“I found a governess.”
“Oh, wonderful.” The brightness returned. “Anne has been terrorising Alice constantly. The poor girl deserves a campaign medal. When does she start?”
“Tomorrow.”
Georgiana’s eyebrows rose. “That was swift. Who is she?”
He kept his voice even. This was a skill he had perfected over years of parliamentary dinners, estate disputes, and one catastrophic evening in a parsonage in Kent. “Her name isMiss Elizabeth Bennet. I knew her some years ago, when Bingley took Netherfield in Hertfordshire.”
Georgiana tilted her head. “Bennet. You mentioned the family once or twice. The father is a gentleman? Several sisters?”
“Five daughters. The father is dead.”
The tilt sharpened. She was reading him now, the way she read music—attentive to every rest, every change in key. “Go on.”
He told her. He kept the account spare—facts arranged in order, delivered without embellishment, the way he would present a matter to his solicitor. Miss Elizabeth’s youngest sister had eloped with a man seven years ago. The man had not married her. He had kept her a fortnight in London and abandoned her at the doorstep of her relations. The scandal had been complete and merciless. The father’s health failed under the strain. He died within the year. The estate was entailed to a cousin, who claimed it promptly. Mrs Bennet and her daughters were left with nothing. They lived now in Somers Town, on charity from an uncle.
Georgiana’s hand had gone still on the damask at the wordeloped, and by the time he reachedabandoned, the colour had drained from her face.
“Georgiana. That man... “ His voice was quiet. “It was Wickham.”
She closed her eyes. Her fingers pressed into the fabric, her knuckles whitening against the cream.
Darcy waited. He had learned, over those years since her near elopement with the same man, that his sister did not require rescue from her own feelings. She required space andtime, and then she emerged from them with a clarity that frequently put his own to shame.
Her eyes opened. The hand on the damask relaxed.
“How old was the girl? The youngest sister.”
“Fifteen when he took her.”
Georgiana pressed her lips together. She had been sixteen, one year older. And she had one brother who arrived earlier than he was supposed to. Those were the only differences. That was all that had separated Georgiana Darcy from the Bennet girl—one year and a brother who happened to change his travel plans.
“And Miss Elizabeth?” Georgiana’s chin lifted. “The one you hired. She was not involved, I presume.”
“She is the second eldest. She had nothing to do with it. None of them did, save Lydia. The family has borne a punishment entirely disproportionate to the crime, and the crime was not even theirs.”
Georgiana nodded. “You did well, Brother.” Her voice was steady now, clear, the tremor gone as swiftly as it had come. “Nothing was Miss Elizabeth’s fault, and we should not charge her with that reprobate’s sins.” She paused, then sighed. “Poor Lydia. I ache for her.”
Darcy studied his sister. The girl who had wept in Ramsgate, who had been so stricken with shame she could not meet his eyes for months, that girl was gone. In her place was a woman who could hold another’s pain without collapsing under the weight of her own.
“You have grown up, Georgie.”
She gave a small, wry smile. “One of us had to.”
He let the barb land. He deserved it, she knew he knew, and the warmth between them required no further elaboration.
Georgiana gathered the nearest fabric swatch and held it up, restoring order to the afternoon. “Is her chamber prepared? Mrs Hatfield will need to know about breakfast arrangements and the schedule for the nursery. What time does she arrive?”
“Our carriage will bring her early in the morning.”
“Then I had better speak to Mrs Hatfield now.” She rose, all business, the fabric samples abandoned. At the door, she turned. “Brother?”
He raised an eyebrow in question.
“Be kind to her. She has had enough unkindness.”
She left before he could respond, which was, he suspected, entirely deliberate.