Georgiana Has Feelings
September 10, 1811 — Darcy House, London
The morning room felt stuffy and dry.
Georgiana sat near the window where the light was strongest, a half-finished sampler balanced in her lap. She was meant to be working on a border of small green leaves, but she had lost count somewhere near the corner and had not bothered to go back.
Across the room, Mrs. Annesley was writing letters at a small escritoire. Her pen moved with the same quiet efficiency she brought to every task. It had taken Georgiana nearly a fortnight to realize how much that calmness had settled over the house.
It was not that Mrs. Annesley never fussed—she did, in her way—but her version of fussing was to suggest a walk if the drawing room grew stuffy, or to produce warm lemon water if Georgiana left her breakfast untouched. She never questioned. Never pried. Never even looked at her for too long. It was… restful. That was the word.
Georgiana reached for her embroidery thread and pricked her finger on the needle. She hissed softly, then looked up at once—but Mrs. Annesley made no remark, merely blotted her letter and reached for another page.
A coal scuttled in the grate. The housemaid, Esther, had banked the fire unevenly again. It would burn too hot before noon and leave the room airless by teatime.
It had taken Georgiana weeks to remember that she could ask for things to be changed. She had been so used to walking on eggshells—real or imagined—that she had forgot what it meant to be at home.
A sound at the door broke her thoughts, light but not tentative.
Mrs. Annesley glanced up—she was forever reading or writing something, always with a tiny pair of spectacles perched on the end of her nose—and called, “Come.”
Darcy entered with a sheaf of papers under one arm and that distracted look he always wore when London business was pulling him in twenty directions. He was not wearing his coat.
“Forgive me for interrupting,” he said.
“You are not interrupting,” said Georgiana, and for once her voice did not sound like it belonged to someone else.
“I had a note from Bingley this morning.”
“Oh?” Georgiana tilted her head. “He is still in town?”
“Just returned, in fact. He has taken an estate—Netherfield Park, in Hertfordshire. A short drive from town.”
Georgiana’s fingers twitched on her embroidery hoop.
Darcy glanced over. “He speaks of improvements already. And local families. It is likely I shall pay him a visit before the month is out.”
“Certainly, you ought to.”
“Perhaps…” he began, then paused, selecting his next words with care. “Perhaps, if you find yourself wishing for a change of scene, the countryside would suit.”
A breeze rattled faintly against the windowpane. Somewhere down the hall, a clock chimed the quarter.
“I do not think I have an opinion yet,” Georgiana replied, her tone light, almost flippant. “About Hertfordshire, I mean. I have never seen it.”
Darcy studied her, then gave a slow nod. “Of course. There is no urgency.” He shifted as if he meant to quit the room, then shifted back to the other foot and cleared his throat.
“Bingley asked after you.”
Georgiana stilled.
Mrs. Annesley looked up from her book. “How very kind of him.”
Georgiana set her teeth, lest an unaccounted word slip out. She could feel her brother watching her, waiting, unsure.
“He wondered if you might enjoy the countryside,” Darcy continued after a moment. “He mentioned there are musical evenings held nearby… and the gardens are quite fine.”
Georgiana made another stitch. “Are they?”
“Indeed.” He hesitated. “He hopes to host a small gathering after Michaelmas. Nothing too grand. A few families in the area—once he has made their acquaintance, of course.”
The thread caught. She had pulled too tightly. “I see.”
“Naturally, you would not be expected to attend parties and the like, but I thought… well, you did always enjoy a morning hunt.”
She only nodded.
Darcy said no more, and the silence grew awkward. Mrs. Annesley, blessedly, returned to her escritoire.
At last, Georgiana set her hoop aside and looked up. “I do not think I am fit for such company yet.”
Darcy’s eyes met hers. “No one would expect you to be at ease right away.”
“I should not like to be expected at all,” she said, more firmly than intended. Then she glanced away. “Not yet.”
There was a long pause—the sort of pause that made her cheeks heat, as if his eyes were boring into them. “I understand,” he said at last.
Did he? She could not tell. Darcy always understood more than he let on, but he had also begun to speak to her differently since Ramsgate—carefully, cautiously, as if he feared to say too much. It was kind. It was infuriating.
“I am glad Mr. Bingley is settled,” she added, trying to smooth her tone. “He has always been cheerful company.”
“Indeed.”
Another silence. Then Darcy brushed his fingers against one another as if he were wiping away the subject. “I shall leave you to your afternoon. Esther has gone to Gunter’s—there will be almond tarts after supper.”
Georgiana offered a thin smile. “Thank you.”
As the door clicked shut behind him, she pressed her fingertips to her temple.
The room was still too warm.
She could feel Mrs. Annesley’s gaze flick toward her, then away. No questions. No commentary. Only the soft rustle of turning pages.
Georgiana leaned her head back against the chair and closed her eyes again. Darcy meant well. He always did. And she loved him for it.
But she was not ready.
Not for music. Not for gardens.
Certainly not for Mr. Bingley.
2 comments
I love this insight into Georgiana’s mind!
Great description….i felt that too warm stuffy little room.