Page 15 of Only Mr Darcy (Obstinate, Headstrong Girl #1)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
T hat evening, before dinner, Miss Georgiana Darcy arrived at Netherfield, with her maid—and without her companion.
Elizabeth was upstairs with Jane at the time of the arrival, but all the servants were talking about it and the news was impossible to miss. Apparently, Miss Darcy’s companion, an elderly cousin by the name of Mrs Abigail Darcy, had insisted upon an ‘improving regimen’—a steady stream of masters designed to assist her in ‘strengthening her character’. That morning, when the dancing master arrived, Miss Darcy had refused to go down, infuriating the companion—who threatened to return to her former home with Judge Darcy if Miss Darcy persisted in behaving ‘as a spoilt infant’ and then, at her continued refusal, left the house in a huff. Opinions were mixed as to whether the crotchety companion had truly abandoned her charge; she had not, according to reports, removed any of her belongings when she departed. But Miss Darcy had ordered the carriage to bring her to her brother as if Mrs Abigail Darcy was gone forever.
Elizabeth was introduced to the girl before dinner. Miss Darcy seemed barely able to lift her head high enough to acknowledge the introduction, much less to demand the Darcy coachman help her run away from those caring for her. Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst showed all the civility they could muster towards their newest guest, heaping on an endless stream of flattery and admiration, their praises occupying the chief of dinner conversation; it seemed to further mortify the girl, who could offer but single mumbled syllables in reply.
When the ladies removed after dinner, Elizabeth ran up to her sister, and seeing her well-guarded from the cold, attended her into the drawing room. There, she was welcomed by her two friends and during the course of the introductions—which developed into lengthy expressions of pleasure at Jane’s recovery—Elizabeth found herself near Miss Darcy, and invited her to sit beside her on one of the smaller settees.
Miss Darcy was the shyest person Elizabeth had ever met. She did not try to engage the diffident creature in conversation—which attempt could only end in failure—but racked her brain as to how to lift the poor thing from her evident misery. Finally, she brought out of her linen workbag a new muslin pattern from Ackermann’s, examining the curved stems, berries, and varying floras. Likewise, she pulled out various thread colours—pretending to an indecision unnatural to her, at least until she noticed Miss Darcy’s attention had been captured.
“Which of these colours do you think might work best on these lines, if I am using scarlet on the sprigs?” Elizabeth wondered aloud.
Miss Darcy looked around, as if unsure whether Elizabeth might be addressing her, and in response Elizabeth put an extra dose of warmth into her smile and nod. Hesitantly, Miss Darcy selected a shade of green.
“Oh, yes, I agree that is just the thing,” Elizabeth replied, and continued speaking on simple, easy subjects, until at last she judged it safe to venture a question on Miss Darcy’s own sewing projects in progress. Obtaining satisfactory answers to her enquiry, she had finally managed to achieve a discussion of a pattern they had both admired in the most recent issue of The Lady’s Magazine , when the gentlemen joined them.
Abruptly, Miss Darcy resumed her posture of silence, nearly cowering—even though she was not the first object of their attentions. Mr Darcy said a polite word of congratulations to Jane upon her recovery, and bowed to the rest of the ladies before taking the seat Miss Bingley offered—much closer to that lady than to his sister or Elizabeth. Even so, Miss Darcy would only look his way furtively before returning her attentions to her lap, and all of Elizabeth’s powers of consolation were not enough to ease whatever worry she suffered.
Mr Darcy did not, at least so that anyone would notice, pay special attention to his sister. Nevertheless, his sidelong glances were full of concern or even distress, his brow furrowing uneasily.
Almost, I would think Miss Darcy frightened of her brother—but does she not see his expression? Can she not interpret such an evident puzzlement and concern for her in it?
The girl’s anxiety made no sense—that is, if it was truly Mr Darcy of whom she was frightened. He had taken up a book, but his eyes continuously sought out his sister, as if willing her to meet his gaze. Neither did she respond much to anyone else, continuing to shrink from the company at large. When Miss Bingley made a prodigious effort to draw her out, adding insincere compliments to her every question, the poor girl flushed and stuttered in reply. Miss Bingley, thankfully, had little patience for the awkward silences between her questions and Miss Darcy’s tentative answers, and usually satisfied herself with her own conclusions, drawing them in the most overwrought—if admiring—terms. By the time she gave up and pursued the subject of Mr Darcy’s book instead, the girl was practically cringing in her seat.
After, Elizabeth could not say what made her do it—only that Miss Darcy had, somehow, excited her deepest sympathies. She was so plainly miserable, and equally plain, felt absolutely alone in her dejection. Reaching over, she took the younger girl’s cold hand in hers, clasping it warmly.
Miss Darcy looked at her sharply; Elizabeth smiled back, trying with all her heart to inject sympathy and kindness into it. And even though, almost as abruptly, Miss Darcy returned her gaze to her lap, she clung—there was no other word for it—to Elizabeth’s hand. She held it for at least an hour, until Miss Bingley urged—nay, practically insisted—Miss Darcy join her for a stroll around the chamber. Miss Bingley’s purpose was revealed when Mr Darcy’s attention was caught—finally, for all her previous efforts had not snagged it—by the invitation. Immediately she beseeched him to join them, but he was not to be drawn. Rather, as they proceeded towards the opposite side of the room, he instead took his sister’s vacated position beside Elizabeth on the settee.
“What are you about?” he hissed. “You are supposed to be encouraging your sister towards me, not mine, towards you.”
“What is the matter with you?” she whispered, incredulous. “Your sister is despondent, and you think I should simply ignore her misery without trying to offer comfort?”
“She told you she is miserable?”
It was all Elizabeth could do not to roll her eyes. “It is as plain as the nose on your face that she is.”
“Did she say why?”
“Of course she did not say why. Should she confess her distress before Mrs Hurst and Miss Bingley, so they can offer overwhelming sympathy and then repeat whatever she says to anyone who would listen to prove they are in her confidence?”
His posture sagged a little. “Georgiana will not confess anything to me, either. She had a-a sorrow not long ago, but there is no reason it should trouble her any longer. It is all in the past. I do not understand why she will not speak to me about whatever is the matter, if she is so morose in the present.”
Elizabeth shrugged. “You are a man, and her brother.”
“I seem to recall you telling me a few of your troubles.”
Their entire conversation had been conducted in the lowest tones, but at this remark, it was all she could do to maintain her whisper. “And look how well that went. I am no closer to earning Mr Bingley’s esteem than-than the Regent’s.”
“Neither have you done much to increase your sister’s regard of me, it appears.”
Elizabeth glanced over at where her sister was seated near the fireplace, Mr Bingley rearranging a stool for her comfort, piling up the fire, and, in general, full of joy and attention towards her. Jane was blushing, probably embarrassed because he was making such a fuss.
“She is only just recovering from her fever, and at least he gives a care as to whether or not she is warm enough.”
“Is that what you would like, in any recovery of yours? A mother hen fluttering, overpowering you with his attentions?”
“Well, perhaps not with quite so much curfuffle,” Elizabeth murmured. “But I can appreciate the solicitude inspiring it.”
To her surprise, he grinned. “Can you, now? I submit, Miss Elizabeth, that you would knock the fluttering hands away of any who tried it.”
She attempted to curtail the part of her that wished to grin back by lifting her chin. “You would accuse me of unladylike behaviour?”
He answered her question with a look, one of those looks that only he could give…one that melted her insides and told her that, once again, her heart was heading in entirely the wrong direction.
He does not feel the same , she reminded herself. It is Jane he wants . She watched Mr Bingley rearrange the fire screen for the third time with something like despair.