Chapter Sixteen
Darcy
“Beneath my notice.”
The words struck Darcy each time they echoed through his mind.
He had endured many insults in his life—whispered comments about his lowly birth, snide remarks about his father’s profession, the subtle condescension of those born to titles he would never possess.
But none had cut as deeply as Elizabeth’s pronouncement at their wedding breakfast.
The grandfather clock in Longbourn’s hall struck midnight as Darcy paced the corridors of what was now his home.
Each step on the polished wood floors sent the sound reverberating through the silence, a rhythmic accompaniment to his churning thoughts.
This house—smaller than Pemberley but possessed of comfortable elegance—belonged to him now through marriage.
Lord Hartford had maintained it well during his ownership, though Darcy suspected much of its current charm stemmed from the Bingley family’s recent tenancy.
How odd that he should now reside within in its walls, his friend and Miss Bingley relegated to the local inn, until the sale of his estate could be finalised.
The wedding ceremony at the parish church had proceeded with all proper dignity. Elizabeth spoke her vows in a clear voice, though her eyes remained fixed on some distant point beyond his shoulder throughout the entire service. Not once had she looked at him.
But it was the wedding breakfast that haunted him now.
The memory of Elizabeth’s face, twisted with contempt as she delivered her verdict on his character, refused to leave him.
“A fortune hunter who used my distress to climb the social ladder.” Each word had been chosen with precision, designed to wound where it would hurt most.
He made his way upstairs to his chamber, when a sound came to his ears.
A muffled sob, along with soft gasps and hiccups of a woman weeping into her pillow.
The sound cut through him, but tonight it carried a different weight than it might have yesterday.
She wept not just for her lost choices and stolen future, but perhaps for the cruelty of her own words.
He had got to know her slightly before their wedding, before it all went wrong.
The woman he spoke to in the apple orchard was not a cruel woman.
She was an enlightened one. One who saw the unfairness of their stations.
Not the sort to cut a man when he was already down.
Perhaps her tongue had been guided by anger rather than malice. That, he had to hope.
Yet, there was another matter. There was truth to her words, cruel as they might have been. For had he not benefited enormously from this arrangement? Had he not gained a wife far above his natural station, a home grander than any he might have aspired to on his own merit?
The facts were inescapable. He, the son of a gentleman’s steward—a man who had spent his youth learning estate management in service to others—had married the daughter of an earl.
In any other circumstances, society would brand him exactly what Elizabeth had called him, a fortune hunter, a man who had elevated himself through calculated matrimony.
If their positions had been reversed—if she had been a woman of modest birth wedding a titled gentleman—would he not have harboured the same suspicions of her motives?
The sobbing continued, but Darcy made no move. What comfort could he offer when she had made her feelings so devastatingly clear? Instead, he turned away from the sound of her distress and retreated to the study that was now his domain.
Lord Hartford had left behind a well-appointed room lined with books that spoke of scholarly interests.
Leather-bound volumes on agriculture, philosophy, and poetry filled the shelves, while a massive mahogany desk dominated the space before tall windows that would offer views of the gardens in daylight.
Darcy settled himself in the leather chair and drew forth writing materials from the desk drawer.
If he could not ease Elizabeth’s present distress—if indeed she would reject any overture from him—perhaps he could begin to arrange their future with some consideration for both their comfort and his own wounded dignity.
But first, he had to do something else. He had to inform those nearest and dearest to him of his change in circumstance.
He had not written to Mr Wickham or Georgiana before the wedding, for he could not imagine his sister amidst the crowd, subjected to those who would whisper about him, repeating the things Elizabeth had said to his face. He’d wanted to spare her, spare himself.
How would he explain all this to her? He still did not know. It would be even harder to write to Mr Wickham. He could not tell either the full truth. And to protect Mr Wickham, he had to ensure Georgiana did not suspect that their childhood companion, George, was involved at all.
Lies upon lies.
Georgiana, he began, then paused, his pen hovering over the parchment.
I write to inform you of a most significant change in my circumstances. I have been married, my bride being Lady Elizabeth Bennet of Hertfordshire. She is the daughter of my employer. Or rather, my former employer, Lord Hartford.
The lady is now mistress of Longbourn, the estate which Lord Hartford has settled upon us as part of our marriage arrangements.
I know this news will come as a considerable surprise, and I deeply regret that I could not inform you beforehand.
The circumstances required immediate action and were rather unfortunate.
She found herself in an unfortunate position that might have caused her reputation to be ruined.
An urgent need for a husband arose and well, your brother was chosen.
He paused, this was as much as he could write without telling Banbury tales. In addition, he was aware he had to tell her about Elizabeth. But which Elizabeth? The one he had come to know in the apple orchard? Or the one now crying upstairs? He sighed. Aware which one it had to be.
Elizabeth is a woman of considerable intelligence and remarkable spirit—qualities I believe you will appreciate greatly upon making her acquaintance.
I should very much like to invite you to visit us here at Longbourn, that you might become acquainted with your new sister.
The house is comfortable and well-appointed, and I believe you would find the Hertfordshire countryside quite pleasant and not too different from Matlock.
I will explain more when I see you. I shall write to Mr Wickham post haste and inform him also, as well as Lord Matlock but please, do wait until they too have received their letters to talk to them about this matter.
Please respond at your earliest convenience, as I am most eager to know your thoughts on this unexpected development in our family circumstances.
Your devoted brother, Fitzwilliam
He set down the quilt and read through the letter twice, noting how little of the actual truth it contained.
How could he possibly explain to his gentle sister that he had married a woman who despised him?
That he had bound himself to a union built upon mutual resentment and misunderstanding?
And all of it because of George Wickham?
Georgiana was fond of George, of course she was.
George had always adored Georgiana and he saw her as more of a true sister than he saw Darcy as a brother.
Georgiana had been a toddler when they moved into the steward’s house at Pemberley. She had been no competition.
In fact, he had doted on her the same way Darcy doted on Georgiana. However, in time, she had come to understand that her beloved Georgie had a dark side, one that required caution. Still, he did not wish to hurt her by telling her the whole truth.
As he folded the letter along precise lines, a troubling thought occurred to him.
Perhaps he should have consulted Elizabeth before extending such an invitation.
After all, Longbourn was now her home as much as his, and she might not welcome a stranger—particularly one connected to him—into her domain.
Common courtesy, if nothing else, dictated that he should seek her permission.
But then Elizabeth’s cutting words from the wedding breakfast echoed once more in his memory, and his momentary consideration of her feelings hardened into something approaching defiance.
She had made perfectly clear her opinion of his character and motivations.
Perhaps it was time he began to act with the very self-interest she had already attributed to him.
He sealed the letter with rather more force than necessary, pressing the wax seal with a sharp downward motion that left a clear impression of his family’s crest.