“Your feelings have altered on this matter?” Elizabeth asked.
She nodded thoughtfully. “Now I believe there is no better route to increasing the happiness of all than to set about satisfying ourselves. If Mr. Bingley and I are to pursue a connection stronger than friendship, it will not be because Mama wishes it or in spite of his sister’s misgivings. Rather it will be only because it is the greatest desire in both of our hearts.”
Elizabeth sat back against the cushion of the chair, struck by the power and familiarity of her sister’s words.
Neither time nor distance have succeeded in repressing my feelings. I cannot do otherwise but beg you to relieve my suffering, and consent to be my wife.
Elizabeth bit her lip. None of this mattered. She had refused his offer. It was done.
Chapter 24
One month. It had been one entire month since that regrettable scene in a tradesman’s Cheapside sitting room, and still the gloom persisted. Darcy could not account for it. The first day had been nothing but a red haze. How he’d gotten from Gracechurch Street back to his home in Mayfair, Darcy knew not, and even less what had transpired once he’d shut himself in his study with orders not to be disturbed, other than the fact that an entire bottle of very fine brandy had somehow vanished that evening.
The weeks that followed had been similarly miserable. He’d been incapable of escaping mentions of the Bennets. Bingley had apparently directed his sister to resume the acquaintance with Jane after their interaction at the Atwood ball, and now, his conversation rarely wavered on the topic. Darcy was always and forever being invited to join him in calls to the tradesman’s house. He’d even been forced to listen to Caroline Bingley’s exhortation to him to assist her in seeking to separate her brother from Jane once more. But he’d demurred. He had quite finished giving others counsel upon the advisability of their romantic attachments.
If Bingley had made his choice, who was Darcy to gainsay him any longer? Let the man consort with every tradesman in Cheapside! Let him marry the penniless daughter of a country squire! Who cared about old Mr. Bingley’s desires for his children and the labor it must have taken to have amassed such a fortune? How had it ever become Darcy’s responsibility to personally ensure Bingley’s continued rise through the ranks of the social elite?
They’d been friends at school—two motherless boys and the heirs to vast fortunes. Darcy had quickly seen how the vipers might have eaten the naive Bingley alive if given half the chance. The young man reminded Darcy of Georgiana, if he were being honest. Altogether too trusting. Entirely too eager to believe the best of the world and everyone in it.
Not like Darcy. He’s been given good principles in his youth but the moment he’d ventured beyond the bounds of Pemberley and the neat, prosperous Derbyshire villages that surrounded it, where the Darcys reigned as untitled kings, he learned how stern was the stuff of the world. How careful he must be, how little others could be trusted or relied upon.
Even those friends from Derbyshire. George Wickham, who had gone to school at his side, but had, unfortunately, swiftly demonstrated his true character and become a wastrel who squandered both his own father’s money and the generous allowance Darcy’s father had given as a supplement. How often had they broken with each other over the years, even before their final, terrible fight?
How many times had Darcy threatened to tell his father of his godson’s antics? By the time they came to blows in a school courtyard over a matter of fifty pounds, Darcy had decided that George Wickham, like so many others he had met in the outside world, was interested more in the contents of Darcy’s pocketbook than his soul.
And that was years before Wickham had wasted his inheritance, spat on his godfather’s memory, abused Darcy to anyone who would listen, or attempted to seduce Darcy’s fifteen-year-old sister.
No, far better to befriend someone as guileless and innocent as Bingley. Bingley would never willingly betray him. Darcy might even go so far as to wager that if the man knew the pain he was causing with his constant invitations to wait upon the Bennet ladies in Gracechurch Street, he would cease the practice at once.
Only, how could Darcy conceive of telling a soul how he’d humiliated himself before Elizabeth Bennet, only to be summarily refused?
Darcy could still make no sense of it. She’s stood there in that tiny parlor, practically daring him to make explicit the expectation that had hung between them ever since that night at Netherfield.
All but begged him to propose to her.
And then turned him down. He’d resisted fortune hunters by the dozen, but Elizabeth Bennet was a mystery. Had she been overcome with a twinge of conscience at the end and abandoned her designs? Or was something far more sinister at work?
Had it been nothing but a game to her all along? To see how low he could be brought, how much power she could assert over him? The mystery no longer signified anyway. He had made his feelings plain, and so had she. Now all that remained was to regret how far he had let himself be led away from what he knew to be his true course. One in which he was not tempted by a woman whose family, connections, and fortune would do his own no credit.
No matter how fine her eyes, how engaging her voice, how fascinating her mind, how right she felt when he held her in his arms… No. Elizabeth Bennet had enchanted him, and now there was nothing for it but to break the enchantment and soldier on.
Today, he was endeavoring to do so at his club, with little success. Colonel Fitzwilliam had gone to visit their aunt, Lady Catherine, in Kent. He’d tried to get Darcy to come along, but Darcy knew better than to risk such a trip in his current state of mind. His aunt desperately wanted him to marry her daughter, Anne, and in his present poisonous mood, disappointed in his hopes regarding Elizabeth, he might feel tempted to actually do it.
But his cousin had gone, and Bingley was forever engaged with Jane, and so there was little to distract him from his own maudlin thoughts. No political or literary discussion engaged him, and he did not have his wits close enough about him to play cards. Instead, he sat in a reading room, paging listlessly through a newspaper but not taking anything in.
“Mr. Darcy?” He looked up to see Captain Atwood standing above him, a smile across his handsome young face.
“Atwood,” he replied after a moment. “I had not known you to be a member here.”
“Ah, it is a recent development,” the man admitted, a mite sheepishly. How easily Darcy could imagine the invitations, as soon as his fresh inheritance had been made known. “May I sit?”
No. “Of course.”
“Thank you.” The gentleman took a seat at his side.
Darcy tried very hard to remember that Colonel Fitzwilliam had vouched for Atwood. That he was heir to a neighboring estate. To remember everything that indicated Darcy should show this man politeness, and nothing at all about him dancing with Elizabeth and making her laugh.
“I am pleased to see you here, though. I was wondering if I might ask you for a bit of advice.”
Darcy’s brow furrowed.
“About Dovenlea, you see. My cousin, Mr. Fortingham—as you know, he is very advanced in years—and I believe the death of his son has had a greatly deleterious effect on his own health.”
“I had no idea.”
“I have very little experience in managing an estate. I did not think it was a duty that might ever be passed to me. Henry was so young and healthy, you see.”
“I am very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
The young man was momentarily silent, though Darcy could not be certain if it was from attachment to his cousin or worry over his new responsibilities. It boded well for him. Too many young men thought only of the income and not at all of the duty one had to an estate.
“You see, it has come to my attention from a few of the tenants that perhaps Mr. Fortingham, in his grief, has not the enthusiasm to manage the estate as he ought. I had thought perhaps you may know of someone—or your steward mig
ht?—who may be of assistance to him in this time. I do not wish to overstep, you see, only to help. And educate myself at the same time.”
Darcy nodded. It was hardly overstepping to seek to maintain the solvency of an estate he’d eventually call his own. Too often, when an unexpected heir took over an estate, they knew so little of the environs and the tenants that he disrupted the proper management altogether. Darcy could not fault Atwood for his request. It was all very proper. “Yes, of course. I shall put you in touch with him directly. It is good of you to take an early interest. I am certain the potential for lasting damage is very small.”
“I hope it is none at all, and that this step will prevent any from occurring, and will moreover ease my cousin’s cares during this difficult season.”
Darcy nodded again. Colonel Fitzwilliam had not been wrong about this man. His concern about his cousin was evident. “What are your plans for the coming year? Do you foresee returning to Derbyshire?”
“It remains to be seen.” Atwood seemed to color. “It is likely that I shall soon marry.”
Darcy’s mouth went dry, and every horrible image that had first appeared to him at Lady Atwood’s ball now renewed itself. This man, married to his Elizabeth. Mrs. John Atwood, haunting the hills of Derbyshire with her rambles and the halls of Dovenlea with her laughter.
In his astonishment, he could not even respond. Indeed, the very air in the room appeared to darken, and Darcy was reminded of a time he’d been knocked from a horse and hit his head so hard he’d swooned.
“Yes, I had thought it impossible,” Atwood went on, mistaking Darcy’s silence for approval. “ I had not thought I would be able to support a wife, but—my future prospects have changed so much, that I am certain her family will now welcome the match.” He paused and smiled a small, secret smile. “As the lady does.”
At once, the dark potential of Atwood’s words were made manifest.
I should have imagined we have both said more to each other than is necessary for either of our lifetimes.
I am even less assured that you could make me happy.
How lucky I am to have avoided bestowing such love on a less than worthy party.
Elizabeth had not refused Darcy for any sinister cause. She had not wanted him to propose at all. She was in love with Atwood, had always been, ever since he’d first seen her in London. And now she had him. A man of lesser means, to be sure, but of manifold charms. Darcy remembered how George Wickham had once put it.
If it weren’t for Pemberley, old chap, no lady in England would give a miserable clod like you the time of day.
Darcy cleared his throat. “I wish you all the best,” he choked out, as if each word were a spoonful of sand. He could hardly breathe in here. He needed to be out on the street. He needed air.
“Excuse me. I must go, but I will have the information you requested sent to you at once.” That was what he was good for, was it not? The responsible lord of the manor.
“I cannot thank you enough, sir!” Captain Atwood exclaimed as Darcy stood, ready to flee. “I am ever so glad to have your assistance.” He went on discussing possible meetings, in London or Derbyshire, and Darcy began to feel quite ill at ease. He could not make this man an intimate friend. Not if he were to marry Elizabeth. He’d sooner see Dovenlea Park burned to the ground.
At least ten excruciating seconds later, he was able to take his leave and practically stumbled blindly through the halls toward the door. He could only imagine what the other members thought, seeing him careening out of there. A Darcy of Pemberley, making a drunken spectacle of himself! Well, it was about time, was it not? He’d been the perfect son, the perfect scion, all these years, and what had it gotten him? Nothing! And charming Captain Atwood had stumbled into an estate and a bride whose price was far beyond rubies.
He had not reached the door of the club before he was waylaid by none other than Bingley.
“Just the man I was looking for!” cried Bingley, clapping him about the shoulders. “I tried at your house—what a merry chase you’ve been leading me on, Darcy. Come, you are not leaving?”
“I had intended on it, yes.”
“Then I shall go with you,” Bingley insisted. “Look, my carriage awaits. For it has been an age since we have had one of our good chats, and you know how much I depend upon you for guidance. I am most sorely in need of your advice.”
Darcy grimaced. Guidance! Advice! He couldn’t even know his own path, let alone another man’s. “To be sure, Bingley, I do not think I am equal to the task at the moment.”
“Are you quite well? You do indeed look pale. Do not tell me you have had a bad run of cards.”
“No, I have not been gaming.” His risks had been much greater than money, and he had not held the winning hand.
“Come, I shall see you home. We do not have to discuss anything at all.”
Darcy allowed himself to be shuffled off into his friend’s carriage. For several blocks after Bingley gave his man the directions, he sat in silence, glaring balefully out of the window.
She would marry Atwood. She would marry him and dance a thousand times at local balls and bear the man a dozen children, and each would have her beautiful eyes and lively character and they would overrun Derbyshire like locusts. He would have no peace from Elizabeth Bennet.
Perhaps he should go to the continent. Switzerland ought to be far enough to escape her.
“Have I offended you, old chap?” Bingley asked, snapping him back into the moment.
“Pardon? No, of course not, man. I am not myself today.”
“You have not been yourself for several weeks. We have not met more than two or three times, and you have been more silent than usual when we have. What is it that concerns you? Is your sister well? There are no troubles, I hope, at Pemberley?”
“All is well.”
Bingley regarded him for a long moment. “I have never before known you to lie, Darcy.”
“What advice are you looking for?” he snapped. “Here I am to offer my counsel, poor as it might be. Do you seek my approval before you marry? I say best do it, before your intended is off the market. I hear they go quickly these days, whether they have a dowry or not.”
“If you mean Jane Bennet, I do not mind telling you that I have made my intentions clear to her.”
Darcy sat forward. “You are engaged?” Best get every blow over at once. If his best friend were to become Elizabeth’s brother-in-law, it would only make this circle of hell complete.
“No.” Bingley shrugged.
Another refusal! Were the Bennets all mad?
“I do not wish there to be any confusion between us,” said Bingley. “We have already suffered the pain of that once, when I was put in doubt of her affections in Hertfordshire, and she of mine when I departed Netherfield.”
What was the man going on about? “So did you propose, or not?”
“I told her it was my hope that I could make her love me and make myself worthy of her love, and, if I could, that I would request her hand.”
How like some knight out of a fairy tale! “A far cry from the argument you made a few months ago, in which Jane Bennet was sweet and kind and you wished to settle down as a country squire.”
“Yes,” Bingley replied. “Funny, that. Perhaps you were right about me, but I don’t know if either of us were right about Miss Bennet. She is a beauty, and her goodness is beyond compare. But she is not the simple country girl we each thought in Hertfordshire. Not a girl who would take any man with a few thousand a year. No, she expects much from the gentleman to whom she shall promise her hand, and at last we both understand this.”
Darcy was all astonishment. “You have discussed this?”
“Most frankly.” There was no embarrassment in his features. “I have been disabused of all my notions of what a lady such as Miss Bennet would want, but more importantly, of all my thoughts of what I wanted. I had considered only a girl’s beauty, her charms—as we spoke of that night in Nether
field with Miss Elizabeth Bennet— only their ability to cover a screen or sketch a hillside. But is that what we want in our wives? How will that tell us of the value of our future felicity, of what kind of mother she might make my children?”
Darcy found he could not argue with Bingley’s points. Even that night at Netherfield, he’d been disgusted by Miss Bingley’s description of an accomplished lady being only the sort who could sing in Italian or glide elegantly across a polished floor.
No, even then he had wanted someone like Elizabeth. Someone whose wits could match his own, who had thoughts and opinions he could value. Even then he could have pictured a crop of mop-haired children with his wife’s fine eyes, playing in the Pemberley gardens.
“And if your understanding of what you want in a wife has broadened, what are her desires? Surely your ability to support her is still chief among them?”
“No doubt,” he said. “But every bit as important to Jane is a man’s good nature, as well as the deep and abiding respect that will carry them through the trials of life. Truly, the scales have fallen from my eyes.”
I know too well the long period of regret that follows a marriage built on less than solid foundations…marriage is for decades. We cannot be half an hour within each other’s company before we are at each other’s throats.
Darcy grimaced. How little he had understood her! And now his chance was gone forever.
“And you come to me for advice on what—how to make yourself such a man? Indeed, Bingley, I have always thought you to have the very best of natures.” And he was not one who could help any man capture a woman’s affections.
“I thank you, Darcy. And no, I believe that task is one every man must pursue for himself. You will know too, I am certain, what course to set should you ever fall in love. I am most assured of how best to prove my worth to the lady.”
“Then what advice do you need?”
“Ah, said Bingley, as the carriage pulled up in front of Darcy’s house. “Invite me in for a drink, and I shall tell you all.”
In Darcy's Arms Page 15
