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“I told her it could not be, for if that were the case, you would have acted so from when you first returned, but it was not until the last week that you have been so occupied. That did little to relieve her anxiety, for now she believes she must have done something more recent to offend you, although she knows not what it might be.”

“She has done nothing,” he finally replied. “Nothing at all.”

Mrs. Annesley inclined her head in acknowledgement, but did not move from her seat. “Her mind tells her what is reasonable. She knows, when she pauses to reflect, that you have not voiced a single syllable of censure. She has no evidence, no proof of any displeasure of yours. Yet, reason is a poor comfort to a tender conscience. She scolds herself, believing that since her dear brother retreats away from her, surely it must be that he sees something about her as offensive.”

These words struck Darcy with a force Mrs. Annesley did not give them. How well he knew the battle between reason and the heart. Was that not why he sat alone so many hours, telling himself that his penance was necessary, that his absence was merely due to a need to catch up on the duties he had neglected for too long?

He rose from his chair and moved to the window, though he looked at nothing in particular. “It was not my intention to wound my sister, but intentions are poor currency when weighed against the injury done.” He paused, pressing one hand against the glass, which was cold against his palm. “I have always believed that reason must govern the affections, Mrs. Annesley. That a man who permits his heart to overrule his understanding invites ruin upon himself and those he is bound to protect.”

“And yet, the opposite has occurred, if saying so would not be too bold.”

Darcy turned to look at her. “You believe I am too bound by my reason?”

“Your sister does not need reason or logic, sir. She needs you.”

The companion’s words were not meant to be unkind, for such was not in her nature. Yet, they were delivered with the force of a woman who would do whatever she could for her charge, even if it meant speaking thusly to her employer. The study, which had long been Darcy’s place of refuge, suddenly felt very close. It was a place of exile, rather than retreat.

“Of course, madam.” The words felt rough in his throat as he spoke. “I shall speak with my sister today, as you suggest.”

∞∞∞

Darcy found Georgiana seated at the pianoforte, her fingers moving over the keys but her eyes were focused off in the distance. The sound the instrument produced was dull when compared to what he was used to hearing from his sister. She played, he thought to himself, to fill the silence rather than for enjoyment.

“Georgie,” he said quietly, causing her to jump.

“Will,” she gasped, upon realising it was he who had interrupted her playing. She removed her hands from the keyboard immediately, clasping them together tightly in her lap as her eyes scanned his person for any sign of disapproval.

Darcy moved to a chair near her. “I did not mean to startle you, Georgie. I wished to hear you play.”

“Of course. I should be pleased to play for you, Brother. What do you wish to hear?”

“Whatever pleases you, Georgie,” said Darcy, settling himself with a look meant to reassure, although from his sister’s reaction, such was not the effect.

She nodded, then after a moment of thought, began to play an air familiar to them both. It was one that Lady Catherine had the music for, stored in the bench of her instrument, waiting for visitors since no one in that house played.

As Georgiana played, her eyes often drifted to Darcy, seeking some sign of his enjoyment. He gave a small smile meant to encourage her and finally saw some of the tension leave her bearing. Darcy was relieved to find some of his sister’s usual energy return to her playing as her countenance brightened and she lost herself in the music. When the piece came to an end, she looked up at him, an uncertain hope in her expression.

“You play so very well,” he offered as praise, for he knew his sister would not ask how he enjoyed it. “I always enjoy hearing you play.”

Much like himself, Georgiana never did well with praise, and coloured at his words. “It was very kind of you to ask to hear me play. I know you are very busy.”

Darcy’s heart dropped at his sister’s words. “Georgie,” he began.

“I do not mind,” she said hurriedly.

“Georgie, you need not pretend with me. I have not been a very good brother of late,” he said. When his sister opened her mouth to contradict him, he urged her to let him speak. “I have allowed my own preoccupations and unpleasant thoughts to overwhelm me. It was wrong of me to let you go ignored. It has nothing to do with you, Georgie. You have done nothing.”

For several seconds, the room was silent; the only sounds were the distant footsteps of a servant and the ticking of the clock. Then his sister looked up at him, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “The unpleasant thoughts... Are they about this summer?”

Darcy felt a fresh pang of guilt, hating that his dear sister’s mind was forever returning to those horrible memories. “No, Georgie. I swear to you, it has nothing to do with Ramsgate. You were blameless then, and you are blameless now.”

Even still, Georgiana’s expression did not alter. “Then what is it? If it is not me, and it is not Ramsgate, then for what reason do you lock yourself away for days? What can weigh on you so deeply?”

Darcy sighed. He did not know how much to tell his sister, but he knew she would not believe him unless he was honest. “It is... a personal matter,” he murmured. “A matter of the heart.”

Georgiana blinked at him, her sadness suddenly replaced with confusion. “A matter of the heart?” she repeated. Her mind seemed to turn the phrase over, until her eyes widened in sudden, dawning comprehension. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet!” she blurted out, before she could prevent the words from escaping.

Darcy stiffened at the name.