Page 40 of Some Natural Importance (Pride, Prejudice and Romance #3)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Georgiana set down her letter, a confused expression marring her pretty young face.

Miss Bingley had such lovely lettering and keen insights, yet her missive overflowed with worry and upset.

Georgiana had spent enough time in school and in her aunt’s house to understand the power of words, be they spoken or written, to seal a point or twist a truth.

As little as she knew about her brother’s private life, it seemed insupportable that he would do as Miss Bingley claimed or marry any lady such as she described.

“To steal a country girl from the vicar set to inherit?”

“What was that, Georgiana? Please say you are not reading yet another novel.” Lady Matlock came near and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Your long-lost brother has written to you?”

“No, Aunt. Miss Bingley, the sister of Fitzwilliam’s friend.”

“I see.” Lady Matlock’s erstwhile curious tone changed to one of deep hauteur as she took the letter from Georgiana. “The one descended from trade?”

“He is a good friend?— ”

“Be that as it may, his sister has no business writing to you. With her desperate greed for friends and invitations above her station, she has earned herself a singular sobriquet, my dear: ‘Miss Graspley’.”

“Aunt, she is not so very bad.” Georgiana’s protestation sounded weak to her own ears; she knew Miss Bingley could, in fact, behave very badly.

She had overheard her brother listening to Mr Bingley’s complaints about his sister, and had, at times, been both appalled at the lady’s avarice and pleased at how well her own behaviour reflected in comparison.

“Oh!”

Georgiana was unsurprised by her aunt’s horrified expression as she read the letter. “Attentions to a widow and five unattached young ladies? Scandal and heartbreak?”

Georgiana shrank back as Lady Matlock pierced her with an angry glare. “What is the meaning of this? What else has she written to you?”

“This is all that I have received from Miss Bingley.”

Her aunt’s eyes narrowed. “What does your brother write to you?”

“He…his previous letter asked after my studies and told me about his ride. I have not heard from him since he returned to?—”

“He was just in town!” Lady Matlock turned over the letter, looking for the direction whence it came. “Where is he now? Hampshire?”

“Hertfordshire, at Mr Bingley’s leased estate.”

“Where is Richard?”

“Deuces, Bingley. What are you doing in London?”

Richard Fitzwilliam sat down in the empty chair beside his cousin’s friend.

He had gone to Brooks’s to escape his stepmother’s inquisition and avoid his father’s arrival home.

Better Lady Matlock continue her spiralling tantrum out of his earshot; the earl was always better once he had had time to reconnoitre and examine every angle of a situation.

And have a calming glass or two of port.

Apparently, Darcy had been his Darcy self and interfered or advised or done something to aid one of Bingley’s neighbours, and there was a girl, or several, involved.

The evidence, as written in Miss Bingley’s letter, was so smudged and wrinkled from the emotions it wrought in various females, he could not be sure.

As if words penned by Miss Caroline Bingley were to be trusted!

Darcy tolerated her for his friend’s sake, and allowed—if not encouraged—a friendship between her and Georgiana.

But she was a pot-stirrer, a petty gossip, and a social viper who had set her cap for Darcy even before she grew hips.

Now she was adding wood to a fire she did not know simmered at Matlock House.

Plans had been discussed, hopes set, and Darcy’s next wife determined.

The colonel may have never thought his staid cousin and coquettish stepsister were well-matched but he agreed with his father that their marriage was good for the Fitzwilliams. Whether it was good for Darcy was quite another thing.

Richard knew the earl’s life contained many lessons, not least that one should marry wisely, spend wisely, save wisely, and gamble wisely—if at all.

The viscount was an abysmal pupil while Darcy’s studiousness and loyalty to family had served to enrich his coffers if not enhance his happiness.

He was owed some joy, and Richard could understand if he sought it elsewhere in a house party.

Seeking pleasure was fine in the short term but any form of attachment, or promises made to a lady, was worrisome news.

Turning to Bingley, he found the young man shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“So Bingley, what brings you to town? Is my cousin with you?”

As with most stories unreeled by Charles Bingley, there was high drama and raucous laughter. But in this instance, there was much grimacing as he related the details of his rough and painful introduction to his new horse.

“A rum-prancer, is he?”

“Indeed. I wished to have Miss Bennet name him, but?—”

“Miss Bennet?” A memory niggled at the colonel.

“Miss Jane Bennet. Of Hertfordshire.”

Richard grinned in anticipation of a display of wild jealousy. “I have met your lady.”

Rewarded with Bingley’s low exclamation and an intense stare, he continued. “I joined Darcy on a visit to her aunt’s home, near a warehouse, as I recall. Is yours the fair-haired or dark-haired Miss Bennet?”

“Blonde, of course,” Bingley replied, still appearing somewhat indignant. “But why was Darcy calling on the Bennets? His sole interest in the family was his seat at the chessboard he hovered over with Mr Bennet. He resented my calls to Gracechurch Street and joined me begrudgingly.”

The colonel stared curiously at the other man. “No particular attentions were paid to either Miss Bennet. He spent most of our visit in conversation with the darker one, ah, Miss?—?”

“Miss Elizabeth,” Bingley replied, apparently heedless of any inference as to Jane Bennet’s conversational partner.

“She is the younger sister, a charming lady who I believe Darcy finds most challenging to his opinions. Miss Jane Bennet is all that is kind and beautiful. I have not seen her for nearly three weeks, and am back to Hertfordshire on Monday.”

“Monday?” If not as clever as his wealthy cousin, Richard was at least as good at puzzles. Bingley was clearly missing a few pieces of the big picture and he dreaded being the one now obligated to supply certain grievous information. “Bingley, have you not been reading your letters?”

“Ha, what letters? The post was unreliable as I travelled and only Caroline succeeded in reaching me. Not that she had anything to say besides idle gossip and complaints about the house.

“Why do you ask?

“You, most of all.”

Those four little words had filled Darcy’s heart, assuring him for the first time that Elizabeth could return his feelings. He had felt her resentment and anger, been told of her gratitude, but now he sensed fondness, real feelings of affection.

A mutual affection.

Relief was the least of the emotions that coursed through him as he thought of their last conversation.

She was no longer the reluctant bride-to-be, agreeing to move forward with a marriage solely to help her family.

She now enjoyed his company and saw him as the companion for her future life, a future that included her role as mistress of Pemberley and mother to his children.

Children. The intimacy required for creating their family was one they had not broached. After all, they had been engaged mere days and before that, had an acquaintance of only a few months. Their intimacy thus far consisted of no more than a few smiles and the feel of her hand within his.

Clearly that would change, but just as clearly, he would have to be the one to initiate any moments of affection. He smiled. There is no hardship in that endeavour.

He’d been taken by her eyes first of all, glaring at him as he moved pieces around her father’s chessboard.

Her dark eyes had flashed with interest, anticipating each move.

Her knowledge of the game, and her verbal parries and thrusts with him and her father, had absorbed more of his interest than was seemly; Elizabeth’s voice was different from those of so many ladies of his acquaintance.

She was neither sharp-tongued nor needle-witted; instead, she was clever and agile, her manners too good to allow petulance or archness into her tone, even when provoked.

And provoked her he had—by taking her seat, stealing her company, and forcing a marriage on her.

He sighed, a mix of relief and happiness.

Elizabeth no longer felt forced, embracing his idea to wed in a fortnight.

On his side, all was in place. The marriage articles were in his lockbox, signed in advance by Mr Bennet and Mr Wynch, and now signed by Mr Philips as well.

Elizabeth’s uncle was a better-than-expected country attorney, and fortunately for all involved, his loyalty to his sister and nieces had provided Mr Bennet the confidence, shortly before the end, to divulge to him his hopes and plans.

Mr Philips could avow in court, if needed, that he knew of the engagement and marriage settlement in advance of his brother’s death.

Mr Bennet, it was now known in Meryton, had been aware of his impending death and wished for nothing more than to see his favourite daughter marry a fine gentleman like Mr Darcy.

During the weeks of his stay at Netherfield, Elizabeth Bennet’s intended had made himself known to the men in town as a fine shot, benevolent card player, and generous patron of local establishments, but all other praise (and knowledge) had come second- or third-hand from Mr Bennet or Mr Philips.

Under the present circumstances, celebrations would be muted but good wishes for the felicity of one of the town’s favourite daughters would not be put aside.

Though no banns were read, anyone in Meryton who had not heard the news—despite mourning’s strictures on social engagements, Mrs Bennet did see a daily stream of callers—and its attendant gasps of surprise and joy were made aware of Miss Elizabeth’s future when Mr Darcy took a seat in the pew beside his intended.

As she sat in church, her sisters and mother on one side and her betrothed on the other, Elizabeth’ s mind drifted to years past when her father would place his hand on her knee to discourage her from kicking the pew in front of them.

She could not but observe Darcy’s hands on his lap, holding a prayer book.

His hands were large, strong, the skin clean and browned by the sun rather than stained by dirt.

She had felt their gentleness and their strength.

Her eyes drifted up to the other exposed parts of him; his upper neck and chin, his ear.

His whiskers were a deep brown against his cheek.

He was shaved closely and well; his shaving soap smelled of pine and bergamot.

Her father had smelled of tobacco from his pipe and the leather bindings from his books.

The thought made her eyes sting, and suddenly conscious that Darcy could feel her staring, Elizabeth looked down at her own hands.

She had not envisioned a wedding day without her father present, or with her mother dressed in grey and her neighbours away. She would not have the kind of gown even she had imagined for her wedding, but Elizabeth would wear the garnet cross given her by her father when she was a girl.

Marrying a man she did not love nor could hope to love had seemed a veritable death sentence for her heart, made more perverse by its being circumstanced by her father’s death.

But something like hope had bloomed in the last week.

If Mr Darcy did not appear to be the ideal lover in the fanciful imaginings she and Jane had giggled over when tucked in their bed, he had exhibited the steadfastness, devotion, and care of an ideal husband.

And he was handsome, which her dear sister would protest meant little in true love but it was no hindrance to growing affection.

Elizabeth had tried not to see it when they first met, back when his arrogance and condescension had so irritated her.

But even then, she had noticed him and felt some frisson of connexion.

Her thoughts on marrying a man she knew so little of had changed from astonished anger to grateful acceptance.

No, it was more than gratitude; she enjoyed his company, his conversation, the comfort she felt with him.

She liked and admired him, even as she was confused by him and the motivations and desires that drew him to her and to this duty he felt for her family.

And yet, there had grown a strength of attachment between them, and there was an honesty in how he looked at her and how he spoke to her.

He talked to her not as a gentleman might speak to a lady of inferior understanding but as a man would speak to a person of equal intelligence.

It was respect. There was, too, a perception of the world in which she dwelt, and some sort of impetus in him to share it, and to bring hers into his and make it theirs.

London, she knew, provided as many obstacles as it did opportunities. Besting the barbs of Miss Bingley or outwitting the local gossips in Meryton paled next to the society she would meet in London as Mrs Elizabeth Darcy.

It was less than a fortnight away. Elizabeth could admit some fear of the unknown—his family, his home, the intimacy they would share—but she did not fear him .

Even, she thought, if it was impossible to fathom how affected she was by a kiss brushed on her fingers.

It was wholly irrational, and she was not a flighty, irrational creature.

Nevertheless, she was determined to stay the course she had set.

Allowing, if not encouraging, some liberties before they were married might make the experience on her wedding night less awkward and more comfortable for them both.

She would need such assurances, for if an embrace or the touch of his hand could stir such sensations, what would it be like when they finally. ..

She blushed, mortified to have had such a thought while sitting in the church she’d grown up in, listening to Mr Ruskin preach about sin and redemption. She could only hope her bonnet hid her reddened cheeks from the other parishioners, most especially the man sitting beside her.