Chapter 14 #2
My commission has been resigned. The prize money acquired on the peninsula is safely in the four per cents until such time as I find an acceptable estate for purchase.
The sum is such that I can find a prosperous property that brings in three thousand a year and still have some fifty thousand pounds or more remaining.
Yes, I can live quite comfortably as a second son and now have the means to marry where I wish.
Darcy’s brows rose. He read the passage twice, a slow smile spreading as pride and relief followed close behind. Richard, free at last from dependence and constraint. Free to choose.
Aunt Catherine pressured me to find a wife when I last visited Rosings Park.
She seems to have taken up match-making since my brother formally proposed to her daughter.
I do not know what she expects to accomplish, for now that I have the means to marry for affection and inclination, I will not be hasty in choosing a bride, nor rushed into wedding the first eligible lady thrown in my path.
Anne seems quite happy with my brother, and for that I am grateful.
I am pleased for them both and wish them every felicity in marriage.
I am of a mind to join you in Hertfordshire.
Do you think Bingley will welcome an additional guest?
Pray, write to inform me immediately. Mama is attempting to introduce me to all the young ladies of her acquaintance in hopes that I shall fall madly in love with one and finally settle down.
Bramley escapes her attention, though he remains unwed. It is highly vexing.
Darcy shook his head, amusement softening into fondness. His aunt’s energies, once turned upon a target, were relentless. Hertfordshire might indeed prove a refuge—for both of them.
Be assured, I have seen Georgiana recently, and she is doing better than she did over the summer. Lady Matlock shares my hope that she will return to her usual self in due time.
At that, Darcy’s expression sobered. He folded the page slightly, pressing his thumb along the crease. The reassurance eased something tight in his chest. He trusted Richard’s judgment. If he said Georgiana improved, then she truly was.
I look forward to your letter.
Formerly Colonel R. Fitzwilliam
Darcy lowered the letter and sat for a long moment, staring out the window at the grounds beyond Netherfield. Richard in Hertfordshire. Richard, free, independent, observant. His dearest cousin with a fortune substantial enough to command respect—and the discernment to use it wisely.
This may change more than he realizes, Darcy thought.
At last, he reached for his writing materials. There was much to tell his cousin. And much, he suspected, Richard would wish to see for himself.
Darcy posted the letter as soon as he had Bingley’s agreement that Richard could join them.
“Certainly, Darcy,” his friend said. “Perhaps the presence of your cousin will aid in distracting you from haranguing me into what you deem acceptable.”
Darcy did not reply; he merely tipped his head in acknowledgment and departed.
He could hardly wait until Richard arrived.
He wished to introduce his favorite cousin to the woman he wished to court.
Elizabeth and Richard were very similar in some ways, and Darcy thought they would get along well.
Having Richard’s approval meant it would be easier for the rest of the family to accept his choice.
Once alone, Darcy allowed himself a long breath, the sort one only takes when restraint has been maintained for too long.
He crossed the gravel path slowly, his boots crunching in a steady rhythm, his thoughts moving in no such orderly fashion.
Richard’s arrival would be a balm; of that he was certain.
His cousin possessed the rare ability to observe keenly without condemning, to advise without condescension.
And, perhaps most importantly, Richard would see plainly what Darcy himself had realized: that Elizabeth Bennet was no fleeting amusement.
I am undone, he acknowledged grimly. Not undone in the reckless sense that poets so admired, but undone in the far more dangerous way—by admiration rooted in esteem.
Her intelligence, her moral seriousness, her refusal to accept easy answers—these qualities had taken hold of him far faster than beauty ever had.
Beauty faded. Principle endured. And it was principle that troubled him now.
Bingley’s situation weighed heavily upon Darcy’s conscience.
His friend was not a fool, but he was incautious where caution was required.
Sixty thousand pounds spent too readily, confidence placed too easily in stewards and circumstances alike, and now this sudden enthusiasm for treasure hunting—Darcy could see the pattern all too clearly.
Bingley leapt first and trusted that the ground would rise to meet him.
It will not, Darcy thought darkly. Not always.
The activity upon the common unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
Men digging where they ought not, women gossiping freely, speculation running ahead of sense—it was the beginning of disorder.
Where expectation outpaced reason, disappointment—and worse—was seldom far behind.
Darcy had seen enough of human nature to know how swiftly excitement curdled into resentment when expectations were disappointed.
And if anything of value were found? The consequences would ripple outward, touching tenants, landowners, magistrates, and perhaps even London itself.
The law was unambiguous. Gold and silver antiquities belonged to the Crown.
Yet the reality, as Hurst had so casually remarked, was far murkier.
Coins were melted down. Objects were sold quietly.
And fortunes were altered in the shadows.
Darcy despised such evasions, yet he could not pretend ignorance of their prevalence.
The world was not governed by ideals alone.
His thoughts strayed—unbidden but persistent—to Mr. Bennet.
There had been something in the gentleman’s words that evening, something more than philosophical detachment.
Darcy prided himself on reading character, and Mr. Bennet’s restraint had felt…
strained. Knowing Mr. Bennet’s family situation explained why such a decision, hypothetical or not, could go from straightforward to something much more difficult.
Darcy wondered what choice he himself would make if confronted with the chance to secure his family’s future at the expense of the law.
He wished he could say, without hesitation, that he would act rightly.
Elizabeth would, he thought at once. The certainty of it surprised him.
She wrestled with questions others avoided.
She did not dismiss difficulty simply because it was hard.
Neither was she rigid. There was compassion in her reasoning, an understanding that law, when divorced from mercy, could wound as deeply as injustice itself.
Their conversation upon Oakham Mount returned to him with uncomfortable clarity.
Her question—what of moral obligation when the law harms those one loves? —had lingered long after they parted.
Darcy had no answer for it still. Nor could he act upon it—not without her trust, and that, he knew, must be earned.
Without it, any interference would be presumption, and he would not risk losing what fragile confidence he had begun to gain.
Perhaps Richard would. Or perhaps Richard, too, would find himself unsettled by the gray spaces Elizabeth so readily illuminated.
Darcy paused at the edge of the paddock, resting his hand against the fence rail, watching the horses move placidly in the late afternoon light.
Order. Routine. Predictability. Estates depended upon such things.
So did lives. Here in Hertfordshire, all three seemed poised on the brink of disruption.
Elizabeth moved through his thoughts with ease, as she had from the first. He admired her restraint as much as her liveliness, her loyalty to her family as much as her independence of mind.
She did not seek to shine, yet she did. She did not posture, yet she commanded attention.
In her presence, Darcy found himself less guarded, less inclined to measure every word for effect.
His mask slipped not because she demanded it, but because he no longer wished to wear it.
That, perhaps, was the most alarming realization of all.
Richard’s arrival would change the shape of things.
Darcy sensed it instinctively. With Richard’s fortune and experience, with his freedom from the pressures that bound Darcy himself, his cousin might become both ally and mirror—reflecting truths Darcy could not yet fully articulate.
And if Richard approved of Elizabeth, truly approved, then Darcy would have crossed an invisible threshold.
He straightened, resolve settling over him like a well-fitted coat.
Whatever treasure the countryside yielded—be it gold, scandal, or disappointment—Darcy would meet it with open eyes. He would not permit Bingley to drift blindly into peril, nor would he allow idle greed to disturb the peace of a neighborhood that had welcomed them in good faith.
And as for Elizabeth Bennet—he smiled faintly. She was no treasure to be unearthed by chance, nor claimed by right. She was to be known, respected, and—if Providence were kind—chosen.