Chapter 7
Darcy sat in the book-room of his townhouse in Berkeley Square.
The leather armchair was comfortable, he had hot coffee to drink, he had slept well the night before, and there was nothing to distract him.
Yet, for the life of him, he could not bring himself to review his correspondence.
His thoughts would wander. Letting out a heavy sigh, he pushed himself away from the antique walnut desk and looked out the window.
As happened too often—despite his efforts to forget her—his reflections led him to Elizabeth Bennet and their final conversation in Dublin.
Perhaps it was because it had all gone so wrong.
The final image he had of her—walking away, her skirt flowing elegantly in the wind behind her—was fixed in his memory; it appeared in his dreams several times a week.
“I only wanted to disclose something of the struggle I then felt building in me, say that I was disappointed our connexion could not be more than it was, that I was sorry she was leaving,” he said softly, knowing there was no one to overhear.
Assure her that, if her circumstances had been better, he would have allowed their relationship to flourish.
He had been certain she had seen how much he was growing to admire her.
“Instead, I made a blunder of it.” She had been understandably enraged, and her anger had hit him like a blow to the stomach.
What a fool he had been! He had made assumptions about her.
Later, when he had asked Bramwell if he knew she was not Mrs Ryde’s paid companion, his cousin had been shocked at the question.
“Of course I did,” he had said. “I knew soon after we first met. Lord Halsley told me so. You did not?” He had laughed. “Tell me you did not do something stupid and talk to Miss Bennet as though she were Mrs Jenkinson!”
Darcy had refused to answer. In truth, he had probably treated her with less consideration than he did his cousin Anne’s companion.
After the terrible encounter, he had spent hours thinking about what had happened, including the weeks they had been together in Dublin.
He recalled Mrs Ryde once saying that she considered Elizabeth a niece, but even that had not been enough to make him accept the truth.
Instead, he had wondered why Mrs Ryde did not treat her as such rather than employ her.
Berating himself, he sought to understand why he had clung to his first impression.
Was it because his attraction to her was so unexpected and discomposing, and he had unconsciously wanted to create distance between them?
He had never been drawn to a lady as he was to her.
She was somewhere in England—Hertfordshire, he assumed, at her father’s estate.
Where was it exactly? He was not sure he had ever known, and it hardly mattered.
It was possible they would meet again, should she come to stay with Mrs Ryde.
It would be awkward, to say the least. If it did happen, how should he act?
Shaking his head and rolling his shoulders, Darcy thrust the question away and gave his attention to the papers on his desk, intending to forget about her and write the letters he needed to finish this morning.
But again, he could not order his thoughts.
He had not been, was not, entirely mistaken about Elizabeth.
Her position in life was decidedly beneath his own.
“Just not as greatly as I had believed. Even if I had not made such an error, our connexion would have been impossible. I must forget her and the feelings she evoked in me. Find another lady to take her place in my thoughts.”
Yet, nearly three months after last seeing her, her image stood prominently in his mind, and he could hear her voice whispering in his ear.
It did not help that Bramwell had often spoken of her when he was recounting tales of their time in Dublin to their families that summer.
Given their long absence, the Fitzwilliams, Georgiana, and he had spent weeks together, both at Romsley Hall and at Pemberley.
It had been enjoyable; Darcy’s only regret was that his father’s brother Frederick and his family could not join them, but they would see each other in town this autumn.
One event had marred their time in Derbyshire.
His cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam—who, along with him, was guardian to Georgiana—happened to spot George Wickham with his sister’s companion, Mrs Younge, together in Lambton.
Fitzwilliam was there to see a man about repairing his gun.
If he had not had that errand to complete, they might never have known that Mrs Younge was on intimate terms with Wickham, a childhood friend who had become an immoral, reprehensible adult.
Upon questioning, Fitzwilliam and Darcy learnt that the pair were plotting to use Georgiana to enrich themselves, going so far as to convince her to elope with Wickham, if possible.
Mrs Younge had been dismissed at once, and Wickham found and threatened until he agreed to take himself off and not return to the area again; he had few remaining friends there, in any case.
Worse had been explaining the situation to Georgiana. She had been dismayed and saddened when told why her relations found the affair so alarming and why they no longer held even a morsel of esteem for a man who had once been her brother’s dear friend.
“It has opened my eyes to a new aspect of humanity, of men,” she had said, her blue eyes filled with tears. “I never would have suspected him. Likely, I would not have suspected any man who was handsome and gentlemanly in demeanour. Or a lady who appeared respectable.”
“That is understandable,” he had said, comforting her. “And it shows that it has been a valuable lesson, one any young lady who will soon enter society should learn. We must not give our trust to just anyone, even if our first impression is favourable.”
Darcy had returned to town before his other relations because he had business matters he wished to see to, amongst them securing a new companion for his sister.
At present, Georgiana remained with Lord and Lady Romsley; they had gone to stay with the countess’s Sterling relations, while Bramwell and Fitzwilliam were visiting friends.
Before he had left Pemberley, his aunt and uncle had insisted the three of them have a serious discussion.
“It is time for you to marry,” Lord Romsley had said.
“You and Bramwell both,” Lady Romsley had added. “We have spoken to him of the matter. Lady Cassandra and her family will be in town by the end of October, and I have no doubt he will soon do his duty.”
Both of them had kept a steady gaze on Darcy, and he understood what they were not saying. They expected him to marry Anne de Bourgh, and wanted him to do it before long.
Remembering the conversation, which had been only the week before, Darcy decided anew that he could not bring himself to follow that particular path.
He had always been reluctant, but he had dismissed his feelings as being because he was too young, not yet ready for marriage, et cetera.
Having met Elizabeth, and despite the vexation associated with their parting, he understood that he could never marry Anne because she would never evoke tender feelings in him, let alone ones of love and devotion.
“I do not know if I might have ever felt so deeply for Elizabeth, but…” But he could have, likely would have, fallen in love with her had it not been against all reason.
On the other hand, he would never come close to loving, or even liking or respecting, Anne beyond what family ties demanded of him, despite their union being prudent and desired by several of his relations.
“Why am I continuing to dwell on her?” he grumbled, rather more loudly than was wise.
It would not do for one of the servants to accidentally hear him, despite the thick door to the book-room being closed, and gossip about him.
“I will immediately cease doing so and write these blasted letters! I did not give up spending more time with my sister and in the country only to come to town and accomplish nothing!”
Shortly after noon, Darcy’s good friend Charles Bingley called. The men sat in the book-room partaking of a drink and plate of bread, cheese, and sliced fruit.
“It is good to see you again,” Bingley said. “I am not the only one who missed your company when you were in Ireland. Your account of it sounds wonderful! I shall have to make a point of going there myself, one day.”
Bingley had insisted on hearing about Darcy and Bramwell’s time abroad before he would do more than say that he and his relations were well. Darcy would rather not have spoken of it, as discussing Ireland made him think of Elizabeth.
“You should. I have long wanted to travel to Greece and the Italian peninsula, and I shall, once I deem it safe enough, but I am glad to have gone to Ireland,” he said. “Tell me your news.”
Bingley, always a jovial fellow, laughed. “Had enough of talking about yourself? I would wager the viscount would speak of the same voyage for three times as long as you did and still have more to say!”
Darcy chuckled. “No doubt. But you, Bingley, what have you been doing these last months?”
“Scarborough, to visit family. We only returned to town recently, as you know, if you could make out my handwriting in the letters I sent you, that is. Louisa and Caroline always tell me I have the most atrocious writing, and it is impossible to make out.” Again, he gave a hearty laugh.
“Your sisters are not entirely mistaken, but I managed to understand that much.”
Briefly, Bingley grimaced. “You must teach them the trick. I would appreciate them having one less reason to reprimand me.”
When Darcy arched his brow in silent question, his friend sighed and explained.