Chapter Twenty-one
Darcy
“There is no need for you to accompany us, Catherine. Do you really wish to trouble yourself?”
Lord Matlock’s question carried the weary resignation of a man who already knew the answer but felt compelled to voice his objection nonetheless. His sister arranged her skirts to occupy maximum space while casting a critical eye over the vehicle’s interior.
“Someone must ensure proper discipline is maintained with the tenants,” Lady Catherine declared.
“Your leniency, Theo, borders on the absurd. Granting lease extensions to families who cannot meet their obligations, reducing rents when harvests fail…it is a wonder you have not bankrupted the estate entirely through misguided compassion.”
Lord Matlock’s tone remained mild, but certainty underlaid his next words. “The estate thrives precisely because I do not bleed my tenants dry when misfortune strikes. But we shall not debate estate management again. You have made your opinions quite clear over the years.”
Richard exchanged a glance with his brother Arthur as they settled onto the opposite bench, their expressions suggesting they had witnessed this particular disagreement more times than either cared to count. Darcy took his seat beside his cousins.
His preference for silence went unnoticed or deliberately ignored.
“I refuse to risk my own carriage on these atrocious roads,” Lady Catherine continued. “The paving is deplorable. One would think the local authorities incompetent. In my day, roads were maintained properly. Now everything seems to be crumbling into disorder.”
The carriage lurched into motion, wheels rattling over the very roads she condemned, beginning the journey towards the various tenant holdings scattered across the Matlock lands where the quarterly meetings would be held.
Lord Matlock maintained the practice of visiting his tenants personally rather than requiring them to come to the main house.
It was a decision Lady Catherine had criticised repeatedly as beneath the dignity of an earl, but which the tenants themselves appreciated based on their evident respect for his lordship.
Today’s itinerary included hearing petitions from families seeking lease renewals or requesting adjustments to their agreements, and addressing various concerns that had accumulated since the last meeting.
It was necessary work, the sort that made the difference between an estate that merely survived and one that thrived.
But Darcy found his attention wandering from such practical considerations, his gaze fixed on green fields giving way to clusters of tenant cottages and smoke rising from chimneys in lazy spirals against the sky.
He thought about Elizabeth. The way she had avoided his gaze this morning when he attempted to engage her in conversation and her absence from dinner last night.
Something was wrong indeed and it had nothing to do with the hollow excuse about headaches.
She was withdrawing from him, unmistakably so. Just when he had begun to believe their bond would continue to grow until it had a stronger foundation. It worried him.
“Darcy?”
He startled at Lord Matlock’s voice. “Yes?”
“I was enquiring after your marriage. You have been wed for quite some time now. I trust you find yourself content with the arrangement?”
He became acutely aware of three pairs of eyes fixed upon him with varying degrees of interest: His uncle’s held concern, Richard’s was more curious and Arthur’s held a penetrating assessment. Even Lady Catherine had suspended her complaints about road conditions to await his response.
“We are... adjusting well enough. These matters take time, naturally.”
“Naturally,” Lord Matlock agreed, his tone suggesting he heard far more in what Darcy had not said than in his actual response. “Still, I must admit I had hoped to see you appearing more settled. You seem rather troubled, if I may observe so.”
“I am quite well.”
“Are you?” Arthur leaned forward slightly, his expression thoughtful in the way that always preceded uncomfortable insights. “Forgive my directness, cousin, but you have been preoccupied since breakfast. Distant, even. If something troubles you, perhaps speaking of it might help?”
Darcy had no wish to discuss his marriage before an audience, particularly one that included Lady Catherine, whose opinions on the match had been made abundantly clear.
She might seize upon any admission of difficulty as vindication of her prejudices and use his concerns as ammunition to continue her campaign of criticism.
Yet the concern in Arthur’s features, mirrored in Richard’s, was genuine. And perhaps articulating his unease might help clarify it and transform the odd sensation he felt into something more manageable. With any hope, naming his worries aloud would make them less overwhelming.
“I believe my wife has been avoiding me,” he said, the admission emerging with difficulty. “She has been distant lately, and evasive when I attempt conversation. I cannot determine the cause, but I intend to address the matter directly upon our return.”
Richard frowned. “Avoiding you? That seems odd behaviour for a new bride. What could possibly prompt such distance? Has something occurred between you? Some disagreement or misunderstanding that might explain the change?”
“If I knew, I would not be troubled by it.” He shifted position, uncomfortable beneath their collective scrutiny.
“I thought perhaps she required time to adjust to our circumstances. But her manner has changed so markedly since—” He stopped, unwilling to specify since their kiss.
That was the moment they had finally seemed to be building a true connexion and everything had felt like it was finally aligning towards happiness.
“In my experience,” Lord Matlock said with the air of someone drawing on decades of marital wisdom, “when my wife withdraws from me, it is typically because I have displeased her in some manner. Usually something I have done or failed to do, although it often takes considerable effort to puzzle out precisely what offence I have committed. Sometimes it is a statement uttered carelessly, an obligation forgotten, or a failure to notice what she believed obvious.”
“That sounds exhausting,” Richard noted.
“Marriage frequently is,” his father replied with dry humor. “But the point stands. Withdrawal often indicates displeasure with one’s partner’s behavior. Perhaps you have inadvertently offended Mrs Darcy in some way?”
Darcy considered this possibility, reviewing recent interactions for potential missteps. But he could identify nothing that might have caused offense sufficient to prompt such marked withdrawal.
“I courted a young lady once,” Arthur said, “who would ignore me whenever I failed to bring flowers of sufficient quality. She had very exacting standards about such gestures of romantic attention. Perhaps Mrs Darcy expects the same.”
“I do not believe Elizabeth’s temperament inclines toward such games. If something displeased her, I believe she would express it rather than acting demure in hopes I might guess the cause.”
“Then perhaps she feels guilty about something,” Lady Catherine said pointedly, “Something she fears might damage your relationship if revealed. That could explain why she withdraws rather than confides in you.”
“Guilt? I think not. Elizabeth has nothing to feel guilty about. She has made no missteps that would warrant such behaviour.”
“You cannot know that with certainty. You have been married less than enough time to know all her secrets or concerns and understand the full complexity of her motivations.”
“Elizabeth has not wronged me.”
The statement was pointed, driven by his need to defend her even against such mild speculation.
“I did not say she had. Maybe she feels uncomfortable about how your marriage came about. After all, if she had not made the announcement, you would not be wed. That is enough to inspire guilt.”
Arthur cleared his throat, interrupting the verbal sparring between Darcy and his aunt.
“Perhaps this is nothing but I suppose I ought to mention it. Yesterday afternoon, a few others and I saw Mrs Darcy heading towards the village in her family’s carriage.
She appeared quite nervous upon seeing us, which struck me as unusual for someone simply taking fresh air. ”
Darcy’s entire body tensed as his cousin’s words registered. “Elizabeth went to Snowhill? When exactly was this?”
“Late afternoon the previous day. Our carriage was returning from the horse races when we encountered hers on the road. She said she was exploring the area. Did she not mention the excursion to you?”
“No. She did not.”
The steady rattle of wheels and the rhythmic sound of hooves filled the cabin.
His mind raced through implications with uncomfortable speed.
His wife had gone to the village—alone, apparently, given Arthur’s phrasing—and had not thought to mention it to him.
She’d actively concealed the excursion, retiring early and claiming a headache to avoid recounting her day’s activities in casual conversation. ”
Why? What business in the village required such secrecy?
“I told you,” Lady Catherine announced with evident satisfaction.
“The girl is already keeping secrets from you. You have been blind to the Bennets’ true nature, Darcy, despite all my warnings.
That family is wholly unsuitable, and now you are discovering the consequences of your hasty alliance with people so far beneath your station. ”
“Aunt Catherine—”