“It seemed to be some sort of shelter fashioned from large branches and very old rope,” Georgiana added, and Darcy looked up in some surprise.
“Oh. Is it still standing, then?”
“Very much so. What is it, Brother?”
“A den that Fitzwilliam and I built a long time ago, when we were seeking to re-enact the myth of the Noble Savage and Mr Defoe’s writings.”
Also the spot where his cousin – the only one who knew where to look – had found him hiding, knees huddled to his chest, the day after his mother’s passing. They had abandoned their den after that. The recollections were no longer happy ones.
Perhaps, when the time came, he would have it rebuilt for his sons and efface old memories with new ones. Or perhaps let them build another elsewhere. A clean slate – a fresh start.
“Mr Defoe’s? Which writings would they be?”
Lost in his thoughts, Darcy missed his sister’s question. It was Miss Bennet who replied.
“The Life and Strange Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, I should imagine. A tale of shipwrecks, desert islands, cannibals and pirates,” she elaborated for her young friend’s benefit.
“Strange adventures indeed,” Georgiana observed. “Perhaps too strange for me. I have not come across it in the library, but with so many books…”
“You could not have,” Darcy rejoined the conversation. “We left it in the woods one day, only to find it soaked and ruined after a rainy night. Father was not best pleased.”
“Neither was my mother at my reading it,” Miss Bennet cheerfully retorted, “or for that matter all the other books that caused knights and pirates to rampage through our gardens. I fear I had encouraged my sisters in all manner of rambunctious pursuits.”
“I would not have pictured you for a tomboy, Lizzy,” Georgiana replied with a smile.
Darcy concealed his. He could, with no effort whatsoever.
“Yet so I was, at least until the ripe old age of twelve. Presumably the nearest my father ever had for a son. Still, eventually he had to reconcile himself with having five daughters. I was still allowed to read whatever came to hand, but fencing with sticks and besieging the hermitage had to give way to more ladylike pursuits.”
Despite himself, Darcy’s smile widened. Mr and Mrs Bennet must have had their hands full.
“Speaking of more ladylike pursuits,” Georgiana mused, “your old den would make a very pretty spot for reading or drawing, I imagine. I have never sketched the lake from that angle and I would dearly like to try. Could we not fill the gaps in the roof with thatch or fir branches or something of that nature? It might come in handy if we are caught in the rain.”
“If you wish, dearest. I will ask Davies to send someone up.”
“Would you like to walk with us when we return there with our sketchbooks? We were thinking of going later this afternoon.”
“Another day perhaps,” Darcy replied evasively, not quite prepared to tread on old paths yet.
Nevertheless, a few hours later he found himself doing precisely that. It was a long walk to the far end of the lake, long enough for him to allow free rein to very distant recollections. Lady Anne’s warm laughter as she guided Georgiana’s first tottering steps. The sound of her voice, all but forgotten, as she read to him of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. Sunlight glinting in her hair as she sat in a window seat, weak and frail, not many months before her passing…
Darcy closed his mind to the latter recollection and sought others. Fitzwilliam roaring with laughter when he saw him lose his footing and fall into the lake, just on this very spot – at least until he scrambled out, dripping with muddy water, to give chase and wrestle his cousin to the ground into a heap of flailing limbs. The log where they used to sit, munching on bread and hunks of meat and cheese and sometimes sweet treats pilfered from the kitchens. The thick branch overhanging the water, from which they used to swing on a rope and willingly or accidentally drop into the lake.
The den could not be far now – and indeed it was not. Another twist in the muddy path and the tall reeds were no longer obscuring the view of the sloping bank before him. The den was a dark shape leaning against a towering lime tree, but it was the brighter spots of colour that drew his attention. Wrapped in their shawls and spencers, the young ladies were sitting together on a rug, surrounded by the halo of beeches clad in their autumnal garb of burnished amber. Bonnets were carelessly abandoned and golden tresses shone alongside warm auburn ones, as they both sat intent upon their sketchbooks.
Miss Bennet glanced up first and spotted him, and her hand flew to her lips in a rather odd request for silence – that is, until Darcy noticed the ball of fur rustling in the leaves. They were both seeking to sketch the intrepid squirrel that had ventured close, an acorn in its grasp, but with a flash of russet the object of their rapt attention literally turned tail – and a long and very pretty tail it was – dashed to the nearest tree and vanished out of sight into the foliage.
“Oh dear. I seem to have scared your model away,” Darcy smilingly offered. “Am I still allowed to join you or must I do penance at a distance?”
“Hm… Let me see,” Georgiana pouted in delightful mock deliberation.
“I bring gifts,” he added, a willing partner in her childish game, and offered the small basket that Mrs Reynolds had more or less thrust upon him. There was a small flask in it, wrapped in a chequered cloth, and some rich fruitcake. His sister’s eyes widened.
“Brandy?”
“Good heavens, no. Tea, Georgiana, tea! I have not taken leave of my senses yet to ply the pair of you with brandy, and it would be a strange accompaniment to fruitcake anyway. Mrs Reynolds sent it. She thought you might like some sustenance and a warming drink,” he explained, producing three cups from the bottom of the basket.
Giggling, Georgiana shuffled closer to her companion to make room on the rug for him and they sat together, nibbling on fruitcake and warming their hands on their full cups.
“Are you ready to walk back?” Darcy inquired when the fruitcake was gone and the small flask was empty, but Georgiana shook her head.
“Not yet, if you do not mind. I would like to work a little further on my landscape. What say you, Lizzy? Or are you getting cold?”
“Not at all”, Miss Bennet negatived, and Darcy stood.
“Very well. Then I shall have a look at the den instead. So, you would like it watertight, would you?”
“Can it be?” Georgiana asked, charcoal in hand and her eyes on the landscape.
“It was once, so I daresay it could be so again,” Darcy said casually and walked up for a closer inspection.
Whatever was once used to fill the uneven gaps between the branches must now be rotting on the floor, but the structure seemed still sound and the ties could be strengthened with new rope. The steward, Mr Davies, should be able to send someone up to see to it.
He leisurely ambled back, but did not resume his seat. Instead, he bent down to collect the volume abandoned on the rug next to his sister’s bonnet and cast a cursory glance at the title. It was a selection of Mr Lamb’s essays and, tucking it under his elbow, he left the young ladies to their sketchbooks and found himself a dry spot on a protruding root. He leaned against the tree trunk, at peace with himself and his surroundings, the painful recollections now subdued by the autumnal brightness of the day, by the odd peal of warm girlish laughter and the prospect of a fairly good read.
He opened the book at random and leafed through it. The essays were familiar, he had perused them before and, in this unhurried hour, he was not averse to doing so again. He began to read, occasionally giving a small nod of agreement or the odd quiet snort at notions he found a trifle too liberal for his taste. Nevertheless, the writings remained sufficiently engaging to keep him thus occupied for quite some time.
When he finally looked up from his volume, he was greeted by Georgiana’s soft chuckle.
“I should have continued with my landscape. All my other models seem int
ent to thwart my efforts,” she teased, and Darcy returned her smile.
“I could keep still if you wish, to make amends for frightening your squirrel,” he offered, and he did just that.
Knowing himself watched, although just by his dear sister, was rather disconcerting, so this time it required some effort to fully take in what it was that he was reading, and had to turn back once or twice. He consciously ran his fingers through his forelocks to brush them to one side, yet kept the pose nevertheless for Georgiana’s benefit – until he felt compelled to look her way again, merely to discover that his sister was not the only one who kept him under scrutiny. Miss Bennet’s eyes were also steadily fixed on him, her countenance oddly solemn, but before he could wonder why, she dropped her gaze and instantly turned away.
Beside her, Georgiana was still busily sketching, rubbing out some lines, retracing others, her glance constantly darting from him to the paper.
“Could you give me just a few more minutes, Brother? I promise I will not be long.”
“Of course,” Darcy conceded and patiently did as bid – the perfectly obliging elder brother.
Half hidden behind Georgiana, Miss Bennet sat very still as well. Sketchbook in her lap, she kept staring at the water. But, unless he was much mistaken, her charcoal did not trace a single line.
CHAPTER 7
A soft knock at the door of his study made Darcy look up from his papers and he stood to admit the caller whom, judging by the light touch, he suspected to be Georgiana. He was proven right. Her dear sweet countenance greeted him on the threshold and, to his instant concern, he noted signs of outright discomfort.
“Forgive me for troubling you, Brother,” she began, but he would not let her finish the unnecessary apology.
“Think nothing of it, dearest. You must know you are always welcome. But you seem out of sorts. Do come in and tell me all about it.”
She did as bid and Darcy closed the door, then reached for his sister’s hand. It was then that he noticed the letter she was holding.
“Is this what troubled you?” he asked straightforwardly, indicating the sheets of hot pressed paper.
His first thought was of that scoundrel, Wickham. He did not dare write to her, surely, since pestering him had not afforded any satisfaction. He clenched his fist. If that were the case, Wickham would be taught some lessons he so badly needed!
“Who is the letter from, Georgiana?” he asked, seeking to keep his voice calm and even, so as not to alarm the dear child.
Her reply dispelled the anger, only to replace it with mild vexation. She quietly informed him that the sender was Miss Bingley.
“Oh? What can she have to say to give you pain?”
“I think you should read it. I assume this was Miss Bingley’s purpose all along.”
She placed the letter in his hand and Darcy eagerly unfolded it. He skimmed over the opening civilities to reach the crux of the matter. It was not long until he found it – thankfully the flowing script of studied elegance was far more legible than Bingley’s scribbles.
“I must beg your pardon, Georgiana, for imposing in this manner upon you and your dear brother, but I did not know who else to turn to for assistance in this exceedingly grave matter.
You must be aware of my own brother’s propensity of declaring himself enamoured of a pretty face with heedless disregard for consequences, but this time he has gone too far. I am terrified that he is contemplating the unthinkable: offering his hand in the most unsuitable quarter. But let me start from the beginning.
A few weeks ago, at the local assembly your brother was unfortunately unable to attend, for he cut short his visit with us in his affectionate eagerness to join you, my brother made the acquaintance of a most unsavoury family. A Mrs Bennet, an impecunious widow with five daughters. The widow is of the lowest sort – vulgar, loud, ill-mannered. Her two youngest daughters are chips from the old block, the middle one is a mousy bore, but it is the two eldest that give me great concern, the second-eldest for your own dear sake – but of this, thereafter.
I shall begin with the eldest, the source of my own troubles. She was supposed to reside in town – in Cheapside, of all places! – and do the offices of a governess to her nieces and nephews, the children of her tradesman uncle. She has another uncle, a portly and uncouth man, an attorney in Meryton, the place that passes for a market town in this backwater. He has taken Mrs Bennet and her younger daughters to live with him and his wife. I shall not take up your time with tales of his wife, another low and very vulgar person. The point is, the widow and her daughters are out for anything they could get. The father’s death left them destitute, their small estate went to a cousin, another intolerable character who intrudes upon our notice constantly. Your brother knows who I mean, he had the misfortune of making his acquaintance.
So, dear Georgiana, to cut a long story short, when the widow heard of a young man of good fortune settling in the vicinity – and by that I mean my own misguided brother – she sent for her eldest forthwith, presumably with great hopes of ensnaring him. I now live in fear that she might be successful in her vile schemes. My brother hardly left Miss Bennet’s side at that wretched assembly and since then has called upon her nearly every day. For, needless to say, the young lady did not return to her Cheapside relations. The scheming widow sent the mousy one in her stead and kept the eldest with her, to further her interest with my brother. Aye, interest I say, for the young woman is placidly accepting his ill-judged attentions with no manifestation of regard. And now the foolish man is talking of giving a ball at Netherfield, doubtlessly in her honour. I am resisting it as best I can for fear that he would be coaxed into proposing, but the terrible truth is that he might do so anyway, with or without the excuse of a ball, if he has set his mind to it.
Which brings me to the favour I find myself obliged to ask of you: would you kindly suggest to dear Mr Darcy to invite my brother to Pemberley? I have great hopes that, at a distance from that scheming woman and her daughter, he might recover his senses and hopefully benefit from your brother’s wise guidance. Someone as attuned to his duty as Mr Darcy, someone who understands so very well the importance of choosing one’s life partner from the right sphere, cannot fail to advise him against such a disgraceful union.
And lastly, pray be aware of the dangers in your own home, dearest Georgiana. To my utmost shock, I have learned from Mrs Bennet that her second daughter has been engaged as your companion. Had I but garnered earlier intelligence of this family, I would have advised dear Mr Darcy against such a scheme. He could not have known what they really were, otherwise he would not have subjected you to such a pernicious influence. The apple never falls far from the tree, and there is every risk that that person should seek to ingratiate herself with your brother as her mother had coached her sister to do with mine. Fortunately Mr Darcy would see through such schemes. He is too astute to fall prey to arts and allurements and would never disgrace himself and you with low connections. Nevertheless, forewarned is forearmed, is what I always say. Pray be vigilant, dear Georgiana. Should I be allowed to join my brother at Pemberley, it would be my greatest joy and privilege to assist you in any way I can.
Until then I remain,
Your wretched and deeply affectionate friend,
Caroline Bingley
Darcy could not suppress a snort. Oh, aye, she would like it above all things to come to Pemberley and appoint herself as his keeper. At least Miss Bingley was in the right about one thing: he was astute enough to see through arts and schemes.
For Georgiana’s sake, he chose to make light of the entire business.
“Well, sweetling, I can only hope you have not lost much sleep at the thought of Miss Bennet setting her cap at me,” he teased and was pleased to see his sister’s frown dissolving into a smile.
“Not that I can remember,” she retorted airily, then sobered. “‘Tis just that I did not know how to face her after this. I withdrew to my chamber to finish reading the letter, but
you know all too well that I have no talent for dissimulation. I must also own to some concern for Mr Bingley, but if there is as much truth in Miss Bingley’s estimations of the eldest Miss Bennet as there is in what she had to say of Lizzy, then I imagine Mr Bingley is quite safe.”
Once again, his sister’s mature judgement took him by surprise. She was growing up faster than he had noticed. Nevertheless, Darcy could not wholly discount his concern for Bingley as readily as she. He was well accustomed to his friend’s propensity to fall in and out of love without much thought for anything but the latest pretty face that took his fancy. Besides, Bingley and his sister were the strongest evidence that some siblings were as different as could be, and a sound character in one did not necessarily guarantee the same in the other.
“What are we to do now, Brother?” Georgiana prompted.
Folding the offending missive and returning it, Darcy advised:
“Say nothing of this to Miss Bennet for now, and do not fret. Leave matters to me.”
Georgiana stood on tiptoe to lightly kiss his cheek.
“Gladly,” she smiled. “You always have the answers.”
Much as her confidence gratified him, Darcy did not share it. Yes, doubtlessly he could invite Bingley to Pemberley – but what then? How was he to ensure that Bingley would not leap into a hasty marriage? True enough, his callow friend took his advice in nearly everything, but would he take it in so private a matter? Besides, he was not about to insult his friend and demean himself by lending voice to Miss Bingley’s own opinions and objections. Nay, he would have to sit with Bingley and remind him that some decisions were not to be taken lightly, and marriage was certainly one of those. He would have to choose wisely if he hoped to keep and indeed raise his place in society. And marriage to an impoverished young woman with connections in trade was patently unwise. If she brought no dowry, no worthy connections and no affection to the union either, Bingley would make a damnably poor bargain.
Miss Darcy's Companion: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 7