Chapter 29 #2
“Lord Granfield anticipated this,” Darcy said after a moment, absently turning a billiard ball beneath his fingers.
“We are fortunate the gossip did not spread more fully through the village sooner. From what little Wickham let slip, he appears to have known of the speculation, but lacked confirmation. That may yet prove in our favour.”
Hurst shifted his stance beside the table, one hand resting lightly against its polished edge as he listened.
Darcy set the ball aside and straightened.
“I shall speak with Lord Granfield at once. Until Elizabeth and I are married, every precaution must be observed. With this latest development, we may persuade him to advance the date—and even to forgo some portion of the display he considers indispensable.”
He cast Richard a pointed look.
“I have no desire for a spectacle, and your mother would insist upon delaying matters until June at the earliest.”
Hurst’s mouth twitched with faint amusement, while Richard’s composure deserted him altogether. He leant back against the table’s edge, laughter breaking from him in a manner only narrowly short of a guffaw.
“Yes, she will,” Richard said, one brow arching. “She will think it her solemn duty to present you both to every member of the ton. An unknown granddaughter of an earl? Society will descend in droves for the novelty alone.”
He regarded Darcy with exaggerated seriousness. “Despite your engagement, you will have your work cut out for you keeping Elizabeth from being admired beyond measure. Do you worry she may throw you over for a peer?”
Hurst gave a quiet huff at that, folding his arms as though to better observe the exchange.
Darcy shook his head at his cousin, a fleeting scowl crossing his features before his mouth curved in reluctant amusement.
“She would not,” he said lightly, “although I suspect I shall be obliged to endure an intolerable number of bows and appraising glances. I may at least claim the first dances and as many thereafter as decorum permits—and your mother.”
At this, Hurst lifted his glass again, the faint shake of his head betraying his conviction that any scheme involving the countess and restraint was doomed from the outset.
A quiet breath escaped Darcy, the amusement thinning as the thought settled.
“In truth,” he continued, more wry than resentful, “Elizabeth will bear the spectacle far better than I. Society delights in its pageantry. I do not.” His expression grew thoughtful. “It is not admiration I dread—but being made a display, as I shall certainly be if your mother has her way.”
Over the rim of his glass, Hurst regarded him with one brow faintly raised.
Richard watched his cousin for a moment, the teasing softening into something more knowing.
“You may dislike the theatre of it,” he said mildly, “but you have long been a principal actor. You will manage well enough. And Elizabeth”—his smile returned—“will manage you. I have seen how she already does it when you do not even notice.”
A low sound—half huff, half laugh—came from Hurst.
Darcy’s lips twitched despite himself.
A discreet knock interrupted them.
“Enter,” Hurst called.
The butler appeared in the doorway. “Dinner will be served in an hour, gentlemen. Mrs Hurst has directed that you be given time to refresh yourselves. Your baths are prepared.”
Dinner at Netherfield that evening was subdued. Fitzwilliam suspected that he and Darcy looked as weary as they felt; they had ridden hard and long. The Hursts spoke quietly between themselves, leaving the gentlemen undisturbed and wisely refraining from pressing them into conversation.
Fitzwilliam could only hope that Wickham was at last contained—and that no member of his family would ever again suffer that man’s interference. If fortune favoured them, he would be tried for desertion and shot, and the matter ended.
When the meal concluded, Fitzwilliam pushed back his chair.
“Mrs Hurst, thank you for an excellent dinner. If you will excuse me, I believe I shall retire.”
“I must do the same,” Darcy said. “Pray forgive us. We are not unequal to the saddle, but today’s exertions were uncommon.”
Mrs Hurst responded with easy kindness, assuring them that no apology was required and expressing her hope that rest would restore them fully by morning. Her manner held neither curiosity nor reproach—only quiet consideration.
With brief farewells, the gentlemen withdrew. Fitzwilliam would have gone directly to his chamber, but Darcy paused at the foot of the stairs.
“If you will indulge me a moment,” he said quietly.
Reluctantly, Fitzwilliam altered course and followed him into the small sitting room adjoining their chambers. Darcy closed the door behind them and remained standing.
“You have had some time to consider today’s events,” Darcy began. “How are you truly? I know you are concerned for Miss Bennet—and for the possibility of Collins renewing his addresses. Are you resolved to interfere should he persist?”
Fitzwilliam did not answer at once. He moved to the hearth and braced one hand upon the mantel, staring into the low fire.
“I cannot, Darcy.” The words came harder than he intended. He turned, some of the anger he had been suppressing rising despite himself. “Even if I wished it—if I were certain of her feelings—I cannot offer her what she deserves.”
Darcy did not interrupt, even as his expression grew tight.
“You know as well as I that I have no estate,” Fitzwilliam continued, his tone steadier now.
“Yes, I have saved most of my pay these ten years. At your urging, I invested what I could and reinvested the returns. I have done tolerably well.” He drew a breath.
“But it is not enough to retire and live upon half pay—not with a wife accustomed to an estate, to servants, to security.”
He fell silent, jaw tightening before he spoke again.
“I cannot claim that I am in love with her—yet,” he admitted.
“But I am nearer to it than I expected to be. Given time…” He shook his head faintly.
“I could not see her lost to a man like Collins. If she chose a man my equal, I might accept it. If Bingley returned and offered for her, I would step aside; that is, if she accepted him. But not Collins.”
The room fell quiet.
After a moment, Darcy crossed to him and laid a hand briefly upon his shoulder.
“If I were to find an estate within your reach,” he began carefully, forestalling the protest he saw forming, “would you consider purchasing it? I do not propose a gift; only that I secure it and allow you to repay me from its income over time.”
Fitzwilliam shook his head at first. “I cannot immediately see how such a scheme would succeed.”
He paused, then looked at his cousin. “If you were to discover a property for which I might place a reasonable sum in earnest, and if you would advance the remainder as a loan—at proper interest—we might contrive an arrangement that benefits us both. But it must be a loan, not charity. I would pay the market rate, not some indulgent figure devised for my comfort. On those terms, I might consider it.”
“Very well,” Darcy replied, suppressing a yawn he could not entirely conceal.
“I did not exaggerate below. I ride daily, but rarely for fourteen miles.” He moved towards the door.
“I shall make enquiries in the morning and hope that something suitable presents itself. You know I have long wished to see you settled nearer home.”
“I know,” Fitzwilliam said quietly. “I am obliged to you.”
They parted soon after, each retreating to his chamber. But though exhaustion weighed upon him, Fitzwilliam lay awake far longer than he had intended, his thoughts divided between Jane Bennet and the possibility—once unthinkable—of laying down his commission.
Fitzwilliam was not the only one restless that night.
Mr Collins withdrew to his chamber at Longbourn in considerable agitation.
His cousin had not merely discouraged but expressly forbidden any further mention of a union with his eldest daughter, even threatening his removal from the house should he persist. He had nearly skipped the meal, so agitated he had been by his cousin’s refusal to listen to reason, but he had been far too hungry.
Instead, he had sat quietly, not giving his cousins the benefit of his wisdom during the meal.
Several times that afternoon he had attempted to enlist Mrs Bennet’s support, even before Cousin Jane was returned, but she had likewise refused him, declaring with unexpected firmness that her daughters were not ruined and that, if he wished to marry, he ought to select the second.
Jane Bennet, she insisted, was destined for better.
He crossed to the hearth and stirred the embers with unnecessary vigour before setting the poker aside. The indignity of it smarted.
“Better,” he murmured once, scoffing as he loosened his cravat as though the word itself constricted him.
Who, he demanded inwardly as he resumed pacing the length of the chamber, was better than he—the heir of Longbourn and rector under the distinguished patronage of Lady Catherine de Bourgh?
That his motives—purely dutiful, wholly benevolent—should be so misconstrued was scarcely credible.
He had sought only to preserve Miss Bennet’s reputation after so unfortunate an occurrence as had transpired that day and instead found himself treated as though he were an opportunist.
He paused before the small mirror above the washstand, straightened his waistcoat, and surveyed his reflection with grave consideration.
To be redirected towards the second daughter—however devout—was not merely disappointing; it was imprudent.
A union so plainly advantageous ought not to be set aside without due reflection.