Mr Darcy’s New Year’s Resolution (Pride and Prejudice Resolutions #2)

Chapter One The Hazards of Hatchards

Fitzwilliam Darcy was currently engaged in the very serious business of wondering if his heart had physically shrivelled up and died, or if the mutton from last night's dinner was simply disagreeing with him.

Instead, he was rubbing his sternum and cataloguing the various ways his life had disintegrated since leaving Hertfordshire.

It had been four weeks. Four weeks since he had fled Netherfield like a coward in the night—although it was daylight, if he meant to be precise—dragging a reluctant Bingley with him.

Four weeks since he had last seen Elizabeth Bennet.

And yet, the haunting was absolute. He saw her eyes in the reflection of his shaving mirror.

He heard her laugh in the crackle of the fireplace.

He sensed her arch disapproval every time he appeared particularly haughty.

"It is indigestion," he told Marcus Aurelius firmly. "It has to be indigestion. A man does not develop palpitations of the heart simply because a woman in the country told him she preferred walking to taking the carriage."

Marcus Aurelius remained stoic, which Darcy found irritating.

The library door creaked open, admitting a slice of light and his sister, Georgiana.

If Darcy was currently serving as the portrait of masculine misery, Georgiana was a study in fragile bravery.

It had been barely five months since Ramsgate—since George Wickham had nearly destroyed her life and confidence with a few whispered lies and an elopement plot.

She was still subdued, her movements quiet and hesitant, like a bird that had forgotten how to fly.

But today, she was smiling. It was a small, brittle thing, but it was there.

"William?" she asked softly. "Are you rubbing your chest again?"

Darcy dropped his hand as if he had been burned. "No. Merely adjusting my waistcoat. It is tight."

"You have lost a stone in weight since November," she pointed out, stepping further into the room. "If your waistcoat is tight, it is defying nature."

"It shrunk in the wash."

"Mrs Crauford supervises the wash of your linens.

She does not shrink things. It is against her religion.

" Georgiana came to stand beside him, looking up with eyes that were too old for her sixteen years.

She saw the brooding. She saw the way he was staring at the wall as if it contained the secrets of the universe.

She sighed. "You have been in here since breakfast. You have read the same page of that newspaper since I came to borrow the globe. That was two hours ago."

"The political situation is complex."

"The paper is upside down."

Darcy looked down. It was. "Ah. Yes. I was testing my faculties. A mental exercise."

Georgiana placed a tentative hand on his arm.

She was hurting, he knew. The betrayal at Ramsgate had left her uncertain of her own judgment, fearful of the world.

But she was a Darcy, and Darcys did not let their brothers rot in libraries while staring at upside-down newsprint.

She had resolved, evidently to save him, hoping that in saving him, she might save a little of herself, too.

"We cannot stay in this house all day," she announced, her voice gaining a fraction more strength. "We have responsibilities."

"I have completed my correspondence."

"Not that. Gifts. We have not purchased a single thing for the family." She ticked them off on her fingers. "Uncle Matlock. Aunt Matlock. Richard. And Robert."

Darcy groaned aloud. "Robert."

"Viscount Keathley requires a gift, William. Unless you want him to spend the entire Christmas dinner making speeches about your stinginess."

"I would pay a thousand pounds to avoid Robert right now," Darcy muttered. His cousin was excellent company when one was in high spirits. When one was miserable, Robert was like a very charming, very well-dressed mosquito.

"We are going to Hatchards," Georgiana declared. "Books are safe. Everyone likes books. And the fresh air will do you good. You look..." She squinted at him. "Grey. You look grey, William."

"I am pale. It is aristocratic."

"It is concerning. Please? For me?"

That was the weapon he had no defence against. He looked at his sister and saw the desperate need for distraction in her eyes. She needed to be out, to pretend that life was normal, that she wasn't carrying the weight of a near-disaster.

"Very well," Darcy capitulated, straightening his shoulders as if preparing for battle. "Hatchards. But we are not stopping for tea, and if I see anyone we know, I reserve the right to pretend I do not see them."

"Agreed," Georgiana beamed, and for a second, the shadows in the room seemed to retreat.

Thirty-five minutes later, Darcy was helping his sister to the carriage waiting for them outside Darcy House in Grosvenor Square.

The ride was quiet, which allowed him to observe his surroundings.

London in December was a besieging of the senses.

It was cold enough to freeze the breath in one's lungs, grey enough to make the sky indistinguishable from the cobblestones, and loud enough to induce a headache within minutes.

And yet, as he stepped out of the carriage onto Piccadilly, he had to admit his sister was right. The air, thick with fog and the scent of coal smoke, roasted chestnuts, and expensive horseflesh, was better than the stagnant gloom of his study.

He adjusted his beaver hat, pulling the brim low. He was wearing his dark blue greatcoat with the velvet collar—a garment that usually made him feel invincible. Today, it just felt like armour against a world he didn't really want to engage with.

"It is busy," Georgiana murmured, clutching his arm through her muff. She was dressed in a heavy pelisse of slate grey, a matching bonnet framing her face. She looked lovely, wealthy, and terrified.

"Stay close," Darcy said, placing his hand over hers. "We shall be in and out. A swift foray. Books for Aunt and Uncle, something military for Richard, and something with few words and big drawings for Robert."

"Robert reads Latin for fun, William."

"I know. It is annoying."

They navigated the pavement, which was crowded with the holiday rush. Fashionable ladies in velvet coats navigated the slush with impressive dexterity, while gentlemen in top hats nodded to one another with varying degrees of sincerity.

"Darcy!" a voice called out from a passing curricle.

Darcy immediately developed a fascination with a streetlamp and did not turn.

"That was Lord Ponsonby," Georgiana whispered.

"I have gone deaf," Darcy replied. "Tragic accident. Just happened."

"He is waving."

"Then he is waving at a deaf man who is rapidly losing his eyesight. Come along."

He steered her purposefully towards the green-fronted sanctuary of Hatchards. The shop window was glowing with warmth, piled high with leather-bound volumes that promised escape, knowledge, and most importantly, silence.

As he opened the door, the bell chimed—a cheerful, welcoming sound that usually heralded a pleasant hour of browsing. Today, Darcy viewed it as the starting bell for an ordeal.

The interior was crowded. The smell hit him instantly—old paper, binding glue, leather, and the faint, dusty scent of intellect. It was a smell he usually loved. It was the smell of Pemberley's library.

And, unfortunately, it was the smell of the library at Netherfield. The memory assaulted him without permission.

He saw the room at Netherfield, the firelight dancing on the walls.

He saw a pair of fine eyes darting across a page.

He saw Elizabeth Bennet, ignoring him, ignoring Bingley's sisters, ignoring the world in favour of a book.

She had looked up, caught him watching, and offered him a challenge wrapped in a smile.

"William?" Georgiana tugged his sleeve. "The history section is this way."

"What?" Darcy blinked, the image of Elizabeth fading but leaving a physical ache in its wake. "Yes. History. Uncle Matlock likes battles."

"And Aunt likes travel," Georgiana added, guiding him through the press of bodies. She was doing a valiant job of navigating, her chin up, though he could feel the slight tremor in her hand when a boisterous group of young men laughed too loudly near the counter.

Darcy moved instinctively to shield her, his broad shoulders creating a barrier between his sister and the world. He glared effectively at the young men, who quieted down immediately. The famous Darcy glare was still functional, at least.

"We shall find a travel journal for Aunt," Darcy stated, trying to focus. "About the Mediterranean. She is always complaining about the damp."

"And for Richard?"

"A treatise on strategy. Or a fictional account of a soldier who is not annoying."

They moved deeper into the stacks. The shop was a labyrinth of shelves, a heaven for the literary elite of London. Darcy nodded stiffly to a few acquaintances—Sir William, Lady Metcalfe—offering the bare minimum of civility required to avoid being labelled a recluse.

He just wanted to buy the books and leave. He wanted to go back to his study and think about why he had left Hertfordshire, and whether he was the biggest fool in England.

The shelves of Hatchards were dangerous territory. One moment, you were looking for a dry political memoir for a conservative Earl, and the next, you were ambushed by sentiment.

Georgiana had drifted a few feet away, her gloved fingers trailing over a stack of sheet music bound in blue paper. She looked peaceful for the moment, so Darcy allowed his guard to drop.

He wandered towards the fiction tables. He told himself it was to find a present for Robert—Robert, who read philosophy but also devoured Gothic romances with his port.

Darcy picked up a volume. The Lady of the Lake. No. Too Scottish.

He reached for another. Sense and Sensibility? A new publication. "By a Lady." He frowned. He generally preferred his authors to have names.

Then, his hand landed on a spine that felt familiar.

Cecilia. By Fanny Burney.

He froze.