Page 52 of Darcy's Guarded Heart
Georgiana glanced up from her book, a frown creasing her brow as she caught his gaze before turning back to the pages. The drawing-room of his London townhouse where she had retreated, appeared to offer her far more solace than his company.
“Shall I take this as a no?” he ventured, patiently awaiting her response. Yet, instead of words, she chose silence, facing the back of the chaise longue, thus presenting him with naught but the expanse of her back.
It had been a month of this cold treatment. Ever since he had compelled her to leave, Georgiana had not smiled upon him, choosing to speak only with restraint to Bingley’s sisters, and with noticeably more warmth to Bingley himself. Mr Darcy had become the recipient of nothing but frost.
He had anticipated her displeasure. Endeavouring to protect her from the Bennets and their influence was a decision rooted in his concern for her reputation. Affection for young Mr Bennet, he believed, threatened her very virtue.
He steeled himself, convinced he had made the right choice. In time, she would understand.
Leaving his sister to her melancholic musings, he stepped into the brisk London afternoon. How vastly different it was to return to the city, compared to life in the countryside. He had always preferred the tranquillity and beauty of rural retreats. Of all the places he had travelled, none could rival the serenity he found in Pemberley and the rolling hills of Derbyshire.
The thought of returning there tugged at his heart. How he wished to whisk Georgiana away. But alas, Bingley remained consumed by the shadows of his recent sorrow over Jane Bennet’s absence, his usual affable demeanour supplanted by gloom. Darcy felt an obligation to support him, having played a role in altering Bingley’s once-jovial disposition.
As he strolled down the cobbled streets, unbidden memories of Elizabeth Bennet danced in his mind. Their conversation at the stables had stirred something profound within him. Might different circumstances have led them down another path? If not for Georgiana’s entanglement with the Bennets, he wondered, could he have pursued a tenderness for Elizabeth beyond mere admiration?
Yet he chastised himself. Those days of possibility had slipped away. Hertfordshire seemed a faraway dream—a distant echo along with all its associated heartaches.
Arriving at Grosvenor House, he knocked and was swiftly admitted by the butler. After relinquishing his hat and jacket, he made his way to the parlour, where Bingley sat slumped beside a glass of wine, a newspaper cast aside at his feet.
“I have come to urge you to join me at the club for a light luncheon,” Darcy announced in the most buoyant tone he could muster.
Bingley looked up at him, and Darcy’s heart sank at the sight. His friend appeared drained, with weary eyes that hinted at sleepless nights and sunken cheeks.
“I’m not hungry,” he replied, “but you are welcome to partake of a drink—whiskey, sherry, even wine.” He gestured weakly towards the sideboard, where numerous bottles stood half-empty.
Concern rippled through Darcy. Bingley, usually so temperate, had taken to drink after his separation from Jane. “Are you quite well? You ought to steer clear of too much liquor, it will worsen your spirits,” he admonished gently.
“Can you lift me from this guilt?” Bingley asked forlornly. “Guilt for abandoning Jane and entrusting Caroline with my letter, which I fear conveyed none of my remorse.”
Darcy opened his mouth, closed it again, and found no words to soothe his friend’s torment. “I cannot, my friend.”
“Well then. It appears you cannot aid me at all. I have made an unfortunate mistake, one that was foolish to heed your counsel or that of my sisters. Have any of you known love?” Bingley’s voice was laced with bitterness.
This pointed critique stung. Normally, Bingley refrained from such barbs.
“Have I been wrong?” Darcy pondered for the hundredth time that month. Both Bingley and Georgiana were wretched, while Caroline and the Hursts revelled in their perceived triumph of saving Bingley from an ill-fated match. Perhaps, Darcy mused, they erred in their judgement.
“Shall I take my leave?” he offered tentatively.
“I cannot provide entertainment at this time, Darcy. Unless you wish to sit in silence and sip your drink, I suggest it is best you proceed to the club alone.”
“Actually, I had hoped to avoid lunch with my aunt today,” he confessed. “She is in town, residing at Hartley House. I would have preferred to send her a note stating I had other engagements.”
“Then you need not lie,” Bingley murmured, despondently.
Darcy’s heart ached at the realization that Bingley harboured resentment towards him. To be blamed cut deeper than self-reproach. He had not intended to inflict such pain.
“Well, I shall take my leave then.” With that, he departed, making his way to Hartley House, his aunt’s residence in London.
***
Upon arrival, he found Lady Catherine de Bourgh seated at the dinner table, an eager smile dancing on her lips.
“Fitzwilliam! How delightful to see you! Do sit. How are you?”
“Well enough, thank you,” he replied quietly.
“And your sister?”
