Mr. Darcy
Forgive me for writing to you. Or do not; in truth I am not in search of forgiveness. I am not writing to you about Jane. I am writing to you about Georgiana.
I detect the narrowing of your eye, but I shall not tremble. She must live with you, but I do not have to, and so I can anger you as much as I please. I know you have some influence over my sisters' happiness, but if you are a gentleman you shall not indulge your pride by tormenting my family. They do not deserve that.
Everyone is their own person. By which brush do you tar my sister? My mother's? Well then, ought I colour Georgiana with the bad opinion I hold for you?
Georgiana is afraid of you. You hold her life and her happiness. You are endangering her future because you cannot let go of her past. I beg you to reconsider your advice to her, for you are blind to how much she weeps, and I cannot bear it.
We are travelling to Pemberley tomorrow in the hopes of spending the summer together. For your sister's sake I pray you to allow me to stay as her companion. I am grateful to you for nurturing our friendship. I would not like to see it undone when I write to you for your sister's sake.
Most sincerely, Mary Bennet
The ladies did not hear from Mr. Darcy for several weeks. Georgiana said that this was normal, and that he was often silent when caught up in business affairs. He was visiting his aunt, she said, and the woman did not allow people to spend their time in lonely pursuits. Reading and writing were thrown aside in favour of music, conversation and awkward parlour dances.
Mary gradually lost the feeling of sick nervousness that had haunted her since she had sent her letter. She had penned it in a moment of white-hot anger and sent it before she could second-guess herself. It was one of the problems the wealthy struggled with, she supposed: their efficient staff meant that there was very little time to change their mind. Mary could not choose a dress and change her mind, for in the instant of her decision the whole outfit was laid before her. She only had to wait moments to have chocolate or coffee brought to her side. In truth, she was becoming rather spoiled.
Georgiana had hidden in her room for a few days after they arrived in Pemberley, but when she emerged she looked quite serene. Mary had heard her playing on the small instrument she kept in her room, but had known better than to intrude. She settled in the library and wrote to her sisters, and became so comfortable in the house that she almost felt like she belonged there.
Mary walked about the grounds, but the rain stopped very rarely and she had no overshoes. She hated to ask for a pair, knowing that if Georgiana heard about it she would send for a cobbler and spend an outrageous amount on beautiful new shoes. Mary thought of splatting a month's worth of her paltry allowance into a puddle and shuddered.
The garden reminded her of Luke, far away. It almost seemed like he was in another world. Her sisters had no reason to write about him, and Mary could hardly ask. When Jane wrote to tell her that she and Elizabeth had returned home, they only mentioned that Netherfield had been shut up for good. The Bingleys were settled in London, and Darcy had not been seen since Elizabeth met with him at Rosings.
There was a strange note in Elizabeth's letter which made Mary pause. There were words that made no sense. Her older sister's hand was usually so sure and decisive that the odd blotches made Mary's skin crawl.
Mary,
Mama is beginning to ask when you are coming home. I do not think she has missed you, but your pin money has reached a total that has made Lydia's eyes gleam. I have sent it to you before our dear sister can claim it for herself.
You told me that you do not want for much, so perhaps you could buy father a gift. He would like that; Jane and I only brought back ribbons and other paltry gifts. Father claims that they distracted mama, and that is a gift in itself, but I do feel guilty.
If I had a chance to think of anything but Mr. Darcy I would of course have bought him something myself, but…
Mary read the next paragraph several times. If Elizabeth had been standing before her then her eyes would have been dark and bewitching, pleading with her younger sister for advice. Mary was no worldlier, but she understood the male mind's fictional machinations. Something had clearly happened between her sister and Darcy, but all Elizabeth alluded to were a few chance meetings. Surely, even their sharp tongues could not have drawn blood in so short a time!
Before she could puzzle it out, she heard hoof beats scrabbling through the loose gravel drive. She peered out of the window and blanched. Atop a sweating bay stallion was the unmistakable figure of Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Mary heard a shriek. A slender figure flew down the steps. Darcy swung his leg out over the pommel of his horse and jumped down to close his sister in his arms. They were quite still for a moment, as each buried their head in the other one's shoulder, and then Darcy pushed his sister away and held her shoulders. He said something – Mary couldn't hear it – and Georgiana nodded. She walked back into the house, and Darcy started walking his horse to the stables.
Mary sent a note to her friend:
My dear Georgiana,
I have asked to have a tray sent to my room this evening. I am glad you are reunited with your brother after so many months!
I will not intrude on your evening together.
Mary
After she sent it she wondered if her charitable gesture made her look like a coward. She flattered herself that the tingle in her stomach was the natural warmth of human kindness instead of coiling fear. Either way, that evening she ate alone.