Raising the Stakes (First Impressions)

8. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

“You cannot simply leave London.”

Elizabeth looked up sharply from where she sat, her hands clenched in her lap. Across the room, her uncle paced, his movements quick and restless, the only outward sign of his agitation. Her aunt sat nearby, pressing a hand to her temple, her expression drawn.

“And why not?” Elizabeth demanded. “Surely it would be better to remove ourselves from this mess before I make things worse.”

Her uncle exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Lizzy, you do not seem to understand. Leaving now—especially after the earl has taken an interest in you—will not make this disappear. It will only confirm that we are precisely what some in society suspect: interlopers who have no business in their world.”

“Exactly my point! I have no business here. People will talk—”

“People are already talking,” Mr. Gardiner interrupted, turning to face her fully. “Do you truly think that packing up and fleeing London will erase what happened at the earl’s house?”

Elizabeth swallowed hard, her spine stiffening. “It may not erase it, but surely it would be better than remaining where I am an object of speculation and amusement.”

“Better for whom?” her uncle countered, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. “For you? Perhaps. But for us?”

Elizabeth’s stomach twisted. She had known, of course, that her uncle’s business aspirations had been shifting over the past few years, that his trade connections had allowed him to move in circles he once would not have imagined possible. She had always admired him for it—how he carried himself with the natural authority of a man who had earned his place, rather than inherited it. But now, because of her, that careful progress had been thrown into uncertainty.

“I do not mean to make things worse for you, Uncle,” she said, more softly now .

“I know, my dear,” Mr. Gardiner sighed, rubbing his temples. “But you must understand my position. I was on the verge of securing an exclusive shipping contract for the Royal Navy—one that could have earned me favor at court in time. And now—” He exhaled sharply. “Now, I am being watched. Perhaps not by those who would shut their doors to me outright, but by those who are waiting to see whether my connection to you is a liability or not.”

Elizabeth flinched, but before she could reply, her aunt reached over and laid a gentle hand on her arm.

“You are not to blame, Lizzy,” Mrs. Gardiner assured her. “None of us could have foreseen this… complication. Had such a prospect not been before your uncle, surely your little… blunder… would have meant far less.“ She hesitated before continuing, “But your uncle is right. If we leave London now, it would send precisely the wrong message.”

Elizabeth let out a breath, frustration clawing at her. “Then what do you propose I do? Pretend none of this happened?”

“No,” Mr. Gardiner said. “But consider this—if the Earl of Matlock has taken an interest in you, then that is something we can use.”

Elizabeth sat back in her chair, incredulous. “Use?”

“Not in the way you think. I do not mean to say that we ought to manipulate the situation, but if you remain in London and are seen in company with reputable figures, it will smooth over any lingering questions about the events of last night.”

“I cannot believe you think this is a good idea.” Elizabeth shook her head, her stomach sinking further. “I have been used as a pawn once already. I have no wish to continue the game.”

Mrs. Gardiner opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, a knock sounded at the door, and Miss Fletcher entered, holding a folded letter in her hand. “This arrived from Longbourn just now, ma’am.”

Mrs. Gardiner looked up with a warm smile. “Thank you, Miss Fletcher. And while you are here, I should like to look over the orders for silk that arrived last week. You know I trust your judgment implicitly, but I would like to ensure the selection is in keeping with what we have promised our best clients.”

Miss Fletcher nodded. “Of course, ma’am. I have the inventory tallied, and I believe you will be pleased. The brocades from Lyon are particularly fine this season.”

Mrs. Gardiner’s eyes brightened with interest. “I should like to see them. Let us set aside a moment this afternoon. ”

“As you wish.” Miss Fletcher inclined her head, then hesitated, glancing briefly at Elizabeth before returning her attention to her employer. “Would you like me to send word to the warehouse to expect you?”

Mrs. Gardiner waved a hand. “No need—I shall drop by myself, but I would appreciate your notes on which bolts you found most promising.”

“Of course.” Miss Fletcher curtsied and handed over the letter before slipping from the room as efficiently as she had entered.

Elizabeth broke upon her letter, recognizing her father’s handwriting immediately. This might bode ill. It was not like Papa to write twice in one week! Something must be dreadfully wrong. She glanced up at her aunt's curious expression and sighed. She might as well read the thing aloud—they would want to hear all the news from Longbourn, anyway.

Longbourn, September 18, 1812

My dear Lizzy,

I trust this letter finds you still possessed of some of your usual good sense, though given the state of affairs at Longbourn, I would not fault you if you had considered abandoning reason entirely. I expect you are still preparing for your much-anticipated northern tour, and I confess I look forward to your eventual reports. I shall expect thorough descriptions of wild moors and at least one poetic lament on the subject of a ruined abbey.

However, I must write with less pleasant news. Your sister Kitty has taken to her bed with a fever, and now Jane has begun coughing. Lydia, of course, declares herself invincible, but she has been looking rather pale, and I suspect she is only moments away from fainting for dramatic effect. Your mother is similarly indisposed—though I must note that she shows no symptoms apart from a renewed enthusiasm for smelling salts and an increased volume of lamentation.

Mrs. Hill assures me that all will be well in due time, but it seems prudent to exercise caution. Therefore, I must insist that you do not return to Longbourn next week as planned, as I should hate for you or your aunt and uncle to take ill. It is quite bad enough to have one daughter on my hands suffering from restlessness—I shudder to imagine what two or even five might do to the peace of this household.

Enjoy your extended stay in London, and do attempt to avoid losing yourself in the bookshop. Your mother would never recover.

Yours, as ever, Your affectionate (and presently beleaguered) father

Elizabeth lowered the letter slowly, her chest tight with a mixture of concern and reluctant amusement at her father’s tone.

“Well,” she said finally, folding the letter again with steady fingers. “That is that.”

Mrs. Gardiner reached out, taking the letter from her niece and scanning it quickly. “Oh, poor Jane. And Kitty! A fever can be worrisome.”

“And Papa does not want me returning home,” Elizabeth murmured. She ought to have expected it, after how the rest of her stay had gone. They were originally meant to go to the Lakes in August, but too many unforeseen "emergencies" and delays with her uncle's business had put that off. So, they had changed plans so Elizabeth could have a month in London, being spoiled by her favorite aunt… and Elizabeth had gone and made a hash of that at the earl's party.

“I am sorry, my dear,” her aunt said gently. “No, your uncle and I absolutely must remain in London.”

Elizabeth exhaled slowly, pressing her fingers to her forehead. First, the Lakes were taken from her. Then her dignity. Now, even Longbourn was barred.

“Well,” she said, “it seems I shall be remaining in London as well.”

Her uncle gave a single nod, though his expression was still grave. “Then we must make the best of it.”

Darcy tossed aside one letter and reached for the next, his fingers pressing briefly to his temple as he tried to ease the throbbing ache there. Sir Frederick’s familiar hand greeted him as he unfolded the paper.

Mr. Darcy,

I regret to inform you that the matter of Miles Stanton’s enclosures is proving more complex than anticipated. While legally defensible, the transactions surrounding the grazing lands are, at best, questionable. There are reports that key documents were misfiled or signed under duress, but no tenant has yet been willing to come forward with an official statement. You and I both know that fear of retribution keeps many of these men silent.

Furthermore, reports of poaching disputes are increasing, and tensions between local landowners and smaller farmers grow worse by the week. Stanton’s influence is emboldening those who would take justice into their own hands, and I fear it is only a matter of time before one of these disputes turns violent. If you have any influence to bring to bear on your tenants, I would suggest exerting it now—before grievances turn into something far more difficult to control.

Yours, etc. Sir Frederick Montague Magistrate

Darcy exhaled sharply, folding the letter and setting it aside. The magistrate was right. The poaching disputes were no longer just a matter of law—they were a symptom of something deeper, something that Stanton was fueling with every unchecked abuse of power. If tensions boiled over into violence, it would be men like Sir Frederick left to pick up the pieces, but the damage would be done. And Stanton—calculating, untouchable Stanton—would find a way to turn that chaos to his advantage.

Next, he reached for a letter from his steward at Pemberley, the familiar scrawl making his stomach tighten before he even opened it. The estate matters had been running smoothly when he left, but with everything else hanging over his head, Darcy half-expected some fresh disaster.

Sir,

The northern tenants have raised concerns again regarding the water rights at Sowden Brook. There has been a dispute with the miller at Lambert’s End—he claims exclusive access, while the farmers insist the stream has always served their irrigation needs as well. They have requested intervention, as tempers are beginning to run high.

Additionally, the barley crops in the eastern fields are showing signs of blight. Mr. Warren believes it may be a mild strain, but if left unchecked, we may be facing a greater loss than anticipated. I have sent for an inspection from the apothecary in Matlock and will await his recommendations.

Lastly, the matter of the farrier’s lease has yet to be resolved. He has requested to purchase the smithy outright, but I await your final decision.

Your servant, etc., Giles Partridge

Darcy pinched the bridge of his nose. The barley blight could become a serious problem, and the farrier’s lease was another tedious matter that should have been settled months ago. He made a mental note to write back with instructions—but before he could reach for the ink, Benedict entered the room.

“Mrs. Younge has requested a word, sir.”

Darcy stifled a groan. “Now?”

“She said it was regarding your sister, sir.”

That got his attention. “Very well,” he said, motioning for Benedict to send her in.

Moments later, Mrs. Younge entered, her usual placid expression giving way to the faintest trace of unease. She curtsied and clasped her hands before her. “Forgive the interruption, sir,” she began. “I would not trouble you if it were not of some concern.”LakesDarcy waved for her to continue.

“It is about Miss Darcy.”

He frowned. “Naturally. What of her?”

Mrs. Younge shifted her weight slightly, as though choosing her words carefully. “She has been… less cooperative than I had hoped. I do not mean to suggest outright defiance, but she does not always heed instruction as she should. She gives the appearance of obedience, yet she does not apply herself to her studies. Her music master finds her in attentive. The French tutor says she understands far more than she lets on but refuses to speak the language aloud. And she has become withdrawn in her dance lessons—though I know you were already displeased with her former tutor.”

Darcy’s mouth pressed into a hard line. “What are you suggesting?”

Mrs. Younge sighed, tilting her head slightly. “That she is not thriving in this arrangement. I know you have had difficulty with her schooling before. I had thought perhaps a private setting would suit her better, but it seems she resents instruction regardless of the setting.”

Darcy’s fingers curled against the desk. He knew Georgiana’s struggles. She had been sullen and difficult at school—not disruptive, but distant. And now, even under the guidance of a carefully chosen companion, she resisted in subtler ways.

“I see,” he said at last. “And do you believe there is a remedy to this?”

Mrs. Younge hesitated again, as if weighing how best to phrase her next words. “Perhaps a change of setting would do her good,” she suggested. “The summer months in London can be stifling for a girl of her temperament. What if she were to spend a season by the sea? Ramsgate, for instance, is a popular retreat. A more relaxed setting, her own household—even if modestly kept—would allow her to gain some independence while still remaining under proper supervision.”

Darcy frowned. “She has given me no reason to trust her with such freedom.”

Mrs. Younge offered a faint smile. “Or perhaps she has been given no opportunity to earn it. One does not appreciate the weight of maturity without having first tested it.”

He did not like that. He did not like the suggestion that he was at fault for Georgiana’s struggles. He had done everything to protect her—was that not what a guardian ought to do?

“I will consider it,” he said at last.

Mrs. Younge curtsied. “Thank you, sir.” She hesitated a moment longer before adding, “Miss Darcy is not a bad girl, sir. Only a troubled one.”

Darcy exhaled through his nose. “That, I already know.”

She left, and he sat in silence for a long moment, before finally pulling the last letter from his pile—the one bearing Richard’s familiar hand.

Darcy,

Ran into an old acquaintance of yours in Derby. You will not be surprised to learn that Wickham was pockets to let again and had taken to gambling at the Red Lion. Unfortunately for him, his luck did not hold, nor did his tongue. He was well into his cups when he began spouting off about how poorly you had treated him—how you denied him his ‘rightful inheritance’ and have been the ruin of his prospects.

Of course, no one in that tavern gave him the time of day. The name Darcy carries weight in those parts, and I made sure his ramblings were cut short. The innkeeper saw fit to send him packing before he could make a greater fool of himself. Still, you should be aware that his resentment is apparently still festering.

I shall be in town by the end of the week. Perhaps we can discuss this in person, but I am more curious to hear how your conversations with my father have gone.

Yours, etc., Richard

Darcy set the letter down, his fingers tapping the surface. Of course, Wickham had resurfaced. Of course, he had the gall to slander him yet again.

As if he did not have enough to deal with already.

He exhaled sharply, pushing back from his desk. Between the earl’s ridiculous schemes, the growing unrest in Derbyshire, Georgiana’s struggles, and now Wickham lurking about Derby, the world seemed determined to pull him in a hundred different directions at once.

And now, thanks to his uncle, he had another problem in the form of Miss Elizabeth Bennet.