I feel it my duty to inform you that Miss Darcy, whilst maintaining her usual excellent deportment and applying herself diligently to her studies, has of late suffered from melancholy.
She is much withdrawn from her companions, preferring her own company to that of the other young ladies, and seems to find little joy in those activities which formerly gave her pleasure. The dancing master remarks that she no longer displays her former enthusiasm for his lessons, and her music instructor observes that whilst her technical skills continue to improve, her performances lack their previous animation.
I do not wish to alarm you unnecessarily but merely wish to suggest that Miss Darcy is in need of a change of scene more conducive to her spirits.
Darcy read the page twice, then a third time, in the vain hope that repetition might soften its meaning or reveal some more benign interpretation. It did not. He knew immediately the source of the problem: Georgiana missed her mother.
Their father had been gone for three years now, their mother for only just more than a year. They had recently emerged from mourning, resuming their normal dress and the ordinary patterns of life, but that did not meanthe grief itself had stopped. How could it? The echo of those beloved voices still rang through Pemberley’s halls, still created unexpected moments of heartache. Darcy still turned to share some observation with his father from time to time, or entered the breakfast room expecting his mother to join him.
He was learning to carry the burden of loss, to lose his sorrow temporarily in the countless responsibilities that came with his position. But Georgiana had only recently turned fourteen, a time when she was keenly in need of her mother’s guidance, when the transformation from girl to young woman raised questions that a brother, however devoted, was ill-equipped to answer.
His mother had been looking forward to preparing Georgiana for her come out, but she would never have the chance.
Darcy had endeavoured to be both parents to his sister, writing long letters filled with news of Pemberley and professing his own affection, ensuring that her material needs were met and her education continued without interruption. He had visited when his duties permitted, had sat through her music recitals, and admired her watercolours with genuine pride. Yet there were limits to what even the most devoted elder brother could provide, boundaries that propriety and simple male ignorance would not allow him to cross.
His uncle would scoff. Here was Lord Matlock, offering him political advancement, social elevation, a chance to make his mark upon the world, and all Darcy could think of was a fourteen-year-old girl sitting alone at a table surrounded by companions she did not know, putting on a brave face while her heart ached for a home that would never be the same. But Darcy did not want what his uncle offered. By both inclination and duty, his sister came first.
He sat at once to write not to his uncle, but to his aunt. Lady Matlock was a woman of sense and genuine kindness, possessed of all the familial instincts that her husband lacked. She and the earl had arrived in London a week ago for the opening of Parliament, and their house in town was but a half hour’s carriage ride from Georgiana’s school.
His aunt, he knew, would understand immediately. She would take Georgiana into her household and provide his sister with the company, conversation, and female guidance she required. Lady Matlock had daughters of her own, both married now; she would know how to draw Georgiana out of her melancholy, how to restore her spirits and help her form the connections that would serve her well in future seasons. She could never be Georgiana’s mother, but she could be her loving, compassionate aunt.
He did not like Georgiana being so close to his uncle, but it could not be helped. His only other female relation was his aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, a woman possessed of an overweening pride and an unshakeable conviction that her opinion on every matter was not merely superior, but essential to the proper ordering of the world. Along with his cousin Richard, Darcy had visited Lady Catherine each Easter for the past three years as a sort of peace offering to his uncle. Lord Matlock, of course, could not be bothered to make the journey himself.
It was the worst week of Darcy’s year.
The thought of subjecting his gentle sister to Lady Catherine was insupportable.
He sealed the letter immediately, before he could doubt his decision. He was decided: he would go to London himself. He would meet with his aunt, assess Georgiana’s situation with his own eyes, and make whatever arrangements might be necessary for her happiness.
If the trip also allowed him to reject his uncle’s offer in person, so much the better.
He called for Taylor, his valet, a man of discreet manner and disconcerting efficiency who had served Darcy since Cambridge. Taylor possessed the remarkable ability to anticipate his master’s needs and could, Darcy was convinced, have packed the whole of Pemberley into a single trunk if granted but a few hours to accomplish the task.
“I depart for London immediately,” Darcy informed him. “Pack a bag with what I shall require for the journey, then follow with the rest of my things once they are ready.”
“Yes, sir,” Taylor replied, as though his master’s abrupt winter departure was the most ordinary event in the world. There was not so much as a hint of surprise in his expression, though Darcy was quite certain the man was already calculating which items would be essential for immediate travel and which could follow in a second carriage. “Shall I send word ahead, or would you prefer they learn of your arrival when you appear in the doorway?”
Darcy’s mouth twitched despite himself. Mrs. Baxter, his London housekeeper, would faint dead away if he did such a thing, and Taylor knew it. “Send word.”
“Very good, sir.” Taylor inclined his head with the gravity of a man committing state secrets to memory. He would, Darcy thought, make an excellent agent of the crown.
His uncle ought to find a title for Taylor.
Within two hours, Darcy was seated in his travelling carriage, watching the familiar landscape of Derbyshire roll past the windows, and rubbing a little piece of Blue John stone between his thumb and finger. Georgiana had found it on their trip to the Peaks last summer and had given it to him to carry when he travelled without her.
The winter sky was grey and threatening, typical for January, but the first weeks of the month, at least, had been dry. He felt a curious lightness as Pemberley receded behind them. For all the difficulty that awaited him in London, at least he was acting. For months he had tried to manage his sister’s welfare from a distance, relying on letters and reports when what was needed was his attention. She had not wanted to return to school after Christmas, but he had thought it important that she try.
Winter travel was notoriously slow. The days were short and cold, the roads often icy and treacherous. His coachmen, Anders and Johnson, were experienced men who knew better than to push the horses when conditions were uncertain, but even so, they made reasonable progress through Derbyshire.
By the time the light was beginning to fade, they had reached Mansfield, where they spent the night. The next day they made their way to the Great North Road and turned south towards London. They had made good time despite the conditions. Still, darkness came early in January, and Darcy, looking forward to a hot fire and a warm meal, found himself calculating the remaining miles to Stamford.
That calculation held until the road ahead presented them with a tangle of humanity, horseflesh, and broken wood that effectively blocked any further travel.
Anders began to slow even before the full scope of the disaster became clear. Shouts carried upon the air, along with the more ominous sounds of splintering wood and distressed animals. Darcy was on the ground before his carriage had fully stopped, the winter cold biting at his cheeks and gloved hands as he assessed the situation.
A heavy cart laden with barrels had overturned completely, its contents scattered across the road in a chaotic mess of split wood and spreading liquid. The cart’s horse stood trembling in its traces, wild-eyed but uninjured.Just beyond the wreckage, one wheel of a private coach had sunk into the drainage ditch at an angle that would mean significant delay.
Somewhere in the confusion, a woman cried out with sufficient distress to quicken Darcy’s stride.