11. Eleven

Eleven

“ S teady, girl.” Elizabeth leaned forward, patting her horse as she guided it down the narrow lane toward Netherfield. No time for a carriage. She had barely managed to get the mare saddled and away without her mother questioning her departure—or suffering some sort of mishap, for she was no accomplished rider—and now, here she was, riding alone across half-frozen fields, her breath misting in the sharp morning air.

The house rose over the ridge, and Elizabeth’s body tingled with a jolt of nerves—an odd twist of anticipation and dread. She was not entirely certain what she would say, but she knew she could not leave it unsaid.

She guided her horse around the side of the house rather than up the main drive, hoping to avoid drawing unnecessary attention. As she approached the rear entrance, she caught sight of a familiar figure bundled in a thick shawl. Miss Flora was crouched beside the back steps with a large brass bucket, disposing of ashes from the morning’s hearth cleanings. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, and she looked up as Elizabeth dismounted, pushing a stray strand of hair back under her cap.

Elizabeth wasted no time and raised her voice to call out, “Miss Flora!”

“Miss Elizabeth?” Miss Flora straightened, her posture cautious. “What brings you here?”

Elizabeth dismounted and led her horse closer. “I need to speak with Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley. Are they… here?”

“Yes, miss, they have been here since last evening,” Miss Flora replied, her brows lifting slightly.

Elizabeth swallowed, nerving herself up for what must be done. Oh, dear… “Do you think there is a way I might speak with them?”

“A-alone, Miss?”

Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder as if her father could hear her even now, asking for a private audience with two unmarried men in a house most considered disreputable. “Please. It is urgent.”

Miss Flora hesitated, her gaze shifting back toward the house. “If you’ll give your horse to Mr. Jackson and come in to wait in the drawing room, miss, I shall see what I can do.”

Elizabeth exhaled, watching as the maid disappeared through the door. She had not yet considered exactly how to explain this mess, but with each passing moment, she felt the words taking shape. She let a stable boy take her horse and made her way inside toward the drawing room.

As soon as the door closed behind her, she immediately began pacing, her mind in a feverish whirl of thoughts and half-formed explanations. Every way she imagined putting the matter to Mr. Darcy felt inadequate—either too forward for any “lady”—such as she ought to be—to consider, or too restrained considering the magnitude of the offense.

At last, after what felt like an eternity, the door opened, and Mr. Darcy entered alone. Her eyes darted beyond him in some panicked disbelief. Where was Mr. Bingley? Mr. Bingley might soften the blow. He might lighten the room or be persuaded to understand…

But it was only Mr. Darcy. His expression was grave, his gaze steady but darkened with something that looked very much like disapproval. Or resentment.

So, he knew . He had pieced the puzzle together quite without her and had already formed his opinion.

She took a deep breath, steeling herself as she stepped forward. “Mr. Darcy, I hardly know where to begin, but I… I felt it necessary to speak with you directly.” She paused, hoping he might say something to soften his cool expression, but he remained silent, watching her with an unyielding gaze. Her pulse quickened, and she clasped her hands more tightly. “You have been… terribly used, I am afraid. You and Mr. Bingley both.”

His face betrayed nothing. The words tumbled out of her mouth faster than she could temper them. “I have only just learned that my sister—my sister and Aunt Gardiner, in their hope to do some good, have misled you most unfairly. I am mortified beyond measure. It was wrong, very wrong of them to deceive you so—to tempt you into coming here under false pretenses.”

She chanced a glance up at him, searching his face for any sign of forgiveness or understanding, but he stood resolute, his expression unreadable. Her voice faltered, and she dropped her gaze again, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks. “Please, do not blame my uncle,” she added. “He is innocent in this—only doing what he was asked because he… he loves my aunt, and seeks to please her.”

She fell silent, helplessly watching his stoic figure, her heart hammering as she waited for him to respond.

Mr. Darcy’s face was black as a storm. “And you, Miss Elizabeth,” he said, his voice low, though not unkind. “Did you have no inkling of their intent when you encountered us yesterday? You knew well enough of our plans to tour Netherfield.”

Elizabeth’s cheeks burned. “I… I knew that it was your intent, yes. But I did not know, at the time, that Sir Thomas’s situation was so desperate as it has been since revealed to me. Nor did I know what manner of communication Mr. Bingley had with Sir Thomas’s agent.”

“But you knew about the house. You knew what was carried on here and chose to say nothing.”

She swallowed, and her gaze faltered. “I did not feel it was my place to interfere in what I thought might be a simple viewing of the estate. I had no way of knowing that Sir Thomas himself did not hope to speak with you.” She let out a shaky breath. “But once I learned of my sister’s… intent… and the fact that it was truly she who arranged this… deception… I could not rest until I spoke to you, in the hope that I might somehow make things right.”

Mr. Darcy said nothing for several leaden seconds, and his eyes were like molten coals, searing her conscience. Oh, dash it all! Elizabeth wanted to sink through the floorboards, to never hear the names Darcy or Bingley again, such was her shame. And Jane! Oh, the words she meant to have with her sister and her aunt…

At last, Mr. Darcy gave a slow nod. “Indeed, Miss Elizabeth, you are correct—this must be put right.”

She closed her eyes. “Sir, I am quite prepared to accept whatever censure you—”

“And what, Miss Elizabeth, do you think your apologies will accomplish? We are here, are we not? We have seen the truth of the matter for ourselves and cannot un-know what we have learned. Is that how you go about affairs in your family, Miss Elizabeth? Setting unwitting gentlemen into unbidden circumstances for your own pleasure? Or did you seek something else? Hoping some wealthy man falls into your trap?”

Her jaw worked in shame, but at his last words, her ire flashed, and she met his eyes. “I did no such thing! Nor did my sister, truly, for all her underhanded scheming. If you choose to believe that, then I shall withdraw both my apology and my presence, for I see that nothing could sway you from your opinion. I only wished, as I said, to set the matter right to the best of my ability.”

“I have agreed, if you remember, that it must be set right.”

She regarded him with a skeptical look. “Yet your resentment makes that improbable.”

Mr. Darcy’s rigid stance softened all at once, and he turned to pace the length of the rug, rubbing his jaw… but she could have sworn that his hand concealed a faint smile. “Though I cannot deny that I feel used in this affair, I must admit that I had already resolved to help Sir Thomas, regardless.”

Elizabeth blinked, her breath catching in surprise. “You… you had? But why?”

Darcy turned to face her, but his gaze remained unfocused, distant. “Because, Miss Bennet, Sir Thomas Ashford is no stranger to me. We have met before—in France, under very different circumstances. I owe him my life, as surely as Bingley does. And upon learning of his work here, I find that, regardless of what the world might think of it, he is engaged in a cause both noble and necessary.”

Elizabeth’s heart swelled with a mixture of relief and disbelief. “Then… you mean to support him?”

“‘Support him’… such a vague phrase, with so many meanings.”

She frowned and dared to step closer. “And which meaning do you choose?”

“So long as he continues in his charity, Sir Thomas shall not want for a penny.”

Her eyes rounded. “You… you would go so far?”

Such a confession—seemingly complete and total affirmation—ought to have produced an expression of satisfaction on the gentlemen’s face upon her acknowledgment. But Darcy’s features remained carefully neutral. Elizabeth watched the flickering of his gaze as he seemed to be thinking, weighing his words.

“You consider that ‘far,’ Miss Elizabeth?”

“Well, it is… it is a hundred miles more than any other has done.”

Mr. Darcy smiled faintly and huffed a short laugh as he turned to pace the room once more. “And who else should do it but I?”

Elizabeth swallowed, one hand tugging uncomfortably at the fingers of the other hand. Was this a test? “What of Mr. Bingley, sir? I should imagine that anything one of you undertakes would quite naturally affect the other.”

“Such understated phrases do you no credit, Miss Elizabeth.” He turned to glance at her again. “What you actually mean is that by me entering into a commitment to support Sir Thomas, I could be entirely alienating my business partner unless he is equally willing to suffer the consequences with me.”

She pursed her lips and arched her brows. “Well?”

That faint smile returned. “I think you underestimate Bingley’s impulsiveness, as well as his generous nature, if you could have any doubt of his answer.”

She let go a breath in relief. “Sir, that… that is wonderful! Why, that means…” She was trembling head to foot as the dear, familiar faces she had come to know from Netherfield tumbled through her mind. So many of them—most, if not all, driven here by circumstances not of their choosing—and now, they would be able to stay in their home, in the little “family” they had founded here, through Christmas and beyond. “Sir, that means more than you can possibly imagine.”

He drew in a long sigh. “No, I know precisely what it means. But I have come to realize that money alone will not suffice.” He hesitated, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “The censure of public opinion is as dangerous an enemy as any financial hardship. If his work is to continue… well, that must be addressed as well.”

Elizabeth blinked, and then slowly, almost involuntarily, a smile broke across her face. “And you think that can be done?”

“Not a chance in the world.”

Elizabeth’s smile fell. “But then… why did you say…?”

A faint smirk tugged at Darcy’s lips as he met her gaze. “Do you think Bingley will let me back down now? No, no, that is unfair. I have got used to him carrying his way until I hardly knew which direction I was pointed. But I would not have you think I have no will of my own.”

“On the contrary, sir, I think rather that you find Mr. Bingley’s form of ‘persuasion’ to be rather convenient.”

His eyebrow edged upward, and he took a step closer to her. “How so?”

“I think there is not a creature on earth capable of bending your will—that is my impression, at least. But letting yourself appear to be persuaded against your wishes due to some perceived obligation permits you to seem to object to the very course you had already set your mind upon. Thus, you save face—at least, in your own mind—and you still carry on with the ‘irresponsible’ or ‘imprudent’ thing you truly wished to do in the first place.”

His lips were twitching now with restrained amusement. “I see I shall have to be exceedingly careful around you, Miss Elizabeth. But, back to the matter at hand. I have not yet begun to consider how to see Sir Thomas’s little… project here… to security. I almost quail to ask, but do you have any ideas?”

Elizabeth’s smile now threatened to split her face, and her stomach was turning a riot of delighted butterflies. “Oh, I am certain I can think of something.”

D arcy leaned back, eyeing Bingley across the low-lit study, a glass of brandy held idly between his fingers. “If we are serious about this—about helping Sir Thomas in a meaningful way—then it seems I must go back to London. There are people there, influential men, who could be persuaded to endorse his efforts. A single letter from certain quarters would do wonders.” He swirled his glass thoughtfully. “William Wilberforce, for one—he has spoken publicly about reform and the importance of supporting charitable work among the poor. If he gave his blessing…”

Bingley shook his head. “But that is just it, Darcy. He might give his blessing to charitable work in general, but would he say to this? We are talking about a venture far more… particular than some of the other causes London has taken up. Sir Thomas’s work extends beyond the merely unfortunate; it invites those with… colorful reputations, does it not?”

Darcy inclined his head. “I grant that it does. But still, if we could persuade men like Wilberforce, or perhaps the Earl of Shaftesbury—”

“They might support it, yes,” Bingley cut in, “in drawing rooms full of expensive pipe smoke, miles away from the real problem, where no one soils their hands or their reputations by involving themselves. But London’s opinion matters only so much here in Hertfordshire. We need to start with Meryton. It is the town itself that is against him, Darcy. Those who see him every day are the ones to sway. If we could win Meryton over, that support would radiate outward, wouldn’t it? That way, anyone who questioned the worth of Sir Thomas’s venture would have an entire community to answer to.”

Darcy frowned, staring into his brandy. He could not deny the truth of it. There would be no real victory for Sir Thomas until he gained acceptance here, from the people of Meryton themselves. London might lend him prestige, but Meryton would give him safety.

After a long moment, Darcy set his glass down. “Miss Elizabeth suggested something yesterday,” he said slowly. “She mentioned that Netherfield is the only house for miles around large enough to host a ball.”

Bingley looked intrigued. “A… a ball, you say?”

“Not in the formal sense. She suggested a Christmas party—one large enough to include the entire community. Apparently, the town assembly hall here is modest, and Netherfield’s ballroom would make a far grander setting.”

Bingley leaned back with a grin, his eyes lighting up. “She is clever, that Miss Elizabeth. What better way to persuade people to change their minds than to welcome them in? It would be a jolly gathering, and we could introduce Sir Thomas’s household in a way that lets the town see their humanity.” He paused thoughtfully, glancing back at Darcy. “But you—well, you do realize what you are taking on. Hosting something like that is no simple affair. And you! You are hardly an experienced host. Egad, whenever we have a dinner party, I have to manage the affair, even if you are the one hosting.”

Darcy gave a dry smile. “Indeed. But if it is the best way to change public opinion, I am prepared to take it on.” He tapped a finger on the side of his glass, watching Bingley carefully. “We could make it not just a party, but a celebration of goodwill. The season would be an excuse for generosity, to invite everyone, not just the gentry. The whole town would have a reason to attend.”

Bingley nodded slowly, his eyes alight with interest. “There could be a supper, some small entertainments…” He trailed off, his mind clearly turning over ideas. “We shall have to make it worth their while—something so irresistible that nothing would stop even the most… judgmental among them from coming, for fear of being left out.”

Darcy allowed himself a small, approving smile. “And by the end of the night, with any luck, they will wonder why they ever opposed Sir Thomas at all.”

“By Jove,” Bingley said with a grin, “if all goes well, we shall have everyone on Sir Thomas’s side by Christmas.”