Chapter 3

Darcy sat in the same chair in the Netherfield Park library where he had spent a pleasant half an hour the previous autumn staring at Elizabeth over his book—only the year’s final digit had changed. The same hearth contained low-burning embers, probably from the same woodpile.

Bingley’s sister had horridly redecorated what should have been a sanctuary. Heavy Egyptian drapes framed the window that allowed the dying day a final gasp before the dusky demesnes of night conquered all. “It is always darkest before the dawn,” he spoke aloud, returning to his writing desk.

What a colourless life I have reconciled myself to. Duty, propriety, and decorum. Is this the empty reward that every gentleman of good morals must look forward to?

Darcy sighed as he dipped his pen into the inkwell. He stared at the words he had written. The taste that his tongue discerned from his lips was bitterness.

“And why should I not?” he announced to the nearly empty library.

“Sir? Do we require a repast?” asked his valet.

Darcy smiled. He gave his man much leeway in their relationship, including forbearance of his predilection to respond in the plural.

“Thank you, Barty, but we must finish working before enjoying our evening’s libations.

Darcy returned to his journal.

Why can no worthy woman see through my heritage, estate, and my income? Am I solely a prize to be won? Am I not a man?

“I reek of self-pity,” he mumbled.

At the sound of a throat being cleared. Darcy automatically sat back; Barty placed a half-filled glass next to the inkwell.

“Presumptuous, Barty.”

“Indeed, sir.”

The huntresses of the ton are so predictable I may as well be transparent. How boorish society is that I can predict their responses to my utterances.

No single lady could debate any side of a subject with depth; otherwise, take the opposite side against him.

Except for Miss Elizabeth Bennet, his heart replied.

Darcy shook his head. It was not to be.

Pemberley thawed her cold dislike of you.

“Her youngest sister is now shackled to the most depraved man in the kingdom. By my hand!” he hissed.

Easily remedied, he argued to himself.

“I am not a slayer of men.”

You are intimate with one who is. Fitzwilliam has returned.

“Begone, demonic thoughts,” Darcy muttered.

“Sir?”

His reverie broken, he set down his glass. Darcy shook his head. Barty moved on.

Darcy closed his eyes and recalled Elizabeth’s face—her eyes, her genuine, unaffected smile. He sighed.

Eyes–brown. Do not forget those beguiling flecks of hazel.

Hair–brown. Chestnut, as it were. Long, streaming waves. “A waterfall of chestnut breakers,” he said aloud. A host of golden daffodils. Her essence is worthy of a Wordsworth poem.

Her smile…um… Call it what it is. Perfection. Heaven.

Darcy ran through some of the tête à têtes they had shared. He frowned at the recollection of his behaviour at the Meryton assembly and his unintended insult. I did not even see her! He did not learn until later that she had overheard him. Cease these recriminations, man! They serve no use!

The week she spent at Netherfield Park nursing her elder sister. Their delightful debates. Her clever verbal dismantling of Miss Bingley, time and time again. That same lady and Elizabeth, arm-in-arm, walking about the parlour. Her figure displayed well—very well!

My inept attempt at teasing her. ‘…and to all this, she must yet add something more substantial: extensive reading to improve her mind.’

“I should have jumped into the pond after saying something so stupid.”

Her declaration that his defect was to hate everybody; his pleasure at informing her she wilfully misunderstood him.

“How was I to know she loathed me? The repartee was too pleasing by half!”

Her delightful riposte towards Bingley’s noxious sisters in the garden. Cowper, he remembered. Heifers! Genius!

They danced at Bingley’s ball. Her beauty had enchanted him, and her wit attracted him further. Yet, her loyalty, erroneously given, placed her at the summit of his regard. She could not have discerned Wickham’s evil; he was too practised. Her defence of his deprived circumstances was laudable.

“Now that I sit in a pool of misery of my own making, I see Fitzwilliam was correct. I should have given him leave to dismantle the dastard.”

Though he believed he was separating Bingley from Miss Bennet, he was truthfully distancing himself from Miss Elizabeth. My vanity superseded my desires. How foolish I was. If only I had been given another opportunity. The Lord had granted me a second chance. And I made of mull of it.

His pride again ran rampant over his hopes, as did his lack of gentleman-like manners, arrogance, and conceit. “Was that all of it? No. I have forgotten my selfish disdain for others.”

Her refusal turned his future aspirations to ash. Tasting bitterness for the first time in decades, he had defended himself in a letter and fled Rosings Park.

And her.

He retreated to Pemberley and remained with Georgiana and two unrecognised companions—misery and self-recrimination. It took a se’nnight to convince his sister she was not the cause of his malaise.

He was failing at everything—his guardianship of Georgiana, his belief he was an exemplary gentleman, and his desire to be a man worthy of an extraordinary woman. Until later that year.

A glorious summer. The sun shone brightly and the meadows filled with wildflowers. Pemberley was at its finest, standing tall and proud against the backdrop of the green hills of the Derbyshire Dales and the north county’s blue skies.

And Elizabeth, walking through its untamed gardens, embodied its spirit. She was the North Star in a sky full of lesser constellations, her light shining brightly, guiding Darcy towards her.

Their conversations, how every word she spoke was a glimpse into who she was. The way she laughed, the sound, music to his ears. During those unmatched three days at Pemberley, he saw Elizabeth had no equal.

He would rue the rest of his days knowing this and not acting upon it.

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“All is not lost, sir.”

His man’s audacity was interrupted by Bingley’s unannounced entrance. He radiated bonhomie. “Darcy, my good man. You must congratulate me!”

Darcy rose and set his portable writing desk aside. Bingley had departed to Longbourn the moment he could call within the bounds of propriety. His visit had lasted several hours; Bingley’s enthusiasm was apparent.

You have secured your angel’s hand.

“I have received Mr Bennet’s blessing!”

Darcy waited for his declaration.

“I have secured my angel’s hand!”

“Congratulations, my friend. I wish you and Miss Bennet a lifetime of happiness.”

Bingley grasped his hand and pumped it several times. “She is an angel, Darcy. An earthbound angel!”

Darcy contained a sigh. Bingley was too predictable.

“I am pleased to see you so buoyant, my friend.”

Bingley sat across from him and leant forward.

Now he shall list equally preposterous synonyms.

“I shall wed a goddess. A pearl. A diamond of the first water!” Bingley reeked of good cheer. Darcy sniffed. And good port.

Darcy accepted the evening’s next libation from Barty. As much as he enjoyed Bingley’s company, his unoriginal repetitions of Miss Bennet’s perfections had begun to chafe.

I must correct myself, as I would never tire of a different Miss Bennet’s perfections were I given the opportunity.

“Darcy?” Evidently his thoughts had drifted enough to draw his friend’s notice.

“Pardon me, Bingley. It appears you have passed your previous malaise to me.”

“Is that how you describe my glorious future?” Bingley’s eyes narrowed. “I forgave you your interference. Your cousin—the viscount—assured me it was kindly, if not erroneously, awarded.”

“You spoke with Hopton of the matter?”

Bingley looked surprised, the hand holding his drink pausing mid-air. “I thought you knew.”

“I did not.”

“I ran into him at the club a fortnight past. He mentioned you were at your leisure. He assured me you would support my quest for Miss Bennet’s hand.”

Is Hopton conspiring again? And with whom?

“I am pleased to have been given the chance to rectify my error, Bingley. The malaise I was referring to was my own.”

Bingley either did not hear him or had dived deeper into the port than Darcy had initially thought. “I had believed we were past the question of Miss Bennet’s regard.”

Darcy sighed. The tediousness of his circle’s simplicity had led him to once again lend offence without intent.

“Do not wilfully misunderstand me, my friend. I attempted to tease you. Rather poorly, it appears.”

Bingley slapped his thighs. “You should petition Miss Elizabeth for lessons. She is most proficient in that arena.”

Bingley stood and swayed. Barty stepped forward and lent an arm to right his posture, which earned him repeated thanks.

Bingley will expect me to join him on his morning call to Miss Bennet.

“Join me at Longbourn tomorrow?”

“Of course.” He sipped, careful not to spill his drink. His hand nearly shook at the thought of seeing Elizabeth again. Will she be pleased to see me? The door closed to Bingley’s off-key whistling.

Darcy turned his attention to the fire in the hearth. Yellows, oranges, and reds danced upon a base of browns and blacks. It was not a rainbow. Providence would not see fit to bless him as such.

He held up the crystal glass of brandy. Firelight illuminated the amber liquor. He peered over his shoulder. The refracted light displayed upon the draperies. He rotated the tumbler and watched the separated colours dance and sway. It brought an intoxicating memory—Elizabeth’s gown swaying about her dancing slippers.

She preferred talking to silence. Private balls were more pleasant than public ones. In a ballroom, she chose not to talk of books; her head was full of other things.

“Sir?”

His reverie again broken, he set down his glass.

“Barty?”

“All is not lost, sir.”

Barty was his closest day-to-day confidante if one considered one-way musings and contemplations as conversations. Rather than call out his impertinence, he uttered the same two words to assuage his man that he was fine, for the ten-thousandth plus time.

“Carry on.”

Barty bowed and departed. His man was as loyal as the day was long; no-one knew Darcy better. When the valet reappeared, he wore his rarely displayed mask of hauteur. “Sir, we are to have an undesired caller.”

“You cannot mean…?”

“Yes, sir.” He held up Darcy’s coat. Darcy donned it and allowed Barty to brush his shoulders.

“Very good, sir.” He departed; the door remained open.

Moments later, as Darcy had expected, the echoes of a vigorously employed walking stick filtered through the library door’s opening.

Nicholls, the estate butler, appeared in the open doorway. His dishevelment was apparent but not unexpected. “Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”