Page 9 of The Power of Refusal

T he carriage jostled along Bond Street, its wheels clattering against the cobblestones.

Darcy’s gaze drifted unseeing over the bustling shopfronts, his mind still reeling from the morning’s expenditures. Beside him, Georgiana fidgeted with the lace of her gloves, a small smile playing at her lips.

“William?” Her soft voice broke through his reverie. “You’re awfully quiet. Was it… too much?”

Darcy blinked, turning to face his sister. The worry in her eyes made him straighten, pushing aside thoughts of his smarting purse. “Not at all, dear one. You deserve every stitch.”

Georgiana’s smile widened, and Darcy found himself transported back to the modiste’s salon. He could still see her twirling before the mirrors, yards of pale blue silk billowing around her like a cloudburst.

“What do you think, brother?” she had asked, her eyes shining with excitement.

Darcy had bitten back a grimace at the monstrosity of hoops and lappets that threatened to swallow his sister whole. The gown, with its exaggerated silhouette and abundance of frills, seemed to mock the grace and simplicity he associated with Georgiana.

“It’s... certainly striking,” he had managed, searching for a diplomatic response. “The colour suits you beautifully.”

He then was struck by the pattern of the laceframing her neckline. “Why does that lace look sofamiliar?” he asked.

Georgiana blushed. “I hope you do not object. The gown Mamma wore for her portrait is stored in Pemberley’s attics. Mrs Reynolds removed the lace from the bodice and sent it to me to trim this gown. I wished to have my Mamma with me on this day,” she whispered.

Tears stung his eyes. His sister had been stalwart, facing the intricacies of preparing for coming out without the comfort of her mother.

“Wonderful, Georgie. You will wear the Darcy pearls and our mother’s diamond brooch as well, of course,” he offered.

Now, as the carriage rattled on, Darcy caught Georgiana’s reflection in the window. Gone was the little girl who used to trail after him in the gardens of Pemberley. In her place sat a young woman on the cusp of society, both eager and apprehensive.

"I do hope I won’t trip over the train,” Georgiana murmured, more to herself than to him.

Darcy reached out, patting her hand gently. “You’ll glide like a swan, I’m sure of it. Though I daresay you’ll need to master the art of navigating doorways sideways with those hoops.”

A burst of laughter escaped Georgiana, dispelling the melancholy that had begun to creep into the carriage. “Oh William, it is rather absurd, isn’t it? All that fuss just to curtsey before the Queen.”

“Indeed,” Darcy agreed, allowing himself a wry smile. “But think of it this way—you’ll be the most elegant teapot in all of London.”

Georgiana’s giggles filled the carriage, a sound far more precious to Darcy than any gown, no matter how elaborate or expensive. As they continued their journey home, he found himself silently thanking the ridiculous court dress for this moment of shared mirth with his beloved sister

Darcy was worn raw. The long-buried loss of his parents surfaced with intensity. He thought of how his mother might have helped Georgiana prepare, and how deeply he missed her reassurance. Thus, he wondered whether his agitated state, or in a more fanciful take, his mother’s spirit, caused him to see a familiar light and pleasing figure walking purposefully along Bond Street.

It had been almost two years. He ought to have forgotten her. He could never forget her.

A maid trailed Elizabeth Bennet, and the poor maid’s red face and perspiration dotted forehead denoted her inability to keep pace. It had to be her—he would know her form and her walk anywhere. Her clothing was rather drab and not fashionable. She carried a wrapped parcel, which could only be a book. A dark bonnet obscured her face, but for one flash they passed one another, he staring from the window of his fancy carriage, she striding in a countrywoman’s gait. He detected a hint of amusement at the passersby. Her bright complexion was, as always, glowing like pearls. A recalcitrant curl fell by her cheek, glossy and soft. A summer’s worth of freckles graced her nose. And her eyes. Those fine, sparkling eyes. Their colour and shape, and the eyelashes, so remarkably fine, her eyes were unmistakable. And unattainable. And in a flash, she had vanished into the crowds.

Darcy resisted the urge to drive immediately to Cheapside. Later that evening, he pretended a need for a ride to settle himself after dinner. He found his way to the address and secreted himself in a stand of trees down the road. After an hour, he returned home, unsatisfied. No one emerged from the house.

Darcy told himself that would be the end of the matter. He could not continue to torture himself, seeking the sight of the woman he lost. Long, stern lectures to himself instructed him in the futility of such foolishness. Nonetheless, he found himself riding in that direction from time to time.

In the gloaming one evening, he waited in his usual position, his eyes fixed on the house, which might or might not contain Elizabeth. At last, his patience was rewarded. Through the front window he saw her. As she lit a lamp in the front room, she looked out towards him. He shrunk back, but not so far he lost sight of her.

She must have been in conversation with someone inside. He could see she was speaking, though he could not hear her. She gazed up and down the street, then appeared to laugh. As she turned away, for a fleeting moment, her brilliant smile was turned in his direction. Elizabeth.