Page 23 of Penned by Mr Darcy (…By Mr Darcy #3)

Georgiana has gone into herself. She rarely comes out of her room, and when she does, it is only to play such melancholy tunes on her pianoforte as to bring tears to my eyes.

I have appointed a new governess – companion, I should say, for Georgiana would loathe to be considered in need of a governess – who will arrive shortly.

I will remain at Pemberley a week to establish her character, and ask Mrs Reynolds to keep a most careful eye on both of them in my absence.

I have found some solace at Pemberley, though I have scarcely had the energy to lift a quill and write.

I feel safe, and I can only hope that our troubles have ceased.

She skimmed over the next pages, pausing when he made mention of his departure to Hertfordshire.

Bingley has written to me. He knows nothing of why I have remained in the north when my plans were to go to London, and nor shall he.

Fitzwilliam is the only soul I have confided in, and then only for the reason that he is her guardian as much as I am, and it will stay as such.

Bingley offers an invitation to the estate he has leased in Hertfordshire.

I do not know why he has chosen Hertfordshire, for he nor his family has any connections there.

Indeed, I have never been to the county but I have never heard anything to endear it above any other place.

I will attend, for I was already planning to depart Pemberley for my own sanity.

Georgiana tires of my presence, I know, and wishes for her own peace.

I can only hope that the lease of such a grand house, as he describes it, does not give him ideas.

He is easily enthused, and I fear that any fortune hunters will leap upon him with eagerness.

I will teach him the proper management of an estate – as well as the importance of correctly discerning the people one is bound to meet in a provincial setting.

She continued reading for several pages, learning of his time in London before they travelled onto Hertfordshire.

There was little of note, but with each page, she felt that she knew him a little better than she had the page before.

It really was a remarkable account of his life; his writing was vivid in its detail, and she felt that she could almost picture the places she went and people he spoke to in her mind.

It felt strange - unnatural, even - to intrude upon another person’s inner world in such a way.

To read their unspoken thoughts, to glimpse their private truths, was to hold a quiet, unsettling power.

Had the situation been reversed - had Mr Darcy discovered such a record of her own private reflections - she could not imagine forgiving him. The violation would feel too complete.

And yet… he would never know. She had not sought the diary; it had simply appeared, lost along some path during his ride. That was no fault of hers. She had only picked up what another had carelessly left behind.

She continued, finding the first day of their arrival in Hertfordshire. There was little to note, save for his critical view of Netherfield and all that he found there. She did not pause until she came to the day of the Meryton Assembly.

Bingley was insistent that we attend the local assembly, eager as always to immerse himself in unfamiliar company. His intention, he claimed, was to make the acquaintance of the town’s residents - though I suspect his aim was more to indulge his optimism than to truly assess the society.

Several gentlemen had already called at Netherfield, among them a Mr Bennet of Longbourn, who declared, without the slightest embarrassment, that he has five daughters, all out in society, and none yet married.

I can think of no reasonable justification for such a display.

It is neither prudent nor proper. To have so many girls "out" simultaneously suggests a desperation more apparent than refined.

The youngest, I am told, is fifteen - of an age with Georgiana.

I should never allow her to enter society so young. Not for anything.

We were also introduced to Sir William Lucas and his daughter, Miss Charlotte Lucas. She seems a sensible and courteous woman, if somewhat unremarkable. Civil, with a bright smile and a confident air of one that has reached a certain age.

The assembly itself was tolerably arranged - lacking the polish of town gatherings, certainly, but not offensive.

Caroline was vocal in her disdain, though for once, I found myself disinclined to echo her.

There was something almost… familiar in the unrefined good cheer of the place.

A reminder, perhaps, of more innocent occasions.

The attention we received bordered on absurd.

Every unmarried woman in the room looked upon us as prey - lambs to be snared.

I am certain the particulars of our fortunes had spread long before our arrival.

Bingley, as ever, was unmoved by this, and conducted himself with perfect civility, dancing nearly every set with tireless good humour.

We were introduced to all five of Mr Bennet’s daughters.

The youngest two - Miss Lydia and Miss Kitty - were precisely what I had expected: giddy, unrestrained, and sorely lacking in instruction.

By the end of the evening, I saw them flushed with wine, unchecked by either parent, who themselves appeared in much the same condition.

It was not a household to inspire confidence.

Miss Jane Bennet, however, was a different creature entirely.

She carries herself with a calm elegance that sets her apart from her family.

Bingley was taken with her at once. He danced with her twice - restraining himself only from more for the sake of propriety, I suspect.

Had he been able to dance every set with her without scandal, I believe he would have.

I did not dance.

The second Miss Bennet…Miss Elizabeth…I…

She had reached the end of the page, but she stared at that single line, the barely finished sentence quite removed from the rest of Mr Darcy’s style of writing.

Her heart began to race for a reason she could not name, and she held her breath as she turned the page.

No doubt he would be as insulting as he had been that night.

A tremble passed through her fingertips as she turned the page, expecting - knowing - that whatever came next would surely echo what he had said that night, when he thought her unworthy of a dance.

When he had called her "tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me.

" To relive such an insult would do nothing to mend her wounded pride.

Still, she could not help it. She read on.

With considerable hesitation, she turned the page.

She is…

I…

I recall a moment from my childhood, when I witnessed Wickham tug a girl’s hair and shove her to the ground.

I was horrified by the cruelty of it, but he simply grinned and said, “When a girl catches your eye, you cannot go about showing it openly.” I never made sense of his words - until this very evening.

Why would anyone choose to insult a lady rather than express genuine admiration?

Yet tonight, I found myself incapable of uttering a single kind word about her, despite barely having exchanged more than a few sentences. And as we spoke later, I was utterly disarmed by the sharp ease of her wit.

There is no denying her beauty - though I denied it all the same.

I am certain she heard me, for she returned my denial with cold disdain for the remainder of the night.

Still, her eyes are unlike any I’ve ever seen, and I found myself yearning to meet them again, if only to better understand the woman behind them.

Elizabeth sat back. He had meant to compliment her?

It did not matter; a man should have more care, more control over his voice, than to issue such an insult without meaning to.

She was not so easily flattered that she would change her opinion of him simply because he had not intended to insult her – for he had, and most soundly too.

It was hard to believe that such a barb could come about entirely without his mind’s permission.

The evening continued on, and I watched as Bingley trailed after the elder Miss Bennet like a lost puppy.

He has no subtlety about him – I suppose it is endearing, really, to be so free in one’s heart and mind, but he is far too easily flattered.

Miss Bennet seemed to speak to him with little affection, her smile small and her shoulders tight.

When we departed the assembly, Bingley had taken more wine than he ought, and could not stop smiling.

The writing ceased before the end of the page, leaving a small gap.

Such a thing was unusual, for Mr Darcy wrote to the very last inch of the paper.

She glanced over to the page beside it, only to read that it was the next day’s entry.

She squinted at the middle of the book, and saw the gently frayed edges on the spine that indicated a page had been torn from it.

Was he in the habit of tearing pages out, for that was the very thing that had indicated the diary’s existence to her in the first place.

She continued on, the lost page containing whatever other observations of the Meryton Assembly Mr Darcy may have had. Whatever they might have been, they were lost now – no doubt burned as he had tried to do with the page that was still hidden amongst her possessions.

She tried to ignore the disappointment that she felt at the absence of his full assessment.

Her vanity was a fierce thing, for she wanted to know if he had continued writing about her – and, perhaps, if he had felt that forbidden desire expressed in the abandoned page she had found in the hearth.

It was a sin, surely, to wish to be thought about in that way – she was not an object, nor was she a loose sort of woman…