20. Twenty

Twenty

D arcy shrugged into his coat, his gaze straying to the frost-covered fields beyond the window. The sunlight caught on the distant trees, glinting like ice-bound jewels, but his thoughts were elsewhere—at Longbourn.

Two days since he had seen her . Two days since she had greeted him with that glorious smile, those eyes that flashed like sapphires, and that laugh that made him warm from the inside.

And two days since she had left him standing there with a fresh teacup and a mouth full of questions… and no answers.

Was she ill? Simply overwrought? A family such as hers would do it to the stoutest character. They were… well, they were tolerable. For her , he could tolerate anything. And that realization settled into his heart with all the clarity of a promise.

He needed Elizabeth Bennet in his life.

She… she challenged him. Gave him something to aspire to, to look forward to. She made him laugh, made him want to reach beyond the dull monotony of business and the regrets that had kept him from being who he was born to be.

She made him better.

He considered whether propriety might excuse another visit to Longbourn so soon. The party, surely… Perhaps a word with Mr. or Mrs. Bennet about the preparations would suffice as justification.

A sharp knock interrupted his musings. “Come in,” he called, stepping away from the window as Roberts entered, a bundle of letters tucked neatly under his arm. “The morning post, sir.”

Darcy accepted them with a nod, sorting through the correspondence with practiced efficiency. One envelope stood out—thick, cream-colored paper bearing the unmistakable seal of Matlock. He broke it open and unfolded the letter, his uncle’s familiar script unfurling across the page.

My dear nephew,

I confess myself intrigued by the recent news surrounding you and your rather novel undertaking at Netherfield. Sir Thomas’s reputation precedes him—whether that is to his credit or his detriment depends entirely upon the circles in which one travels.

It strikes me, Fitzwilliam, that you have stumbled upon an opportunity that, handled correctly, could yield dividends far beyond mere goodwill in the neighborhood. Imagine, for instance, the leverage such a project might lend to a man with aspirations of public office. It is, after all, one thing to speak of compassion and quite another to be seen acting upon it.

I am curious to hear your thoughts. How, precisely, do you intend to align this endeavor with your ambitions? And more importantly, how do you mean to prevent it from appearing… imprudent? You have a rather questionable litany of accomplishments yourself, and though I have spoken favorably of you seeking public office, I have held my reservations about your appeal, for I do not think you would be universally palatable. Indeed, this… project of yours could prove the lynch pin that unites the voters of Derbyshire around a common cause. But it must be done strategically, else you chance appearing as a sentimental fool rather than a beneficent strategist.

I look forward to speaking with you more about this.

The letter was signed with the earls’s seal and signet—all the pomp and flair that was to be expected of the man. Darcy read the letter twice, his eyes lingering on the precise, almost detached phrasing.

His uncle’s suggestions were laid out like a campaign strategy: exploit Sir Thomas’s efforts for public sympathy, position the residents of Netherfield as pitiable beneficiaries of Darcy’s intervention, and frame the entire endeavor as a testament to his leadership and moral vision. It was a carefully constructed path to influence—a path that led straight through the lives and dignity of others.

He set the letter aside, his fingers drumming briefly on the desk as his thoughts churned. Once, not so long ago, he might have entertained such a plan. He had been raised to see influence as power and power as duty, with appearances the currency of his world.

And his uncle was right—he did not hold universal appeal for the voters of Derbyshire. There were no large industrial cities where the allure of his business acumen would draw support. And the gentlemen farmers, the wealthy and powerful, would be naturally prejudiced against him for blurring the lines between trade and gentility. He would need some… some device, as it were, to succeed.

Even now, the temptation lingered. His uncle’s argument was persuasive, and Darcy could imagine how easily such a strategy might yield success.

But the cost—it was too clear now. He thought of Sir Thomas, whose work had already been maligned by those who refused to see the value in helping people rebuild their lives. To turn those people into mere symbols, tools for political gain, was not just an insult to Sir Thomas’s vision—it was a betrayal.

Darcy leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting to the window as he imagined what she would say. Elizabeth, with her sharp eyes and unwavering principles. She would see through any such maneuver in an instant. Her approval—no, her respect—was something he valued more than he had ever thought possible. And she would never forgive him for such a calculated exploitation of others, nor would he deserve it.

He rose abruptly, pacing the room. His boots barely stirred the thick carpet, but his thoughts were louder than any steps. His uncle’s letter had awakened memories he rarely allowed himself to visit: the day he told his father he intended to back Bingley in his ventures. His father’s face had been thunderous, the disapproval as cutting as it had been predictable. “ Trade?” The word had come out like a curse.

Darcy knew even then that his father saw it as a betrayal of everything the Darcy name represented. He could still hear the words ringing in his ears: “You are the head of Pemberley, Fitzwilliam. Your duties are clear. Or have you forgotten your place entirely?”

But there had been no forgetting the debt he owed Bingley—a debt no amount of wealth or lands or even family honor could erase. Bingley had pulled Darcy from the wreckage in Paris, risking his own life to save him when all seemed lost. To turn his back on that would have been to turn his back on honor itself. He had chosen loyalty to a friend over obedience to his father, and the price had been estrangement from the home he loved.

Years had passed since then, and in those years, Darcy had seen both the best and worst of his world. He had watched men of standing manipulate their reputations to shield themselves from accountability, using appearances as armor against consequence. He had also seen men of modest means rise above their circumstances, driven by nothing more than grit and character.

And now, his uncle asked him to step back into that gilded cage, to play the game of appearances at the expense of those who needed help most. To use the people of Netherfield as pawns, to turn their struggles into a spectacle for his own benefit—it was a bitter echo of the values he had spent years rejecting.

Darcy exhaled slowly, his decision forming with unshakable clarity. His gaze settled on the letter from his uncle one final time. Indeed, he had been thinking, rather recently, too, that politics might be the next logical step for him. Who but he had so utterly bridged both spheres of aristocracy and trade? He could speak to things no other could, and could understand matters that others had never conceived. He knew what must be done, and he knew how to make it happen.

But his uncle’s idea of success—prestige, influence, appearances, and all he would have to do to achieve it—felt hollow now. Darcy wanted something better. He wanted something meaningful.

He wanted Elizabeth.

And for the first time, he understood exactly what that meant. It was not about winning her favor with grand gestures or noble intentions—it was about becoming the kind of man who deserved her partnership. A man whose name would stand not for vanity, but for genuine good.

Darcy dipped his pen in ink and began a reply to his uncle. It would be brief, polite, and resolute. There would be no campaign for office, no manipulation of public sentiment. There was work to be done—work that mattered. And Darcy would see it through.

E lizabeth stood at her wardrobe, her hands trembling and her throat tight as she folded a wool shawl into her trunk. She refused to let herself falter, though every fold of fabric felt heavier than the last. Jane’s quiet footsteps padded across the room behind her, but Elizabeth didn’t turn. She knew what was coming—what had been coming since she’d mentioned her plans to leave for London.

“Elizabeth,” Jane said, her voice gentle but insistent, “you cannot mean to go now.”

“I do mean it. I had a letter from Aunt Gardiner this morning. She wishes for my assistance with their Christmas party, and I agreed to go.”

Jane stepped closer. “But why now? What about the Netherfield party? You were just as much a part of planning this as anyone else. More so, even. Do you not care how much we all need you? How important this is?”

Elizabeth snapped the trunk lid shut and latched it with finality. “I am certain everything will carry on perfectly well without me. You, Jane, are more than capable of managing it all. Everyone will be just as charmed and delighted as they expect to be.”

Jane’s brows knit in confusion, her voice tinged with hurt. “Elizabeth, this was partly your idea. You were the one who went to speak with Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley—no one else knows that, but I do. You convinced Papa to lend his approval—you know, without you pushing him, he never would have, and Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley would have found no other inroad into the neighborhood. And now you are walking away, with no explanation other than… Aunt Gardiner’s party?”

Elizabeth froze, her hands on the latch. For a moment, the words she wanted to say surged to the surface. She could not stay here and watch it happen. She could not stand by as he turned everything into a spectacle. But she swallowed them down, forcing her voice to work.

“I need to go, Jane. That is all.”

Jane’s hand closed around Elizabeth’s arm, her grip uncharacteristically firm. “No, that is not all. Elizabeth, please—tell me what has happened. Why would you abandon us now, when we need you most?”

Elizabeth turned, her face impassive but her heart aching at the sight of Jane’s wounded expression. “Jane, what could you possibly need me for? Everything is going exactly as you hoped, is it not? The party is planned, Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley are doing their part, and the town is warming to the idea. It is a triumph. What use am I?”

“Is it Mr. Darcy?”

Elizabeth stiffened, and she could feel the blood draining from her cheeks. “Mr. Darcy…”

“You love him, Lizzy. You love him and you’re terrified to admit it.”

“I…” Her mouth worked. “Wh… why would I be terrified? When have I ever been ‘terrified’ to confess anything?”

“You said it yourself a few nights ago. You thought he was miles beyond the reach of… well, someone like us. He could crook his finger and have all the wealthiest and most beautiful girls in the country swooning at his feet.”

“Well…” Elizabeth turned away to reach for her second-best bonnet on the hook. She did not need another winter bonnet for London, but she could not look Jane in the eye just now. “They are welcome to him.”

“They have no chance with him, and you know it. He has set his eyes on you, Lizzy, and that terrifies you, because you know exactly what sort of man he is. He would make you mistress over a vast estate, not to mention a fortune worthy of nobility… an empire, nearly.”

Elizabeth popped open the lid of her trunk and tried to find a spot to cram that poor bonnet. “You are imagining things, Jane. If Mr. Darcy proposed right now—and I promise you, he never would—I would refuse him.”

Jane’s mouth dropped open. “Lizzy, you cannot mean that! I see the way you look at him, the way—”

“It is over, Jane.” Elizabeth dropped onto her bed and stared at her hands. “There never was anything between us that I did not imagine myself. Now, I am going to go to London for a month, where I shall not be likely to become fancy’s fool.”

Jane hesitated, her lips parting as if searching for the right words. And was that a strange sheen over her eyes? Indeed, it was. Jane was trying to choke back tears. “Lizzy, there…” she stammered, her voice cracking. “There… there is something you do not know. M… Mr. Bingley has asked me for a f-formal courtship. He means to speak to Papa this afternoon.”

Elizabeth’s heart dropped like a stone into her shoes. She stared at her sister, stunned. “Jane, that… why, that is wonderful. Why did you not tell me sooner?”

“I—” Jane flushed, her composure faltering. “I wanted to be sure, but now… now I need you here, Lizzy. I want you by my side in my happiness, just as you have always been. You must stay.”

Elizabeth stepped back, shaking her head as she tried to summon a smile. “Jane, you have everything you need. You have Mr. Bingley, you will have Papa’s approval, and Mama’s delight will surely follow. What more could you possibly require of me?”

Jane’s eyes glistened, her grip tightening. “I need you to help manage Mama, to soothe her excitement. I need you to keep Papa from saying something he should not. I need you , Lizzy. Please, do not go.”

Elizabeth pulled away gently but firmly. “No, Jane. I cannot manage anyone anymore—not Mama, not Papa, not Mr. Darcy, or Mr. Bingley, or Sir Thomas, or any of it. Look where my meddling has got me. I have no wish to repeat the mistake.”

Jane frowned, her brow furrowing in confusion. “What mistake? What are you talking about?”

Elizabeth turned back to her trunk, her throat tight as she tried to flatten the contents enough that the lid would close. “Nothing, Jane. Nothing that matters now.”

“It does matter,” Jane insisted, her voice rising slightly. “Elizabeth, please—what mistake? What has happened to you?”

Elizabeth shook her head, refusing to meet her sister’s gaze. “It does not matter. I am leaving in the morning, Jane. That is all there is to say.”

Jane stood there, her hands clenching at her sides. “Elizabeth, I do not understand you. I cannot—” She broke off, her voice trembling with frustration. “How can you walk away from everything we have worked for? From me?”

Elizabeth paused, her hands resting on the edge of the trunk. She closed her eyes briefly before turning to face her sister one last time.

“Because, Jane,” she said softly, “I know all will be well. You do not need me anymore.”

Jane’s expression crumpled, but Elizabeth stepped forward and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

“I wish you all the happiness in the world,” she said, her voice trembling despite herself. “Truly, I do.”

Without waiting for a response, Elizabeth turned back to her trunk, her movements deliberate as she folded the last of her things. She could not let Jane see the tears threatening to spill, nor the way her heart ached at the thought of leaving her sister behind. But she could not stay. Not when the truth shattered her faith in the one man she had thought above reproach.