RED

Darcy felt his shoulder shaking, and someone whispering. "Mr. Darcy?"

His eyes gradually opened. He found the sun had gone down. He seemed to be covered in a blanket and as he blearily looked around, he found Mrs. Price shaking him awake.

"Mr. Darcy, you feel asleep."

He came awake suddenly and looked down to his lap in panic, but she said, "Miriam is fine, sir. She fell asleep with you, and we took her to her bed an hour ago," then she smiled a bit, and continued, "all is well."

Darcy enjoyed the way she said it. It sounded like an offhand observation, completely devoid of pretense or ambition. Whatever the cause for her usual reticence, it seemed to be diminished that evening. She obviously trusted him if she was willing to allow Miriam to pick and choose his company when the child wanted.

He shook his head, looked at the table where the book he had been reading was stacked neatly with the others. "I apologize for my indolence Mrs. Price."

"Do not be, sir. It was," then she paused a bit. "It was sweet, actually. Miriam seems to have taken a liking to you, and I find I can deny her nothing. She would be the most spoiled child in the world if her mother was not stricter."

Darcy smiled. "I see it is past closing time. I will get out of your hair."

She paused a moment. "I am about to have supper, Mr. Darcy. Miriam's parents are away for the evening, and our maid is looking after Miriam, so I fear it is only me. It is simple fare, but you are welcome to join me if you like."

Darcy smiled. "It would be my greatest pleasure, Mrs. Price."

She smiled in return. "If your standards are that low, I supposed we can satisfy."


The meal of venison, vegetables, bread and butter was indeed simple, but excellent fare. A bottle of Spanish wine completed the effect, and both participants may have had one more glass than was wise. They talked so agreeably of Scotland and England, of travelling and staying at home, of new books and music, that Amanda had never been half so well entertained in that room before.

A thought suddenly struck Darcy, and he paused to think about it for a moment.

His silence caused his companion's brow to furrow, and she said, "Why so pensive, Mr. Darcy?"

"Nothing bad, I assure you. It just struck me that …" and then he went silent to think about what had struck him, and finally he continued, "… I do not think I have ever had such an agreeable conversation before."

She shook her head. "That does not speak well of either your conversational skills, or where you look for companions. Do you normally hide from intelligent women?"

"No, ever since –" but then he paused in confusion.

"You need not shy away from mentioning your wife Mr. Darcy. You are safe enough here. In fact, I would posit that your safety here is the primary reason for your willingness to speak openly."

Confused, he asked, "How so?"

"It is simple enough. You are safe here, and somewhere in your head, you have made that assessment without quite being aware of it. You are accustomed to spending time around women who are married and will usually only seek a fraction of your attention, women who are marriageable who want all of it, or women with daughters, friends, nieces who are marriageable who are somewhere in the middle. I believe you probably spend quite a lot of your life on guard, looking over your shoulder so to speak."

He looked at her skeptically, so she said, "Of course, that is all supposition, but that is how things would normally go with an unmarried man of your stature. However, the position of a widow is a special case, that you are probably not accustomed to."

"I do not quite understand. Widows usually want to remarry, so they seem more like older and perhaps wiser versions of the marriageable ladies of your example."

Amanda sighed. "That is understandable enough of an attitude, but it lacks subtlety. They are older, perhaps wiser, but they are frequently women with more choices. In those cases, they are often not as anxious. There are widows, like me, who have no ambitions toward matrimony. We are more like the married women who do not need or even particularly want your attention. You just need to find us. It is not that hard once you know what you are looking for. That is why you feel safe here. Because you are. You know, even if you could not state it, that I want an occasional dinner companion, a critical reader, perhaps a reasonable amount of profit and nothing more."

Curiously he asked, "You do not plan to remarry?"

She shrugged. "Perhaps – someday in the very far future – but at the moment, I have a difficult time picturing it. I like being a widow, and have a very difficult time imagining any other state?"

Darcy just looked at her confusedly, so she continued, "I see you do not understand. Do not fret. It is not a shortcoming, just a point of view you have never had to consider."

"I would be obliged if you explained it to me."

Amanda, probably unwisely, poured the last of the wine into their glasses. "Widowhood is actually the most powerful state for women in our society, Mr. Darcy, or at least, it is in more enlightened places. You see …"

She drank from the wine, and continued, "… You obviously worked out that I was born a gentlewoman, I assume?"

Darcy nodded. "I did the first day, but I assume that is akin to a schoolboy being proud he could write his name."

"Yes, not exactly a difficult thing to decipher. I could disguise the accent and mannerisms if I wanted to, but I believe they help sales, so I make no effort."

Darcy nodded. "Go on."

"In our society, women are raised with expectations, and they are frankly, not very exciting. We must learn the dreaded accomplishments, most of which, with the possible exception of music, are basically worthless after marriage. How many purses, cushions or tables do you need?"

Darcy nodded, having come to the same conclusion years before, although he had made his sister learn all the accomplishments just like her father would have, because it was the done thing.

Amanda said, "We start out being under the exclusive control of our fathers, who have iron-clad control over every aspect of our lives. Eventually, if all goes well, we become the property of the highest bidder in the marriage market."

The words rang of bitterness, and Darcy wondered exactly where it came from. Her husband, whom she had not mentioned once in the three months Darcy had known her, probably had something (or more likely everything) to do with it, but he was unwilling to ask directly.

She shrugged. "All of our lives are constrained by the men who hold themselves above us. You can have no concept of what that feels like – to be entirely powerless – to have, essentially no control over your own life. Your sister might, but you cannot. "

Darcy was getting a sinking feeling that he was not the only bad husband in the world, and Mr. Price was probably no prize either.

He said, "Was your –"

She shrugged, understanding the implied question, and said somewhat unwisely, "He may have well been a good man, but whatever goodness he may have had was well hidden from me. He did not do anything terrible as some husbands are want to do, but he did not treat me well either."

"What happened?" he asked, wondering if he was lurching into the proverbial quicksand.

She shrugged. "The usual. We struck an agreement – 'till death us do part'. It ended as per the contract, and then I was a widow."

Darcy assumed she was leaving a lot of the middle pieces out. "What about widowhood do you find appealing then?"

She brightened considerably. "Everything! I can own property! I can make my own business! I can enter into my own agreements! If I make some money, I can spend it the way I want! If I fail to make some money, I can starve on my own stupidity and indolence!" then she laughed a bit, continuing, "I can have dinner with another widower without raising eyebrows, which would admittedly be truly scandalous if either of us were not widowed."

"Yes, that is true."

"I can assure you that if you have a modest amount of money, almost everything about widowhood beats marriage or maidenhood. I came away with enough money to live simply without doing any work at all, but work gives live meaning, do you not think?"

Darcy thought for a while and said, "Work is one thing that can give life meaning, but I do not believe it to be the only thing. Marriage and children can, in the right situation give you immense meaning. I have found that doing good works has its own satisfaction. There are any number of ways to do so, but I see that makes your point for you. If you are capable of prosperity on your own, then widowhood gives you the choice to find meaning as you will."

"Now you have it," she said in some satisfaction. "Oh, and I agree about the good works. I also engage in my own and those take money but give immense satisfaction."

He thought a minute. "All the same, it seems a path that would eventually lead to loneliness. Would it not be better to face life with a strong partner? To have someone with you if you are ill, or frightened? Someone to age and grow old with? Someone to raise children with?"

She said, "Have you ever seen a couple that is truly happy in their marriage."

"Several!" he said, and then hoped she would not demand he name them.

The rapidity of the response surprised her, and Amanda said, "I know a few, I suppose. Before my marriage I knew exactly one. I did not increase that total with my own. I have met several couples during my widowhood who seem very content – perhaps, even love is not a mirage, although it does not seem like either you or I have ever experienced anything remotely like it."

Darcy sighed. "I let it slip through my fingers like sand. I feel like I could have had it, but …"

Amanda walked to a shelf and returned with another bottle of wine. "English, I fear."

Darcy opened and poured, but then she suggested they move to a pair of chairs set beside a fire that was presently burning low. It was the middle of the summer, but she explained that there had been a rain shower while he was asleep, and her cook had laid in a fire against the evening chill.

Once they were settled in, Amanda said, "… but, Mr. Darcy. I believe you were speaking of sand and fingers? You need not tell me what happened. You are a widower like me, although every other aspect of your life is different."

"Such as?"

"Such as marriage, for example. I can marry, and as owner of a prosperous shop, I have plenty of choices. You must marry and should have years ago. If I do not marry, this little shop is the only thing that will be affected, and the half‑dozen people that rely on me will need to have been taken care of. If you do not marry, hundreds, perhaps thousands of people would be affected. You have a long family history that must be passed whole and complete to your son. I have four years of history that I can do with as I will. Our situations are very different."

"Yes, I suppose that is true. I also have more freedom of movement, I suppose."

"Obviously. May I ask a delicate question?"

Darcy was surprised by the tone of her query, as if he had been speaking to Mrs. Price through a wall for three months, and she had opened a small window so they could face each other.

He surprised himself by saying, "You may ask me anything you like, Mrs. Price, and I will do my best to answer."

"What happened?"

Darcy settled back into the comfortable chair and reflected that this bookshop contained far more comfortable chairs than all of Rosings combined before Bingley and Anne took charge.

He thought a minute, and finally said, "My marriage was forced. I later learned that it was more forced for my wife than for me. She actually tried to run away – twice!"

"Go on," Mrs. Price said guardedly, which did not surprise Darcy in the least. He had just admitted that he seemed a very bad prospect and was probably not a man she should be feeling all that comfortable with.

He dragged his attention back five years to the time of his greatest failure. "She was unsuccessful, but I knew nothing about that until much later – after she left, in fact. I may have mentioned I went to France right after the wedding?"

"Yes, I believe you went to ransom your cousin, the current Earl of Matlock, and you became ill?"

Darcy sighed, remembering the sheer hopelessness that descended on him when he returned to Pemberley. "That was in the part of the war where mail service was non‑existent, and the French were being particularly strict about it. It was just before the invasion of Russia. The British Navy was blockading France, and nothing but privateers and smugglers got through. I sent her five letters all told, but not even one arrived before she left."

"Did you treat her badly, then?"

"Yes, I," then he found his hand shaking a bit, even after all these years. "I did not beat or starve her, but I did something almost as bad. I distrusted her. I ignored her. I humiliated her. I am not the least bit surprised she left. It turned out that …"

He sat thinking what he wanted to say, and finally continued, "… I think both of us were not quite serious when we made our vows. We both gave them provisionally, even though that goes against the spirit of the whole thing."

"I was not aware there were provisional vows."

"There are not, but we did it anyway. She gave me six months to say one kind word."

"That seems fair," Amanda said, and Darcy looked at her carefully before replying, "more than fair," with a shrug.

Darcy said, "Mine was more nefarious. I mostly ignored her and vowed that I would do whatever I had to do to make her into an acceptable wife upon my return, little knowing that I was the one in need of reformation."

"People seldom change other people, Mr. Darcy. Change must come from within."

"Yes, it was a stupid plan. It was arrogant and foolhardy. I think the last words she ever said to me were what, at the time, I considered an assassination of my character, but they turned out to be an assessment – a frightfully accurate one at that."

"And yet, you are not the man you were – or if you are, you hide it well. What happened between then and now to transform you?"

Darcy sighed. "Her death was odd, and frankly, somewhat suspicious. She died in a place where her body could not be recovered, where she should not have been in the first place, traveling to a place she should not have known about, to find a husband she despised."

Amanda said, "Perhaps all that is true, Mr. Darcy, but it sounds more like bitterness."

Darcy shrugged. "Naturally, I did not know whether to believe it or not. I thought it could well be a ruse – a very good one, but a ruse nonetheless – so I investigated."

"I would assume no less. What did you learn?"

Darcy thought she seemed far more interested in that answer than previous ones, but he thought it could just as well have been the wine, since he was not operating at exactly peak capacity.

"I followed it up for months. I spent half of my mourning period quietly investigating. I wanted to know beyond a shadow of a doubt exactly what happened. The witnesses seemed credible, but most of them were inconveniently absent. The ship she was on was on a Clipper Route, which goes South to New Zealand, then across the South Atlantic, around the Cape of Good Hope, up to the American cities, and finally back to England. It was to be gone for a year or more. Two of the witnesses were servants from Pemberley, but they used some money my wife left them to emigrate. I tracked them to Philadelphia, but they disappeared westward after that. "

"Hardly surprising when their mistress was killed on their watch, I would think. More than one of your social class would start searching around for scapegoats, they would be particularly vulnerable, and it sounds like you left them little reason to just trust in your forbearance. It is interesting that they had enough money for that though."

"Yes, my wife engineered a very clever scheme to make several thousand pounds. She left them enough to reasonably set themselves up for life."

"Interesting."

"Yes, interesting. You can probably see why I found it so convenient. Elizabeth was stuck at my estate for six months, but I, much to my shame, did not allow her to be a proper mistress. She, very cleverly in my opinion, pretended to be in mourning so she would not be very well known. She spent a lot of time with the two lowest ranked servants in the house, and then took them with her. I never met either of them. She knew the housekeeper, the butler, my stable master and a few others moderately well, but never spent a lot of time with any of them. It was as if –"

He faltered, wondering if he was going to start wallowing in guilt, but Amanda helped him out.

"It sounds as she was holding herself in reserve. Not allowing herself to become a part of the estate or vice-versa until she was certain it was her place. Keep in mind you could have easily put her aside, stuck her in a cabin in the woods, or anything else you wanted. Perhaps, her place in your life was, as you said about the vows, 'provisional'."

Darcy sighed. "Yes, it was provisional, and when the probation period ended, she set out to force the issue. She left at the end of six months, to the minute."

"Was she capable of actually finding you? Had the accident not occurred; would she have been successful? What makes you so certain she was not genuine in her efforts?"

Darcy had thought about that a lot that first year, so he answered immediately. "Yes, I believe she could have found me. She would have been too late, but absent the accident, she could have found I had been there and gone without a lot of effort from Porto."

He thought about it a moment more, and continued, "I eventually found the man who was escorting her and sent me the news of her death – a Mr. Baker. He was normally a thief catcher – the same man who returned her to her father – twice."

"Yes, you mentioned that. It would seem your wife was particularly inept at escape."

"No, I think not. I think Mr. Baker was very-very good, and he admitted that he was lucky both times."

Amanda looked thoughtful. "Mr. Baker seems a man with a certain, how can I say it, moral flexibility."

Darcy grunted. "That he does. I even asked him about it, and he described his personal code of ethics to me. I expected it to be purely avaricious, but it was more nuanced than that. When he takes a case, he gives absolute loyalty to the client for the duration of the job, but apparently there are limits. He would not allow me to engage him to investigate my wife because he still considered himself loyal to her mission, even though she was dead. He said her death in no way removed any obligation to her – it simply transferred that loyalty to her memory."

"That seems a peculiar place to draw the line."

Darcy sighed. "A man like that has to either be completely amoral or work out some sort of code of conduct. He could well have brought people back to things they did not deserve, with my wife being a perfect example, so he had to have some guiding principle, even if he had to bend his logic in half to follow it, I think. If he worshipped only money, it would be easy, but I got the idea he was more subtle than that."

"Interesting."

"It was Mr. Baker who convinced me to accept my wife's death."

Amanda leaned forward. "Did you really accept it, Mr. Darcy. You seemed quite convinced I was your wife that first day. Do you still harbor such delusions? If so, it would make me very nervous."

Darcy looked over and gave his companion the respect of seriously considering her question before answering. "I am beyond that, Mrs. Price. You still remind me of her in many ways, when you let down your guard a moment. You have her humor, you match or best her in intelligence, you look more like her than her sisters do," then he chuckled and added, "to be honest, you seem to match her in pure grit. Having said that, I appreciate you, Mrs. Price – you for yourself, not for your similarities to her. If I may be so bold as to say so, I would like to consider you a friend."

She stared at him for some moments, and finally said, "Very well, Mr. Darcy. You may have my friendship gladly."

He smiled, and they touched their wine glasses together in a toast to friendship.

They sat for a moment in companionable silence, and finally, Amanda said, "Now that we are friends Mr. Darcy, I suppose I should push you along a little."

"Along in what?"

Amanda thought for a few minutes, and asked, "Are you absolutely certain you are past your wife's passing?"

Darcy pondered a moment, and finally said, "I suppose there was the last little thread holding on. I remember when I stopped searching for her. It was actually Baker who convinced me."

"How so?" she asked curiously.

Darcy thought back to that time almost five years earlier. "I can remember his logic well – in fact, I can remember his exact words. He said, 'Your wife seems to have paid a high price for your freedom, Mr. Darcy. Do you intend to disrespect her memory by throwing it all away?'"

He stared in the fire, while Amanda just waited to see what he would say. He seemed to be lost in his own head, so she eventually said, "Was that all?"

Shaking his head, Darcy said, "Oh, no – the man was relentless. He said, 'There are two possibilities, sir. She is dead or she is not. If the former, then nobody should be silly enough to pine away for her longer than necessary, as death is the final curtain, the time when all debts are paid, the one thing that cannot be undone. But just for a moment, let us just suppose that it was an elaborate ruse. That she is not dead. That I am not trustworthy – a fair enough assessment, as I would not trust me if I were you.'"

Amanda laughed. "I am not certain I would either. Was that all?"

Darcy smiled a bit, and continued, "Not by half. He said, 'If it was some sort of elaborate ruse, then Mrs. Darcy consciously and deliberately decided it was worth a lifetime without protection, worth throwing you and her family into a profound state of guilt and grief for however long it would take them to get over it – all so she could give you the freedom you do not truly in my humble opinion deserve. If she had the funds you claim she does, she could, with considerably less effort have left you a note saying she was abandoning you, and sailed to Ireland, or Canada, or just about anywhere in the world, and disappeared so thoroughly even I could not find her. For a few hundred pounds she could acquire a new name with unassailable heritage and a written backtrail. It is easier than you might think, and she would have been done. If she did perform this elaborate ruse, it was entirely to your benefit, and her detriment.'"

Amanda stared at him a moment. "That is an …" then paused a moment, thought about it, and added, "… entirely accurate description, I would think."

Darcy nodded. "I wanted to lash out at him, at the world, at myself, but eventually I decided to honor her last wishes. I have been trying to do that. I reformed my character, improved my manners – I daresay you would hardly recognize me if you had known me then. I have even been searching for a wife."

Amanda laughed. "A man like you – rich and handsome – I would say if you have been searching for a wife, you have not been putting much effort into it."

He chuckled. "Perhaps it is harder than it sounds."

Amanda was, at that moment unfortunately sipping on her wine, which left her coughing up a storm.

When she finally got herself under good regulation, she said, "You make things too complicated, sir."

"What do you mean?"

She sighed. "You are an intelligent man, but sometimes intelligence works against us. We think simple things should be complicated, when really, they are not."

"Elaborate."

"It is very simple, Mr. Darcy. You need first and foremost to decide what you are going to do. There are few things more powerful than an unambiguous decision. It sounds to me like you never quite let go of the last bit of your marriage. It is time to put your past behind you."

He thought a few minutes, and finally replied, "All right – I will accept that premise."

"After that, sir, it is all rather simple. Go to a ball. Dance with a lady. Converse with her during the dance. If you like her, ask her to dance again. If that goes well, ask to call on her. If that goes well, invite her for a ball, or meet her at a house party, or somehow find a way to spend more time with her, without raising unreasonable expectations. You want to raise just the amount of expectations that your potential affection warrants. That is trickier than it sounds, but within your capabilities."

Darcy chuckled at the seeming simplicity of the process. Mrs. Price made it sound so simple, but it was his absolute insistence in not raising expectations that was partially responsible for so misunderstanding Elizabeth, but other than that, she was essentially correct. The process was in fact, not complicated at all.

Amanda gave him a moment to catch up, then continued relentlessly. "If things work out well, you ask for a courtship. If that goes well, you ask for her hand. If that goes well, you say the vows and mean every word. If, at any stage of this process, you find you are not suitable, you very politely abandon the effort and try again. Repeat until you are wed. It is really not complicated, Mr. Darcy. You simply need to make a decision and get a start."

Darcy laughed. "It all sounds so simple, Mrs. Price."

"It is sir. Just get a start. Find a ball to attend and get on with it. The unambiguous decision is the key."

Darcy found both of their glasses had only about one drink left, so he held his up in salute and said, "To courtship!"

"To courtship!" Amanda joined, and clinked the glasses together.

After finishing, Darcy said, "I cannot remember a more enjoyable evening, Mrs. Price, but I suppose I should go."

She nodded. "Good night, and good hunting, Mr. Darcy."