The piano teacher beamed as the last note faded.
"Very good, Miss Darcy," she cried. "You have conquered your fear of bruising your fingers upon the ivory."
Georgiana bowed her head to her teacher, then looked to Mary, who watched with stolid satisfaction her friend receiving praise from such a respectable source. Mary had been impressed by the professional, whose mastery of the pianoforte far outstripped her skills and even those of her much-praised older sister.
Humbled, she drank in the correction and turned her attentiveness upon her playing, and soon found it improving under the lady's instruction.
Singing was easier, as her bad habits swiftly fell away under the careful instruction of Georgiana's voice teacher.
The week she had spent here had gone by dizzyingly fast. Georgiana had made no objection to attending services twice on Sunday, a welcome change from her sisters' attitudes toward Sabbath observance. Georgiana's collection of respectable works for the instruction of young ladies relieved any worry she had in having left Fordyce and a host of carefully selected tracts to Kitty, and her friend seemed just as eager as she to devote a portion of each morning and afternoon to their study.
Meals were a pleasure untrammeled by her younger sisters' coarse manners. Rather, Georgiana's serious and deliberate thoughts dovetailed with her own as they dined.
As they left church, seeing how much attention young gentlemen paid to her companion was as familiar as it was unwanted to Mary.
She did not like how familiarly they addressed Georgiana, nor their choice of words and expressions and most inexplicable of all their tendency to include herself in their ill gallantry.
As they returned home after afternoon services, Mary ventured to ask Georgiana if she was always so noticed by the other congregants.
"I have never been addressed half so much as today," Georgiana said, happy to have her odd experience validated by her level-headed friend. "And to be offered carriage rides by young men not even my acquaintance." Georgiana shook her head. Mrs. Annesley had intervened and ushered the girls swiftly through the departing crowd, but she could not shield her charge from the stares nor the whispers.
"It is unaccountable impropriety for strange young men to offer such," Mary decreed. "They ought to be more mindful of your position and what is due to you."
Georgiana flushed with pleasure at her friend's protectiveness. She had grown up sheltered by many, but Mary's fierce vigilance warmed her as none other had.
"It is odd. They would never dare it if brother were here. But why should they speak thus to me? And, at times, they spoke as if to you, as well."
"It did seem as if they included me in their invitations. I could not chaperone such an excursion, as I am unmarried, nor do I approve of unmarried ladies and gentlemen riding in carriages together."
"Nor do I," Georgiana quickly agreed. "Though I have heard it is common in certain fast sets."
"They must know you are far too respectable to be approached thus," Mary said, pondering.
"Shall we consult Mrs. Annesley?" Georgiana asked.
Mary was happy to receive counsel from such a proper source, and the girls set off to find the companion. They found her reading in her own room, and inquired what she thought of the young men's inquiries when they were coming from church.
"They were insolent," Mrs. Annesley pronounced. "They have been raised abominably. I have resolved to speak with the vicar about it."
Relieved to have placed the problem in competent hands, the two returned to their practice.
Anne fidgeted before her mother's notice. For nearly the first time she could remember, her mother required her to stand before her, to speak, and she dearly wished to return to her quiet and obscurity.
Lady Catherine examined her in the bright light of the breakfast room, its many windows admitting the morning sun to show her daughter's countenance and complexion, and she found herself mightily dissatisfied. She turned to Mrs. Collins to express her disapprobation.
"She will never be admitted to the queen's drawing-room," she said. "Anne looks sickly, and I understand Her Majesty is anxious of illness in her household."
Charlotte looked again at Anne.
"There is nothing wrong with her that having an interest in life and walking in the sun will not cure," she pronounced.
Mrs. Jenkinson hovered nearby, caught between wishing to protect her charge and obedience to her mistress.
Lady Catherine considered Charlotte's statement.
"Anne, do you felt well enough to walk?" she asked.
Anne hardly knew what to say. The everyday reality of her inability to walk, to play, to study, was as integral a part of her life as attending services on the Sabbath or dressing for dinner. She did not know if she could walk because she had not attempted it, and thus knew not how to respond.
"I could try," she offered weakly. Charlotte offered to take her on a brief walk through the near lawn, and Lady Catherine announced that she would accompany them to observe her daughter's health.
The three women closely attended Anne as she took her hesitant steps on the green sward. The sun glared overhead, and her mother's suspicious stare seemed no less heating. When she grew tired and wished to retire inside after a single turn, her mother grew exasperated.
"You see, she is sickly," she decreed, staring at her unfortunate daughter.
"I think that Anne is not so sickly as we think," Charlotte mused. "We have all the summer and fall. I shall walk with her every day. She shall have milk and new eggs. She will gain flesh and strength, and quickly, I think."
Lady Catherine negligently agreed, already writing off the experiment as failed, but eager to be acting. To act meant she did not accept Darcy's victory as final. To act meant she was still a force to be reckoned with.
Fitzwilliam paced. Still, he had received no answer from Darcy. It was a mystery, his cousin's urgent application, then silence. If the girl had run away, Darcy should have written him to share the bad news. If the girl was not with child, Darcy should have written that they need not fear the scandal. Darcy should have written, and that he had not must mean disaster.
Wellington's successes in Spain were hopeful, but could be no assurance that his men would not be needed on the continent. If he were to go without leave and his regiment were called to action, he would be disgraced.
But if disaster were unfolding in Hertfordshire because he was not on hand, he would also be disgraced. His soldierly mind favored the course requiring action and hazard. Taking a deep breath, he ducked out of his tent to seek a fellow officer he trusted. This negotiation would be delicate, and he hoped he could handle it. But Darcy needed him.
The carriage rolled northward, six good horses pulling them up the dusty road. Elizabeth sat nearly atop Darcy, her arms twined about his neck, his left arm wrapped around her to hold her to him through the jouncing of the wheels.
She had curiously inquired about his thoughts when he came to visit the parsonage before that fateful day, and he was making answer.
Darcy brushed her face tenderly. "That morning when I came to the parsonage, sat alone with you and could say naught…"
"I could not imagine what compelled you to sit in the parsonage sitting room rather than the finer surroundings of Rosings Park," she said, smiling teasingly.
"I had to be near you," he replied earnestly. "I hoped I might speak to you, but I could not. If I could, I'm not sure what I would have said. You looked so grave that it took speech from me." She caressed him reassuringly.
"At some point, I'm not sure when, I started seeing you in my future, and I could not look away from that vision," he admitted. "The thought of you by my side here, in town, commanded me. It drove my steps toward yours when you walked in the park, as it drove me to… secure you. It was powerful beyond my measure, and I was in its grips."
As he spoke, he looked deep in her eyes, willing her to understand the depth of feeling that had urged his reckless actions.
She shook her head a bit to clear it. The magnitude of his desire for her was awesome.
The person who she was when she hated Darcy seemed to be almost another than herself. The whole world seemed changed since then, but she knew that the man before her bore the same passion, transformed by tribulation. She clasped him to her, inhaling his now-familiar scent and letting it work upon her senses.
"Your love is a force to be reckoned with," she said, looking at him wonderingly. "Why do you love me so?"
A tremor ran through Darcy's body from head to toe.
"It is yourself. You are beyond compare." HIs throat worked as if he would speak more, but no words came.
She brought his head to her breast and kissed his head, murmuring words of love to him.
Mrs. Annesley returned from her visit to the vicarage with an angry set to her face. Georgiana had never seen her thus upset and they hastened to ask of her interview.
"Oh, Miss Bennet, such terrible gossip. The vicar's wife said that everyone was speaking of your sisters' elopements."
Mary nodded gravely. "Both one of my elder and one of my younger sisters did elope this year. It is a shame upon our house that my parents do not seem sensible of because my older sisters married well. I should depart as to not draw blame upon you, Georgiana."
Georgiana clutched at Mary's sleeve and begged her not to go.
"I care naught for what they say. I care more for you than for the lot of them twice over."
Mary suppressed a flutter of pleasure at her friend's protestation, but Mrs. Annesley interrupted.
"Miss Bennet, I am afraid… dear Miss Darcy, that the gossip is not just about Miss Bennet's sisters."
Georgiana started. "Do they… do they speak of…" she could not finish.
"The vicar's wife said that the gossip was more vague where you were concerned, but that you were also of the eloping set. She said it has become sport among the young men to brag about inviting one or the both of you to repeat the affair."
Both girls were stricken by the news. Mary quickly flared to outrage.
"They cannot know the circumstances. No fair-minded person would ever, Miss Darcy, judge you for having been misled by your own god-brother. They speak evil in ignorance of extenuating particulars."
Georgiana blinked away tears. Mary, seeing how affected she was, offered to take her to her own room to rest. Georgiana accepted gladly, and Mrs. Annesley allowed Mary to lead her charge away, grateful that she had a friend at such a juncture.
When Mr. Darcy had hired her for her post, he had informed her of Wickham's attempt, but had spoken of it as a private affair, so completely secret that they need not move Georgiana from the neighborhood. It was an eventuality to be avoided, as they concurred that the sea air agreed with her. To have this terrible truth surface thus after near three years was unexpected, and she set to writing letters to her charge's guardians to set forth the affair for their judgment.
Mary had tucked Georgiana into bed, but the girl would not let her retire but asked her to lay by her. Mary had gladly obliged, happy that her friend desired her comfort, despite the taint that had attached itself to her.
"Oh Mary," Georgia said, reaching for her friend's hand. "I have spoken no word of comfort to you for the affront of being associated with your sisters' shames."
"It is not necessary. I knew this day would come. Ever the shame of the guilty falls upon the innocent in this sinful world."
"It is difficult to think of your older sister as guilty of any shame," Georgiana admitted.
"I had never thought Elizabeth capable of such," Mary admitted. "Though not as serious-minded as one might wish, she never had the utter frippery of our younger sisters. But she admitted to her shame before father and our whole family."
"I would think it should have been a comfort to you, growing up, to have such older sisters."
Mary was surprised by a jolt of strong rejection of such feeling.
"Jane and Elizabeth were ever so in each other's confidence, and with little taste for serious study, that they had little patience or liking for me," she confessed. "I have wept for loneliness," she continued, Georgiana's hand upon hers giving her the courage to speak. "Even amongst my sisters, I was alone. I could not even yearn for a friend. I never imagined that such a friend as you was possible." The words seemed torn from her heart.
Georgiana embraced her, and Mary was amazed to feel her sobbing. Slowly Mary began to comfort her friend, to smooth her hair and even assure her that all would be well!
Mary was amazed to find such flowing naturally from her, as Georgiana's sensitive feeling seemed to draw it from her as water leaping from a spring.
"I always longed for a sister," Georgiana admitted, wiping tears away. "My friends have been ever so concerned with their own interests that they had not time for mine, not really. It is such a comfort to feel your real interest in me, Mary."
Mary could only squeeze her hand back, and Georgiana drank in the sensation of Mary's strong fingers upon her.
"I do believe she looks less sickly," Lady Catherine proclaimed, having examined her daughter carefully in the sunlight.
"Of course she is," Mrs. Collins agreed. "She just lacked exercise and wholesome nourishment. There is naught really wrong with her. If she had some weakness, she must have grown out of it."
Anne's skin was touched with pink now. Her face had gained in contour and her hair no longer hung lackluster against her scalp.
"Mother, am I really well?" Anne asked.
"So it seems," Lady Catherine agreed. "Now, we must make up for lost time. I shall send to London for a music master and a teacher of language and literature. Before the season you shall have become mistress of the pianoforte, the harp, French and Italian."
Anne quailed at the heavy burden of learning suggested.
"But mother, I've never studied before. How will I have the strength?"
Lady Catherine leaned close.
"You will show that you have the strength of your ancestors, or you will show that you are no daughter of mine. Is that clear?"
Anne felt a great pit in the depths of her stomach. She hastily agreed, then made her escape to her rooms. Only there did she submit to the quaking and upset that had been plaguing her within.
Jane read over the envelope once again. An express from Mrs. Annesley to Mr. Darcy! And Lizzy had sent word that she and her husband would travel direct to Pemberley from town.
Bingley approached as she stood examining it.
"Dear Jane," he said, moving to embrace her.
"Dear Charles," she said, nuzzling him briefly before showing him the envelope.
"Mrs. Annesley has written to Mr. Darcy. Her matter must be urgent for she sent it express."
"It will have a long journey to reach Derbyshire," Bingley said, more concerned with his wife's person than with her news. "I suppose we should send Col. Fitzwilliam's letter with it, as they shall not be returning soon."
"A letter from Col. Fitzwilliam, Georgiana's other guardian?" Jane cried.
"It arrived just after they left for town," he said. "Come to think, it was also an express."
Jane made him hasten to retrieve it and set them both down on a table and they stood, staring at the letters.
"Something dire must have happened for both to be writing," Jane ventured.
"It could not have to do with Georgie, as she left only a few days before it arrived," he said comfortingly.
Jane looked at him in disbelief.
"Much can happen in a few days or even hours," she said. "This is no coincidence, and we cannot assume it is one. Two urgent letters, one each to Mr. Darcy from the fellow guardian and the chaperone of his sister. They could be in desperate need of his counsel and know not where he is to seek for him."
Bingley found this sound. "But what can we do but send them to him?"
Jane took a deep breath. "I think we must open them and determine the cause of the alarm, ourselves."
"Open Darcy's letters? He should never forgive me!"
"But if there is some desperate circumstance that must be acted on soon, the opportunity will be lost in the days it must journey north and for instructions to return."
"But a man's letters…" he pleaded weakly.
"It is terrible to think of, but what if Miss Darcy's well-being were in the balance? Would he not wish us to act?"
"I suppose he would," Bingley said reluctantly. "If it is his sister who is concerned. But he may be angry with me for knowing what concerns her. You know he told me nothing of Wickham's attempt on her, though it was years ago, and we were already good friends at the time."
Jane seized the letter from the colonel. "Be that as it may, we must act as circumstances dictate." She broke open the seal, unfolded and read.
"Oh no," she said, rereading the few lines.
"Is Georgie safe?" Bingley asked worriedly.
"It does not concern Miss Darcy at all," Jane said, concern gripping her throat. "It is about Lydia."
"But your youngest sister is safe married and in Brighton," Bingley protested.
"But Col. Fitzwilliam does not know that, or did not…" she checked the date, "Near a fortnight ago! Had you forwarded it when it arrived, he should have received it already."
It took a few moments to remind his wife that he had no thought that Darcy would remain in town above a day or two, as he knew perfectly well the presentation that Mrs. Bennet sought was impossible. That they would go north without passing through Hertfordshire was more than he had contemplated.
Frustrated, Jane reached for Mrs. Annesley's letter. Hastily she read of the Ramsgate gossip and blanched, thrusting the letter at her husband. He read, his brow furrowing as he comprehended its contents.
"Vicious town gossips. How could they have gotten wind of the goings-on here, of all places?" he asked.
"That everyone in Ramsgate knows, could all of London know?" Jane cried, grasping at her husband for comfort and support. He let the letter fall on the table and embraced her, murmuring promises that all would be well.
"But what shall we do?" Jane wailed, head swimming with the scandals surrounding them.
"We should write to the colonel immediately, by express, to tell him that Lydia is squared away," Bingley said firmly.
"Yes, thank you, Charles, yes, write him now." He swiftly bent to the task, and soon a servant was departing with an express bound for the colonel's summer encampment.
"But this gossip about Miss Darcy, and Mary, what shall we do about it?" Jane asked. "Oh, I wish Lizzy was here. She always knows what to do."
"The colonel is much closer at hand. We should send him another note about his cousin's predicament. I ought to have written in the first…"
"Yes," Jane said. "Write again to the colonel, and we will write to Mr. Darcy to let him know of both, enclosing the letters."
Bingley agreed and soon, two more servants were departing with their missives, and Jane could accept his comforting caresses.
