Page 16 of When Elizabeth's Cat Chose Darcy
“The fact that I made an ill-considered remark in public and was held to account for it,” I said, with a control I did not feel, “does not constitute entrapment. It constitutes a consequence.”
“How philosophical, and how convenient that the consequence is a pretty girl living under your roof, or should I amend that, Mr. Bingley’s roof.”
The observation struck closer to the bone than I wished to examine. Instead, I focused on the carved banister rail, which was solid English oak and required nothing of me but that I refrain from gripping it hard enough to damage the varnish.
“You will be civil to Miss Bennet,” I said. “That is not a request.”
“Then what is it?”
“An instruction from the brother who has your welfare as his primary concern, and who engaged Miss Bennet for precisely that purpose.”
“My welfare?” Georgiana spoke the word as though it were a euphemism she had grown weary of tolerating. “To be consigned to the ‘care’ of an unsuitable country miss with a tongue sharp enough to draw blood.”
“She is to be your companion, not an instructor or governess.” I folded my arms across my chest to keep my fists from clenching. “I would advise you to befriend her and learn from her observations.”
“Why? When I have been removed from every society in which I might form genuine connections, transported to a countywhere no one of consequence resides, denied the season, denied musicales, denied anything resembling the life I was raised to expect, and presented with a companion I did not ask for, whose chief qualification is a quick wit and a cat.”
The flash of old pain crossed her face and was gone before I could answer it.
“We are in Hertfordshire,” I said carefully, “because?—”
“Of Ramsgate. Yes. I am aware. You have made it abundantly clear that my lapse in judgment requires perpetual penance, and that the penance shall be served in the most tedious corner of England you could locate at short notice.”
“That is not?—”
“It is precisely what it is. You brought us to Hertfordshire because no one here knows what happened. Away from Lady Catherine, the Matlocks, and their uncomfortable questions, where the scent of manure and hay might mask the persistent whispers.”
She was not wrong. She was, in fact, correct on every particular, which was the most infuriating aspect of arguing with an intelligent seventeen-year-old who had been paying closer attention to the family’s strategic maneuvers than I had credited.
“The whispers,” I began, my voice laden with the gravity of responsibility, “are not your concern. Your focus should be on your improvement and preparation for a future?—”
“A future as what, exactly?” The question came with a sharpness that stopped me mid-sentence. “As the disgraced sister of Fitzwilliam Darcy, hidden in country houses until I am old enough to be presented to some dull baronet who will overlook the rumors because my dowry is large enough to silence them? Is that the future you are preparing me for?”
“Georgiana—”
“I have immersed myself in novels, Brother. I am well-versed in the fate that befalls girls whispered about in polite society. They become notorious. And notorious women, I have observed, are eitherpitied or envied. Given the choice, I should very much prefer to be the object of envy, if it is all the same to you.”
“You have been indulging in the wrong sort of literature,” I admonished.
“Because you have ensured that I have no other form of entertainment or callers of any interest. Only Caroline, who at least treats me as though I possess opinions worth hearing, and Bingley, who?—”
She stopped, and the break was sudden, as though she had arrived at the edge of a sentence she had not intended to begin and was now deciding whether to retreat or leap.
“Bingley, who what?”
“Nothing.” She turned to continue up the stairs toward her bedchamber.
“You will be civil to Miss Bennet,” I called after her. “I would ask that you give her the opportunity to?—”
“To instruct me? To improve me? To report my behavior to you each evening so that you might calibrate the degree of my confinement accordingly?” Georgiana’s voice had muted, which was worse than volume. “Forgive me, Brother, but I have had companions before. The last one was paid to watch me, and she sold me to the highest bidder. You will understand if I am not eager to audition another.”
A flash of old pain stretched across my sister’s face. She was referring to Mrs. Younge, who had enabled her meetings with George Wickham for coin.
“Miss Bennet is not Mrs. Younge.”
“How would you know? You have been acquainted with her for less than a week.”
“I know because—” I began, but the words caught in my throat.Because she had disarmed me in a drawing room on the strength of a single glance, and that a woman who can engage Caroline Bingley’s cruelty without quailing demonstrated a strength of character my sister needed to face the London ton.
