Page 30 of What Change Entails

Darcy continued to ignore his now-cold coffee and turned his attention to his sister. “Georgiana, would you prefer to remain with the party tomorrow or come ahead with me?”

Miss Bingley’s fan snapped open. “Dear Mr. Darcy, I fear she will say whatever she thinks will please you.”

Georgiana’s needle pricked her finger. She drew back with a small start.

Darcy’s hand flexed on the arm of his chair before he controlled it.

Miss Bingley half-rose. “My dear Georgiana, you have hurt yourself. Let me see.”

“It is nothing,” Georgiana murmured, tucking her hand into her lap.

“Nonsense. You are always too modest about your discomforts.” Miss Bingley crossed the room and reached for Georgiana’s hand. “Permit me—”

Georgiana drew her hand back so swiftly that Miss Bingley stopped.

That slight motion was seemingly noticed by the entire room. Bingley’s stare shifted from one lady to the other, confusion replacing good humor. Mrs. Hurst lowered her book. Even Hurst opened one eye.

Georgiana’s face had gone pale now.

Darcy rose. “You need not trouble yourself, Miss Bingley.”

Miss Bingley’s smile came back, a little too bright. “Of course. I was merely anxious for her.”

“Of course,” Darcy answered. He crossed to Georgiana and stopped at a respectful distance, not wishing to make her more conspicuous than she already felt. “Shall we walk after breakfast? The air may be better than this room.”

His sister stared at him, dumbfounded. Relief appeared so plainly in her face that he wondered how he had missed its absence before. “Yes, please,” she said.

Miss Bingley recovered first. “What a charming idea. Louisa and I shall join you.”

Darcy faced her again. “I meant to walk with my sister.” The words were civil. They were also final.

Miss Bingley shut her fan slowly.

Bingley cleared his throat and folded the printed notice with unnecessary care. “I daresay the rest of us may manage to be indolent for half an hour.”

Hurst shut his eye again. “I can manage longer.”

The matter ended there, though not comfortably.

Georgiana moved to put away her embroidery, her fingers less certain than usual. Darcy waited by the door while she gathered her shawl. Miss Bingley watched them both with a look of injured solicitude, like she had been denied the right to suffer on Georgiana’s behalf.

Darcy did not look back again as he escorted his sister from the room.

Outside, the morning air held the coolness of recent rain. The inn garden was narrow and somewhat untidy, bordered by a low stone wall beyond which the road descended toward a small market square. A gardener had neglected the beds near the path, and late summer flowers leaned over the edges, bright and ungoverned.

Georgiana walked beside him with her hands clasped before her. For several minutes Darcy let the silence remain. Carriage wheels rattled in the yard. Somewhere inside the inn, Bingley protested at something his sisters had said. A groom led one of the horses past the gate, leather creaking, hooves striking damp stone.

Darcy slowed near the far end of the garden. “Georgiana.”

She stopped beside a straggling rosebush. “Yes?”

He was not a man accustomed to beginning conversations he did not know how to finish. With tenants, solicitors, servants, friends, even difficult relations, there were structures. Questions to ask. Instructions to give. Duties to perform.

His sister required something different.

He had failed at different things before.

“Would you rather not travel with Miss Bingley tomorrow?”