Fearful Symmetry - ARCHIVE VERSIONS (Chs. 18-19)

Thanks again for your patience, dear Archiver! See my note on the other post marked ARCHIVE VERSION. I hope this makes things easier for you. - Abbie C.



Chapter Eighteen

Having made her way to Miss Bingley’s escritoire at a removal from the rest of the company, Elizabeth opened her letter from Miss Darcy and read:

“Dear Miss Bennet,

“When I read from my brother’s letter that Tuesday was to mark the day of your departure, I knew I could not resist the opportunity to write once more to wish you and your family well on your journey and to extend to you the welcome of Wyeswell House at any time during your stay in London. I have thought many times about what entertainments we might enjoy whilst in town, and I find your admission that you have an ‘appetite for conversation and laughter’ most promising, for I unhappily confess it is rare that I have the opportunity to visit with ladies who speak of many subjects other than the weather or the latest innovations in fashion. Not that these topics are without interest! It is merely that they are so often visited and worn out. Be assured that I would never neglect to discuss these things with you, if you should wish it, for I am sure your original mind would find ways to embroider the most threadbare discussion of dress and would even discover some figure of amusement in the shape of a grey cloud.

“Am I correct in my assumptions? I should think so. My brother never exaggerates, and he has written on the originality of your mind to such an extent that I consider you as much a curiosity as a worthy friend. In naming you a ‘curiosity,’ I know that I show my own impertinence; but somehow, I feel myself assured that you are rather more amused than wounded by my frankness. I hope I will always honour your feelings, especially on paper, where aught can be so misconstrued.

“I am not a fine writer, but I attempted to arrange my feelings as best I could when I penned my first missive to you: I therefore rejoiced to read in your letter that the warmth of my concern touched you in your distress. I am also delighted to have learnt from my brother’s last letter that you seem much recovered, as well as your father and your sister. It is of great relief to know that your family has not suffered worse through this unhappy accident than what the initial incident has wrought!

“I beg you would send ‘round a note as soon as you have settled in town, for even as I look forward to my brother’s return, such a wish is paired with the certainty that he will make good on our introduction upon the first opportunity.

“Pray, stay well until we meet. I wish you safe travels and a warm reception in Gracechurch Street, where I hope you may find ample rest and many joys to treasure from the Season.

“To this rather extended farewell benediction, I can only add my sincerity of friendship.

Georgiana Darcy”

Elizabeth sat back on the settee with a smile and refolded the letter. Her correspondent was certainly kind, and, Elizabeth was pleased to find, clearly as capable of wit as her brother.

There was much in the anticipation of their future meetings to bring Elizabeth prospects of delight, not the least the hope of finding a new friend, but also the chance to be drawn again into the circle of Mr. Darcy while in London.

That thought, and the unfairness of it towards Miss Darcy, made Elizabeth sit up guiltily. In this attitude, she turned with some chagrin to Charlotte’s letter, feeling yet more disappointment in herself for placing the correspondence of her new friend in higher precedence above her dearest and oldest.

She opened it at once and read:

“My dear Eliza,

“I know it is unlikely that you will be able to take your leave of us yourself due to the constraints upon your journey, but I wished to write and wish you well. I also write to urge our continued correspondence, for much has happened to upset the mind (for you especially) which I think can only find proper relief through shared confidence.

“I have some unfortunate news to share from the Lodge: Mr. Collins, as you know, had gone to Netherfield to visit your family on a day most unfit for such a venture; as a consequence, he returned to us somewhat altered on Saturday night. I knew at once that he would take ill, and so he did, shortly after dinner that evening.

“Sunday morning he spent confined to his room for so long that he was missed at breakfast. We began to worry that he would miss church, and so when the chambermaid who refreshed his fire told us that he had appeared to her most unwell, Father sent for Mr. Jones.”

Elizabeth’s cheeks colored. How could she have been in ignorance of the fact that none of the Lucases had been at church yesterday — nor Mr. Collins? Her distraction, in the form of Mr. Darcy sitting in the pew just behind her, must have been extreme.

She bent again to the letter, flushed with self-awareness.

“As I write this, he has not greatly improved, although Mr. Jones is convinced that such a slight cold will easily be taken in hand. Our servants have been attending to his needs, but I have also looked in on him myself this evening to observe his progress. His fever has taken a distressing hold; he is restless and speaks to his patroness as though she were present. I confess my compassion has been stirred, for he seems so friendless in his illness. I intend to read to him on Monday and see if he will rest more quietly if his mind perceives some company in the room with him. I shall keep you abreast of his condition, as I know it will be of some concern for your family.”

Elizabeth shook her head, little surprised by her sensible friend’s charitable-yet-practical approach to Mr. Collins’s care. But the poor Lucases! What kindness they had shown to host Mr. Collins in the first place; now they must nurse him! Would that Mr. Collins had simply returned to Kent upon seeing Longbourn in disrepair rather than persisting in the neighborhood! Charlotte and her kin were truly goodness themselves.

“Once you are in London, I pray you will write to give me word of your safe arrival and all of your news. Until then, I remain,

Yours, etc.

Charlotte”

Elizabeth read this last request and felt resolved to do just as Charlotte asked. Not wishing to forget to write back to both her friends, Elizabeth put away her letters with care in the very top compartment of her trunk upstairs. And it was well that she did so: Tuesday morning came altogether too soon, and too chaotically.

Lydia and the much-recovered Kitty began the day by arguing over whose wraps were whose, and whether or not the other would ride in the Bennets’ worn carriage or the Gardiners’ newer, better-sprung borrowed carriage on the road to London. Mary, disgusted by their performance, took to rescuing a few books from her trunk to read during the journey. Mrs. Bennet was all breathless nerves as she harassed the maids for intelligence as to whether or not they had packed such-and-so; and therefore, Jane, seeing how her mother’s pending apoplexy might inconvenience many, at once set out to calm her mother’s anxieties. Miss Bingley stood in the midst of the storm, coolly directing her own servants and lending speed to the final stages of the loading process in such a fashion as to be admired for its efficiency and clear in its intentions.

Amidst this unhappy clamour Elizabeth could do little. So, after ensuring that all of her belongings and Jane’s had been cleared from their guestroom upstairs, she went in search of her father in the library.

“Ah, Lizzy,” he said by way of greeting, as he set down a glass of Mr. Bingley’s fine port despite the indecency of the hour. “I am farewelling the last bit of peace I may find for a long time. I hope you do not disapprove.”

Elizabeth replied in some confusion, “But, Papa, I had thought that you might come back to Longbourn by yourself after a few weeks, to see to the reconstruction — and to enjoy some quiet.”

“Indeed, I had still planned to do so. But you make it sound as though it would seem a pleasure-bent journey. Not so! Nor does the prospect of it erase those many weeks unbroken in which I must anticipate close quarters with not only the full multitude of my own children but also my brother-in-law’s children, and all within the crucible of compressed time for my wife’s ostentatious wedding plans.”

A sharp and sudden pang of annoyance warred with Elizabeth’s sympathy. The patience of each of her family members would be sorely tested in the coming weeks’ confinement together, but at least her father had the power, as a man, to travel back to Longbourn to remove himself if he so chose. He also had more right to be of use in the task at hand — that of restoring their home — than could she, as a woman. The thought of these ample sources of consolation within his reach, the very sources that he seemed reluctant to take upon himself, increased the bitter tension in her breast.

Rather than answer her father, she turned towards the window and looked out upon the front yard. The tops and rear racks of the Gardiners’ borrowed carriage and the Bennets’ family carriage were filling to overflowing as servants scurried about. Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy were themselves busy in the drive, giving direction to the footmen as to the placement of the last few of the Bennets’ scanty, yet seemingly endless, belongings; then to Elizabeth’s surprise, the gentlemen themselves began testing and re-securing the luggage strapped to the tops of the carriages.

She watched in transfixed fascination for several moments. Mr. Darcy’s height certainly gave him the advantage in this particular task. Next to the more compact form of Mr. Bingley, who went to the rear of the nearest carriage to stand up on the dumb irons to gain the requisite height to examine the roof, Mr. Darcy’s figure effortlessly gained him a long and careful reach, which he could manage standing on the ground, only needing occasionally to rise on point of toe. Although his service in such a low office as carriage-groom should have diminished him, Elizabeth thought she had never seen him looking so grand.

She turned back to the room with a sigh. “It is nearly time to go, Papa. I think everything is packed tightly. We need only assemble.”

Her father picked up a newspaper from the side table. “Be off with you, then, my dear,” he replied as he rustled the leaves open. The rest of his dismissal came from behind the pages. “I will follow, once I have my overcoat and finish my farewells here.”

Elizabeth turned slowly from the room, feeling chilled.

After ensuring that all the ladies in the hallway had their wraps and spencers for their journey through the brisk November morning, she and Jane led their sisters and mother outside to bid their farewells on the portico. She was mollified to see that her mother and most of her sisters made an effort to speak their proper thanks to Miss Bingley, who received such gratitude with stiffness. But Miss Bingley’s manner did soften when Jane spoke to her, enough that she clasped hands with her would-be sister in a moment of charity, and even wished her a fair journey. To Elizabeth, she gave a curtsey as both acknowledgement and dismissal.

The Hursts also bowed and curtsied, somewhat formally, although Mrs. Hurst made so free as to take both Elizabeth’s and Jane’s hands, as well as Mrs. Bennet’s. Her energy, by virtue of being less cool than her sister’s, came off as nearly warm.

Mr. Bingley, however, pumped each hand vigorously and expressed a jovial wish to see them soon, and seemed almost distressed by their expressions of gratitude, for of course he was glad to have cared for them at such a time, for they were to be family, after all. He was then very bold when Jane came to him, and took both of her hands in his and kissed them in their dainty gloves. Before he released his betrothed, he gave Jane a sort of sad smile of longing and begged her patience while he closed his house at Netherfield so that he could follow her to town in the coming week.

More was said as the road and some plans for the winter were discussed, but Elizabeth was insensible to it as she strained her worried eyes towards the house for some sign of her father. Finally the door opened, and Mr. Bennet emerged at last, still putting on his gloves.

Elizabeth gave herself leave then to look for her opportunity and was surprised when Kitty approached her to offer it.

“Lizzy, would you come with me to say farewell to Mr. Darcy? I never know how to speak to him, but I know — that is, I am certain that I might not have come out so well, that night, without his help.”

A wish so near to Elizabeth’s heart could not have been more easily granted, and so she took her sister’s arm gratefully and approached Mr. Darcy where he stood by the carriages, farewelling the Gardiners.

She waited to gain his attention while Kitty stifled a mild coughing fit.

“Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said softly, before sinking into a curtsey, which her sister belatedly echoed beside her. “Kitty and I could not think of going without expressing our special gratitude to you.”

“It is not necessary,” returned he, straightening from his bow. “I was glad to be of service.”

“Service,” repeated Kitty, coloring at her own boldness. “I could not call it that. I — we are alive, because of what you did, sir.” She looked up at him from under her bonnet, and curtsied again, with a real reverence that Elizabeth had never seen in her posture before. It seemed that Kitty could not bring forth further speech after that, and so she rose up again into an awkward silence that was nevertheless full of meaning.

“We thank you from our hearts, Mr. Darcy,” said Elizabeth for both of them. Kitty nodded to second the offering.

“You are most welcome, Miss Elizabeth, Miss Catherine,” he returned, acknowledging them again with another bow.

Kitty, pink in both cheeks, nodded and turned back to join her gaggle of sisters, who were still sorting out who would ride in which carriage with whom. But Elizabeth, unsure of how soon she might meet with Mr. Darcy again, remained a moment, mute before him.

“I was disconcerted to have a letter from my sister delivered only this morning, Miss Elizabeth,” he said suddenly. “I had rather thought that yesterday, when you received yours, she would have thought to send one directly for me as well. But it seems her enthusiasm for her new friendship has nearly made her forget her poor brother; my little note was an afterthought, which bespoke more of her eagerness to see you, than me.”

Elizabeth laughed a little, blushed, and said, “I confess I have looked forward to meeting Miss Darcy at last, as well. I understand she will have to await your return to London for that introduction to happen, however.”

Something caught his ear at her tone, enough for him to detect the implication of what Elizabeth’s pronouncement was asking. He was glad to answer it. “I intend to return to town just ahead of Bingley, in about four days. But that will, of course, run my arrival into Saturday evening. With Sunday being assigned to worship and observance, my poor sister will therefore have to wait to call upon you until the Lord’s Day has passed us. But I shall bring her presently— early next week.”

Elizabeth nodded, smiling, and fiddled with her gloves, feeling shy to hear the relishing tones with which he bespoke his plans. As she looked upon his slight smile, she felt herself at first thrilled, and then jostled, and realized that her family was beginning to file past her into the carriages.

Consciously, she spoke her last words to Mr. Darcy before she reached London. “I am all anticipation,” she declared with a smile.

She curtsied a final time, and as she rose up to move past him, he started up beside her and came to stand next to the carriage. From his look, his purpose and expectation could not be doubted: she in answer gave him her hand as she mounted the steps. As his touch left her, she fought silently for her seating and her composure as she nestled in among her sisters.

She turned one last time to look at him as he stepped back from the conveyance. He and Bingley stood just outside the doors, each intent on taking their last vision of the ladies within. Jane was pink with the attention, and Elizabeth, scarcely less so. What was he about? Teasing, teasing man!

The carriage started forward with a lurch, and they were off to London.

As the miles rolled away, the noise of the constant chatter, the close quarters, and the creak and rumble of the carriages took their toll. They each arrived weary at their destination.

It took several more days to feel very settled in the house at Gracechurch Street. But Elizabeth made the best of it; she managed to efficiently see to her unpacking and to write notes to Charlotte and Miss Darcy in notice of her family’s safe arrival. In these brief letters, she remarked on what little amusing misadventures of their journey and arrangements she saw fit to share, in addition to the pleasantries such friendly notes must always carry. She endeavored valiantly to keep the anxiety that began to oppress her away from such communications.

And yet, such low spirits were only natural, and her hosts, perceiving them, made every attempt to revive their guests.

Since their house had far fewer bedrooms available than Netherfield, there were many thoughtful ways that the Gardiners sought to ensure the comfort of their visitors while closely quartered. Elizabeth was relieved to again be sharing a bed with only Jane, although the little bedroom now was forced to admit Mary as well, who slept on a fairly comfortable chaise in the corner. Kitty and Lydia were to share a bedroom with the Gardiners’ eldest daughter, Meredith; and her parents, for perhaps the first time in Elizabeth’s memory, were to share a single bedroom. It was with little wonder, thought Elizabeth wryly upon reflection, that her father had taken to Mr. Bingley’s port to bolster himself before their removal from Netherfield.

Aside from the vexations of such close company — which would only feel closer after the children returned from Mrs. Gardiner’s sister’s care — there was one unexpected point of contention that made Elizabeth’s first week in London less than pleasant. It was Charlotte’s second letter, which arrived on Friday, too soon to have been sent in answer to Elizabeth’s notice of safe arrival in London.

Elizabeth had opened it out of curiosity at breakfast, only to wish she had not. The letter began:

“Wednesday, the 27th of November

“Dear Eliza,

I hope this note may reach you well in London. I find I write with haste to acquaint you with news which may leave you surprised. First, I must report that Mr. Collins reached a point of certain recovery on Tuesday afternoon, which Mr. Jones indicated, and which Mr. Collins himself confirmed by the return of his energies and appetite. We had him downstairs to dine that very evening, although he was urged to bed soon after.

“Then, this morning at breakfast, as we were all gathered, Mr. Collins approached my mother with the particular wish of having a private audience with me. You may imagine my surprise! But the request was granted, and so I met him in the drawing room to hear what he might say. He began very solemnly by thanking me for my kindness to him during his illness, and immediately followed this acknowledgement by expressing his belief that my gentleness in taking to nurse-care and my attentiveness to the comforts of a relative stranger could only endear me to his parishioners, and that he felt himself assured of his patroness’s concurrence on this matter; he then concluded by offering me his proposal of marriage.

“What could I do, after seven and twenty years without offer and without hope of useful employment, but tender him my acceptance? And so it was done, and at half-past ten this morning, I became an engaged woman.

“I can well imagine what you are thinking, but when you have had time to think it over, I hope you will be satisfied with what I have done. I am not romantic, you know; I never was. I ask only a comfortable home, and considering Mr. Collins's character, connections, and situation in life, I am convinced that my chance of happiness with him is as fair as most anyone can boast upon entering the marriage state.”

Elizabeth’s astonishment was at this point so profound that she could not help but press a hand to her mouth. She stood up from her chair anxiously and let the letter fall into her plate before dropping down again herself into her chair from actual shock.

“Why, Lizzy, what’s this?” demanded her mother. “What news? Oh! I see the hand; that is from Miss Lucas, is it not? What news does she have from Hertfordshire?”

Elizabeth could not prevaricate with so direct a question. “Miss Lucas is engaged, Mamma,” she answered.

“Engaged? To whom? I can think of no man coming to pay her particular attention. Indeed, the only gentleman the Lucases have entertained beyond the usual neighborhood has been —” and here she hit upon it, “Why, is it Mr. Collins?”

“It is. It is most unexpected,” said Elizabeth hollowly, her cheeks filling with, then draining of, color. For Elizabeth immediately understood that her friend had lowered herself to a marriage of material concern, and worse, to marriage to a man so humiliatingly ridiculous as to never merit consideration. Added to this conclusion came the distressing conviction that it was impossible for her friend to be tolerably happy in the lot she had chosen. Such a man! So little sense! Such misery she foresaw for Charlotte! It was too much.

It was also too much for Mrs. Bennet. “Engaged to Mr. Collins!” her mother cried. “What! And only just this week-end, he offered to you? I told you what a fool you were for rejecting him, and now you see what has happened! Miss Lucas — oh, that artful girl! — she will someday be mistress of Longbourn and will turn us all out the moment your father is dead, mark my words. She will not spare a thought for us! Oh, that I should see that house go to such an ungrateful chit as Miss Charlotte Lucas! Oh, Lizzy — what you have done! What a cursed thing to do to your mamma! For shame! For shame! I shall never speak to you again!”

A turn of spirits then overtook Mrs. Bennet, and the subsequent Saturday and Sunday proceeded for Elizabeth with all the discomfort which a constant headache from such strain could produce. But on Monday morning, Elizabeth’s salvation arrived in two forms: the return of the Gardiners’ children from the house of Mrs. Gardiner’s sister, and a note from Miss Darcy, brought to their door directly by a smartly liveried footman.

The first effect was immediate and widely pronounced, for the playful distraction that the children provided at their homecoming rendered even Mrs. Bennet more agreeable and cheerful. The second effect was restricted to Elizabeth’s feelings and the preparations of Mrs. Gardiner as hostess, once Elizabeth shared with her the most salient part of the message in Miss Darcy’s missive:

“‘. . . My brother returned on Saturday night quite safe. I hope I do not impose, but if it is agreeable to you, I had hoped to prevail upon him to attend me to call upon you in Gracechurch Street and perform an introduction to you at last,’” read Mrs. Gardiner, her eyes a little wide. “To have such people as the Darcys, here, calling upon us! I should never have imagined. But we shall make them very welcome, Elizabeth, I assure you. Mr. Darcy and his sister shall be given every honour.”

“Thank you, Aunt,” replied Elizabeth. “And I shall be as helpful to you today as I can, for there has been such a change in the house.”

“I imagine Mr. and Miss Darcy may forgive us for a little disorder,” returned Mrs. Gardiner. “They are aware of our circumstances, and we need not feel ashamed of them.”

Elizabeth glanced around the little parlour, watching the children chattering away with Jane in excited tones while the littlest one clambered about on her lap. The picture which their little company presented was very dear.

“No, indeed, we need not,” she agreed softly.



Chapter Nineteen

The hour for callers arrived, and Elizabeth listened with no little anticipation for the sounds of reception in the front hall. In these moments of quiet, she thanked her good fortune that only an hour earlier, her mother had seen fit to take Jane shopping for wedding clothes with her sisters in tow.

In due time, she heard her guests announced. She stood and turned to receive them and was glad to find her aunt rising with equal alacrity at her side.

And, there, at last, she saw Miss Darcy.

It was an odd thing, after so much correspondence, to behold her long-imagined friend standing very real and solid within the aperture of her aunt’s parlour door. Miss Darcy was, and was not, as Elizabeth had pictured her: that she was somewhat tall and that her eyes would likely be dark, Elizabeth had well-conjectured; but the golden tones of her light brown hair, the delicacy of her brows, the straight, yet unremarkable line of her nose, and the round, doe-like eyes of the girl came unexpected, for they were fashioned so unlike her brother’s. But as the young lady held her brother’s arm and stood with some uncertainty while she glanced between the two women before her for the face she could identify as Elizabeth’s, the object of her search saw in her seeker’s posture an endearingly familiar stiffness which bespoke apparent aloofness — an aloofness softened by the near-inscrutable tightness betokening the anxiety of shyness about the girl’s eyes. She was, indeed, Mr. Darcy’s sister, in more ways than one.

Elizabeth could be nothing but warm to her.

“Miss Darcy, what a true pleasure!” she declared, coming forward as Mr. Darcy offered the introduction. She gave her newest friend her hand, which was accepted and squeezed with evident delight. The two ladies curtsied as one to each other whilst thus connected.

“Miss Elizabeth — I mean, Miss Bennet. I am so pleased, so delighted to meet you at last,” she managed to say around a smile and a slight blush at her own eagerness. Her entire being seemed to beam and tremble as her stiffness flowed away from her in a rush of relief and happiness.

“It seems as though I have known you a long time,” Elizabeth observed, “but yet, how good it is to see your face at last!”

“I feel the same,” returned Miss Darcy.

“Am I, then, as you imagined me?” asked Elizabeth playfully. “Your brother, I am sure, did his best to warn you that I am nothing remarkable to look at, but I should hope, at least, that he has prepared you for my tendency towards impertinence, which is my most distinguishing feature.”

Silent and smiling in his observance until now, Mr. Darcy shook his head, while Miss Darcy looked up at him in alarmed confusion as she haltingly exclaimed, “Oh, no! My brother certainly never said — and he would never say anything of the sort — and it is not so, in any case! I declare, you are very pretty!”

Elizabeth, still holding Miss Darcy’s hand, squeezed it again in comfort and apology before she released it. She had to stifle an urge to chuckle. “I was only teasing you, Miss Darcy. But I shan’t do so again until you have gotten used to my ways, if it makes you uneasy. I am sure your brother would never say anything ungentlemanly of me to you.”

“Indeed not,” seconded Mr. Darcy innocently.

Elizabeth favoured him with a raised brow, but let further opportunity to vex him pass. Her heart was too much in bloom to offer thorns, so glad was it to see him.

With a breath, she turned back to her new friend. “Well, Miss Darcy, now I shall endeavour to prove to you that I can be perfectly well-bred, since I have already shown myself at my most incorrigible. Allow me, please, to introduce you to my aunt.”

In a few moments this was done, and Miss Darcy was invited by Mrs. Gardiner to sit between herself and Elizabeth on the sofa, while Mr. Darcy settled himself in Mr. Gardiner’s reading chair to observe them with pleasure.

Miss Darcy — due to Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth’s considerable gifts of animation, and herself being in possession of a share of knowledge of the family through Elizabeth’s and her brother’s letters — entered into conversation more readily than she had hoped. In surprisingly easy spirits, she found herself a quarter-hour later relating to Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth a little of her recollections of her earliest lessons at the piano (begun when she was the age of Mrs. Gardiner’s eldest daughter, Meredith, who had quietly joined them) when Mrs. Bennet returned with Jane, Kitty, and Lydia in a flurry of bright muslin and woolen wraps.

“Oh, my dear sister, I do not know how you manage these London streets! They are something frightful!” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed, before coming to a halt in the middle of the room at the sight of Mr. Darcy in the chair and a young lady on the sofa. “Why, forgive me, I did not know you had company,” she said a little stiffly.

“Ah, my dear sister and nieces,” said Mrs. Gardiner smoothly. “You find us with a delightful pair of callers. May I introduce Miss Darcy to you? Her brother, Mr. Darcy, I believe you know.”

Upon the requisite introductions, Miss Darcy was greeted and curtsied to, and then the Bennet ladies sought places to roost in order to better admire the expensive cut and fabric of Miss Darcy’s mint-colored gown.

“I adore the trimming on your sleeves,” declared Lydia, studying her new acquaintance with an unmistakable mixture of envy and awe.

“We have just come from the modiste’s, Miss Darcy,” explained Jane, blushing a little for her sister. “We were looking at trimming for my wedding gown. With my sister and Mr. Darcy as your informants, I am sure you must have heard: I am to marry your brother’s good friend, Mr. Bingley.”

“Yes, my brother did tell me of your happy news,” said Miss Darcy softly. “I heartily wish you joy. I am sure you will be very happy; Mr. Bingley is a very good man and has been such a steady friend to my brother.”

Jane replied with all that was in pleasant agreement, and Mrs. Bennet, too excited by the subject of the wedding, found she must put in, “He is an amiable man indeed, and so good to my dear Jane! So patient, too, with all the arrangements we must make. For it is hard to plan a wedding, being so far from home.”

“I might imagine so,” replied Miss Darcy, not knowing what else to say. After a moment, she exerted herself and added, “I was very sorry to hear of the fire at your home. Are you all in good health?”

“Are you not the sweetest child?” exclaimed Mrs. Bennet brightly, making Miss Darcy blush. “Indeed, you are very kind to ask. We are all well, although there have been discomforts and shifting about here and there, as a consequence of being taken in by friends and family alike. I find it all so unsettling, but then Mr. Bingley and my dear brother Gardiner and his wife have been so good to us.”

“It has been a joy having the house so full of company,” answered Mrs. Gardiner, rising for the pot to refresh Miss Darcy’s tea. “There is no shortage of companionship to be found under the circumstances, and it is so agreeable to have family with us during the holidays.” Turning again to Miss Darcy, she poured a little more and asked, “Do you and your brother often entertain family and friends during the winter Season?”

Miss Darcy blushed. “I am not a great hostess, but I do have an aunt that is very much inclined to host parties with family and friends, which we are often invited to, and we of course have our relations to dinner. My brother sees many friends as well. I am not yet out, and so am not much in company.”

“Not yet out!” exclaimed Lydia, offended at the injustice. “Why, you must be at least a year older than me. I cannot imagine the fun you are missing, and what fine beaux you could have.”

“Miss Darcy must be presented at Court before she can come out, Lydia,” said Elizabeth with some frustration, as she watched Miss Darcy blushingly retreat into silence. “That is a process that takes preparation and time; there are many girls in London who are above eighteen before they make their curtsey.”

“Oh,” Lydia replied dully. “It is not so simple as it is in the country, then.”

“No,” said Mrs. Gardiner, “it is not. There is a great deal more ceremony here than what is required in a small country society like Meryton.”

Lydia seemed puzzled, and Miss Darcy, seeing the confusion and disappointment in that girl’s face, offered out of kindness, “How I dearly do wish it could be a quieter process. I am quite terrified by the whole ordeal of it here in London. You must tell me what it is like to come out in the country, Miss Lydia.”

Such an entreaty could not but charm Lydia immensely. “Oh! It is not a thing to be thought of,” she answered with her natural assurance. “One only has to dress for, and attend, a local assembly, and then prepare a dance card. The ladies who are out will introduce you around the hall, and if you greet the men you meet with a smile they cannot fail to read, you need only wait for your card to fill!”

“Lydia!” whispered Elizabeth, her cheeks suffusing with warmth.

“I thank you, Miss Lydia,” said Miss Darcy in a subdued tone, her own cheeks coloring a little in surprise at such candor, although she was smiling a little at it, too.

Mr. Darcy cleared his throat. “Mrs. Gardiner, Mrs. Bennet, I am glad we could visit you today, but I can see that some in your family may desire to rest after their outing this morning,” he said evenly. “It might be best if we were to take our leave of you until a more convenient time.”

Miss Darcy submitted to his cue and rose at once. “It was a pleasure meeting all of you,” she said. She turned to smile at Elizabeth as she dropped into a curtsey, which was returned by each of the ladies in the room. Her brother bowed in his turn, then sought his sister’s gaze.

Catching her brother’s eye, Miss Darcy turned one last time to Elizabeth and Mrs. Gardiner and demurely offered, “You must know we would be glad to receive you at any time at Wyeswell House. You are very welcome.”

“And you are very kind. I know we would be glad to call on you, Miss Darcy,” replied Elizabeth with warmth. She and her aunt both curtsied again in acknowledgement of the honour.

Miss Darcy received their promise with a smile and gave her farewells, and then took her brother’s arm.

So ended this first visit, and Elizabeth was left to repine the embarrassment her mother and youngest sister might have caused Miss Darcy, and to wonder about the look Mr. Darcy had given to Miss Darcy which seemed to prompt their further invitation to call at the Darcys’ home.

Elizabeth would be left to wonder, for when she and Mrs. Gardiner returned the call on Wednesday at the Darcys’ grand, yet tasteful, townhome, Mr. Darcy seemed most eager to further the budding friendship between his sister and herself.

He at once introduced the topic of theatre, which could not but lead to the comparatives which such a subject invites: plays seen and read by some and not others in the company, comedies versus tragedies and their effects, actors of differing merits and acclaim, and the storylines which appealed to each.

“I confess myself surprised to hear you are a lover of some of the tragedies, Miss Bennet,” said Miss Darcy after Elizabeth had named a few among her favorites. “You seem like someone who would love comedies instead, as you have said you dearly ‘love to laugh.’”

Elizabeth was thoughtful for a moment. “There is something rather more real in the tragedies, I think,” she replied. “Although I do own that comedies often make me laugh, I find the lovers’ quarrels and the absurd plot lines in so many of them to be jarringly contrived in comparison to real life.”

“How so?” came a challenge from Mr. Darcy.

“Need I mention an example like A Midsummer Night’s Dream?” she answered wryly, as she turned her face towards his. “The constant interference of fairies renders the story completely ridiculous — including that memorable moment when one character grows a pair of donkey ears — all of which seems aimed to court laughter rather than to portray an accurate tale of courtship and its follies.”

Mr. Darcy folded his arms. “Is not revelry in the ridiculous the essential point of comedy?”

Elizabeth lifted her chin, but smiled at his casual confidence. “Commedia, as I understand it, was first presented in poetic form and was meant to depict the real foibles of humanity as they are, Mr. Darcy. Farce twists it to the point of the absurd spectacle, which is what I see in many plays, especially the newer ones which I have come to read.”

To Miss Darcy’s great alarm, her brother huffed and seemed to meet her friend’s sportive challenge with one of his own.

“Commedia, being of the Italian,” confirmed Mr. Darcy with a nod, “was much bandied about as a word by Dante in his time; yet, it has a still older definition: komoidia, from the ancient Greeks. It refers to an ‘amusing spectacle.’ And so there you have it from its inception — farce, as you call it, and comedy are one and the same. I cannot see the discrepancy.”

Miss Darcy gave a timid sigh of relief as her brother seemed to settle back in his seat in satisfaction. She was about to change the topic to something else, when Elizabeth exerted herself for one last sally aimed towards her brother.

“I may not be able to call upon ancient Greek etymology in my defense,” Elizabeth rebutted with a tart look, “but I believe that Aristotle could. I have read my father’s translations of his work. Could we not trust his reasoning and assert that comedy as an art ran parallel to that of tragedy, and had its purpose in purifying us of certain faults of our nature through ridicule, rather than the pity and terror utilized in tragedy? Would it not then follow that those faults which are ridiculed should at least bear some semblance to our everyday reality?”

The dimple in his cheek twitched as Mr. Darcy responded, “I daresay I could never know. I have never met Aristotle, but I would fear to debate him on such a particular, given his formative views on drama as an art.”

Elizabeth sat a little taller on the plush sofa as she sensed her success. “Sic probo, Mr. Darcy,” she concluded.

Miss Darcy looked a little pale, and Mrs. Gardiner began to say something, but Mr. Darcy laughed. “Now you throw about Latin to crow your victory!” he objected in the midst of his mirth. “That cannot be admissible, if my Greek must be banned. I urge it of your justice, especially since you have bested me again.”

Elizabeth, having now seen the looks being given her by her female companions, at once retired with a soft demur: “I know nothing of the sort, sir.”

“Well, Miss Darcy,” said Mrs. Gardiner in a decided change of topic, “you mentioned yesterday that you have a beautiful pianoforte that was your mother’s which you practice upon here at Wyeswell House. Might we importune you, perhaps, to see it?”

“What a lovely idea,” said Miss Darcy with alacrity. “Let us go there now. Brother, I hope you might excuse us. We ladies may tarry there some time, as there is music I should like to show to Miss Bennet; I know you are very busy today.”

Mr. Darcy opened his mouth to object, but realized that he could not with all grace protest his sister’s surprising dismissal while she acted as hostess. Masking his disappointment, he rose with the ladies, bowed to them, and wished them good day. But as he turned from the room, he determined that he would inquire later of his sister as to why she had sought to separate him from their company.

In the coming days, his own concerns of estate often detained him, greatly due to his long autumn sojourn in Hertfordshire; he was therefore bound to bear the burden of frustration when he could not take Georgiana to Gracechurch Street for a call, as his own appointments of business seemed to swarm upon his calendar at every acceptable hour. But his sister gave him to know that, while she felt perfectly comfortable calling herself with Mrs. Annesley, Miss Bennet had also offered to call again at Wyeswell House later in the week. This intelligence yielded a prospect which he looked forward to as much as his sister.

Having Elizabeth in his home — perching on his sofa, sipping her tea from his mother’s favorite china — had given him a strange, filling pleasure. And by contrast, her departure from his house after that first visit had unsettled him more than he should like; her continued absence from his view created a discomfiting sensation of hollowness that permeated his being, a loss alarmingly impossible to ignore.

He could not fail to recognize within these pangs the symptoms of a growing appetite for contact with her. When they had been at Netherfield together after the disaster, he had an opportunity nearly every day to not only draw near to her, to speak to her exclusively and to linger closely in her company, but also to find ready excuses to make a physical connection: to offer her his arm as they walked; to brush his shoulder against hers when they sat at table; and twice, to take her up in his arms to assist her. And there was that one, unforgettable occasion, when he had been able to caress her bare arm in order to awaken her in the library. From these interactions, his senses had gained pleasing knowledge of the softness of her skin, the intoxicating scent of her hair, the arresting suppleness of her figure, and the delicate, fine-boned lattice of her frame coupled with the surprising strength she had gained from her active country lifestyle. He was hungry for the chance to touch her again, or at the very least, for an opportunity to indulge in the thrill of her nearness.

So then, on Friday, when he arrived home from his solicitor’s office to discover that Elizabeth had visited that very morning to call on his sister while he was out, it was too much to conceal his disappointment. He had missed a chance meeting.

“Brother? You are not unhappy that I spent the morning with Miss Elizabeth, are you?” asked his sister, wondering how she had misstepped.

“No, no, dearest. Not at all,” he rejoined. “I am glad you are friends. I only wish I could have seen the two of you together. I am sure you had an enjoyable time.”

“We certainly did! I introduced her to Mrs. Annesley, and we were delighted to find that Miss Elizabeth has a beautiful singing voice, and so we made up some rather clever arrangements for duets for her to practice with me. She insisted I do most of the playing, for she swears her skill at the pianoforte is not equal to mine, although I see nothing to the assertion: our styles differ, is all. But I was pleased not to have to sing in company, for her voice is by far the superior to mine in sweetness and expression. I daresay we had some rather beautiful moments when we rehearsed, which pleased us both.”

Darcy could scarcely conceal his surprise at his sister’s breathless enthusiasm. “You shall have to contrive a way to perform together some time for me, Georgiana, for I am so sorry to have missed it,” he said with real regret.

“But of course! I am sure Miss Elizabeth will not mind indulging you. She did ask after your health, and was so kind as to wish you a good day, if I would convey it, which I have,” his sister babbled happily.

“That was thoughtful of her,” intoned he, swallowing and casting about for a change of subject.

His sister’s questing gaze seemed to speak sympathy, but when she spoke next, he was surprised by what she said.

“I thought such attention to you very kind indeed, since I know she seemed upset during your last conversation with her.”

He felt an immediate stab of alarm somewhere near his middle. “Upset?”

“Yes! Why, she even went so far as to argue with you when you spoke against her. I could see she was upset; that is why I took her to the music room with Mrs. Gardiner.”

“I did not — I had not thought that anything I said was upsetting,” he said, as much to her as to his baffled self. Reviewing their last debate, he recalled Elizabeth’s sly smiles and her cheerful victory, and said with greater assurance, “Dearest, you mistook her response. I think you mistake her nature. Elizabeth loves a good debate as much as I do.”

His casual use of her name, which he unthinkingly overlooked, gave Georgiana pause as she remembered that her brother had the advantage of a much longer acquaintance with her friend. “She does?” she asked.

“She does indeed. Hers is a very lively nature, and such debates please her spirits and exercise her mind, which, as you have seen, is oftentimes more nimble than mine.”

“So, you were not – you were not arguing?” she asked in confusion.

“No, we were merely taking up a debate with an understanding that we both have an affinity for the amusement. She has sometimes endeavoured to strike up such debates with me before, merely for our mutual entertainment.”

“So — she was never angry with you? And you were never angry with her?”

“Not at all! I confess to you, Georgiana, that all I ever felt towards her was admiration, even as she all but threw Aristotle in my face.”

His sister’s thoughtful gaze returned, and with it came a slow smile of understanding. “You do admire her, do you not?” she asked, rather boldly.

He could feel himself colouring. To discuss such a thing with his little sister! And yet, as he looked at her, he realized that he could do far worse than to take Georgiana as an ally.

“Yes. Well — no, that is not the word,” he replied, rising from his chair and pacing to the window. For a moment, he was silent. When he turned back to his sister, he saw her brow crinkled in confusion. She looked up at him in silent appeal, desiring him to speak his truth plainly.

He could not hold back his answer: “I do not admire her. I utterly adore her.”