Chapter 2

Darcy could not, in fact, justify an immediate return to town—subjecting his cattle, coachman, valet, and footman to a lengthy return journey on a frigid, nearly moonless night—but he managed to get them nearly two hours away before stopping. The Golden Fleece was a bustling coaching inn, respectable in appearance, obviously conducting a brisk trade. The innkeeper hastened to ready rooms—but once Darcy was safely ensconced in one, it gave him too much time to think.

His thoughts were not comforting.

Elizabeth Collins!

It is awful. The toady vicar has overreached himself. He should not be able to claim a bride whom I am unable to touch!

He wanted her, oh yes. He was a man of the world, and hardly a green one. He had wanted before—but not like this. It was necessary, for a man in his position, to bridle his lusts in most cases. He knew how, and had always considered himself a proven master in the art.

The worst part about wanting Elizabeth was the mastery she had over him.

Whenever she had walked into the room, he was unable to do aught but give her his attention, all of it, to wonder what next she would say, to see her hold her own and then surpass everyone in wit and cleverness. Whether it was the insipid Miss Caroline Bingley or the foolish Sir William Lucas, she managed every conversation with keen intelligence and appealing charisma. No matter how dull the entertainment, once he was certain she would attend, nothing else signified. He had graced more parlours in the last two weeks he’d been at Netherfield than he had in the year previous.

He had known he should not ask her to dance at Bingley’s ball; it was foolish. It might give her ideas—he never danced with anyone with whom doing so might create expectation of anything more. Had it been London, the whispers of his interest in Elizabeth might even now be causing gossip in the papers or caricatures in the broadsheets. Miss Bingley had been pressing him to take her brother and depart Netherfield, but Bingley’s infatuation with Miss Bennet was only a part of her reasoning. Miss Bingley knew her birth was not high enough to suit him, but she felt her fortune made her Elizabeth’s equal, or even superior. To see his obvious interest in someone she thought of as a lesser rival had exacerbated her usual jealousy.

Proper matrimonial conduct had been drilled into his mind and upbringing from the time of his sister’s birth—Georgiana must be amply provided for, and he must replace her settlement with his wife’s. Especially with the current state of his finances, it was more important than ever that the family’s fortunes be sheltered. Three years in a row of unseasonably frigid temperatures had affected the yields of his tenants. Returns were low; he had been required to forgive some debts he had not wished to forgive.

Pemberley had not, as yet, suffered. The spar mines were still very profitable. But his fortunes ultimately depended upon the prosperity of his tenants, and their fortunes depended upon fickle weather. Marriage to Elizabeth would cost him a minimum of thirty thousand in an absent settlement to replace Georgiana’s, and untold losses in connexions and consequence. The legacy of fortune, he had always been taught, must come first. Never mind his uncle’s lectures—the earl had been throwing introductions at him for a few years now, trying to pair him with one young lady or another of his cronies, in the hopes of shoring up his own consequence. The last, he recalled, had been the granddaughter of a marquess—her settlement had been fifty thousand.

Of course, she had been a chinless, spineless ninny, and thirty minutes in her company had convinced him that they ought to double her portion if they wanted any takers. Nevertheless.

He did not sleep well that night.

It was not because of Elizabeth, he told himself. Her life was no business of his, and while he regretted her lack of choices, those were not his problem. His sleeplessness was the inn’s fault—although they pretended their accommodations were superior, the mattresses were not quite plump enough, the linens not soft enough, the walls not thick enough.

Before dawn, he gave up, and woke his man. Within the hour they were on the road. Well before noon, he was in his comfortable home on Curzon Street, in his comfortable study, eating a more-than-comfortable meal prepared by expert hands.

It tasted like dust in his mouth. What is the matter with me?

A tap on his door happily interrupted his bleak thoughts. His butler, Childers, reported unexpected news—Bingley was waiting for him in the library. Bingley’s affable, cheerful manner was just what he needed to restore his spirits. Surely he was no longer moping about, mourning the absence of Miss Bennet? Languishing was not in Bingley’s nature, not even at the worst of times. Eagerly, Darcy abandoned his attempt at breakfasting and went to welcome his friend.

Bingley sat—or rather sprawled—across Darcy’s leather sofa, the picture of discontent.

“I say, Darcy,” he said, by way of greeting. “I think I ought to go back.”

“We have talked of this,” Darcy replied, sighing. “You are young, and have many years before you need acquire a leg-shackle. You have already raised expectations by your attentions to Miss Bennet. I saw no evidence that she shared your sentiments, but that will not matter. You remove all her choices if you stay. Do you not want a wife who wishes to be your wife?”

“Of course I do!” He made a broad, sweeping gesture with his arm, encompassing the whole of his surroundings. “But nothing means anything without her. She may not have returned my feelings yet, but I was making inroads, I know it! I was not alone in my sentiment!”

Darcy looked pityingly at his friend. A grasping, clutching shrew like Mrs Bennet would have instructed her daughter on how to manipulate young Bingley.

Not fair, Darcy, his conscience reminded him. Neither Elizabeth nor her elder sister ever showed any sign of flirtation or untoward behaviour. Still, he felt his original point was a valid one.

“Nevertheless, had she displayed anything remotely akin to affection, one ought to be able to see it, oughtn’t one? I have been on the receivers’ end of marriage mart pursuit for years, and believe me, it is not difficult to tell when a young lady has an interest beyond acquaintanceship. I studied Miss Bennet, searching for that interest, Bingley, I vow it—and I saw nothing!”

Bingley slumped, leant his head back, closed his eyes, and sighed gustily. “Have you ever been in love, Darcy?”

Darcy opened his mouth to reply, ‘No, and neither have you’ but a strange paralysis held his tongue. A couple of days ago, he might have said it, but the hours spent reflecting on Elizabeth’s best qualities made it seem almost…insulting to his feelings for her. Instead of his well-rehearsed lecture on the subject, he heard himself asking a strange question rather than answering Bingley’s.

“How is it different this time, Bingley? You have claimed to be in love before—I have heard you. Is it only that she does not love you in return? The challenge of it?”

Worse still, he very much wanted to hear his friend’s answer.

Bingley leant forward, suddenly eager. “It is precisely the difference between what I have felt in the past and my current feelings that reveal my love to me. My former sentiments were but a pale imitation of what I feel now. Before, it was interest and curiosity and—” He paused, blushing a little. “And desire, I shall admit it. A beautiful female is a fascinating prospect, don’t you think? I hope I always find it so—not for lovemaking, you understand. Beauty for beauty’s sake.”

Darcy had been pursued by beauties for so long, he almost could not remember when the first had coyly dropped her handkerchief at his feet; he could admit that before meeting Elizabeth, he had expected their deference, their attention, as his due. Because Elizabeth was not beautiful in the classic, portrait-perfect sense of many ton diamonds, he had overlooked her. Even insulted her.

Remembering, it was his turn to blush. Had he ever apologised to her for that? With effort, he turned his attention back to his friend.

“Bingley, there is a certain hardness to most great beauties. I do not say it is all their fault—practically from birth, their looks have drawn uncommon attention, until they cannot appear anywhere without being assaulted by it. Early on, they learn to push back against it—usually with dismissive conceit. Their beauty obscures character, fortune, address, and a host of other desirable traits, for it is what their admirers want most. They are viewed more than anyone, yet seldom seen. Can you understand me?” He ran his hand through his hair, searching for the right words. “One cannot trust the practised words they use, the practised charm they exert, because an essential part of them is not really participating. There is no real connexion.”

Bingley’s expression grew thoughtful. “Do you think I learnt nothing from my previous experiences? Why do you believe naught came of any of them? I am not the most perceptive man, certainly, but neither am I stupid. Even I can sense when I am alone in my feelings. I tell you, Miss Bennet is the genuine article.” Abruptly, he stood. “Do you know, Darcy, I do not think we are speaking about beauties. We are talking of you.”

“Me?” Darcy sat back, frowning up at his friend.

“You. Uncommon attention since you were a lad. Distrustful of everyone. Dismissive conceit, and a refusal to truly participate—in love, certainly, but neither much in life itself, because true enjoyment of life requires you to put yourself forward, to take risks in knowing others. The world has disappointed you too often, I suppose.”

Darcy gaped at him.

“Others have disappointed me—there is no question,” Bingley continued. “Miss Bennet, however, has not. It seems wrong of me to treat her as though she has. You say she feels nothing for me, and you may well be correct. I have been mistaken before. Forgive me, however, if I find it difficult to put my sole trust in the word of a man who feels nothing for anyone.”

For a moment they stared at each other incredulously. Then Bingley bowed, mumbled “Forgive me” once again, turned on his heel, and hastily made his exit.

The door shut behind him before Darcy could respond. He rose and paced, furious. How dare Bingley accuse him of conceit, of refusing to ‘participate’ in life! What ‘participation’ was available in Meryton, whose mediocre society had made of Sir William Lucas its leading citizen? “Should I converse easily with such a person, one who relinquished whatever trade brought him his wealth in the first place so he might pretend he is my equal?” he asked aloud to the empty room.

Did I refuse to ‘participate’ in the work of finding a suitable estate to lease in the first place? Who was the one Bingley turned to for nearly every important decision he’d had to make since his father’s untimely death a few years past? Had he ever been turned away? Or did I make great sacrifices of time and effort in order to see my friend settled and prospering! Participate indeed!

As was the case in most surprising confrontations, these suitable, cutting ripostes only occurred to him long after Bingley’s departure, adding yet another layer to his resentment.

A second tap on the door interrupted his bitter thoughts.

“Enter,” he commanded.

His cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, strode into the room.

Surprised, Darcy hurried to greet him, somewhat alarmed at his presence; he had thought him established at Matlock for a few weeks—where Georgiana currently resided. Had something occurred?

“What brings you back to London so soon? Is Georgiana well?” Darcy asked, once tea had been ordered.

But the colonel smiled easily. “Georgiana is fine and happy. She and my mother are planning Christmas celebrations and village fetes and the like. Fair warning, your presence shall be required. Childers said you have just returned from a visit to our lady aunt and in none too happy a mood.”

“That is not what he said,” Darcy remarked repressively. Childers was the soul of discretion.

Fitzwilliam shrugged. “It was implied. Something in his posture. Anyway, to answer your question, I decided to return to town after receiving your latest letter, that I might remove myself from all planning committees. I say, if you have gone to Kent and back since you wrote it, it was an extremely brief visit. I am fortunate to find you at home.”

Quickly, Darcy explained their aunt’s ludicrous actions regarding her refusal to release monies for the pruning of her orchards. “She does it apurpose, in order to force me to visit. I will not be subjected to her ham-handed manipulations. I will not reward her for such behaviour by doing exactly what she desires. I told her I would not hire her another steward if she loses this one, nor will I rescue her financially again.”

He had expected Fitzwilliam to express sympathy or outrage—or even recollect past humorous absurdities, as he did so well, turning his own indignation into reluctant laughter. Instead, his cousin steepled his fingers. “This brings me to my other reason for returning to town.”

Darcy raised his brows.

“I have been thinking of offering for Anne. At least, I thought I might gain your advice on the subject. Possibly, had you stayed at Rosings for a time, I might have joined you there, to gain your influence in convincing Lady Catherine that the idea is in her best interests, as well as her daughter’s.”

This idea was nearly shocking to Darcy. Of course, Anne was a wealthy heiress, or would be, so long as her mother did not run the estate into the ground. It was well known that the colonel would get very little from his parents.

“There is no question but that it would be the very best Anne could hope for,” he said carefully.

Anne’s spinsterhood was not entirely her fault, but she was less than desirable for so many reasons. Not only did she possess little wit, charm, nor address, she had no interest in acquiring any. One might suppose that she was overwhelmed by the intensity of her mother’s influence, but that was not entirely the case either. She was, in fact, her father’s daughter—quiet, disinterested, and fonder of horses than people. Like Sir Lewis, she suffered from complaints of belly and heart, and when she did speak, it was her medical issues she addressed.

“However, forgive me for saying it, but…you could certainly expect someone…”—Darcy struggled to find words not entirely damning to Anne—“…healthier. What of Lord Roden’s daughter—I thought you might hold some interest in her?”

“I considered her,” he said, and then laughed humourlessly. “Or, to be perfectly honest, she considered me. But I think she has decided she could do better. She is paying attention to Montclair these days.”

“If not her, then someone else.”

Fitzwilliam smoothed his short beard. “I hate the blasted marriage mart, Darcy. If I never again attend a ball with the express purpose of analysing who is out, whose settlement is ample and whose hopes are few, wondering how I appear to them—cap in hand, a supplicant for fortune, a kept man—it will be none too soon for me.”

Roden’s daughter had, obviously, deeply hurt his cousin’s pride. “You would be a fine husband, and she is a fool for looking elsewhere. Any lady lucky enough to earn your regard is a privileged woman indeed. Montclair is an idiot, a mere child, and not half the man you are.”

The colonel made a show of selecting a biscuit from the tray before them, rather than responding to this remark. Darcy sipped his tea, struggling to furnish further points of argument.

“The thing is,” Fitzwilliam said at last, “with Anne, I know what I am getting. She knows what she has in me. I would take her to Matlock until Lady Catherine dies—I could not reside with that woman—and who knows but what living away from her mother might do to improve her character? When we do have to be at Rosings?—”

“Which shall be far more often than you suppose,” Darcy interrupted, latching onto this saliant point. “Lady Catherine requires a heavy hand in order to keep her from driving away her best people and spending money unwisely.”

“Yes, I have seen how you struggle with her. I am not afraid of her, Darcy. With the authority of marriage, I could ease the burden she has become to you. It only makes sense. I owe you that.”

“Do not marry Anne in repayment of a non-existent debt!”

The colonel waved this off. “It is not like that between us, I know. But I would be a better friend to you, were I not also a drain on your pocketbook every time I need a new mount.”

“You have never been a drain, nor asked much of me. Your companionship is all that a friend’s should be, and I beg you to make your decision without any concern for encumbrance between us.”

Fitzwilliam nodded, seeming to wish the subject closed, and Darcy wondered what else he could say. It was beyond odd—that in a single morning, one friend should accuse him of not caring enough, whilst the other was willing to sacrifice his future for him.

“I would see you happy, Fitzwilliam—above any and all other considerations.”

The colonel smiled, a little hollowly. “I wish the same for you. I will decide nothing today, I promise. Now, talk to me of something else. Anything else. In your letter, you mentioned that you were recently returned from Hertfordshire.”

Of course, Elizabeth—never far from his thoughts—immediately came to mind. It seemed that she accompanied him during every waking moment, an obsession that he knew he needed to crush and yet seemed helpless to prevent. It went against the grain to speak of her, but he could hardly help himself, given such an opening.

“I have wrestled with the idea of happiness myself,” he admitted. “Whilst visiting Bingley, I met a young lady. Unique, witty, spirited, beautiful, engaging, charming—I could apply any number of favourable descriptors to her.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam straightened at this, obviously distracted from his own troubles. Encouraged, the dam was released, and for the first time, Darcy gave vent to his feelings for Elizabeth Bennet, the daughter of a country gentleman. His sense of her inferiority—of its being a degradation—and of the family obstacles which judgment had always opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with great warmth. Such was the strength of feeling which speaking of her engendered, he could not remain seated, finding it necessary to pace the length of his library throughout his animated disclosures.

“I can only imagine the conversation, were I to introduce her to the earl as my bride. ‘See here, Matlock. I have brought you a girl whose mother is the daughter of a solicitor, and who possesses a dowry of a thousand pounds—once the mother dies, of course.’ He would laugh in my face. No, worse—he would express his severest disappointment.”

The sound of an oath startled him from his frantic pacing. His cousin stood, white-faced.

“This is it, is it not? What you truly think of me. I thank you for explaining it so fully—I do appreciate your honesty.”

Darcy frowned, taken aback. “I am speaking of Elizabeth, not you.”

“Are you really? If this Elizabeth possessed Bingley’s fortune, might not her ill-mannered family be overlooked, as you so frequently overlook Hurst’s drunkenness and his sisters’ ceaseless gossip?”

A shaft of annoyance struck Darcy, but he did not wish to argue the point. He tried to explain.

“You have not met the Bennets. The situation of her mother’s family, though objectionable, is nothing in comparison of that total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly, betrayed by Mrs Bennet, by Elizabeth’s three younger sisters, and occasionally even by her father.”

The colonel’s lip curled. “Oh-ho, then. I suppose you have never seen a relation to any of your titled friends participating in activities unbecoming a gentleman? Since when has the bad behaviour of a family member disbarred your friendship to another? Be honest with yourself Darcy, and be honest with me. It is the money, and only the money, which prevents your admiration for this woman from strengthening into love.”

“You are speaking absurdities! It is one thing when a friend’s parent shows some awful habit, and quite another when it is your own wife’s family.”

“And you have never perceived Lady Catherine’s obnoxious behaviour? Never watched the earl playing too deep? What of the deeds of your own sister? But perhaps you were protecting the young lady from exposure to a pack of contemptible characters? This Miss Elizabeth certainly ought to avoid nearly every member of our family and shun us as beneath her notice, if good conduct is now to be the basis of every friendship!”

This callous mention of his sister was uncalled for. “Georgiana was but fifteen years old!” he hissed, furious.

“How old are these deplorably behaved Bennet sisters?”

Darcy took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. “Georgiana would never flirt with a regiment of officers, never overindulge at the punchbowl and make a fool of herself before two hundred people.”

“No. Only before one.”

He almost struck his cousin in his abject fury, and it took all of his control to stop angry retorts, escalating an argument into a battle. His voice, when he spoke, was cold. “You are naturally entitled to your opinion, although I most vehemently disagree with your every point. My feelings for and about Miss Elizabeth are not subject to reinterpretation by anyone in general, and have nothing to do with you in particular.”

The colonel seemed to deflate. They said nothing for some moments, the sound of the pendulum clock the only noise in the room. Neither seemed to know what next to say. But at last, Fitzwilliam sighed.

“I will go now. I did not mean to offend you, Darcy.”

Darcy nodded curtly.

At the door however, the colonel paused. “I think you are wise not to marry her, my friend. It is my worst fear—that I be thought unworthy of my bride. I would not wish that upon anyone, least of all the girl you love. If I were to marry Anne, most everyone—myself included—would say her bargain was a good one. Was not it Shakespeare who said, ‘All that glisters is not gold’?” He tried a smile.

Before Darcy could think how to reply, Fitzwilliam shut the door quietly behind him.