It was most painfully clear to Georgiana that Colonel Fitzwilliam was not to meet them in Venice, or anywhere—that he was again under the spell of Miss Crawford no longer admitted of a doubt. Georgiana pined for release, for a general deliverance from the fatigue, the requisite raptures, but mostly from the unending exertions to appear happy. When, by some grateful chance, they bent their steps northward, her heart felt an irrational joy at knowing they were even looking in the direction of home. Adding to her misery was the certainty that her brother and sister were as yet vastly enjoying the novelties and entertainments; hence, she could form no certainty of the day that would end their travels, and secure her release. Each day found her heart heavier and her spirits less supportable; it required all of her strength and resolution to affect a plausible cheerfulness, and she knew not even when she would find herself at last on the road to home.

Although neither Mr. or Mrs. Darcy would have admitted such for worlds—even to one another, in deference to the pleasure of the others—it was not only Georgiana who was beginning to tire of the road. They had not spent a week in the water city of La Serenissima, when they began to feel that Venice, for all its magnificence, was strangely devoid of amity, and the present ruination of anything that remained of past grandeur was oppressive. To the English, it was unsettling to find that the dirt and decay had attached itself for so long, it was become a feature of the place. The Darcys were of the true English stamp; that is to say, general preservers from—rather than spectators to—such decay as was everywhere around them. And, to see such treasures the victims of neglect and the ravages of time! Soil covered not only the exteriors and streets but also every surface within, and seemed to be carried on the very air of the city. The buildings appeared to be hastening on their way into the sea, and the glorious paintings and frescoes fading away from the ingress of water and dirty air. Added to this disappointment, their hôtel was unpleasant, and the owner singularly indisposed to answer their requests for attention to their apartments. Enthousiasme pour le voyage was become more difficult with each passing day. It was, therefore, a singularly fitting destination for Colonel Fitzwilliam’s last letter, written to inform the Darcys of the tragedy that had befallen the Hallendale family, and appealing for their immediate return.

10th June
London

DEAR DARCY,