Dearest Georgiana,
Please be at ease. I am convinced that I know you well enough to assume that your wish to know the identity of my sister's beau is not born of any malicious desire for gossip. You may also be assured it was not a lack of faith in your discretion that prevented my frankness. Were it my disclosure to make, I should have revealed the particulars to you before now.
Yet contrary to what I have just said, I shall do now what I had not done before. I will leave you in suspense not a moment longer—it was Mr. Bingley.
If I believed there were no external factors influencing the gentleman's regard, I may yet be inclined to silence. Yet, I grow more certain by the day that this is not the case.
Up until the day he left us, Mr. Bingley was nothing less than devoted to my sister. His removal was unexpected, but his total lack of communication seems too much an alteration to be entirely believable. Jane's shame and grief over what she begins to believe was her own misinterpretation of the gentleman's regard has been difficult to witness. She is now plagued by self-doubt and a melancholy so pernicious that I recognize her not at all.
I will admit that I do not know Mr. Bingley intimately and can base my opinions on his character from a mere few months' acquaintance. However, in all that time, he did not give me reason to believe he was a gentleman who would be so open with an affection that he only felt halfheartedly. I must conclude then that something occurred to cause an alteration in his affections.
I lack Jane's trusting nature, for all the good and ill that confession implies. I do not think it a matter of what changed his good opinion so much as whom.
I am now quite certain Caroline Bingley has been deliberately deceitful.
Miss Bingley wrote a letter shortly after the entire party had left, informing us they did not intend to return for the foreseeable future. This, in addition to her discreetly informing Jane after the ball at Netherfield that her brother was in love with you, sowed the first seeds of her despair. Given what you have already told me of your relationship with Mr. Bingley, I am sure you will be as astonished as you are appalled that she should use you in her deception.
In the intervening weeks since his removal, her sorrow has grown, as has my anger.
I flatter myself that I am not an unreasonable woman. Were there some true objection to Jane's character, I am certain I could resign myself to his change of heart, upset though I may be. I know not how to reconcile myself to the idea that anyone could censure my sister.
If it is an argument of financial prudence, I will concede that the gentleman could doubtless find far better-dowered women to serve his purpose. My sisters and I will, unfortunately, bring a negligible amount to the married state.
Yet this was no secret. As in every society in England, the pecuniary and social situation of eligible men and women are spoken of openly. Mr. Bingley could not have been in ignorance of this when he chose to favor her as he did.
Regarding what you heard your brother say about Jane's suitability, I can only assume he had reservations about her lack of social connections and dowry. I will even be liberal enough to own that for a gentleman born of trade, seeking to increase his standing, such advice might be rational had there been no attachment—but it is not the case here. Perhaps you will be angry with me for criticizing your brother, and to you, of all people, but with regards to Mr. Bingley's heart, what authority can he have on the matter? It is a fallacy to believe Mr. Darcy may advise him on such an intimate subject just as he would direct him to rotate his crops or cull his sheep. He hasn't even the experience of being married to give him authority on such matters.
I do not pretend to know Mr. Darcy as you do and can only consider the pain and disappointment I have witnessed here at Longbourn. But I shall say nothing more on this subject. I am in a decidedly ill-humor about the entire affair.
Despite my belief in Mr. Bingley's attachment, I am no longer sure I would desire such a union for Jane. I would not wish her to be married to a man who is so easily dissuaded of her worthiness by the opinions of others. Constancy is the foundation for wedded bliss, and if a man is so easily persuaded away from a woman that he is so obviously in love with, I fear for the longevity of his affection. Although Mr. Bingley is amiable and kind, I would wish for Jane a marriage that is also secure.
It is my opinion that Mr. Bingley's great affability causes him to think less of his own feelings than he ought, and in this case, it is my beloved sister who has suffered for it.
Jane's constancy has not waned, and where Jane loves, it is no trifling thing. Her affectionate heart bears all things with dignity and forbearance. Yet, as she is but a woman, this means little. Women have no agency over their lives and no recourse should a gentleman forsake her with little care and no reason. What more can she do but love, even when it may be in vain?
I believe what would serve Jane best at present would be clarity. As painful as Mr. Bingley's direct admission that he has no intention for her might be, I fear she cannot allow herself the possibility of making a recovery until she knows he either loves her or has given her up. If the gentleman cares for her still, then, fortune notwithstanding, I pray he can be worthy of her.
Jane has left just this morning with my aunt and uncle Gardiner for their home in Cheapside. I know it is her intent to resume her acquaintance with Miss Bingley—for all the good it will do her. I think it is unlikely the Lady in question would wish to maintain the pretense of her friendship now she is returned to London.
Though Miss Bingley was attentive and friendly to my sister in Hertfordshire, she is, at best, uninterested now. Jane says she will make one further attempt to continue the acquaintance by calling on her in Grosvenor Square, yet I worry she will have no qualms about concealing Jane's presence in town from her brother and ending the acquaintance.
Now, I will be forward and ask a favor, though, if you are uncomfortable, I would beg you to pretend I have not asked it at all.
If you have occasion to see Mr. Bingley, would you mention hearing of Jane's being in London? If you have the courage, perhaps you would even tell him of her intention to call on Miss Bingley? Should he still regard her as he once did, I hope that alone would be enough to ensure an opportunity for Jane to see him once more.
Whatever his feelings are now, it would be best for Jane to know them.
I must now conclude so as to make the early post. I will write again when I am at leisure to tell you how delighted I was to read your sketch of your aunt.
Do you recall how we recently despaired of having nothing of import to speak of? Take care not to run afoul of any highwaymen. My hand aches from such furious writing.
Ever your friend,
Elizabeth
On the very next morning, after receiving her letter from Elizabeth, Georgiana found herself seated in the Hurst's newly furnished drawing room in Grosvenor Square. The quiet babble of women's voices now faded to a dull buzz as her eyes traced the swirling pattern woven into the handsome rug beneath her slippers. In threads of claret and gold, the weaver had crafted a multitude of flowers, growing from the smooth arcs of an ornamental vine. She mused idly that it was a shame that such artistry was destined to be forever trodden upon. Mrs. Annesley coughed faintly, and she realized with a covert flick of her eyes in that lady's direction that she had not been attending to the conversation.
She raised her eyes to the room once more and vowed to keep her attention on the task at hand. She owned that, had Fitzwilliam been there, she could have passed the call by observing the barely perceptible symptoms of his annoyance.
Georgiana sipped her tea to cover her momentary lapse and stifled a grimace. It was now both bitter and tepid, its flavor overwhelmed with rather more cream and sugar than anyone would like. This was arguably her own fault, as she had not the assertiveness to contradict her hostess. Especially not when Miss Bingley had proudly declared that she knew just how Georgiana preferred it. She fell back into the conversation, and it was a moment before she realized Caroline Bingley was now arguing the merits of taking a late breakfast with her sister.
"I find that the quality of the fare improves the later it is served," observed Miss Bingley with rather more pomposity than was necessary, given the subject.
"You only say so because you do not awaken before half past ten, no matter what the rest of the house might do," replied Mrs. Hurst waspishly.
"It is exceedingly unfashionable to rise before nine. How does one get enough rest?" laughed Miss Bingley.
"If you dislike the hours that I keep at this house, then perhaps you might consider your own establishment," muttered Mrs. Hurst under her breath.
Caroline did not appear to hear this remark and said, "I seem to recall that when you were younger, you were not so fond of early rising as you seem to be at present. Perhaps it is your condition that has wrought this change in you."
Miss Bingley cast her sister a significant look. Mrs. Hurst's hand came to rest reflexively on her belly as she glowered at her in return.
Though the sisters had usually a harmonious relationship, they seemed at odds this morning.
At the implication of Mrs. Hurst's increasing, Georgiana glanced at Mrs. Annesley for some sign as to how she should respond. However, the older woman looked as pleasantly benign as ever. Despite how much Georgiana now despised Mrs. Younge, she missed that woman's gentle guidance in situations such as this. Fortunately, Mrs. Hurst spared her the trouble by taking control of the situation herself.
"I have not told you my good news, Miss Darcy," said Mrs. Hurst, who was now smiling, her hand resting lightly on her flat stomach in evident satisfaction. "Mr. Hurst and I are anticipating an addition to our family this summer."
Georgiana offered a smile and sincere congratulations.
"I will, of course, be so excessively attentive," said Caroline, at once. "I have been told I have a natural affinity for nurturing."
Georgiana suppressed a snort by taking another sip of her tea, foul though it was.
"I am sure you will be a delightful aunt, Miss Bingley," said Mrs. Annesley politely.
"Yes," said Caroline, though without looking at Mrs. Annesley. "It is said that becoming an aunt is the best way to prepare oneself for motherhood."
"Is Mr. Hurst eager to become a father?" asked Georgiana.
"Yes, I think so," said Mrs. Hurst. "He tells me I may expect a boy. The Hursts have only produced sons for three generations."
Uncharitably, Georgiana hoped they might be blessed with a daughter. She did not like Mr. Hurst, for he was a loud and arrogant man who always smelled rather potently of drink and who occasionally leered at her bosom when he thought no one was looking.
"How good it is to have such assurance already!" cried Caroline. "I should be so embarrassed were I to have only daughters."
Georgiana had come to Grosvenor Square seeking an opportunity to speak discreetly with Mr. Bingley. Elizabeth's request had spurred her to action and emboldened her to make one of her very first social calls in her brother's absence. She was disappointed to realize soon after her arrival that the gentleman was not currently home. It would have been the height of rudeness to turn around and leave at once – as much as she desired to do so. Now impatient to be gone, Georgiana ventured to ask, "Where is your brother this morning, Miss Bingley?"
"Oh, I know not exactly. I am sure he has affairs to resolve before he travels to Hertfordshire on the morrow," said Caroline. "I am certain he would have been here had he known that you were calling."
Georgiana ducked her head to hide her panicked expression. If he intended to leave for Hertfordshire, she would have no opportunity to deliver her message before he was out of reach. Georgiana considered speaking to her brother about the entire affair, but the thought made her uncomfortable.
"Your brother is too kind," Georgiana said quietly.
"You are very dear to us, Miss Darcy, as I am sure you know," said Mrs. Hurst.
"To all of us," emphasized Caroline.
Georgiana's mind returned to Elizabeth's words, 'Given what you have already told me of your relationship with Mr. Bingley, I am sure you will be as astonished as you are appalled that she should use you in her deception.'
Her chest tightened in annoyance. Miss Bingley was yet another person who considered her as a means to an end, and she could not like it.
"You flatter me, Mrs. Hurst, Miss Bingley," said Georgiana, burying her resentment behind civility. The conversation carried on without her for a time until she felt she could bear it no longer.
"I must thank you both for your hospitality," said Georgiana abruptly, "but I believe it is time for me to return home before my brother wonders what has become of me."
"Oh yes, of course!" cried Miss Bingley, quickly mastering her surprise.
As they rose to curtsey, Mrs. Annesley cast her charge a wary glance before saying her own adieus.
A moment later, when they were alone in the hall, Georgiana turned to her companion with an apologetic look. "Was it very rude of me to leave so suddenly?"
"Not uncivil, necessarily, but certainly not proper," replied Mrs. Annesley. "Even so, I must say you did well today. I am glad to see you exert yourself – even when you may not wish to."
Georgiana lowered her head in acknowledgment.
Just before they rounded the corner that led to the grand foyer, a glance through a half-open doorway made her catch her breath in surprise. The brief impression was of a young man stooped over a desk, a familiar head of wheat gold hair catching the morning light from a window beyond. She knew that head.
It belonged to Mr. Bingley.
The pounding of Georgiana's heart resonated like a drum in her chest, filling her with a mix of trepidation and determination as she deliberated on her course of action. Gathering her courage, she subtly tucked one of her gloves into her reticule, letting out a small shaking breath.
As the servants began helping them into their outer things. Georgiana moved to take this last precious opportunity.
With a nervous titter of surprise, Georgiana held up her hands to Mrs. Annesley, displaying one bare and one gloved hand. With a timid smile, she said, "I seem to have mislaid one of my gloves. It must have fallen out in the drawing room. Pray, excuse me for a moment."
Without waiting for a reply, Georgiana dipped into a curtsey and turned to make her way back in the direction from whence she had come. As she rounded the corner, which mercifully shielded her from Mrs. Annesley's hawk-like vision, she scanned the vacant hallway before slipping quietly into the room. As her eyes took in what was clearly a small but handsome study, she was dismayed to note the gentleman was no longer standing over the desk in the center of the room. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she pressed the door closed behind her. A low, reverberating groan issued from it, seeming far louder than it ought to be.
"Miss Darcy!" cried a surprised voice from a partially obscured window alcove.
As she whirled to face the person who addressed her, she clapped her gloved hand to her mouth.
"Mr. Bingley!" she gasped in shock.
"I had not expected to see you, er, in here," he said, in abject confusion, "I understood from the housekeeper that you and Mrs. Annesley were in the drawing room with my sisters."
"Yes, I was. We were just leaving. That is to say, I was just leaving. . .."
Mr. Bingley gaped at her, clearly unsure of how to respond to this.
"I must apologize for not attending you this morning," he said at length. "I came back shortly after you arrived, but I'm told I have been rather poor company of late."
On this occasion, his appearance was tidy and well-groomed, yet there was still the palpable heaviness about him, which was at odds with his usual boyish charm. His eyes drifted down to her hands. Georgiana laughed nervously as she hastily removed her lone glove, eyes falling to the floor. She must not lose her nerve now.
"Miss Bingley says you are for Netherfield on the morrow?"
"Er. . . yes. I must settle my affairs there. I am expected to tender a purchase offer for the estate or give up the lease, and I feel I should go there to make my final decision."
Georgiana took a large gulp of air, conscious of how loud her voice sounded as she said, "I do not think you ought to go to Hertfordshire."
As the words lingered awkwardly between them for a time, Mr. Bingley seemed taken aback.
"Excuse me?" Bingley said in frank bewilderment.
Georgiana squeezed her eyes tightly closed as she took another deep breath.
"Sir, I think you would do better to stay here. . . for. . . for now."
"You think I should stay in London?"
"Yes," she said, tugging her glove through her fingers nervously.
"Miss Darcy, I do not think I understand. Of what significance is my going to Hertfordshire to you?"
Georgiana felt her stomach clench. Now. She must say it now.
"Mr. Bingley, I know it is highly improper for me, a young woman – who is not even out in society – to offer such a wholly unsolicited opinion to a gentleman of means and sense. Yet, I cannot in good conscience be silent. I have come to learn that Jane Bennet is in London even now. She intends to call on you. . . that is to say, she intends to call on Miss Bingley. That is why I do not think you should remove from London. I believe Miss Bingley knows Jane will come, for Miss Bennet has written to her. Yet, I was not sure if you knew."
She raised her eyes in time to see the color draining from Bingley's face as he absorbed this news. He stared through her, too dazed to be coherent. At length, he said, "No. No, I did not."
"I am told that she was heartbroken by your very abrupt departure from Netherfield," Georgiana informed him quietly.
The incredulity in his gaze made her drop her eyes to the floor. When he at last ceased studying her, he began to pace the floor, rubbing his jaw in clear agitation. A long minute ticked by as Georgiana, in painful anticipation, wondered whether it was joy or pain that caused such disquiet.
When he finally turned back to her, his expression unreadable, "Did Darcy tell you of this?"
"My brother has spoken nothing of this to me."
"How—? Did my sister—?" He broke off when he saw Georgiana's small shake of the head.
Still fidgeting with the glove in her hand, she said, "I have been corresponding with Miss Elizabeth Bennet for several months. It was she who first told me of her sister's low spirits in her letters. It was not until recently that I began to suspect the lady's disappointment coincided with your return to London. But, when you called on us. . . Mr. Bingley, please forgive me for saying so, but you truly looked very ill."
Bingley opened his mouth, perhaps to protest, but closed it without a word.
"I know it is improper of me to interfere," Georgiana pleaded, "but pray do not blame Elizabeth for my presumption. You. . . you looked so ill. . . and I. . . I thought I might. . ."
Bingley cut her off with a small snort of laughter. "You are a Darcy, through and through, are you not?"
Georgiana bowed her head, uncertain how she should feel about his proclamation.
"I ought not to have interfered, but I hope—"
Bingley cut her apology short with a wave of his hand, "No, no. I am grateful for your timely intelligence, but I cannot understand how a girl of sixteen can be so damnably clever. I say! I think you might be your brother's superior in that regard."
Georgiana's eyes shot up at the compliment, just in time to see a barely perceptible smile creasing the corners of his eyes. Relief coursed through her at his softened mien, making her legs feel suddenly unsteady.
"I begin to think I have been seeking advice from the wrong Darcy all this time! If I do purchase Netherfield, may I come to you with my questions, Miss Darcy? I cannot decide if your brother would be hurt by my preference – or consider it a triumph by his tutelage?"
"I beg you would not tell my brother, sir. I fear he will not like that I took part at all."
"If you insist." He shrugged before casting her a strange look. "Will you tell me now how you know Elizabeth Bennet?"
The corner of Georgiana's mouth ticked up as she said, "My brother asked her if she would exchange letters with me. He thought I would like her and that her correspondence would cheer me."
Bingley shook his head, muttering,"He is unfathomable. Well, if her conversation on paper is as lively as it is in person, I am sure it has."
Georgiana realized with a start that she had left Mrs. Annesley in the hall, awaiting her immediate return. She quickly dropped a curtsey, saying, "If you will excuse me, , I must go before I am missed."
"Wait!" he said, throwing his hand out to still her. "Miss Bennet – where is she staying?"
"With her aunt and uncle in Cheapside, I believe. But I am afraid that is all I know."
Bingley clasped her hand firmly between his, saying with great warmth and sincerity, "Thank you."
She flashed him a smile before hurrying to the door. She turned the corner into the passageway and began rummaging through her reticule distractedly when she collided heavily with a soft but solid someone approaching from the opposite direction.
"Oof," said Miss Bingley in quiet surprise.
"Miss Bingley!" cried Georgiana. "I am so sorry. I was not attending! I did not hurt you, did I?"
Caroline reordered her composure quickly. "I am well, Miss Darcy," she said, peering curiously over Georgiana's shoulder at the door she had just exited. Georgiana gave an inward grimace at the slow, sly smile that was growing on the other woman's face.
"I was just informed that my brother had returned home. Perhaps you would like to extend your visit for another half-hour?"
"I thank you for your kind invitation, Miss Bingley, but I am afraid I cannot."
"Well, I am glad you saw him, at the very least," said Caroline, raising her eyebrow with a smirk.
"I. . ." said Georgiana, who was certain that her blush could deepen no further. Georgiana could think of nothing to say, and so with an ease that surprised her, a falsehood came readily to her lips. "I wanted to apologize to your brother for how rudely I spoke when you last called at Darcy House. I should not have let my emotions overcome my decorum."
Miss Bingely's smile faltered. Until this moment, her tactic had been to pretend that nothing had happened between them.
"Oh, I know you too well to credit it," said Miss Bingley. "I'm sure you were overtired. . . or perhaps concerned for what your brother must have endured in such a society."
"Yes, I am sure you are right," she said. "I wanted to apologize to you privately and saw no opportunity. When I saw your brother, I thought I might communicate my remorse through him."
Although her words to Miss Bingley on that occasion afflicted her not a jot, she could not abide the thought that such a scheming woman would think of her seeking a covert meeting with her brother.
"I thank you for your consideration," said Miss Bingley, "but I'm sure there was no need."
At that moment, Miss Annesley appeared down the hall.
"I was just coming to see if you had found your glove, Miss Darcy," she said, with her usual dignified ease.
"Yes!" she said quickly, holding up the pair and darting a brief look at Miss dipped into a polite courtesy and excused herself, "Good day, Miss Bingley."
She stepped past Miss Bingley to fall in behind the thin, erect frame of Miss Annesley, the tint on her cheeks lingering.
Nephew,
I hope you are well.
There is certainly no reason to delay your visit to Kent. I cannot abide anyone who will not keep an obligation that is so long-standing as ours. You will, of course, come as planned at Easter, for I have need of you for a very particular reason this time; my steward has died.
I was exceedingly displeased by the entire affair, as he really need not have succumbed at all. Parker would not heed the advice I gave him regarding afflictions of the lungs. As it happens, had he not died, I likely should have dismissed him for spurning my excellent recommendations. I believe it is a mark of great sensibility to heed the advice of those with superior judgment. It showed an appalling lack of intelligence and must have made him eminently ill-suited to his position. I told his widow as much when she came to receive my condolences the other day.
Mrs. Parker is to be pitied, for she told me she will remove from Kent the week after next to live with her son and his wife in Manchester. It is a shame, for the entire county is such an appalling place. I told her she ought not to go. I insisted she write to her son and request him to take the Forager cottage near the mill. She would certainly not have any occasion for extravagance in her current circumstance, and certainly no reason to expect visitors, so the lack of bedrooms and drawing rooms could be of no concern to her.
My advice is to go unheeded yet again, however. She informs me her plans are now quite settled, and she cannot be convinced to reconsider.
Now, to my own immediate concerns – I will need you to come as planned at Easter to help ensure that a new steward can be engaged and trained to my satisfaction before spring planting begins. I have better ways to engage my time than managing the concerns of farmers. No lady of my station could take on such an office – it would be regarded as highly improper and is certainly beneath my dignity. If one cannot be had by the time the sowing begins, I shall be obliged to forward any of these particular concerns to you until such a time as a new Steward is satisfactorily installed in the post.
I have other things I would discuss with you, but they shall keep until we are together.
Anne sends her regards. She is, as you know, eagerly anticipating your visit. As am I, for her health and spirits are never so good as when she is with you.
You need not write to Richard. I have already written to tell him we will keep to the original arrangement.
Your loving aunt,
Lady Catherine de Bourgh
Darcy tossed the missive aside with a look of revulsion. His Aunt Catherine was utterly indefensible. He had never encountered any person, let alone a dowager, as bull-headed and stout in her worth as Lady Catherine de Bourgh. She was now firmly of an age when most would naturally soften to gentle humility and compassion; the reflective age brought on, doubtless, by the relative nearness of a mortal end. Such realizations taught most to consider the higher importance of legacy over self-worth – yet Darcy knew that this was never to be Lady Catherine's fate.
With the passing of years, she had gathered to her bosom the collective proofs of her own superiority. Cultivated by the careful selection of society and a remarkably selective understanding. This was not to say she was lacking in intelligence. No one could say such a thing about his aunt, yet she made no attempt to apply it to anything but preening her own considerable conceit.
The muted sound of the doorman speaking reached his ears, followed immediately by a voice that Darcy recognized instantly. A moment later, Richard was stepping purposefully into the room.
"Darcy!" he cried, striding over and tossing a letter written unmistakably in Lady Catherine's hand onto his desk. "What is our aunt raging about now? She seems to think we were attempting to alter our plans for Kent?"
Darcy let out a quiet oath, marshaling his eye-roll into an annoyed look at the plaster ceiling.
"I had written to defer the visit till summer."
"Why? Was I not to be consulted in this matter, either?"
Darcy grimaced. Absently, he began twisting his signet ring around his finger as he considered his response.
"I. . . had discovered that Miss Bennet would be in Kent during our visit," said Darcy, deciding that some fragment of truth was better than an outright denial. "Her cousin, Mr. Collins, is our aunt's parson. That gentleman recently married a woman whom I know to be a close friend of Miss Bennet."
"And what has that to do with anything?" interrupted Colonel Fitzwilliam. "You know I should rather like to meet this woman in whom you place so much of your trust."
"I had thought it would be best if I did not appear to show her any more favor than I already have." Darcy swallowed before continuing, "I thought it might be an easier task to accomplish if we were not to meet just now."
Richard gave a derisive snort. "You speak as though you are helpless in the matter. Let us not forget that you have a considerable talent for being dull and speaking little in virtually any circumstance. Just speak to her as you would to me, and I imagine she will understand your meaning clearly enough."
Darcy gave him a look of disdain. "I promised her father that I would safeguard her reputation."
"For heaven's sake! Must you always be so fastidious?" cried Richard in exasperation. "I cannot fathom how you think seeing her but once or twice in Kent should give anyone the impression that you favor her."
Darcy could say nothing.
Then, a curious expression crossed his cousin's face as he studied him for a long moment. "Do you? Favor her, I mean?"
"Why do you ask me such a thing?" Darcy replied sharply.
"It seems you have given much thought to how you might appear indifferent to the lady. It is as though you have given me a cup and said, 'I did not put poison in it' — which, of course, makes it a certainty."
"I respect her," he said on a slow exhale.
"Respect, is it?" inquired Richard, raising his chin to examine Darcy with a half smile.
"Yes, and I am grateful for her friendship with Georgiana," said Darcy, spinning his ring again. "But your response is exactly why I would have wished to defer our visit. I am not wholly indifferent. I do not wish our aunt to sniff about as she always does, making a tempest in a teapot."
"I did not take you for a coward, Darcy," Richard said with a twinkle of mirth in his eye. "Shall I follow your example of avoidance? Or must I pelt her with rocks and jeer when she enters a room? I rather think that if she is the sensible woman she is purported to be, she will not set her cap at you for thinking well of her."
Darcy shook his head. "It is her friend and her cousin, the rector, that I am more concerned about."
"To be safe, you might just as well propose to Anne and have done with it," Richard said. "There would certainly be no confusion about who you favored then."
Darcy glowered at his cousin, but made no reply.
"Fetch me a drink, Darcy," Richard said with a sigh. "I tire of your honor."
It was a curious thing, how something so small and so unextraordinary could be so arresting. Darcy stood, statue-like, in his nightshirt and cap as he stared at the little desk under the window in the library. He had come here to find a book to distract himself from thoughts of her, and yet here she was. Again. Yet, he no longer wished to escape.
Darcy let out a long slow breath that caused the candle in his hand to gutter and crackle. The little fold of paper, with its seal broken, was gaping at him like an oyster, mocking him with a tantalizing glimpse of its pearl. Even from this distance, he knew who had sent that letter as surely as he knew his own name.
He felt the pull, bidding him to lose himself in the delightful misery of her warm affection lavished on another. His hands itched as if every fiber and sinew longed to do what he knew he could not. That he ought not. Because Darcy knew now that he could. He closed his eyes tightly against the temptation, willing himself to resist another selfish breach of good faith and decorum.
Darcy had paid for his licentiousness with a ceaseless guilt that weighed heavily on his heart, keeping him from equanimity and sleep. Each time he had laid down to rest, relaxing the rigid barriers erected in his mind, every smile, every word, every laugh teased his subconscious, daring him not to be lost in the recollection of it all. He had not slept more than three hours together since her last letter. Darcy realized now that, despite all of his resolutions to give her up, he was more tortured by her absence than he ever was in her presence. Time and distance had done naught to ease his tortured heart. Rather, he was a man starving. The longer he went without, the stronger his desire became.
In all his life, Darcy had never doubted he was a good man. For all his errors in judgment, he knew himself to be a man of honor. He was principled and judicious, never one to shirk a duty or act in ways not aligned with his integrity.
But he was also guilty.
He had condemned himself for the betrayal of the two women he loved most. As a guardian, he knew he could rightly claim a right to read any letter addressed to his sister. Still, a man of principle would do so openly, and not for his own gain. It was not for his sister's protection that he took this liberty; he would never deceive himself in that regard.
He did so because his heart longed for the way Elizabeth Bennet'spresence seemed to unify the disparate parts of his soul. Darcy knew not how to reconcile how his love for her somehow managed to both bind him and break him simultaneously.
This woman he so longed for, even if she had somehow improved her opinion of him, would certainly blame him for abusing her trust as he had. Love was not a thing of the shadows and darkness – its very essence was truth. Somehow, with every word he read not intended for his eyes, he felt the widening of the chasm he now hoped to cross between them.
As he had lain awake, contemplating the opportunity that tempestuous providence had lain before him, he had come to a resolution, which he now saw must have been inevitable.
He would go to Kent.
He must allow himself this one opportunity to change her heart. One chance to earn her favor, before the truth he had not the courage to confess destroyed all his hopes.
He wished to marry her.
Darcy could no longer downplay this most desperate desire. He might once have thought it a simple thing, but he now knew something more of his own heart – and hers. He could no longer abide the thought of mercenary acceptance, most especially not from Elizabeth. Darcy knew enough of himself to understand that to enter into the most sacred accord while hiding a lie would steal his peace forevermore. Winning her favor was the crucial first step if he had any hope of capturing her heart. Only then could he lay himself open and at her mercy.
Yet, he must be worthy of it. He feared the damage was already too great to be undone, but he knew his regret would haunt him eternally if he did not at least make the attempt. He only hoped he would not falter when the time for honesty presented itself.
Opening his eyes, Darcy gazed at the desk and the letter sitting open upon it. He could feel the heat of the temptation burning behind him as he turned, straight-backed and determined away from the allure that had thrice now broken his resolve. As he made his laborious way to a bed where he would not sleep, he dared not look back.
If he was to begin again, looking back was one thing he could not afford.