Page 26 of Mr. Darcy and the Mysterious “Miss B”
Darcy
T he evening shadows lengthened across the marble floors of Darcy House as Fitzwilliam climbed the main staircase. His boots struck each step with purpose. Lydia’s parting words echoed in his mind—that he needed to speak with Georgiana about the newspaper.
He paused outside his sister’s chamber door and knocked twice. No answer came. The door yielded to his touch, revealing an empty room. Her embroidery lay abandoned on the window seat. The bed remained perfectly made.
Where might she be at this hour?
His gaze swept the room until it settled on her writing desk. The mahogany surface gleamed in candlelight that flickered nearby but several sheets of paper lay scattered across its polished top. He approached with measured steps.
There, in Georgiana’s careful script, lay a half-finished letter:
To the Editor of The Morning Post,
Sir, I write to inform your readers that the recent speculation regarding Mr Darcy of Derbyshire and a certain Miss B has reached new heights of romantic fervour.
Those who have observed the gentleman’s recent behaviour can attest to his marked change in disposition.
Where once he appeared reserved, now he displays the unmistakable signs of a man deeply affected by love’s sweet influence…
His breath caught. The careful loops of her handwriting, so familiar from years of correspondence, seemed to mock him from the page. Could it be? His sister—his sweet, innocent sister—the author of his troubles?
Darcy’s jaw tightened as disbelief warred with recognition.
He rifled through the other papers with trembling fingers.
Each bore similar content—variations on the same theme, all written in different hands as though Georgiana had practised disguising her penmanship.
The evidence mounted before him like stones in his chest. One suggested an imminent announcement.
Another hinted at the identity of the mysterious Miss B.
A third described romantic scenes that could only have sprung from his sister’s imagination.
How long had she been crafting these deceptions? The betrayal stung sharper than he had expected, yet beneath it lay something else—a grudging admiration for her persistence, perhaps even her perceptiveness.
“Fitzwilliam?”
He turned. Georgiana stood in the doorway, her dark curls escaping from their pins. She carried a book of poetry, which slipped from her fingers as she took in the scene before her.
“What are you doing with my papers?” Her voice rose higher than usual.
“Perhaps I should ask what you are doing writing them.” He held up the unfinished letter, though he carefully kept his tone measured.
Better not to reveal how he had come to suspect her involvement.
Lydia had shown such warmth towards Georgiana lately—he would not be the cause of damaging that budding friendship by revealing her confidence.
Georgiana’s face drained of colour. She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. “I can explain.”
“I hope you can.” His tone remained level, though disappointment coloured every word. “Because at present, I confess myself quite at a loss to understand your actions.”
She clasped her hands before her. “You must know I would never do anything to harm you.”
“Yet here I stand, holding evidence that suggests otherwise.”
“No!” The word burst from her with surprising force. “I mean—yes, I wrote those letters. All of them. But I never sent a single one to any newspaper.”
Darcy studied her face. “Then why write them at all?”
Georgiana moved to the window, gazing out at the darkening street. “Do you remember when the first notice appeared? How distraught you were?”
“I recall my surprise, yes.”
“And then Miss Elizabeth Bennet arrived with her proposal for a false courtship.” She turned back to him. “You agreed so readily. Too readily for a man who supposedly felt nothing for the lady in question.”
“The arrangement served both our purposes.”
“Did it?” Georgiana stepped closer. “Or did it serve your heart’s purpose while your mind remained stubbornly resistant?”
He set the papers down. “Georgiana, you are speaking in riddles.”
“Am I?” Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears. “I have watched you these past weeks, Fitzwilliam. I have seen how you look at Miss Elizabeth. How you speak of her when you think no one notices. How your entire bearing changes in her presence.”
“That is neither here nor there.”
“It is everything!” She moved to his side, placing her small hand on his arm.
“When the second notice appeared, and then the third, I saw how the scandal was pushing you together. Creating opportunities for you to spend time with her. Forcing you to acknowledge what you would otherwise have ignored.”
Darcy shook his head. “So, you thought to continue the deception?”
“I thought to preserve the momentum.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I wrote letter after letter, practising different approaches, different styles. I wanted to keep the story alive in case… in case you needed more time to realise what was right before you.”
“And what, in your estimation, is right before me?”
“Love, you stubborn man!” The words rang out with surprising strength.
“Love such as I have never seen you display for any other woman. Love that makes you smile without realising it. Love that has transformed my serious, proper brother into someone who laughs freely and speaks with genuine tenderness.”
The silence stretched between them. Outside, a carriage clattered past on the cobblestones.
“You had no right to meddle in such matters,” he said finally.
“Perhaps not.” She lifted her chin with a touch of defiance that reminded him of Elizabeth. “But I could not stand by and watch you throw away your chance at happiness because you are too proud to admit your feelings.”
“My feelings are my own concern.”
“Are they?” Georgiana’s eyes flashed. “When your unhappiness affects everyone around you? When your loneliness casts shadows over this entire household?”
He turned away, but she continued.
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet is perfect for you, Fitzwilliam. She challenges you without cruelty. She sees past your reserve to the man beneath. She makes you better by being herself.” Her voice softened. “Surely you must see it too?”
The truth of her words could not be ignored.
Ripples of recognition spread outward—yes, he did feel strongly for Elizabeth.
More strongly than he had ever felt for any woman.
The false courtship had become precious to him not because it protected his reputation, but because it granted him time in her company.
Hours of conversation. Moments of shared laughter.
The illusion of belonging to her, even if only temporarily.
“Perhaps,” he admitted, “my feelings are not entirely my own concern.”
Georgiana’s face brightened. “Then you do care for her?”
“My regard for Miss Elizabeth is…” he paused, searching for words that would not betray the depth of his attachment. “It is considerable.”
“Considerable!” She laughed despite her tears. “Oh, Fitzwilliam, you could not sound more stilted if you tried. You love her. Why can you not say so?”
Because saying it aloud would make it real. Because real feelings carried real risks. Because Elizabeth Bennet might laugh at the notion of actually accepting him once their charade reached its end.
“Love is a word not to be used lightly,” he said instead.
“No, it is not.” Georgiana wetted her lips. “Which is why I took such care to preserve what I saw growing between you. I may have been wrong to write those letters, but I was not wrong about what I observed.”
He looked down at the scattered papers again. “You truly sent none of these?”
“Not one. I swear it on our parents’ memory.”
“Then who has been feeding information to the newspapers?”
“I know not. But does it matter now? You and Miss Elizabeth have found each other despite the circumstances, have you not?”
Had they? The question lodged itself in his mind. Their arrangement remained temporary. Their courtship remained a performance. Yet when he looked into Elizabeth’s eyes, when she smiled at something he said, when she took his arm as they walked—those moments felt anything but false.
“Promise me,” he said, “that you will engage in no more such schemes. Whatever happens between Miss Elizabeth and myself must happen naturally, without interference from meddling sisters.”
Georgiana nodded solemnly. “I promise. Though I reserve the right to be exceedingly happy when you finally come to your senses.”
“If I come to my senses.”
“When,” she corrected. “You are many things, dear brother, but you are not a fool. Miss Elizabeth Bennet is the finest woman of our acquaintance, and she regards you with far more fondness than mere friendship would account for.”
Did she? The possibility sent an unexpected flutter through his chest. He gathered the papers from the desk and moved towards the fireplace.
“What are you doing?” Georgiana asked.
“Destroying the evidence of your literary efforts.” He fed the first letter to the flames. “Whatever the future holds, it will not be built upon deception—even well-intentioned deception.”
The papers caught quickly, curling into ash. As the last fragments disappeared, Darcy felt something release within him. The weight of pretence, perhaps. Or the fear of acknowledging what his heart had known for weeks.
“Georgiana,” he said without turning from the fire.
“Yes?”
“Your instincts about Miss Elizabeth…” he paused, watching the flames dance. “They may not be entirely misguided.”
Her delighted laughter filled the room like music. “Oh, Fitzwilliam! I knew it!”
He faced her with a stern expression, though his eyes betrayed his affection. “That does not mean I approve of your methods.”
“Of course not.” She attempted to look contrite, but joy kept breaking through. “I shall be the very picture of propriety from now on.”
“See that you are.” He moved towards the door, then paused. “Though I suppose I should thank you for one thing.”
“What is that?”
“For seeing what I was too stubborn to acknowledge.” He met her gaze. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet is indeed an exceptional woman. Perhaps it is time I told her so myself.”
As he left his sister’s room, Darcy’s steps carried new purpose.
Behind him, Georgiana’s soft humming drifted through the door—a melody that sounded suspiciously like a wedding march.