CHAPTER 42 #4
Richard nodded once, as if some point had been established.
“Then you do not object to marrying Miss Bennet. You object to being unable to look poor beside her with dignity.”
“That is not what I said.”
“No. It is what I heard, which is often less convenient.”
Darcy’s mouth tightened. “I object to the world being supplied with evidence against my character when my character has so little public credit left.”
There it was.
Richard did not smile.
“The world,” Darcy continued, “will say I married a fortune.”
“Then give it evidence for you.”
“By marrying a fortune?”
“By marrying a woman,” said Richard, “and making her so happy that no one who cares for her has any objection left.”
Darcy did not answer.
Richard leaned forward, elbows on knees, glass loose between his hands. “You cannot prevent fools from saying you married a fortune. You may prevent the people who love her from believing you married only that.”
“That is not evidence the world always receives.”
“No. But it is evidence Miss Bennet will understand. Her sister will understand. Her friends will understand. Her Mr. Hartwood and terrible Mr. Beaker may even be forced to record it somewhere.”
“In triplicate, perhaps,” Darcy said, because if he did not answer lightly, he might answer too honestly.
“With restrictions,” said Richard.
“Naturally. Happiness without restrictions would alarm them.”
Richard’s smile came and went.
Then he said, “You asked her before you knew.”
“Yes.”
“Then hold to that.”
Darcy looked down.
“Enough,” he said quietly, “that I am glad I asked her before I knew.”
Richard’s expression softened, though he would have denied it if accused. “So am I.”
Darcy looked at him.
Richard shrugged. “You would have made a magnificent ruin of yourself otherwise. Honourable, cold, correct, alone, and entirely intolerable. Miss Bennet has spared us all.”
Darcy huffed a laugh despite himself.
“There,” said Richard. “Better.”
“Is that your entire consolation?”
“No. My entire consolation is that Miss Bennet appears to possess sense, fortune, courage, a dog with more wardrobe than I have linen, and a willingness to throw tea at Wickham. If such a woman chooses you, I advise you to consider whether she may know what she is about.”
Darcy closed his eyes briefly.
Elizabeth knew what she was about. That was the trouble and the hope together.
She had known enough of him to choose; not everything, perhaps, but more than most women would have endured hearing.
She had seen shame, danger, uncertainty, reduced rooms, family rejection, and the long shadow of Wickham.
She had not seen enough numbers to be frightened by them, because they were hers and did not frighten her.
She had chosen him.
Not because he was safe. Not because he was easy. Not because he repaired her consequence. Not because she required money, or rank, or a grander house, or any of the protections he had been trained to believe a man must bring to marriage.
She had chosen him.
That ought to have humbled him. It did.
It also steadied him, though more slowly.
Richard finished his brandy and stood.
“I must go before I become profound enough to injure us both. You will write to my father?”
“Not yet.”
“Wise. He has never been at his best when expected to be useful without preparation.”
“Richard.”
“I shall be discreet.”
“That is not one of your gifts.”
“No, but affection improves me in short intervals.”
Darcy walked him to the door.
At the threshold Richard turned back. “Darcy.”
“Yes?”
“Do not punish her fortune for being larger than your fears.”
The words struck cleanly.
Richard, having said something too true to remain and endure the consequences, put on his hat, gave one irreverent little bow, and left.
Darcy stood for a moment after the door closed.
Then he returned to the sitting room, took up Mr. Beaker’s summary, and looked once more at the figures.
They had not grown smaller.
They did not need to.
Elizabeth had not hidden her fortune. She had merely lived as if money were a thing to be governed, not worshipped. She had placed him, without knowing it, before the final test of his own pride: whether he could accept being chosen where he could not pretend to be necessary.
Darcy folded the paper carefully and locked it away.
Then he sat down at his desk and drew a fresh sheet toward him.
For several minutes he did not write.
At last he dipped the pen.
My dear Miss Bennet—
He stopped.
It was too formal for what he wished to say and entirely proper for what he was allowed.
He began again.
My dear Elizabeth,
I have seen Mr. Hartwood and Mr. Beaker this morning. They have behaved with every degree of caution I could wish for you, and more than enough arithmetic for any reasonable man.
I have signed where I ought to sign. You are well protected from me. I hope, in time, you may also find yourself well loved by me.
I shall call tomorrow, if I may.
Yours, F. Darcy
He read it once. Too much, perhaps. Not enough, certainly.
Then he sanded, sealed, and gave it to Jenkins before pride could recover sufficiently to object.