Chapter 28 - Gambits and Strings
"But Mary can play again, a jig this time. Wouldn't you love to dance a jig?" Lydia's voice held a note of desperation as Wickham guided her toward the refreshments.
"Sir William has some of the best wine in the county," Wickham replied smoothly, pressing a glass into her hand. "I think you'll find this far more refreshing." He watched with satisfaction as she took a large swallow, already planning his next move. While Lydia beamed at the attention, his eyes had already moved to his true target. Picking up two more glasses, he turned away from the youngest Miss Bennet and began making his way toward Elizabeth.
ooOoo
From her sheltered seat in the corner of Lucas Lodge's drawing room, Georgiana clung to Elizabeth's steady presence beside her. The large potted fern offered some protection from prying eyes, but it couldn't shield her from the sound that made her heart stutter - George's laughter, drifting across the room. Though she couldn't see him from their position, his voice carried clearly, rich and warm like honey. That same laugh had once made her feel like the most fascinating creature in the world. Now it only reminded her of her own foolishness.
Despite her resolve not to look, Georgiana's eyes were drawn to the fireplace where Wickham stood surrounded by officers and young ladies. His figure was unmistakable, even at this distance. Elizabeth's words faded into a meaningless hum as his laugh cut through her concentration like a knife, bringing back memories she'd tried so hard to forget.
Stay present, stay here, Georgiana silently commanded herself, digging her fingers into the silk upholstery. She needed a distraction, something to anchor her thoughts away from the past. Fitzwilliam had mentioned Elizabeth's fondness for long walks in his letters - perhaps that could lead to safer topics. Country ladies usually rode, did they not?
Seizing upon this lifeline, Georgiana turned to Elizabeth with forced brightness. "Do you ride, Miss Elizabeth? I cannot recall?"
Her fingers traced the intricate carvings on the settee's wooden frame, focusing on the familiar sensation of smooth wood beneath her fingertips. The comforting scents of lavender and lemon polish mingled with tea and sweet cakes, reminding her of home, of safety.
"I did as a child," Elizabeth replied, her dark curls bouncing as she shook her head. Her expression held that delightful mix of humour and honesty that Georgiana had come to cherish. "However, I prefer not to. Jane rides very well and loves it."
Georgiana watched as Elizabeth's eyes swept the room - those remarkable eyes that Fitzwilliam had described so often in his letters. They were indeed as fine as her brother had claimed, full of intelligence and warmth. No wonder he had been so captivated by them.
"Oh, I would have loved to ride around the country," Georgiana ventured, feeling braver in Elizabeth's candid presence. Then, more quietly, "Though I don't like to ride alone. I'm always afraid of losing control, of being thrown…"
The words held more meaning than she intended, and she felt her cheeks warm at the inadvertent revelation. How easy it was to be honest with Elizabeth, even about her fears.
Elizabeth's laugh was gentle, understanding rather than mocking. "It appears then that we have a common fear."
Just as Georgiana began to relax, that laugh cut through the room again. Suddenly the space felt stifling, too warm and crowded. Wickham's presence seemed to fill every corner of her awareness, drowning out the gentle sounds of teacups against saucers and Mary's steady playing at the pianoforte. Even the dancers' delight seemed to mock her discomfort.
Desperate to maintain her composure, Georgiana forced a smile. "Perhaps we could overcome it between the two of us?"
She leaned closer to Elizabeth, clinging to each word like a lifeline against the threatening tide of memories. There was something soothing in the way Elizabeth considered each response, tilting her head slightly as she weighed her words. Such careful honesty was so different from the easy flattery Georgiana had once mistaken for affection.
"I would not want to give you false hope," Elizabeth replied softly, her honesty as refreshing as it was unexpected.
Georgiana felt her eyes widen at such frankness. Her brother's acquaintances usually rushed to assure her of success in any endeavour, treating her like a child to be humoured. But Elizabeth spoke to her as an equal, offering truth instead of empty comfort. The respect implicit in such candour made Georgiana sit a little straighter, despite the flush she could feel rising in her cheeks at another burst of that haunting laughter from across the room.
As Elizabeth continued speaking, her expressive face revealing each thought as clearly as if she spoke them aloud, Georgiana found herself drawn into the conversation's steady rhythm. Here was someone who understood that real comfort came not from false assurances, but from genuine connection.
"Maybe a pair of ponies and a phaeton," Georgiana suggested, surprising herself with a genuine laugh. After the tension of the past few days - her brother's sudden departure for London, the strained atmosphere at Netherfield - this moment of lightness felt like a gift.
Elizabeth's face lit up with delighted surprise. "What a marvellous suggestion! Though I fear my mother might have apoplexy at the very idea."
"Yes, it's the very thing," Georgiana pressed on, emboldened by Elizabeth's enthusiasm. "I will write to Fitzwilliam directly and ask him to send them."
The slight blush that coloured Elizabeth's cheeks at the mention of her brother's name did not escape Georgiana's notice. She had never seen Fitzwilliam quite like this before - how his entire demeanour changed in Elizabeth's presence, his usual reserve melting away, only to be replaced by a painful tension when forced to watch her with Mr Collins. Even now, with him gone to London, Georgiana could see how Elizabeth's own expression softened at any mention of him. It all made perfect sense now.
"I can already picture his expression when he reads my letter," she continued, watching Elizabeth's reaction carefully. "He'll pretend to be stern about it, but he'll send them all the same."
As their shared laughter filled their sheltered corner, Georgiana realized she had almost forgotten about the other presence that had so disturbed her earlier. Elizabeth's company was proving to be more than just an escape from painful memories - it was becoming a hope for what might still be, if only her brother could find a way to resolve this impossible situation.
ooOoo
Darcy was tired, very tired.
Despite the fire crackling in the hearth, a chill seemed to cling to the room, matching Darcy's sombre mood.
It had been a very long day, and he had virtually nothing to show for it. He had made enquiries for three days now and he was no further forward. No closer to his goal.
Darcy glanced at the stack of letters from his various contacts, each one failing to provide any useful information about Mr Collins' past. The names of obscure parishes and long-forgotten curates swam before his eyes, none offering the insight into Mr Collins' character that he sought.
He had eaten alone and quickly that evening, then returned to his study. Darcy rubbed his temples, wishing he could uncover something, anything, that might delay Elizabeth's impending marriage to Mr Collins.
Trying, but without any success, not to think where Georgiana might be at very moment and who she might be with. At the realisation of his failure to control his thoughts, he allowed his mind to wander freely for a few minutes, while he drank a glass of port.
Darcy couldn't shake the fear that Wickham might somehow manipulate his way back into Georgiana's good graces, undoing all the healing of the past months.
Darcy wrestled with conflicting emotions: relief that Georgiana would have Elizabeth's companionship, and envy that his sister would enjoy the very presence he longed for. He berated himself for his selfish thoughts. Shouldn't he be grateful that Georgiana would have Elizabeth's steadying influence, rather than wishing he could be there himself?
The thought of Georgiana potentially seeing Wickham filled him with dread, while the idea of her bonding with Elizabeth stirred a complex mix of hope and frustration. Darcy felt pulled in multiple directions: wanting to protect Georgiana from Wickham, longing to be with Elizabeth himself, and feeling guilty for not trusting his sister's judgment more.
At last he drained the glass, sighing when as he set it down on his desk. The weight of silence pressed in on him, broken only by the occasional crackle from the fire and the soft clink of glass against wood as he set down his port.
He returned to the pile of letters and papers that required his attention, his mind was as far from dealing with matters of business as it ever had been. He absently fingered the rough texture of the unread letters, their wax seals still intact, a testament to his distracted state.
He tried to focus on the letter in front of him, but the lure of the port was too strong. 'Just one more glass,' he told himself, knowing it was a lie even as he thought it. As he reached for the decanter again, a sobering thought struck Darcy: how could he hope to protect Georgiana or help Elizabeth if he couldn't even maintain his own composure?
At least Russell was there to watch over them and act when Darcy was unable to. Darcy hoped that he would receive word from him soon. He was not sure which route might lead to the better results. The longer he went without word from Russell, the more Darcy's imagination ran wild with potential outcomes.
As much as he appreciated Russell's help, Darcy couldn't help but feel that he was shirking his responsibilities by not being there in person. He took another sip of port, trying to quell his unease. Darcy had always prided himself on his self-sufficiency.
It was not long before he had risen to his feet and refilled in glass from the decanter on the side table.
The pile of unanswered questions about Mr Collins' past seemed to mock him from the corner of his desk. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the room, making the piles of papers on his desk seem even more daunting.
When he returned to his desk he took the decanter as well.
He reached for another letter, hoping against hope that this one might contain the key to understanding the man who was to become Elizabeth's husband. Darcy's determination to uncover the truth about Mr Collins warred with his growing sense of futility as each lead turned cold.
Darcy's fingers drummed restlessly on the desk as he battled the urge to pour another drink. Eventually, his resolve crumbled, and he stood, decanter in hand.
ooOoo
Doctor Russell gestured animatedly, nearly knocking over his glass of wine in his enthusiasm.
"Please tell me you did not go through with it, sir?" Jane covered her mouth with her hand, trying to stifle her laughter as she glanced around the room. For the first time in several weeks she was truly enjoying herself.
Jane's cheeks were flushed with mirth, her usual composure momentarily forgotten in the joy of the moment.
Elizabeth seemed more herself this evening than she had since the beginning of their father's illness. She was still speaking to Miss Darcy off to the side. Mary was playing the pianoforte, Lydia and Kitty dancing with the officers.
Jane's gaze flicked to Mr Bingley, who seemed uncharacteristically subdued. Could he be feeling neglected, she wondered, as she had been so engrossed in Doctor Russell's stories?
Mr Bingley's uncharacteristic reticence puzzled Jane. She made a mental note to inquire about his well-being once she could politely excuse herself from Doctor Russell's company.
She felt a twinge of concern, wondering if something had upset him beyond her preoccupation with Doctor Russell. She hoped he didn't misinterpret her lively conversation with Doctor Russell as anything more than friendly interest.
Doctor Russell's eyes crinkled with mirth as he paused for dramatic effect, his hand resting on the arm of his chair.
"Sadly, he did not return, that night." Doctor Russell said with a tickle in his eye. "But there is always the chance that Mr Higgins will drink too much Italian grappa as though it were beer and be again in need of my services. In fact I depend on it."
Doctor Russell had kept her very well entertained with stories about his patients and his friends, she felt her sides aching for she had laughed so much.