizabeth’s. Explaining his offence would require exposing the very privacy he had already violated.

“Miss Bennet has a very decided temper when she believes herself wronged,” he said at last.

“And were you wrong?”

“Yes.”

Georgiana’s needle paused, but Darcy offered no qualification. Three weeks had done nothing to alter that answer.

He had spent those weeks trying not to wonder whether Elizabeth’s opinion of him might ever alter. Before the Hardings left for Hertfordshire, he had entrusted Mr. Harding with two letters for her, explaining what he had done and apologising for it without attempting to excuse himself. There had been nothing more he could properly do. He had said what he needed to say and left whatever came next entirely in Elizabeth’s hands.

Richard had written a week ago to say that the Hardings had reached Longbourn and Elizabeth had received both letters. She had been civil, he reported, and had shown no displeasure at their being given to her. Darcy had read that portion more times than he cared to admit before conceding that civil could mean almost anything where Elizabeth was concerned.

Still, she had read them.

That had to be enough.

Richard’s letter had been considerably less precise upon the subject of his own return. He had intended to remain at Netherfield only until the Hardings were comfortably settled, yet many days had passed without any indication that he meant to leave Hertfordshire.

A subsequent letter from Richard had contained little more concerning Elizabeth, but considerably more concerning Julia Harding. His cousin mentioned her often enough that Darcy had begun to suspect Richard’s prolonged stay in Hertfordshire had rather less to do with the Hardings being comfortably settled than with Miss Harding herself. The thought amused him, but he knew better than to enquire. Richard would tell him when he was ready.

Darcy returned his attention to the newspaper, and Georgiana to her embroidery. They had been occupied in companionable silence for several minutes when the drawing-room door opened and a servant entered with the morning post. He placed several letters upon the table beside Darcy before retaining one in his hand.

“This arrived separately, sir. It was forwarded from Somerset.”

Darcy looked up. “Somerset?”

“From Willowbrook, sir.”

“This arrived separately, sir. It was forwarded from Somerset.”

Darcy lowered the newspaper. “Somerset?”