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Miss Georgiana Darcy's introduction to Derbyshire society had proceeded with tolerable smoothness, owing much to the artful guidance of her sister-in-law, Elizabeth. At first, the neighborhood had regarded this "mysterious Miss Darcy of Pemberley" with the keenest curiosity; but after several rounds of morning calls, they soon discerned that though she was gentle and amiable, her inherited reticence—mirroring her brother's own—formed a striking foil to Mrs. Darcy's lively repartee: one a silent guardian of words, the other a fountain of cheerful discourse, with the sister poised between, seeking equilibrium in quiet and chatter alike. The harmony among them almost suggested some new Pemberley stratagem for entertaining guests.

Such experiences naturally supplied the ladies of Pemberley with abundant material for their leisure talk. The small parlor had become, almost exclusively, their club—so much so that Mr. Darcy, ever considerate, often withdrew to his study, lest he interrupt their enjoyment.

On this day, after breakfast, Elizabeth and Georgiana gathered in the parlor for their customary chat. Presently, Darcy strolled in, observing that the morning was unusually free of demands, and politely inquiring if he might venture to read his papers in their company. The ladies, of course, welcomed him with pleasure.

With autumn advancing, the country assemblies grew more frequent. Georgiana was thus making her first forays into society. As she did not yet dance, she spent most of her time in close attendance upon Elizabeth, like the most diligent of pupils, observing its nuanced rituals. Reflecting on her impressions, she could not help but sigh that people were indeed vastly different.

"Oh, my dear, society is ever thus—you have ample time to savor it!" Elizabeth agreed. "You will always encounter those plain of feature yet warm as a midsummer sun, drawing forth endless words from you; but whether one is truly amiable is quite another study." She paused deliberately, her tone laced with mischief. "Some, one finds examples of in Derbyshire or Hertfordshire alike—handsome and tall though they be, yet affecting an air above company and above being pleased, or so reserved and fastidious as to hoard their syllables like misers—such conduct, I fear, falls far short of 'amiable.'"

Darcy, perusing his paper, had been attending to the exchange between his sister and wife. At these words, he lowered the sheet slightly, revealing a pair of cautious eyes from its edge, his gaze settling gravely upon his wife. The expression was less that of a reader than a general reconnoitering the enemy's lines.

“Encounter such a self-important soul," Elizabeth met his look with a blooming smile, "and everybody present can only hope that he would never come there again."

"Hm…You will forgive me, I hope, if I venture to differ," he cleared his throat in reply, folding the paper down to reveal his full countenance—upon which was manifestly inscribed a droll indulgence, though he strove to maintain the gravity of a family patriarch. "I have always held that to attempt a full sketch of a character's outline from a fleeting glimpse and scant words at a ball is a conclusion drawn with undue haste."

A year of marriage had gradually schooled Elizabeth into a composed mistress of the house, and a trusted sister to Georgiana; as for Darcy, he had transformed his somewhat awkward guardianship of his sister into a harmonious partnership with his wife, and acquired a special knack for parrying her sudden sallies—from initial blushes and speechless silences, to now a serene exterior and composed rejoinders, even venturing, on occasion, a witty counterthrust.

Seeing no rebuttal, he simply set the paper aside on the table, his features calm as he spoke. "He had all the best parts of beauty, a fine countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address—these outward graces prove nothing against a want of principle in a villain." He spread his hands with a touch of sardonic resignation. "For the world to be thus deceived, presuming solid virtue and trustworthiness from mere surfaces—what a grievous error."

Georgiana's face was a study in bewilderment, as if unraveling some thorny philosophical knot. Elizabeth, however, held her peace, her lips curved in an enigmatic smile as she regarded him steadily. Darcy, perceiving the silence, pressed on with greater assurance. "Whereas one who strikes a poor first impression through pride of air or clumsiness of speech may harbor, beneath, a sincerity and kindness more truly valuable."

"Oh, what a truth universally acknowledged!" Elizabeth turned to Georgiana, her countenance exaggerated in solemnity. "My dear, you must engrave your brother's wisdom upon your heart—he is seasoned in discerning character, and most admirably, never blinded by any prejudice."

These words could not but recall to Darcy the awkward moments of the Netherfield ball and his dance with Elizabeth; he fell momentarily silent, reaching for the paper on the table and snapping it open briskly, holding it aloft as if its dry political dispatches had suddenly become the most captivating tale in Christendom.

Already no great adept at the tangled arts of society, Georgiana now felt her mind clouded with doubt.

"But if a lady cannot judge by a gentleman's courteous address, how is she to be certain? What we are permitted to do seems... so very little..."

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"Alas, yes—our latitude is narrow indeed." Elizabeth frowned slightly, with a touch of regret. "We are schooled from girlhood in reserve, awaiting the gentleman's advance. Our world feels so confined; a single ball may be our sole campaign." She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a confidential undertone. "Yet therein lies the crux, my dear: every observation and judgment on that narrow field is of vital import—for us, one oversight may shape a lifetime's fate. Gentlemen, with their wider horizons, may err ten times and deem it but a trifling apprenticeship."

"Oh... it sounds not only complicated, but... scarcely fair." Georgiana sighed softly, her girlish melancholy and perplexity drawing her eyes beseechingly to her brother.

Darcy, who had been listening attentively, caught in their discourse a note of something discomposing. He allowed the paper to fall naturally to his knee.”.

"My dear ladies," he said with a wry smile, "I must observe—you paint the matter in colors far too grave. Society is no battlefield, nor gentlemen foes to be perpetually guarded against."

For his wife's vivacious fancies, he always lent an open ear, even privately admiring them; but once his sister's instruction was concerned, that innate sense of how the world ought to turn—the proper order of things—quietly asserted itself.

"We shall be at your side, Georgiana, to introduce you to suitable company," he said, his voice resuming its customary steadiness as he adroitly steered the conversation to firmer ground. "Only, you must be prepared: you will encounter all manner of people—not merely conversation, but invitations to the dance. The scene, compared to what you have known, shall prove far more intricate."

"Oh, yes—a ball always affords some diversion. Imagine encountering one like Mr.Bingley—who is now, of course, our brother—how delightful that would be!" Elizabeth recalled with relish. "He is just what a young man ought to be," said she, "a model of amiability, with sense and humor, and such liveliness that no one could refuse him a set." She sobered suddenly, though her regard twinkled with teasing. "Yet you may meet some... gentlemen of peculiar disposition: those who deem ‘such an assembly as this insupportable’, preferring to pace the room's edge until the carpet wears thin, 'in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men'; or who, with a critical eye, remark that the young ladies are 'tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt him'.

Georgiana stared, evidently shocked by her sister's words, and asked in innocent astonishment: " Mercy! Are there truly such ill-bred sentiments? If treated so, I fear I could harbor no further regard for the offender."

"Upon my honor, it is so—I assure you." Elizabeth laughed.

Darcy, seeing himself once more the unspoken target of the discourse, drew a steadying breath and shook his head. But he had his stratagem ready, folding the paper with composure as he diverted the thread: as Georgiana was prepared, he intended to attend the next Season in London. He would first write to the Lord Chamberlain, then secure Lady Catherine's sponsorship for the presentation at court, and arrange a debut ball in her honor. After Christmas, they might set out for town—to order the court gown, procure accessories, rehearse the curtsy, and all the rest. Elizabeth declared herself envious at once, for not every girl enjoyed such prospects. And at the thought of her formal entry into society, Georgiana's heart swelled with mingled anticipation and trepidation.

"Oh, my dear—you are so beautiful, your French so fluent, your playing so accomplished. I dare say, even by your brother's exacting standard, you would rank among his famed …'half a dozen accomplished women'."

Darcy spread his hands in resigned acquiescence—a gesture that embraced sincere approbation of his sister's talents, a tacit admission of the absurdity in his past remarks, and a touch of wry astonishment at his wife's prodigious memory, for she had a way of dusting off those dusty old opinions of his at the most unexpected moments, presenting them polished and intact before him.

"Well, but... I simply don't have that gift some people do…" Georgiana said low, her voice soft with a girlish uncertainty that unwittingly mirrored her brother's own words in a gentler echo." for chatting easily with strangers I scarcely know. I…I never know where to begin."

"Then observe as you will, and enjoy in your own fashion," Elizabeth counseled warmly. "There is no fault in being an elegant spectator—like your brother. At a ball, he stands as if carved from marble, serenely surveying the assembly, appraising which of the vulgar herd might merit the condescension of a dance."

Darcy opened his mouth as if to demur, but no word came; he closed it again, smoothing the folded paper with a hint of defeat, and held his peace.

"Indeed," Georgiana murmured in agreement. As her days with Elizabeth lengthened, she now ventured, now and then, a mild observation on her revered brother—though always in a voice for two ears only. "From what I have seen, Brother... does not often dance."

"Oh, my goodness! Did he shun it even then? Is it a family trait? I thought it a peculiar distinction reserved for Meryton!" Elizabeth feigned wide-eyed astonishment. Darcy, on the point of resuming his reading, instead let the paper rest upon his knee, lifting his head with studied leisure to look upon her, as if awaiting the next volley in this familiar, fond skirmish.

"Yet I must do him justice," she pressed on, her glance gleaming with slyness. "Your brother is, in truth, an admirable dancer; once engaged, he leaves an indelible impression—that sustained silence over a set of two dances, stretched to the length of a promenade from Longbourn to Netherfield gardens."

"Well, well..." Before Georgiana could savor the deeper implication, Darcy interposed with a rueful smile to his wife: "My dear Mrs. Darcy, might we set aside my ancient follies for the nonce?" Turning to his sister, he sought to right the course: "In time... Georgiana... you... must indeed learn well from your sister...she is a studier of character."

"Yes, Brother. I often think... if only I could navigate with her ease."

"Take heart, my dear—you will manage it admirably," Darcy assured her tenderly, then added with pride, "As for your sister, she was undoubtedly the ‘brightest jewel’ at that Meryton assembly..." His tone mingled with a scarcely detectable tease.

"Her brilliance indeed made many gentlemen feel... hm, rather eclipsed." He took up the paper again, leisurely turning a page and tapping its edge with his knuckle, as if he had but commented on the weather. But the words had stirred a rare, covert vanity—that brilliant, bewitching gentlewoman who had captivated half the county's eligible bachelors was now his wife, chatting idly with his sister. He had always been quietly satisfied with the discernment and fortitude that achievement had required.

His sally, however, promptly provoked Elizabeth's retort, shattering this modest complacency. She interrupted with a laugh: "Even so, there was a gentleman who refused me a dance!"

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"Such a thing occurred?" Georgiana exclaimed, her eyes widening in astonishment as her look darted beseechingly between brother and sister. Plainly, Mr. Darcy's modest sally had recoiled upon himself, singeing his own defenses. He composed his features with prompt resolution, abandoning all thoughts of riposte in favor of a full retreat—raising the paper aloft, its unfolded sheets now screening most of his face, leaving only an ear, steadfast in its composure, exposed beyond the bulwark to reconnoiter the enemy's designs.

"True enough—and quite ordinary," Elizabeth replied, her mirth tempering. "What I mean to illustrate is that such an instance proves no defect in his character. We must not judge solely by initial appearances—a lost favor too easily roots lasting prejudice." She turned gently to Georgiana. "We all err in estimation—your brother and I no less. To find a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate. Hearts are so very complex, you must discover it in time. But fear not—we shall always be at hand to aid you."

A blush mantled Georgiana's cheeks—perhaps from her social faux pas, or past youthful blunders, or sheer gratitude for this unobtrusive guardianship. Unseen, Darcy's own warmed faintly, mercifully veiled by the paper. The entanglements of those former balls with Elizabeth flashed through his mind, swiftly quelled by his habitual self-command. He lowered the sheet below his line of sight, his gaze settling mildly upon his sister, his voice steady and deliberate.

 "Whatever else, you always have assurance to refuse anyone. Remember, Georgiana: a Darcy girl need never simper or dissemble to curry favor." He had long known that some ladies employed certain arts to secure a gentleman's regard, and he was resolved that his sister should have no part in what he considered their meanness and despicable cunning.

"Of course," Elizabeth nodded. "Gentlemen may invite, ladies may refuse—that is the very rule of the dance."

Georgiana frowned. "But... if I am awkward in conversation and refuse besides, will they not think me proud?"

Elizabeth cast Darcy a look brimming with affection and comprehension, the siblings so alike, and he had guarded his sister so well, then turned to Georgiana, taking her hand with mild firmness, her tone gentle yet resolute: "My dear, to exercise the right to refuse requires not only assurance, but wisdom and grace. It is no 'pride,' but 'discernment.' An elegant, well-considered refusal wins as much esteem as a sincere acceptance."

Her eyes returned to Darcy, who had tilted the paper at an angle, peering over its edge with an expression of complex regard. She continued: "We tell you this not to scrutinize every suitor with suspicion, but to cherish and wield this prerogative wisely. Know that not every girl enjoys such fortune—to await at leisure a partner worthy of respect, and pleasing to the heart."

Darcy felt a pang of admiration; against his own blunter edicts of protection, she unfailingly wove her counsel with the softening touch of a vernal breeze. No wonder his sister confided in her—this stirred a faint twinge of jealousy, yet one he yielded to with willing surrender. This doctrine of "rights" and "refusals," though beautifully articulated from her lips, always left him with a subtle unease. The moment ill-suited interruption; he no longer reached for the paper, but folded it neatly, smoothing it flat and setting it aside, reflecting, for today, the newspaper's hour had passed..

Georgiana dipped her chin, half-understanding. And as to "assurance," Elizabeth had more to say on the matter. She consoled her at once with a touch of self-mockery, recalling that she herself had not been so fortunate as Georgiana; even against her deepest reluctance, she had once accepted an invitation from a gentleman she thoroughly “hate”.

"In little Meryton, to offend a Derbyshire visitor of consequence was scarcely prudent," she observed with mock gravity. She recalled Charlotte's words to her that year, now comprehended more deeply, and could not help sighing: "Who could foresee the turns fate might take thereafter?"

Her gaze skimmed lightly over Darcy, who had set the paper aside, elbow propped on the adjacent table, regarding her with an air of leisurely interest.

"Then... I suppose Brother did invite you to dance—and you would not refuse him." Georgiana, oblivious to the undercurrent, smiled warmly and innocently, her spirits eased by her sister-in-law's encouragement. Witnessing the affection and understanding between them, she had already begun, in fancy, to outline her own vision of felicity.

"Good heavens!" Elizabeth exclaimed with feigned exaggeration. "Who would refuse an invitation from 'Mr. Darcy'? He steps into the Meryton assembly, and the very air falls silent..." Georgiana leaned in, rapt for the tale's continuation, only for Darcy's deliberate, low cough to interpose.

"Pray, forgive the intrusion, ladies..." he began, his tone laced with helpless indulgence, "but I feel I must, in all civility, observe that the gentleman so frequently alluded to is, in fact, present."

Elizabeth shot Georgiana a sly glance, shelving—for the moment—this diverting topic that so entertained them both.

At that juncture, a servant announced the pianoforte master. Georgiana rose with polite regret; Elizabeth followed suit. Darcy, however, anticipated, drawing the door lightly to.

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"Now, Mrs. Darcy," he said, leaning against the door with an air of leisure, his tone courteous yet laden with implication, "might I have the honor of detaining you a moment for conversation?"

Elizabeth's eyes danced; she knew well that "Mrs. Darcy" or "Mr. Darcy" —such formal appellations in their private exchanges—served as an unspoken signal, portending some gentle contest or fond reproach. She approached him with a teasing smile, tilting her head: "What is it, my dear sir?"

"I... find myself seriously contemplating," he said slowly, his gaze fixed upon her, "whether to impose some moderation on the frequency of your tête-à-têtes with my sister."

"Oh? Pray, elaborate."

"In my hearing, your advocacy of the 'lady's right to refuse' strikes at the heart of 'how to politely unsettle a future husband's authority'... the two are kindred spirits." A moment's pause ensued as he nodded in dawning realization. "And, if I may say so, it appears a philosophy you have long embodied."

"Then, permit me to inquire, Mr. Darcy..." She paused deliberately, as if weighing the precise term, "the situation you describe—this 'polite unsettling'... is it so abhorrent to you?"

She clasped her hands behind her back, lifting her chin to meet his regard. Darcy gazed at her, pondering for a moment, then leaned slightly nearer, his voice low: "As to my position on the matter, madam, I incline to reserve it for elucidation tonight... in person."

Elizabeth held his head high, unflinching before his ardent stare, though color flooded her cheeks in an instant. She fell uncharacteristically silent, her lips pressed together, momentarily at a loss to prolong this verbal duel.

The gilt clock on the mantel ticked on with relentless precision, marking the hush. After a beat, she arched a brow: "Well, Mr. Darcy—may I depart now?"

Darcy curved his lips, opening the door for her with courteous gallantry, gesturing her precedence. Elizabeth, hands still clasped behind her, exited with the air of a conqueror—head high, step triumphant.

Watching her depart, Darcy reflected that today's discourse, pondered anew, was no less a tempest beneath the calm than a storm-tossed sea. As he toyed with his signet ring, he considered that if his ever-compliant sister truly imbibed some of his wife's sprightly charm, he as brother would have cares enough to spare. Yet upon second thought, those ball-floor skirmishes, parlor debates, the sharp critiques that once pierced the soul like rapiers, and now these ever-ready sallies of teasing—her inexhaustible memory and radiant wit, once so vexing, had enriched his life beyond measure.

At this, he nearly pitied Georgiana's future husband—that unknown youth, destined for a like ordeal? But a clearer notion surfaced: if the man possessed wit and breadth to match his own, such "tempering" would yield an equal measure of felicity to what he now enjoyed—and for his sister, how could that not be fortune?

In the end, he resolved to lay these musings aside—the newspaper's debate on agricultural protection had reached but halfway; he meant to devote the remainder of the hour to its study.

He was on the point of immersing himself anew when Elizabeth's voice drifted from the corridor: "I am for gathering chestnuts, will you join me?"

Darcy realized at once that he possessed the perfect gentleman's prerogative to refuse all unplanned diversions. Yet the thought of exercising it against his wife's summons struck him, in the same instant, as the very height of folly.

He chuckled softly and hastened after her.