Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Later that afternoon, Darcy found his cousin resting in their shared sitting room.
His steps slowed as he crossed the threshold, his mind already occupied with matters he had no wish to raise—least of all with the very man whom Elizabeth’s grandfather intended for her.
For a moment he considered retreating altogether; yet such avoidance would serve no purpose, and he entered the room.
The rooms he and Georgiana occupied formed what was plainly meant as a guest wing. Millwood Cottage was large for a cottage, but it was hardly large enough to boast many spare chambers or much distinction between those meant for family and those allotted to visitors.
Even so, a single passage provided some separation between guests and family, a circumstance for which Darcy had been grateful when making the arrangements.
His own room belonged to a suite likely designed to host a married couple, yet he had willingly shared it with Richard, the advantage being that Georgiana enjoyed a sitting room reserved solely for herself and Mrs Annesley.
The knowledge that she was thus settled afforded him a measure of ease he had not felt in weeks.
“Miss Bennet is not exactly what I expected,” Richard began the moment Darcy entered.
“Granfield was quite certain, when I last saw him in Lisbon, that she would be delighted by my company. He all but guaranteed that the lady would be pleased to accept both my heart and my hand the moment I offered them. That is not the impression I formed of her this morning. I would say she appeared rather set against me.”
Darcy halted near the hearth and exhaled slowly through his nose. He found himself unsurprised—though not, he admitted to himself, displeased. When he glanced back at his cousin, he saw Fitzwilliam watching him with a look of quiet curiosity.
“She is a rational lady,” he said at last, turning to face his cousin.
“She would not appreciate being spoken of in such a manner, nor does she appreciate insincere speech. If you truly mean to win her regard, you must do more than offer idle flirtation. She is no fading flower, nor is she like those young ladies whose accomplishments are cultivated merely to invite praise, and whose opinions extend no further than what they are taught to admire.” His voice grew firmer as he continued.
“Miss Bennet expects to be respected, not merely admired, and she will not tolerate being treated as a trophy to be won.”
Richard’s expression shifted into something wry. “Ah,” he said lightly, “so you have already regretted your words—and, upon discovering who her grandfather is, managed to offer your apologies?”
Darcy’s mouth tightened. He turned away, crossing to the window as though the view might better occupy his thoughts.
“Unfortunately,” he replied, the note of regret unmistakable even to his own ears, “though I knew well before I made her grandfather’s acquaintance that I ought to have apologised, I did not do so until after his arrival at Netherfield.
I ought to have acted sooner, yet I hesitated for reasons I cannot entirely explain, even to myself.
” He paused, his fingers resting against the window frame.
“I will not pretend that his presence did not impress upon me the necessity of it.”
He stood there a moment longer, his gaze fixed upon the grounds below, recalling words he would gladly reclaim if he could.
“I knew the instant they left my mouth that they were a mistake,” he continued quietly.
“Still, it took me weeks to comprehend how poorly I had acquitted myself. I was unsettled by the events of the summer, and Miss Bingley’s presence only aggravated matters.
Neither circumstance excuses my behaviour.
” He hesitated, then added, with a care that surprised even him, “Miss Bennet has accepted my apologies, and we are…” He stopped, the word catching unexpectedly. “I believe we are friends now.”
A low laugh sounded behind him. Darcy turned back at once.
Richard’s brows were lifted, his amusement evident, but Darcy caught something else there as well, curiosity sharpened by interest. The realisation made him acutely aware of how rarely he spoke so of any young lady, and of how easily the truth had slipped from him just now.
“Well,” Richard said, laughing again, “that is a development I did not anticipate. I confess, Darcy, I should have thought you the last man to involve yourself in such a contest. Still, I ought not to be entirely astonished. Miss Bennet is…” He paused, his expression shifting as though reconsidering his words.
“A very eligible young woman. She will be sought after, and not merely for her person. Her fortune, her connexions…”
“That will do,” Darcy said sharply, turning fully towards him. The irritation that flared within him was swift and unexpected, and he made no effort to disguise it.
He did not care to hear Elizabeth reduced to calculations of advantage—not from Richard, nor from anyone.
Fitzwilliam blinked, momentarily taken aback at the sharpness of his cousin’s tone.
“I am quite serious,” Darcy continued, his voice lower now, but no less firm.
“Miss Bennet is not a prize to be competed for nor a property to be valued by what she brings with her. She is an intelligent, principled lady, and she deserves to be regarded as such. If you mean to pursue her, you must do so with sincerity—or not at all.”
For a moment, Fitzwilliam studied him in silence, the levity in his expression giving way to something more assessing. Then a slow, knowing smile curved his mouth.
“Very well,” he said at last. “I take your meaning. You have my attention.”
Darcy met his gaze steadily. “Then I ask you to give her the same.”
Fitzwilliam’s smile widened—not mockingly, but with unmistakable interest at his cousin’s challenge. “Oh, I shall,” he said lightly. “Indeed, I should be most remiss not to.”
He paused, long enough to let Darcy wonder whether he would say more, then added in a deliberately casual tone, “Still, I cannot help observing that you speak less like a disinterested cousin and more like a man whose feelings are already very much engaged.”
Darcy stiffened, the movement slight but unmistakable. “You mistake me.”
“Do I?” Fitzwilliam replied, folding his arms and regarding him with open amusement. “Because from where I stand, you appear rather more invested than you would ever willingly confess.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened, a familiar sign of restraint rather than anger. “What I feel is of no consequence here. The earl has made it clear that Miss Bennet is to have her choice—and that his preference lies with you. I will not interfere with that, at present.”
“At present,” Fitzwilliam repeated mildly—and then laughed, the sound brief and untroubled.
“On the contrary, that only serves to make matters far more interesting.” His eyes gleamed with unmistakable mischief.
“Very well, cousin. I shall endeavour to conduct myself with all the seriousness you require. But I warn you—I have no intention of making this easy for you.”
Darcy exhaled slowly, his eyes closing for a heartbeat before fixing sharply upon Fitzwilliam. “I would expect nothing less.”
“And neither,” Fitzwilliam added, with a grin, “I suspect, would Miss Bennet.”
Darcy frowned at him then; Fitzwilliam doubted the displeasure ran very deep.
“Truly, Richard,” Darcy said, “I am pleased to see that you have returned to England yet again, unharmed. You have been away for too long, and though I know this is the life you have chosen, it does pain me to think of you so far from home—and so close to battle. I know what you write to the family cannot be the whole of what you experience. If you wish to speak of it while you are here, I would be glad to listen.”
Fitzwilliam inclined his head, his expression sobering at once.
He shifted his weight, the easy posture of a man long accustomed to assessing rooms and people alike.
“Thank you, Darcy,” he replied quietly. “I would offer you the same. I know the last months have not been easy for you, and I should like to hear what you have done regarding Wickham after his most recent attempt to bring trouble upon our family.”
Darcy sighed, running a hand briefly across his brow before lowering it again.
“To my shame, I know I have not done enough,” he admitted.
“At the time, it seemed unwise—if I wished to keep Georgiana safe. He holds too many secrets, and I feared that any action against him might provoke retaliation. I do not know where he is now.”
Fitzwilliam studied him for a moment, noting the tension held in Darcy’s shoulders and the care with which he chose his words. It was the look of a man accustomed to command, now constrained by love. At last, Fitzwilliam’s mouth curved—not in amusement, but in quiet satisfaction.
“As it happens,” he said mildly, “I do.”
Darcy looked at him sharply. “Where?”
“This morning,” Fitzwilliam replied, his tone unchanged, “I passed him on the road outside Meryton—newly fitted in the red coat of a militia soldier.”
“In Meryton?” Darcy exclaimed, the words escaping him before he could restrain them. Fitzwilliam raised a brow, the faintest gesture of reproach at the lapse. “Did he see you? Does he know you are here?”
“No, he did not see me, but yes, he is in Meryton,” Fitzwilliam replied evenly, “which simplifies matters considerably.”
“How so?” Darcy demanded.
Fitzwilliam turned slightly, as though considering the matter finished already.
“He cannot leave the area without being guilty of deserting, a crime punishable by death,” he replied casually.
“If I, or anyone who is a superior officer, gives him an order, he cannot question it and must follow it or face consequences.”
He looked back at Darcy then, his expression cool, assured.
“Wickham is a mere lieutenant and will not be missed, particularly when he cannot possibly go long without making an enemy of someone within his unit or in the neighbourhood itself. He will be more easily dispatched as a soldier than he would have been as a civilian.”
Darcy stared at him. “You mean to have him… dispatched?”
Fitzwilliam met his gaze without flinching. “I mean,” he said calmly, “that he will be prevented from causing further harm—promptly, decisively, and with as little noise as possible.”
“You will not duel him, will you?” Darcy asked, feeling a bit hesitant.
“No, what I will do to him will be far worse,” Fitzwilliam replied, his gaze sharpening tightly. “I will make him regret that he was ever born.”