2
The tension left with them, though not entirely.
“Forgive me, sir, but might I ask, are you Mr. Darcy? Of Pemberley?”
Darcy turned slowly, wary of the man’s eager expression.
“I am,” he said, evenly.
The speaker swelled with importance.
“How extraordinary! What an honour! I am Mr. William Collins, clergyman to the noble Lady Catherine de Bourgh. I understand you are her nephew, and, if I may presume, intended for her daughter?”
Darcy stiffened, but before he could reply, Colonel Fitzwilliam stepped forward with a disarming smile and just enough sharpness to be noticed by those with ears to hear.
“Ah, so you know our aunt. Yes, my cousin Darcy and I are both Lady Catherine’s nephews. As for the supposed engagement, there is none.”
“None whatsoever,” Darcy said shortly.
“Lady Catherine’s wishes are just that, wishes.”
Mr. Collins blinked between the two men, his face blanching with alarm.
“Oh! I—I beg your pardon. How very silly of me to presume! I meant no offense, Colonel, Mr. Darcy. Truly.”
Richard gave a slight bow, amused.
“None taken.”
Darcy said nothing, but the line of his jaw suggested otherwise.
As the awkwardness of Mr. Collins’s retreat faded behind them, trailing apologies and awkward bows, Miss Elizabeth turned to her older sister, who murmured something about Mrs. Philips expecting them for tea.
“A short walk, nothing more,” Miss Bennet explained to Bingley, her voice still soft with the remnants of illness but touched with genuine warmth.
“I would be honoured to accompany you,” Bingley said immediately, his smile boyish.
“The air is bracing, and I am quite in need of a constitutional after the ride.”
Richard had already dismounted and adjusted his gloves with a faint smile.
“I, too, should like to stretch my legs.”
Before anyone could reply, Bingley turned toward the ladies, gesturing between them with cheerful ease.
“Ah, forgive me! Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth—may I present my friend, Colonel Fitzwilliam, Mr. Darcy’s cousin and a recent arrival from London. He was good enough to escort Miss Darcy to Netherfield.”
Richard offered a courtly bow.
“It is a pleasure, Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth inclined her head with polite curiosity; Jane offered a gentle smile in return.
“The pleasure is ours, Colonel,” Jane said.
Only then did Richard continue, now with a teasing glint in his eye.
“And I must admit, I am most curious to witness the famous Meryton society for myself.”
Miss Elizabeth raised an eyebrow.
“Famous? You surprise me, Colonel. Whatever can you mean?”
“Only what I have heard,” he said, glancing slyly at his companions.
“From Mr. Bingley and my cousin.”
Darcy shifted beside him, the faintest flicker of alarm in his eyes.
Richard, clearly enjoying himself, extended his arm.
“May I?”
The country girl Darcy had dismissed as unsuitable accepted his cousin’s offer with poise and a spark of curiosity.
“And what, precisely, have you heard?”
“Oh, nothing too incriminating,” he replied lightly, leading her along the path.
“Only that Mr. Bingley is most pleased with his new neighbours.”
He looked ahead meaningfully, where Bingley walked close beside Miss Bennet, his posture attentive, his voice warm with admiration.
She followed the colonel’s gaze and gave a small nod, her smile softening.
“I believe he is.”
As they fell into step behind Bingley and the eldest Bennet sister, Miss Elizabeth glanced up at the colonel, curiosity still alight.
“So you are indeed Mr. Darcy’s cousin?”
“I am,” Richard replied with a nod.
“On his mother’s side. My father is the Earl of Matlock.”
Elizabeth gave him a thoughtful look, eyes glinting with amusement.
“How very interesting. You do not seem much alike.”
Richard raised a brow.
“No?”
“Not in manner, certainly,” she replied, her voice light.
“You speak with ease, Colonel. Mr. Darcy is… more sparing with his co nversation.”
Darcy, walking just behind them, felt a familiar twist in his chest. He could only assume she referred to that half hour in the library, each of them with a book in hand, and neither able to manage more than a few polite phrases.
He had meant to appear composed.
He suspected he had merely appeared dull.
Richard chuckled. “You wound him, Miss Elizabeth.”
“Oh no,” Miss Elizabeth said sweetly, barely glancing over her shoulder.
“I would not dare.”
Darcy walked in silence, his hands clasped behind his back, every step measured.
He kept just close enough to hear the conversation, though he wished desperately that Richard would not say something unnecessary, or worse, entirely accurate.
Behind the leading party, Mr. Collins had fallen into step beside Miss Mary Bennet, his gait awkward but determined.
He offered his arm with great ceremony, though it took Miss Mary several moments to realize he intended it.
The man launched into a spirited discourse on the moral improvements afforded by early rising and the superiority of morning devotions.
Miss Mary, visibly flattered, nodded along with growing interest. “Indeed, Mr. Collins. I have always found that a contemplative morning sets the tone for a virtuous day.”
“Precisely my view,” Mr. Collins said with enthusiasm.
“Lady Catherine herself often remarks upon the spiritual decay of those who idle past nine o’clock.”
Trailing behind them were Miss Kitty and Miss Lydia, who had no such interest in scripture.
Miss Lydia whispered something, which made Miss Kitty burst into muffled laughter, and both girls dissolved into giggles over some frivolity that would surely be lost on the rest of the company.
Colonel Fitzwilliam, walking steadily with Miss Elizabeth, cast a glance over his shoulder at the various pairs and smiled wryly.
“A most varied assembly,” he remarked.
Elizabeth’s lips curved.
“Indeed. Meryton society never fails to offer something for everyone.”
As they passed a low gate framed by two leafless hawthorns, Richard glanced sidelong at her, his voice turning more thoughtful.
“I must confess, Miss Elizabeth,” he said, “when Georgiana began describing you, I pictured someone quite different.”
Elizabeth looked up at him, puzzled.
“Miss Darcy? But I have never had the pleasure of meeting her.”
“True,” he said.
“But that did not stop my cousin from writing about you.”
Miss Elizabeth’s brow rose.
“Your cousin?”
“Darcy,” Richard clarified, clearly enjoying himself.
“He wrote to Georgiana from Netherfield, and judging by the effect, he did not hold back.”
She turned to look at him more fully, her brows drawn together in evident confusion.
“Mr. Darcy wrote about me? To his sister?”
Her tone was not flattered, but bewildered, as though trying to recall what fault he might have found worth recording.
“I cannot imagine what I have done to deserve such distinction,” she added, half to herself.
“Unless Miss Darcy has a particular interest in poor manners and country impertinence.”
Richard looked amused.
“On the contrary, I believe it was your wit and intelligence that caught his attention.”
Miss Elizabeth blinked at him.
“Mr. Darcy?” Her voice carried more disbelief than surprise.
“I had not thought myself worthy of his interest, let alone his correspondence.”
He gave a slow nod.
“My cousin can be tight-lipped, but his letter to Georgiana made it quite clear he had written at length about someone very clever, very spirited, and—if I recall correctly—‘impossible to ignore.’”
Her eyes widened at that.
“He said that?”
Richard gave a slight tilt of his head, pretending to reflect.
“Well, that may have been Georgiana’s phrasing. But the sentiment, I assure you, was genuine.”
Miss Elizabeth glanced toward Darcy, more baffled than ever.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said, turning to face him, her tone tentative now, “you have been writing to your sister about me?”
Darcy, who had been walking behind them with the fixed composure of a man trying desperately not to hear what he clearly heard, froze.
His spine stiffened; he looked first at Miss Elizabeth, then slowly—lethally—at his cousin, who gave him a most innocent smile.
Then, back at her. “I… that is… Georgiana appreciates live ly company,” he said stiffly.
Richard coughed, perhaps to cover a laugh.
“I see,” she said, but her eyes lingered on him a moment longer, as though trying to find the truth.
But the mask of civility returned swiftly.
Miss Elizabeth smiled, not unkindly.
“I am flattered. Though I admit I am now quite curious about what precisely you wrote.”
“Georgiana likes to know who I am spending time with,” he said, voice carefully neutral.
Elizabeth arched an eyebrow.
“And you spend so much time with me?”
His cousin made a small, unhelpful noise that might have been a chuckle.
Darcy said nothing, but the narrowed glance he gave Richard spoke volumes.
Miss Elizabeth, half-suspicious, half-amused, studied Darcy for another moment.
Then she turned forward again, her tone light but edged with curiosity.
“I suppose I shall have to ask Miss Darcy what it is she read,” she said.
“If only to solve the mystery.”
She glanced back at him briefly, her expression unreadable.
“I hope,” she added more warmly, “Miss Darcy might be persuaded to visit Longbourn while she is in the neighbourhood. I should very much like to meet the young lady whose opinion of me is apparently far more generous than her brother’s.”
Darcy stiffened slightly, caught between embarrassment and something else he could not name.
“Yes. She would… that is, she would be pleased.”
“Indeed, she would like that,” Richard said brightly, stepping in to ease the moment.
“She is very eager to become better acquainted with Hertfordshire society, at least, the parts her brother writes so glowingly about.”
Miss Elizabeth gave a soft laugh and turned her gaze toward the horizon.
“Then I look forward to it. I admit I am quite curious to meet Miss Darcy after hearing so much about her.”
Behind them, Darcy’s hands twitched behind his back.
He would, later, regret ever owning a pen.
As they reached the heart of Meryton, the bustle of the town thickened, shopkeepers calling from their thresholds, the distant ring of a blacksmith’s hammer, and the steady rhythm of carts over cobblestones.
The Philips residence stood just off the main street, a neat, respectable brick house adjacent to Mr. Philips’s law office, its polished windows and brass knocker marking it as one of Meryton’s more prominent homes.
Mrs. Philips stood at the gate, cap slightly askew, waving them over with the sort of energetic cheer that brooked no delay.
“Lizzy! Jane! And you have brought such fine company!” she said, eyes bright as they fell on the gentlemen.
“Mr. Bingley, of course, so very pleased to see you again, sir.”
She paused, eyes flicking with eager curiosity to the unfamiliar faces.
“And… I do not believe I have had the pleasure?”
Elizabeth stepped forward quickly, ever the capable niece.
“Mrs. Philips, may I present Colonel Fitzwilliam, cousin to Mr. Darcy—and Mr. Collins, our cousin on my father’s side, recently come from Kent.”
The colonel offered a bow and a practiced smile.
“An honour, madam.”
Mrs. Philips turned her attention to the rest of the party, her eyes alight with eager curiosity.
“I do hope you will consider joining us tomorrow evening? Nothing grand, of course—just a few neighbours, some cards, conversation, and perhaps a little music. A quiet gathering, to be sure.”
There was a brief pause as all eyes turned to Mr. Bingley.
With cheerful readiness, he stepped forward.
“We should be most delighted, madam,” he said, smiling warmly.
“Thank you for your kind invitation.”
Mrs. Philips clapped her hands once in satisfaction.
“Excellent! Seven o’clock, if you please. We shall look forward to it.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam inclined his head with a smile, and even Mr. Darcy offered a small nod of agreement, albeit one touched with resignation.
With further thanks and polite farewells exchanged, the gentlemen took their leave.
Bingley lingered just a moment longer, offering the eldest Bennet sister a gentle smile and a soft, “Until tomorrow, Miss Bennet,” before turning back to his horse .
Darcy offered the woman who had undone his composure a parting bow—formal, not warm.
“Miss Elizabeth.”
She returned it with equal civility.
“Mr. Darcy.”
As they mounted and turned back toward Netherfield, Miss Elizabeth watched them go with a thoughtful expression.
The colonel looked back once, offering a brief, ironic salute.
Darcy did not look back.
? ? ?
The ride home began in silence.
The rhythm of hooves on packed earth might have seemed peaceful—if not for the tension radiating from Darcy like heat off a summer stone.
He rode a few paces ahead, jaw tight, gaze fixed, reins taut in gloved hands.
Behind him, Richard whistled.
"Must you?" Darcy said sharply, not turning.
"Apparently, yes," Richard replied, entirely unrepentant.
“Do ease up, cousin. Your face is beginning to show signs of actual feeling.”
“I warned you,” Darcy said sharply.
"I asked you not to speak of—” He caught himself. “Elizabeth. Miss Elizabeth.” The name had come too easily to his tongue, and the heat rising in his collar betrayed him.
Richard, of course, noticed. His brow lifted, eyes alight with mischief. “You did,” he said mildly. “And I did not.”
He grinned. “I merely hinted. All the rest she drew on her own. Which, I daresay, is proof enough of her cleverness.”
“You did not just hint, Richard,” Darcy said, voice low with accusation. “You practically handed her the truth.”
Behind them, Bingley blinked. “Wait—what exactly are we talking about?”
Darcy drew a sharp breath through his nose.
“I suppose I had better explain,” he said stiffly. “Before my cousin turns it into a performance. Complete with rhyming couplets.”
Richard gave a wounded look. “I have never rhymed in my life. ”
“You attempted a sonnet on the steward’s daughter when you were nineteen.”
“It was a limerick, and it was deeply heartfelt,” Richard said.
Bingley, still puzzled, looked between them. “Darcy?”
Darcy’s posture remained formal, but there was a weariness in his voice now. “It concerns a letter. One I wrote to Georgiana from Netherfield, intended only for myself, as a kind of private… reflection.”
“A love letter?” Bingley asked, eyes wide.
“No. Well. I sometimes write drafts I do not send. A habit.”
Richard added, “Like journaling, but with more repression.”
Darcy ignored him. “I always burn them. Without fail. Except this time, I was interrupted by Miss Elizabeth, as it happens—and I sealed the letter without thinking. Then, I mistakenly left it with the outgoing correspondence. It was posted to Georgiana.”
Bingley’s brows rose slowly. “And she… read it?”
“She read it,” Darcy confirmed grimly. “Every word.”
“And now she believes,” Richard said with relish, “that he and Miss Elizabeth are engaged.”
There was a silence.
“Oh dear,” Bingley said at last.
“Quite.”
Bingley’s expression shifted between surprise and something near amusement. “I must admit, I would not have guessed it. You and Miss Elizabeth, when she was at Netherfield, you seemed always at odds.”
“That,” Richard said dryly, “is how you should have known he was interested.”
Darcy shot him a look. “You are not helping.”
“Oh, I know.” Richard’s eyes twinkled. “But I am enjoying this too much to stop.”
Bingley looked back toward the road, clearly trying to reconcile the image in his head.
“Well… she is very clever,” he said after a pause. “And pretty, of course. And full of… life.”
Darcy gave a noncommittal sound.
“She is not like the women we usually meet,” Bingley added. “She does not try to charm, I suppose. She just… is charming. ”
“Precisely,” Richard said, eyeing Darcy. “No performance, no pretense. Which is why you did not know what to make of her.”
Darcy’s mouth tightened. “I found her—surprising.”
“You mean unsettling,” Richard replied. “She says what she means. That is rare enough. But she also means what she says. Even rarer.”
Darcy was silent.
“You are used to artifice,” Richard went on, gentler now. “To polished smiles and calculated compliments. Miss Elizabeth does not play that game. That is why you noticed her.”
Darcy gave a long-suffering sigh.
Bingley, thoughtful now, nudged his horse closer. “But do you care for her, Darcy? Truly?”
Darcy did not answer at first.
“Yes,” he said finally. Quietly. Unwillingly.
“Well then,” Bingley said, brightening. “That makes everything quite simple.”
Richard laughed aloud.
“Bingley,” he said, shaking his head, “This is Darcy. Nothing is ever simple with him.”
They rode in silence—awkward, thoughtful silence—the kind that settles only after one’s private reflections are accidentally posted and read by one’s impressionable younger sister.
Then Richard spoke again, voice light, but laced with unmistakable purpose.
“By the way,” Richard said, casually nudging his horse forward, “Miss Elizabeth invited Georgiana to Longbourn.”
Darcy did not reply immediately. Of course he knew that. He had been standing two feet away when she said it, every word was etched into his memory.
“Yes,” he said at last, his tone clipped. “I heard.”
“It was all very warm. Quite the gracious future sister-in-law.”
Darcy exhaled through his nose. “This is a disaster.”
“Not yet,” Richard replied. “But we are heading there at a fine pace.”
Bingley, clearly attempting to follow the conversation, blinked rapidly. “But surely that is a good thing? If Miss Elizabeth likes Miss Darcy, and Miss Darcy likes her—well, it could all work out rather nicely, could it not?”
Darcy shot him a look of profound weariness. “You are entirely too optimistic, Bingley.”
Richard nodded gravely. “He is right. You are like an over-eager spaniel in a cravat.”
Bingley looked vaguely pleased. “Thank you, I think?”
Darcy exhaled and muttered, “If Georgiana accepts her invitation, she will do so believing she is visiting her future sister-in-law.”
Richard tilted his head. “Which brings us back to your unfortunate position.”
“I must tell her the truth,” Darcy said grimly.
“Or,” Richard said, “you could tell Miss Elizabeth the truth. Ask her to help you untangle the mess. That way she hears it from you, not from some accidental slip of the tongue.”
Darcy hesitated.
“Talk to her,” Richard urged. “Explain. Apologize. Tell her it was a mistake—”
Darcy’s jaw tightened.
“—or do not. Tell her you meant every word, if you did. But do not stand there like a statue while everything falls to pieces around you.”
Bingley, ever eager to help, brightened.
“Perhaps Miss Elizabeth will not mind at all. Perhaps she will think it is all rather romantic!”
Darcy blinked, visibly affronted by the suggestion that romance might be accidental.
Richard gave a snort of amusement. “Yes, Bingley. Women love being told their courtship was unintentional. Nothing sweeps a lady off her feet like finding out she is part of an awkward arrangement.”
Bingley frowned. “Well. I still think she might understand.”
Darcy remained silent, his expression unreadable.
Netherfield appeared through the trees, placid and respectable as ever, utterly indifferent to the fact that one of its guests was silently losing to his inner turmoil.
Richard cast a sidelong glance at his cousin.
“Either way, Fitz,” he said more seriously, “you have two options. You can come clean to your sister. Or you can speak to Miss Elizabeth. But you cannot do neither .”
Bingley, attempting once more to lighten the mood, offered, “Or you could do both! Write two more letters.”
Richard groaned. “Do not give him ideas.”
Darcy looked skyward for patience, but some part of him almost—almost—smiled.