Mr. Darcy introduced the new governess to his sister that very evening. The girl took to the young woman like a bottle of petroleum takes to a lit tinder and the two walked arm in arm, chatting. He let out a breath he did not realize he was holding; he was not blind to his sister's propensity to silence when met with anything new. Luckily, gregariousness was among Miss Bennet's various talents.
Miss Bennet herself looked rather unsure about the organisation of the dining table when they spoke again. "I've been told some families prefer to preserve the distinction between themselves and people in their employ." Her dark eyes bore into his, as if to guess his mind. "I'm yet to be told what the case is here, Sir."
Of course, the position of governess was a peculiar one. His cousin had explained the contradictory nature of the teacher who was not a servant, but who depended on her employer's goodwill as one. For any gentlewoman that ambivalence was most mortifying. On the other hand, Mrs. Huxley, the grizzled veteran of education, was considered a vital part of the Fitzwilliam family after the twenty years of her dedicated care for the Earl's progeny. But as Colonel Fitzwilliam had said, such approach was not necessarily the norm.
"Oh, it makes perfect sense to set separate tables for two people and one," Mr. Darcy deadpanned. "The dining room would be rather crowded if you joined us." He sighed. "Miss Bennet, it would be a pleasure if you dine with us."
Her lips twitched, but she said only: "I shall prepare for the evening, then."
He retreated to his study to finish a few letters before the dinnertime. Once done, he sealed them with wax and pressed in his signet ring. What twist of fate forced a gentleman's daughter to enter employment? A small dowry was a possibility, as Colonel Fitzwilliam had pointed out; but there were matches based on a bride's beauty or a widower's loneliness – and Miss Bennet was handsome and sociable enough for both options. He would never ask, for he doubted he would be given a truthful answer, but it was intriguing enough a case he allowed his thoughts to linger.
Miss Bennet entered the dining room with her arm linked to Georgiana's. Framed by the portal door, together they looked like age-old engravings of sun and moon. Georgiana with her light hair down and her gown of rosy dawn; Miss Bennet in her unadorned indigo dress and a simple white bandeau in her dark tresses resembling the pale crescent at midnight.
They were twittering in French. While Georgiana learned the language since the age of six, there had never been any real opportunity to speak it. Instead, she had taken to the books and essays – an exercise which gave her an impressive command of the lexicon, but which did not teach her anything in terms of talking. Compared to Miss Bennet's self-possessed command of the language, Georgiana sounded rather stilted, with long pauses here and there betraying her hesitation.
"Vous êtes tellement concentrée sur le fait de parler correctement, que vous parlez à peine, Georgiana."
Mr. Darcy chuckled. "I was not told you have already commenced teaching, Miss Bennet."
She turned her gaze to him. "This is a mere assessment of skills, Mr. Darcy. I cannot teach without knowing what is there left to teach."
There was a certain level of curt aloofness to her, from the first moment they met. And people accused him of being too cold.
They sat down at their assigned seats – Mr. Darcy at the head, Georgiana and Miss Bennet by his sides. He was content with listening to the conversation across the table – in English, this time. Miss Bennet inquired about Georgiana's interests – a topic which made his sister start an enthusiastic monologue on music, aesthetics, and history. Another set of prodding questions revealed that his sister had little to no patience with other subjects, despite Mr. Darcy's most dedicated efforts and her own talent.
"Pray tell me, Georgiana, are you familiar with the tale of the Great Library of Alexandria?"
His sister's eyes shone with excitement. "Yes, of course! The greatest temple to knowledge in the ancient world!"
"Where is it now?" Miss Bennet asked, her smile inscrutable.
"Where – it is gone. Caesar burned it by accident and what survived that fire was destroyed centuries later by another invasion."
"Correct. Now, what do you think was lost when the last scroll fell to the destruction?" Miss Bennet placed her cutlery neatly alongside her plate and folded her hands. "Do you imagine that erased all impact the Library had brought onto the world?"
Georgiana frowned, unsure where the question lead. "I think not? Many scholars studied there. Scribes copied the books. Others wrote commentaries and treatises. The original texts might have been lost, but not insignificant amount of knowledge had stayed in the living memory."
"You are, of course, correct again." Miss Bennet's smile turned almost Mephistophelian. "One might consider it a moral duty of the human race to preserve knowledge for the future generations. After all, paper burns." She sipped at her wine. "But is that the sole purpose of what we call knowledge? If so, tell me how long it takes the Sun to orbit the Earth?"
"What? You are mistaken, Miss Bennet," said Georgiana, giggling. "It's the opposite!"
"Two hundred years ago you would have been burned by very smart men at stake for proposing such idea. Many met such horrible fate." She allowed the statement to sink in. "Yesterday's wisdom can become today's folly."
"Then what is the point of learning anything?"
"You shall tell me tomorrow," Miss Bennet said. "You have your own Library of Alexandria from which you can draw ideas. I will ask you again – what is the point of learning, when what you are taught might be incorrect?"
. . .
A few hours later, when he retired to his bedroom, Mr. Darcy could not but recall with a certain degree of elation the hypnotic manner with which Miss Bennet commanded attention. Despite her denial about the lesson's start, the first one, and the most important, had already begun: reasoning.
Perhaps, there lay the problem of his teaching Georgie – he was not patient enough to allow her to start with a stance so obviously incorrect. He had the unfortunate tendency to dictate what was to be learned instead of letting his pupil to come on their own to the conclusion they would love to look deeper.
Behind the door, he heard some shuffle. Assuming it was Georgie's another bout of insomnia, he walked across the room and opened the door.
It was not Georgie. A frightened yelp echoed through the corridor and there was a hiss of hot wax burning skin. The candle died, but the soft light pouring out of his room revealed Miss Bennet, who clutched at her wrist – she stared at him, chalk white.
"Miss Bennet? You are injured. Let me help-"
"No." She stepped back; her voice sounded distant, so different from just a few hours ago! "I think I took a wrong turn. Yes. Wrong turn. Excuse me, sir."
He watched her retreat to the dark halls. Once she disappeared, he picked up the extinguished candle.
The upper part was still searing hot.