Chapter 21 #2
Mary rose halfway from her chair. “We cannot simply ignore such matters. England has suffered enough confusion over divided loyalties.”
“Mary,” Jane said gently, “this is neither the time nor the place.”
Mr. Collins hovered, visibly horrified—though Elizabeth did not know if his sentiments concerned Mary’s disrespect or the fact that someone such as Mr. Darcy was a heretic.
Darcy’s jaw tightened, though he spoke without heat. “I attend Anglican services, as by law they are the ones held in England. I honor my sovereign. And I endeavor to live with integrity. Beyond that, my conscience is my own.”
Mary drew herself up. “If you are a papist, sir, then you are in grave error, and it is my duty to say so.”
Fortunately, the door opened, and Mr. Bennet entered, spectacles in hand. “What grave errors are being corrected before luncheon?” he asked dryly.
Mary turned at once. “Papa, Mr. Darcy may be a Catholic.”
Mr. Bennet paused. His eyes flicked from Mary to Darcy to Elizabeth’s flushed face. “And is he to be drawn and quartered for it in my drawing room?” he inquired mildly.
Mary stiffened. “It is not a trifling matter.”
“No,” Mr. Bennet agreed calmly. “It is not. Which is precisely why it shall not be shouted across carpets and tea tables.”
Mary opened her mouth.
“That is enough,” he said, his tone hardening. “When you are mistress of your own house, you may regulate the theology of your guests. Until then, you will regulate your tongue.”
Silence fell.
Mary’s cheeks burned crimson. “Then I shall remove myself from a conversation that offends my conscience.”
She swept from the room.
Mr. Collins hesitated, bowing repeatedly to Darcy. “I entreat you, sir, to understand my position—my veneration for your titled aunt is unshaken, yet doctrinal irregularities—”
“Quite,” Darcy replied faintly.
The door closed behind them.
Mrs. Bennet fluttered. “Pray forgive her, Mr. Darcy. Mary has always been… intense.”
Jane, in an effort to restore harmony to the room, asked her mother if she had an opinion on the furnishings of Lady Lucas’s drawing room.
Once her mother was sufficiently distracted, Elizabeth turned her attention to Darcy. His hand was clenched tightly upon his knee. Without hesitation, she laid her fingers lightly over it.
“I am very sorry,” she said softly.
His eyes lifted to hers, searching. “Has this driven you away?” he asked quietly.
The question startled her.
“I was about to ask the same of you,” she replied.
Something in his expression eased.
“For my part,” she continued, steady now, “I care more for how a man conducts himself than for the exact phrasing of his catechism. Your character, Mr. Darcy, is not in question with me.”
His breath left him slowly. He turned his hand beneath hers, covering her fingers, and gave them the faintest squeeze. “Thank you,” he murmured.
Across the room, Mr. Bennet watched with thoughtful speculation.
The storm had passed—but Elizabeth suspected it had revealed more than anyone had intended.
∞∞∞
The following morning Darcy remained at Netherfield.
It was not for want of inclination that he refrained from calling at Longbourn. Quite the contrary. The previous day’s parting lingered in his thoughts with a steadiness that made the intervening hours feel unnecessarily long.
Yet prudence restrained him.
Mary Bennet’s denunciation—delivered with the unshakable conviction of a reforming bishop—had unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
He had endured ridicule before. At Cambridge, there had been those who objected to him for the simple pleasure of objection—his height, his reserve, his refusal to join certain diversions.
His faith had occasionally furnished convenient material, but it had never been the root of the hostility.
Miss Mary’s attack was different.
Her objections had not been flippant. They had been earnest. Directed. Moral.
She had not mocked him. She had condemned him.
Darcy stood at the window of Bingley’s study, a pamphlet on crop rotation lying forgotten upon the desk behind him. The quiet suited him. Netherfield’s tenants went about their business without interrogation of his soul.
A scratch at the door commanded his attention. “An officer of the regiment is here to see you, sir,” said the footman who poked his head in. “A Lieutenant Wickham.”
Darcy’s brow furrowed.
“You may admit him.”
A moment later Wickham entered, hat in hand, expression composed though less careless than usual.
“Darcy.”
“Wickham.”
They did not shake hands.
“I will not detain you long,” Wickham began. “I was at Longbourn this morning, and I heard about how… zealous Miss Mary was with you yesterday.”
Darcy’s mouth tightened slightly. “The younger Miss Bennets are not inclined toward discretion, unfortunately.”
Wickham shifted his weight. “I thought I ought to inquire after you. Catholicism is no small thing in your family. It never has been.”
Darcy’s gaze sharpened.
“Yours as well,” he said evenly. “Our shared grandmother fled an earl’s household to practice her faith openly. It was not a small sacrifice.”
Wickham inclined his head. “It was not. But my father was not raised with the same firmness of conviction as your mother.”
“Nor was your mother Catholic,” Darcy allowed, “as was mine.”
“No,” Wickham agreed. “My father respected it. He did not feel it. There is a difference.”
Darcy did not immediately answer. He had always known that distinction. Wickham had inherited the name and the blood, but not the burden.
“I respect it as well,” Wickham went on, with unexpected seriousness. “I do not deride it. But I cannot pretend it governs my conscience as it does yours.”
Darcy studied his cousin. There had been a time when he would have dismissed such moderation as weakness. Now he wondered whether it might sometimes be freedom.
“I confess,” Darcy said after a moment, “I am less troubled by the argument itself than by the intensity of it.”
He paused, searching for the right words to say. “Our beliefs are not so dissimilar that they warrant such malice. Wars have been fought over less—yet we stand in the nineteenth century. One would imagine we might have outgrown these prejudices.”
Wickham gave a short breath of something not quite a laugh. “One would imagine many things.”
Darcy folded his hands before him, grounding himself. “I find I am uncertain how to proceed.”
“With Miss Mary?” Wickham asked lightly.
“With the situation.”
Wickham considered. “From what I observed, neither Miss Elizabeth nor her parents appear to regard the matter as of great consequence.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened slightly. “No.”
“Then I should advise you to treat it as such. Leave Miss Mary to her own reflections. Her parents must manage her zeal as they see fit.”
Darcy grimaced.
Wickham smiled faintly. “You do not believe they are adept handlers.”
Darcy did not reply.
Wickham’s smile widened just enough to acknowledge the truth without stating it. “The two youngest appear to be quite lively.”
Darcy almost smiled.
Almost.
“I must report for duty,” Wickham said, glancing toward the clock. “I only wished to see whether you bore the assault well.”
“I do,” Darcy replied. “Thank you. It was good of you to call.”
“I could do nothing less for family.” Wickham inclined his head. “Good day, cousin.”
“Good day.”
When the door closed, the room seemed quieter than before.
Darcy remained standing for some time, reflecting upon Wickham’s counsel.
It was sensible advice. Elizabeth herself had not appeared distressed by Mary’s objections.
Mr. Bennet had treated the matter with indifference. Mrs. Bennet with incomprehension.
Why then did it linger so heavily upon him?
His gaze drifted toward the window once more.
Elizabeth.
The question he had not yet permitted himself to form now rose fully.
Would she convert?
If their marriage were to be solemnized at Pemberley—if their children were to inherit not only land but legacy—could he ask less?
The faith of his fathers stretched back centuries—through recusancy, through fines and quiet defiance, through marriages arranged in whispers and baptisms conducted in secrecy. It was not mere preference. It was inheritance. It was continuity. It was blood.
But Elizabeth was not continuity.
She was choice.
If she refused—if her conscience held her elsewhere—could he require it of her? Could he insist upon something so foundational?
Could he relinquish it?
Or worse—
Could he relinquish her?
The thought struck with uncomfortable clarity.
He loved her.
The thought came without ornament—not with the fever of novelty, but with the steady recognition of something essential.
He loved her wit, her courage, her clear-eyed refusal to flatter him into comfort. He loved the steadiness beneath her playfulness. He loved the way she met difficulty with humor rather than retreat.
Could he relinquish her if she would not share his faith?
The very notion felt like tearing something vital from himself.
He drew a slow breath.
No decision could be made in silence.
Before any formal steps were taken—before promises hardened into vows—he would speak with her plainly. She deserved that. So did he.
Only then would he know what future lay before them.