Fifteen
The note arrived at half past nine, in Richard’s hand.
That was never a good sign, because his cousin did not write notes.
Instead, he walked into Darcy’s study unannounced, dropped into chairs uninvited, and delivered his opinions without the courtesy of a preamble.
A written summons implied forethought, which implied either a military operation or a catastrophe.
Come to Matlock House at eleven. Do not be late.
R.F.
Darcy arrived at Matlock House in Berkeley Square—stone-fronted, immaculate, a residence which announced its occupants’ rank without condescending to vulgarity. The butler admitted him with a bow and directed him to the parlour.
The room was large, high-ceilinged, and furnished with the restrained elegance that Lady Matlock imposed on every space she occupied.
Pale walls, gilt-framed portraits, a carpet that had survived three generations of Fitzwilliams and still managed to appear fresh.
The curtains were drawn back to admit the morning light, and a fire burned low in the grate despite the season—Lady Matlock felt the cold, and the household adjusted accordingly.
Richard stood by the mantelpiece, one elbow propped on the marble, his posture casual. However, his expression was not so casual. There was a set to his jaw that Darcy recognised—he had committed to an advance and was waiting for the signal to move.
The Earl occupied his usual chair by the window. He was reading a letter, his spectacles perched on the end of his nose. He raised his eyes when Darcy entered and frowned.
“Fitzwilliam. Do you know why we are here?”
“I do not, Uncle. I received a note.”
“As did we.” The Earl held up a folded paper. “Our son has developed epistolary habits. This is unprecedented and therefore alarming.”
Lady Matlock was seated on the settee, her back perfectly straight, her hands folded over a cup of tea. She regarded her son with the penetrating gaze that had governed the Fitzwilliam family for forty years.
“Richard. We are assembled. You may begin.”
Richard straightened from the mantelpiece and clasped his hands behind his back.
“I shall be direct,” he said.
“A welcome novelty,” the Earl murmured.
“I wish to court a lady.”
The effect was immediate. Lady Matlock’s cup paused halfway to her lips. The Earl removed his spectacles. The silence that followed had a quality of held breath—the particular suspension that preceded either celebration or disaster, and none of them yet knew which.
Lady Matlock recovered first. Her face broke into an expression Darcy had never witnessed on his aunt—unguarded, unreserved delight. She set the cup down with a clink that betrayed the tremor in her hand.
“Richard—”
“Before you commission the trousseau, Mother, there are circumstances you must be aware of.” He held up a hand.
The delight on his aunt’s face dimmed, but did not extinguish.
It shifted to caution, because she had learned, through decades of managing a family and a title, that joy often arrived with conditions attached.
“The lady is of reduced circumstances. They were once gentry with a country estate and respectable connections, but they lost everything several years ago. There is a scandal attached to the family. It is not recent, but it exists and it cannot be erased. And she has no idea that I intend to court her.”
The Earl leaned forward. “What manner of scandal?”
“Her youngest sister was seduced and abandoned by a man of no honour. The sister was fifteen at the time. The family was destroyed by the fallout; the father died, the estate was lost to the heir, and the women were left without provision. They live modestly in London.”
Lady Matlock’s expression had not changed from its careful assessment. “Is she a gentlewoman?” she asked.
“She is. Her father was a gentleman of Hertfordshire. The family is well-bred, well-educated, and well-mannered.”
“Did she cause the scandal?”
“She did not. She bore it. She has borne it with a grace that would put half the ladies of the ton to shame.”
“How long ago?”
“Seven years.”
Lady Matlock absorbed this, her eyes moving to her husband.
The Earl met her gaze, and a conversation passed between them that required no words—the compressed, natural communication of a couple who had navigated forty years of marriage, politics, and family crises, and had long since dispensed with the need for speeches.
“Her name,” Lady Matlock said. It was not a question.
“Miss Jane Bennet. She is the eldest sister of Miss Elizabeth Bennet, who serves as governess to Darcy’s daughter. You have met Miss Elizabeth, Mother.”
Lady Matlock’s eyebrows rose. “The governess. Yes. I recall her perfectly.” She turned to Darcy.
“Miss Bennet curtsied to the precise depth required for my rank—not a fraction too deep, not a fraction too shallow. I remarked on it at the time. One does not learn that calibration from books. One learns it from a mother who was raised in good society.”
The Earl turned to Darcy. “You know this family, Nephew. What is your assessment?”
Darcy had been standing by the door, silent, his hands clasped behind his back. He had watched Richard’s performance and recognised his courage. His cousin had walked into his parents’ parlour and laid his heart on the mahogany without flinching.
“Miss Jane Bennet is a gentlewoman in every sense.” His voice was measured, careful, offering testimony rather than opinion.
“I knew her briefly in Hertfordshire, some years ago. She was then considered the most beautiful woman in the county, and her manners were without reproach. I have not seen her recently, but I can attest to the quality of her character and the respectability of her family.”
The next words required precision.
“The scandal was not of their making. The family has suffered disproportionately for the actions of one man, and they have conducted themselves with dignity throughout. Miss Jane Bennet has borne the consequences without complaint. She is gentle and kind. Richard could do considerably worse.”
Richard shot him a glance—grateful, brief, tinged with the dry amusement that was their shared language. Considerably worse. Thank you for the ringing endorsement, Cousin.
Lady Matlock rose from the settee. She crossed to the window and stood beside her husband’s chair, her hand resting on the back of it.
The morning light caught the silver at her temples and the set of her jaw, and Darcy saw, for the first time, how much Richard resembled her.
Not in colouring—he had the Earl’s fair hair and broad frame—but in the directness, the refusal to equivocate, the way they both planted their feet and faced the difficulties head-on.
“If Miss Jane Bennet is half as well-bred and beautiful as her sister,” Lady Matlock said, “then she is worth the chance.” She turned to Richard.
“I will not pretend the circumstances are ideal. Society will talk. There will be doors that hesitate before they open. But doors that open only for fortune and rank are not worth walking through, and I have spent my life attending dinners behind them. I would rather my son married a woman of character and faced the gossip than married a title and faced the silence.”
The Earl regarded his son for a long while, and the sternness that habitually governed his features softened. He was not the Earl of Matlock assessing a situation at this moment, but a father regarding his child.
“Richard.” His voice was quieter than usual. “Your mother and I have made our share of errors in this family. We have learned, at considerable cost, that duty and happiness are not always the same currency.”
He did not say his eldest son’s name. Viscount Harbury had married the daughter of a marquess at three-and-twenty in a brilliant match, their families aligned and every practical consideration pointed towards yes.
He was now eight-and-thirty, and he spoke more to his brandy than to his wife.
They occupied opposite wings of the same house and met at meals with the brittle courtesy of ambassadors from hostile nations.
The Earl and Lady Matlock did not discuss their eldest son. They carried the failure of that arrangement between them—a shared weight, distributed equally, never spoken of and never set down.
“We insisted upon that match,” the Earl continued.
His hand found Lady Matlock’s on the chair back, and his fingers closed over hers.
“We were certain it was right. The connections, the fortune, the suitability—every aspect was in its proper place. And our son is wretched.” The word cost him.
Darcy heard it in the roughness of his voice, the brief tightening of his grip on his wife’s hand.
“We will not make that error again. If this woman is worthy of your regard, then she is worthy of ours. Court her, Richard. Court her openly and honourably, and let us see what comes of it.”
Richard’s throat worked and he nodded once—a soldier receiving orders he had hoped for but not expected.
The Earl turned to Darcy.
“And you, Nephew.”
Darcy stiffened. The Earl glanced from son to nephew abruptly.
“You have done your duty. More than your duty, I should say. You married where you were told, you raised a child, you managed your affairs and your grief with a composure that has earned you the respect of this family and the admiration of society. No one could have asked more of you.”
Darcy waited, knowing where this was heading, and that there was more to come.
“But duty is not contentment, Fitzwilliam. And contentment is not a luxury reserved for lesser men. It is time you found happiness and a mother to your child. Anne deserves that, and so do you.”