Page 33 of Darcy’s Guarded Heart

Darcy

I t was a dull, grey morning in London. The house was quiet, except for the faint clink of the fire grate in the drawing room. Georgiana Darcy sat by the window, not looking up as her brother entered. Her embroidery lay untouched in her lap.

Darcy stood nearby, uncertain how to begin. After a moment, he said quietly, “You must speak to me eventually, Georgiana. This silence cannot go on.”

She did not respond.

“I know you are angry,” he said, moving closer. “Is this because I brought you away from Longbourn? From the Bennets’ ward?”

Still, she said nothing.

“Please,” he added, “just speak to me.”

Georgiana’s eyes stayed fixed on the street outside, but her voice came at last, low and tight. “His name is Thomas. And he is more than a ward. You would know that, if you’d ever given him a chance.”

Darcy looked away, caught off guard by the sharpness in her tone.

“I didn’t want to believe what Mr Wickham said about you,” she continued. “That you were proud. Unkind. Cold. But now I wonder. You seem to care only for people who meet your high standards. Everyone else—Thomas, Miss Bennet—you push aside.”

Darcy tried to reply, but Georgiana went on. “You speak of doing what’s right. But you helped Caroline and her sister separate Mr Bingley from Jane. Don’t deny it. I heard them. They talked about it openly, as if it were clever.”

He turned away, his jaw clenched. “That wasn’t the full story.”

“I’m not a child,” she said. “I know what I heard. And I know how unhappy Jane looked when we left. You always criticise Aunt Catherine for meddling, for judging everyone by their rank, but how are you any different?”

Her words struck him like a slap. He stood still, unable to speak.

“I will fix it,” he said at last. “What I did to Jane. To Bingley. To you. I’ll make it right.”

Georgiana looked at him. “Then will you let me see Thomas again?”

Darcy hesitated. “That is… a separate matter.”

“Why?” she asked. “Why is it separate?”

He couldn’t answer. He didn’t trust himself to speak the truth—that jealousy and pride had guided his hand more than care ever had.

“I should have talked to you,” he said quietly. “Really talked. I thought I was protecting you.”

She stood now, her face pale but calm. “Taking me from Netherfield wasn’t protection. It was control. You ruined my happiness—and Jane’s, too. And you didn’t even tell Bingley the truth. You let him believe she didn’t care.”

Darcy stepped forward, but she pulled back.

“You say you’ll fix it,” she said. “But you can’t undo everything. Not easily. You should ask yourself whether it was all worth it.”

Without waiting for a reply, she turned and left the room.

***

Darcy remained where he stood, alone. Her words echoed in his mind, and for the first time, he truly saw how far he had fallen from the man he believed himself to be.

Darcy sat with his hands clenched tight in his lap, the pressure of his fingers digging into his gloves.

The study in Bingley’s London townhouse was quiet, save for the soft ticking of the clock on the mantel.

He had been speaking for some time now—everything laid bare.

His interference. His doubts. His intentions, however misplaced. He had told Bingley all.

Now he waited.

Across from him, Bingley leaned back in his chair, a pained look on his usually cheerful face. He had not spoken for several moments, and Darcy dared not break the silence. He had braced himself for anger, perhaps even a demand that their friendship come to an end.

At last, Bingley looked at him and said quietly, “So, you did not truly share the opinion of my sisters and Mr Hurst?”

“No,” he said quickly. “I did not. I should not have allowed myself to be drawn into their confederacy. I was a bad friend and I can only ask your forgiveness now.”

Bingley’s reply surprised him. “Did it have something to do with Wickham?”

Darcy blinked, startled. “I—what do you mean?”

“Do not feign surprise, Darcy. I know you better than that. I’ve always suspected it ran deeper than just your opinion of Jane. I know how much you disliked Thomas and I assume the idea of my marrying Jane would mean being near Thomas which would not be favourable to you.”

Darcy looked away. “I had no wish to bring that up. It sounds like an excuse.”

“But is it part of the truth?”

Darcy nodded slowly. “Yes… it is. When I saw how easily you took to Thomas Bennet—how well-liked he became—it reminded me of… then. When we were boys. My father used to praise Wickham, more than he praised me. And again at Cambridge. Everyone was drawn to him. I’ve always been the serious one, the dull one.

And I was afraid I’d be… cast aside. Again.

I thought if you and Jane become closer, he too would remain in your realm and I would no longer matter.

I do not have many friends, as you know, and I should not have liked to lose one of my closest.”

Bingley looked at him for a long moment. “Do you really think so little of me?”

Darcy’s throat tightened. “No. But I often think very little of myself.”

“You believe I’d drop my best friend the moment someone more charming came along?”

Darcy shook his head, his voice low. “I didn’t mean to think it. I only… felt it.”

“Well,” Bingley said, sitting forward, “you may be serious, and you may not smile often, but that’s why I trust you. I never have to wonder where I stand with you. I can talk to you properly. That matters more than all the charm in the world.”

Darcy looked down, shame twisting in his chest. “I have betrayed your trust. I wronged Miss Bennet and I wronged you. There’s no excuse for it.”

Bingley sighed, but his voice was gentler. “It was out of character. But I see now why you did it. You weren’t just trying to protect me, were you? You were afraid.”

Darcy nodded. “Of losing my sister.”

He hesitated, then went on. “She became very close to Thomas. I saw it happening, and I feared… feared the same thing that happened before. That someone I loved would be drawn away, without me even realising it. I thought if I acted quickly, I could stop it before it went too far.”

Bingley shook his head. “But Thomas isn’t Wickham.”

“I know that now. He’s nothing like him. He’s not titled, no fortune of his own, his parentage uncertain—yes. But he is decent. He is steady. And he truly cares for Georgiana. I can see that now.”

“Then what is the trouble?”

Darcy gave a weak smile. “If she were to be with him, her future would be tarnished. The family would not take it well.”

“Come now,” Bingley said. “Colonel Fitzwilliam adores her. You do as well, of course. That’s most of the family she cares about.”

“I would not turn my back on her.”

“Exactly,” Bingley said. “And nor would I. And if things were to progress, she’d have the Bennets as her family too. There is nothing wrong with that.”

There was a silence between them again. But this time, it was not cold. It was thoughtful.

“We could all have been family,” Bingley said, softer now. “If not for what you and my sisters did.”

Darcy lowered his eyes. “I know. And I regret it more than I can say.”

He looked up, voice steady now. “I mean to go to Miss Bennet. I will tell her everything. I will confess what I did.”

Bingley sat up straighter, his eyes brightening. “She’s in London?

“Yes, Mrs Annesley saw her and her aunt in Covent Garden market on Monday. She is staying at Gracechurch Street. I plan to see her after this, if you would care to come.”

“Care to?” Bingley exclaimed. “I insist on it. I must beg her forgiveness myself.”

Darcy allowed himself the faintest of smiles. But then Bingley added, with a smirk, “And perhaps, if you’re very noble in your confession, it might win you a little favour from Miss Elizabeth?”

Darcy straightened slightly, though his expression remained unreadable. “That is not the reason I—”

“Don’t lie to me, Darcy.”

Darcy met his gaze, then slowly nodded. “Very well. I care for her more than I can explain.”

“Then there is hope yet,” Bingley said, standing. “Here is our plan. I will beg Jane’s forgiveness this very hour. You will speak to Georgiana and make peace. And then—we shall go to Longbourn. And you will tell Miss Elizabeth how you feel.”

Darcy’s chest tightened with nerves, but he nodded. “Yes. I will.”

“Good,” Bingley said. “Let’s not waste another day.”

***

The streets of London were quiet as Darcy helped Bingley from the carriage, steadying him as they reached the steps of his townhouse. The night air was sharp, the scent of frost beginning to rise from the road.

“Come now, I can walk on my own,” Bingley said with a grin, though he leaned rather heavily on Darcy’s arm.

“You’ve had three glasses more than was wise,” Darcy replied, not without affection.

“And two toasts fewer than I would have liked,” Bingley returned cheerfully. “But no matter. Jane forgave me. She forgave me, Darcy. She is everything I hoped she was. Everything and more.”

Darcy gave a small nod. “I am pleased for you.”

“She cried, you know. Not in anger, but with joy. And I cried too—not a word to anyone,” he added, wagging a finger. “You are the only person I can trust with such shameful confessions.”

Darcy smiled faintly. “You are not the first man to cry from happiness.”

“No, but I must be the first to cry and then drink an entire bottle of claret in honour of it,” Bingley laughed, swaying slightly on his feet. “I must go to Longbourn. At once. Tonight!”

“You most certainly must not,” Darcy said firmly.

Bingley blinked at him. “Why ever not?”

“You are half-drunk, Bingley.”

“A quarter,” Bingley corrected.

“A generous half.”

Bingley laughed again, louder this time. “There it is! That’s why I love you, Darcy. You are the only man alive who could call me drunk to my face and still sound like a gentleman doing it.”

Darcy sighed, ushering him to the door. “Sleep tonight. Travel in the morning.”

“Yes, yes. Sensible as ever.” Bingley paused at the threshold, his face still flushed from drink and delight. “I’m going to be happy, Darcy. Genuinely happy. And you—well, you’ll see. It will be your turn soon enough.”

Darcy raised a brow. “Go inside, Bingley.”

With one final laugh and a clumsy bow, Bingley disappeared through the doorway, and Darcy turned back towards his own home.

The streets were colder now, emptier. His breath hung in the air. And with each step, thoughts of Elizabeth crept in uninvited.

Jane and Bingley would be married. There would be visits. Family dinners. Shared holidays. He and Elizabeth would see one another more frequently—not by design, but by circumstance. And perhaps, in time, he might repair the impression he had left upon her.

But no. He must not think so far ahead. He must not let his heart wander. Not yet.

Georgiana came first.

It had been weeks since their last true conversation, and though she had kept to her room and to short, polite exchanges, he had promised himself that he would try again. Tonight. Now.

Darcy entered his house, nodding briefly to the footman, and made his way upstairs. The lamp in Georgiana’s room had not yet been extinguished. He knocked gently, then opened the door.

The room was still. Her writing desk stood open, and a single candle flickered low by the window. There was no sign of her.

His eyes fell on the envelope resting neatly against the inkwell.

His name was written in her hand.

With a sinking heart, he crossed the room and broke the seal.

Dearest Brother,

I know you love me. I believe it. But I also know you cannot give me what I need—not here, not like this. You wish to protect me, but I do not need protection. I need freedom. I need truth. I need the chance to be happy in my own way.

You do not understand what I felt at Longbourn, or what Thomas meant to me. Perhaps you never will. But I can no longer sit still, waiting for you to approve of the life I wish to live.

Do not send anyone after me. I am not in danger, and I am not foolish. But I will not find my happiness under this roof. I have left in search of it.

Forgive me if you can. I do love you. But I must be free.

Georgiana

Darcy sat down slowly in the chair by the desk, the letter in his lap. The candle sputtered, casting long shadows on the wall.

He did not move for a long time.