Fitzwilliam Darcy
Pemberley, Derbyshire
The drawing room was just as he remembered it, old pianoforte in one corner where Georgiana sat, her fingers tracing over the ivory keys. Silence had reined in the room since George Darcy had entered, scowling at his returning son and ignoring Mr. Bingley after a cursory nod of his head that barely constituted a bow.
For his part, Mr. Bingley was taking the slight with no visible offense, to which Mr. Darcy was immeasurably grateful. His good friend was an affable sort, but even the best of mean did not like to be treated no better than servants when visiting.
It helped some, that George Darcy was already quite clearly inebriated. There was a measure of excusing his behavior.
"You are quite the accomplished player of the pianoforte, Miss Darcy," Bingley said as he stood over Georgiana, watching her stroke the keys. "Would you play a piece for me?" he asked gently. Darcy watched the two with a slight smile playing across his lips. Despite his father's monstrous behavior, Bingley was acting admirably and was showing kindness and patience to his sister despite the fact she was a child. Well, Bingley had sisters as well. Perhaps he had some measure of sympathy for her. Georgiana certainly was uncomfortable with how drunk their father was, and how abominably he was behaving.
He wished he had some way to chivvy George Darcy off to his rooms for the remainder of the evening, but there was no polite way to do so. He would have to make do, and keep things distracting and moving along quickly enough that there would be minimal damage to his sister, and to Bingley's impression of his family.
As it was, he felt like a wire pulled tight, and he felt sure he would snap at any moment, his calm and cool demeanor breaking. It would be the ultimate shame if he did, and he wrested within himself to control his own temper. It did not help that his father spoke up so often, and with such vehemence, about the supposed deficiencies of Bingley's family and his character.
"So, Bingley," George said, without a care to address him with the proper honorifics, "your wealth is from trade, is it not? And your sisters, are they married?"
"Uh, one is, Mr. Darcy," Bingley said, looking up from where he stood next to Georgiana's pianoforte, about to turn the sheets for her so she might play. "The other has debuted, of course, and spent the Season in London with us."
"Difficult to find a husband for a woman who comes from trade, although some people may not have standards and lower themselves without a thought to their bloodline," George mused, holding out his glass for Darcy to top it up. Darcy did so reluctantly, and with an apologetic look to his friend. Bingley did not deserve such base and unfair treatment. To his credit, Bingley kept an affable smile on his face, and a friendly manner about his person.
"Yes, well, she is not without her own charms, that I think the manner of our family's wealth might not be a barrier to all, I would hope," Bingley commented lightly before looking down at Georgiana. "What will you play us, Miss Darcy. Your brother has spoken at such length of your abilities, if he is correct I believe you might outstrip even the greatest players in London."
"Oho!" George cried out, sitting forward, having just taking a giant glug of his brandy. "You flatter her, and she is not yet out! She will think all men owe her praise, when she emerges in lace and silks."
"I hardly think so, Papa," Georgiana said, quite bravely too, and she offered a smile to her drunken father that Darcy felt he rather did not deserve. "For it is only a vain woman who thinks only upon the praise she might garner, and my governess has properly guided me away from such vanities. I should be lucky for a smile or two in my direction at all."
"Ha! With your pounds, you shall warrant more than a smile, my girl," George said, and then got to his feet. Darcy moved to straighten his arm so his drink would not spill as the old man tottered across the carpet to the pianoforte. Bingley stepped back, allowing him to take pride of place beside his daughter. He peered down at her and she gave him another smile, although Darcy could see it was weak at the edges.
His grip on his patience frayed. Georgiana was afraid of their father. The very thought enraged him. What had passed between them, during the months of his absence, that would make Georgiana afraid of George Darcy?
He would speak to her governess, and find out for himself, and then if there was not an adequate answer from her, he would seek out the housekeeper and demand it as his right to know. He was heir to the Darcy estates. He would know under what villainy and cruelty his sister has suffered while he had been gone.
"I shall play you a piece, Papa," she said quietly, and then her fingers floated along the keys. The sound seemed to mollify the old man. He closed his eyes and hummed, tunelessly, along with her precise and emotive playing. Bingley caught Darcy's eye, and a very real look of concern played across the man's face.
Darcy bit back a curse. He could do nothing to spare his sister of any ill treatment, if only… if only… for the first time, perhaps, he wished ill upon his father, and he felt no guilt for it.
As George Darcy closed a shaking hand around Georgiana's shoulder and urged her play faster, damn you girl, Darcy could not contain the noise of dismay wrested from his throat.
"I think," he said when George Darcy looked up at him, rage on his face, "I think perhaps Georgiana has played enough for the night."
George Darcy scoffed, and then slapped the top of the pianoforte with one large, meaty hand.
"Oh you do think that, do you?" he asked, peering at his son with a scowl in his face.
"I do," Darcy repeated, standing his ground. George growled.
"Let us to my study. Georgiana, to your room," he snapped, and then stormed out of the drawing room without a word to Bingley. With a look of pain towards Bingley and his sister, Darcy followed without comment.
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