I. 
A Journey

I was left to see to my own comfort.

The other two ladies in the carriage, however, were exceptionally well cared for. At the beginning of our journey, Mr. Darcy had bundled his wife Elizabeth carefully in traveling rugs before doing the same for his younger sister Georgiana. He often asked both ladies if they were warm enough, causing them to exchange glances of loving exasperation at his sometimes excessive care. Occasionally, Mr. Darcy even remembered to include me in his solicitous inquiries.

I felt a sudden, wild urge to laugh at the thought of my reaction had I been told two years ago—or perhaps even one—that I would find myself in a carriage traveling from Derbyshire to London with this particular assortment of passengers. For years I would have liked nothing better than traveling in the same carriage as Mr. and Miss Darcy. I did not truly become friends with Miss Darcy until recently, though I had long hoped to one day call her my sister. Georgiana was a shy, sweet girl of eighteen, angelically lovely with bright blue eyes and golden ringlets. I used to proclaim to all who would listen that dearest Georgiana was my closest friend, despite the difference in our ages and the fact that I knew almost nothing about her.

To my mind, Elizabeth Darcy was the real outlier in our group. Not long ago I would have sneered and called her an interloper. When I first met Miss Elizabeth Bennet (as she was then) during my stay in Hertfordshire in the autumn of 1811, I scarcely noticed her. She was neither as lovely and sweet as her elder sister nor as repulsive in various ways as the rest of her family. She was of an average height, perhaps a little shorter, and had a figure that was too generous to ever be called “willowy,” as was then in fashion. I found her utterly unremarkable—at least until I noticed Mr. Darcy’s gaze lingering on her more than it should. He once claimed to admire her “fine eyes,”—which were commonplace aside from a certain shrewishness—but I assumed the man was joking. As for her chestnut curls, they were often rather wild in appearance due to her penchant for scampering across the countryside. What advantage could they have over my elegant coiffure?

Seated across from me was the great man himself, Fitzwilliam Darcy, whom I had fervently believed I would one day wed. He was a remarkably attractive man, his broodingly handsome face softened by his barely tamed dark curls. How I had always longed to run my fingers through those curls! His piercing gaze was currently directed with what could only be described as open adoration at his wife, the former country mouse Miss Elizabeth Bennet, stirring up the embers of my jealousy. I believe she is the only person I have ever come close to truly hating. What did this poor, undistinguished country chit have that I did not? What was it that so attracted Mr. Darcy to her?

Elizabeth was sitting next to her husband, at that moment reading from a volume of Wordsworth’s poetry to pass the long journey, apparently lost to the world outside her book. Could her bookishness be what so enthralled Mr. Darcy? If so, I thought ruefully, that explained why he preferred her to me. I rarely read more than the occasional ladies’ novel.

Elizabeth was outfitted with a very finely made gown and fur-lined traveling cloak, all of the highest quality materials, as befitted the wife of a gentleman like Mr. Darcy—though all her ensembles were rather simpler and less fashionable than I would have chosen in her place. I supposed this was further proof that there is no accounting for men’s taste.

The final member of our party, Mr. Darcy’s much younger sister Georgiana, sat next to me in the carriage and was the reason for our journey. She was busily twisting her fingers together and chewing on her lower lip. The poor dear was a chronic worrier, and her Come Out and First Season were her current favorite implements of self-torture.

“Do not worry, dearest,” Elizabeth said gently to her sister-in-law. Apparently she had been observing more than the pages of her book after all. “You have your brother, Miss Bingley, your aunt, and I all determined do everything we can to make this the best possible First Season for you. One of us will be by your side at all times.”

For whatever reason, Elizabeth’s kind reassurances caused Georgiana to blanch. I needed to do something to give this girl a bit of backbone. “But if I should somehow fail,” she said, barely audible over the jostling of the carriage, “you would all be so disappointed in me.”

“Georgie, you know I could never be disappointed in you.” Mr. Darcy’s deep voice took on that special warmth he reserved only for her. I would have immediately ordered my wedding clothes had he ever directed a fraction of that warmth at me.

“And you must also know, my dear, that I would never let you fail,” I said, maintaining eye contact with Georgiana until I saw a small smile. If I could transfer into her breast half of my own boldness, I surely would. And never feel the loss, I daresay. I have always been rather blessed in that quarter.

As I settled back into my seat, Mr. Darcy caught my eye. He gave me the faintest hint of a smile and a slight nod of thanks. I blushed and looked away. Those smiles of his, so rarely bestowed, still had the power to set my silly heart fluttering. Diagonally from me, Elizabeth also looked grateful, but her thanks meant nothing to me compared to her husband’s. In the year and a half since Mr. Darcy’s wedding, I had fought to suppress my feelings for him, as such feelings could now never be realized. I imagined I had had some success, but it seemed that one look from him was enough to stir them all up again. I suppose that is what comes of imagining oneself married to a man for so many years, only to see him wed another. I stayed turned towards the window until I could be sure that these feelings were no longer written clearly on my face.

Traveling long distances in a carriage is never pleasant in the best of circumstances. Even in a coach as comfortable and well-sprung as Mr. Darcy’s, the ruts in the road are often jarring, and everyone’s knees end up banging together. In addition to feeling cramped and rattled by the journey, I felt surges of the bitterness, jealousy, and even hatred that I had struggled to leave behind me. We had only just left Staffordshire, and already I was longing to reach the coaching inn where we would stay that first night.

The meal Mr. Darcy had ordered for us all in our shared sitting room both looked and smelled vastly superior to whatever boiled meat and indeterminate vegetable the rest of the guests had been eating in the common dining room as we came in. Nevertheless, I was so ready to be done with the trying day that I could barely taste it. It was such a relief to finally settle into the bed I shared with Georgiana that I barely considered whether the sheets were properly clean. Of course, when one traveled with Mr. Darcy, one did not have to worry over such banalities.

The next morning, the four of us breakfasted in the same private parlour. I noticed that Elizabeth had, unusually, been the last to arrive. Her face was pale and drawn and she consumed nothing but a few bites of her roll and some tea. I knew from prior shared meals with the lady that she usually had a hearty appetite—no doubt the natural consequence of being such an active sort. Mr. Darcy, observing her even more closely than I did, was obviously concerned.

“Come, love,” he said. I winced a little at the endearment, but tried to focus instead on spreading jam on my roll. “Could you not eat a bit more?”

“Not another bite,” his wife said with more than her usual firmness.

“Perhaps we should delay our departure until you are feeling better.”

“Nonsense; I will be fine.”

Mr. Darcy frowned. Georgiana ate her breakfast with a slight smile, obviously used to and somewhat amused by this type of exchange.

I was momentarily confused. Was Elizabeth acting oddly because she was ill? If so, why would Georgiana, who was clearly very fond of her new sister, be amused rather than concerned? Elizabeth could not be dangerously unwell, then.

I stifled a gasp as I realized the truth. Georgiana would only be amused if Mrs. Darcy was ill for a happy reason, such as being in the family way. I recalled my sister-in-law Jane’s nausea and fatigue when she was in a similar state. So, the woman Mr. Darcy chose over me was now carrying his child—possibly his heir. There could be no better proof of their love and felicity, no better sign that my love for him had, indeed, all been in vain.

Mr. Darcy was all tenderness as he helped his wife into the carriage and bundled her up for our journey. Elizabeth appeared to barely tolerate his almost smothering affections, but I admit to feeling a certain wistful envy for her and her happy situation. Deciding it was best not to look at or think of the couple at all, if I could, I turned my attention instead to Georgiana.

“What have you brought to read on the journey?” I asked her. Miss Darcy had inspired in me a love of reading and discussing novels, particularly gothic romances. It was a newfound pleasure for me, and a welcome one in what now seemed a rather empty life. I was especially glad now to have topics of conversation with Georgiana that could distract me from our traveling companions.

“The Italian by Mrs. Radcliffe.” Georgiana’s eyes sparkled with excitement, and she gave me a little smile.