Chapter 16 #2
The fire in the small withdrawing room burned low, casting a mellow glow over the shelves of books Darcy had insisted upon unpacking despite Bingley’s protests that no one ever read after supper.
Richard Fitzwilliam lounged in a chair opposite Darcy, one boot propped easily on a stool, a glass of wine balanced loosely in his hand.
The posture was relaxed, but his eyes were sharp—observant in a way that had once kept men alive under fire.
“Well,” Richard said at last, breaking a thoughtful silence, “you have neglected to tell me something of consequence.”
Darcy looked up from the papers he had been pretending to review. “Have I?”
“Yes.” Richard’s mouth curved. “You have told me about the estate, your concerns regarding Bingley’s finances, the peculiar enthusiasm of the neighborhood for digging holes in the ground, and Miss Bingley’s many talents for vexation.
What you have not told me is why Miss Elizabeth Bennet commands your attention so completely. ”
Darcy stiffened, then relaxed again. There was little point in fencing with Richard, but he intended to toy with him nonetheless. His cousin had always seen too much. Besides, was that not a large part of why he wished Fitzwilliam to join him here?
“I have said nothing improper,” Darcy replied evenly.
“True,” Richard agreed. “But you have said very little else.” He took a sip of wine. “Which is far more revealing.”
Darcy set the papers aside with deliberate care. “You met her.”
“I did,” Richard said promptly. “And I should like to meet her again.”
Darcy’s brows knitted before he could stop himself. Richard noticed—and smiled.
“Before you bristle,” Richard added, amused, “I do not mean in the manner that would alarm you. I mean only that she is…uncommon.”
“That,” Darcy said after a pause, “is an accurate description.”
Richard leaned forward slightly. “You know, I have danced with many handsome women. I have spoken with many agreeable people. Miss Elizabeth Bennet is not remarkable merely because she is pretty—though she is—but because she thinks.”
Darcy’s expression softened despite himself.
“She does,” Darcy said quietly.
Richard nodded. “I suspected as much. I tested the theory.”
Darcy’s gaze sharpened. “Tested?”
“Gently,” Richard assured him. “I spoke with her at Lucas Lodge—briefly, while you were otherwise engaged—and I mentioned the Peninsula.”
Darcy’s eyes flicked up. He had scarcely left Elizabeth’s side all night. When had his cousin managed it? “You did not burden her with tactics and troop movements, I hope.”
“On the contrary,” Richard said, smiling, “I mentioned the Battle of Talavera.”
Darcy’s interest was thoroughly engaged now.
“And do you know what she said?” Richard continued. “She asked whether the reports in the Gazette were accurate in describing the terrain as the greatest impediment to victory rather than the French artillery.”
Darcy stared at him.
“I beg your pardon?” he said slowly. He had not attempted such heavy subjects with Elizabeth, though it should not surprise him that she was so well informed.
“She had read multiple accounts,” Richard went on, clearly enjoying himself now. “She remarked that one correspondent emphasized the heat and dust more than the enemy and wondered whether fatigue had been as formidable an adversary as Marshal Victor.”
Darcy let out a breath he had not realized he was holding.
“I have had officers under my command,” Richard said, his tone more reflective now, “who could not have held that conversation with half so much sense.”
Darcy looked toward the fire. Of course she could, he thought. Why should that shock me?
“She did not pretend expertise,” Richard added. “She asked questions. Intelligent ones. And she listened to the answers, which is rarer still.”
Darcy nodded once. “She listens,” he agreed. “And she remembers.”
Richard studied him closely. “You admire her.”
Darcy did not deny it. “I respect her.”
Richard smiled. “That is worse.”
Darcy shot him a look. “Explain yourself.”
“Respect endures,” Richard replied calmly. “Infatuation burns hot and fast. Esteem settles in the bones.”
Darcy said nothing.
After a moment, Richard spoke again, more gently. “I am not blind, cousin. You are more at ease here than you were in London. You speak freely and you do not perform.”
Darcy’s jaw relaxed, and he smiled. “I am still myself.”
“Yes,” Richard said. “That is precisely my point.”
They sat in companionable silence for a few moments, the crackle of the fire filling the space between them.
“At any rate,” Richard added lightly, “you may rest easy. Miss Elizabeth’s regard—if she grants it at all—will not be won by a fortune or a title. It would require something far rarer.”
Darcy glanced at him. “And what is that?”
Richard smiled knowingly. “Integrity. Honesty. Good character.”
Darcy looked back into the fire, a quiet resolve settling in his chest.
“Then,” he said at last, “I intend to prove myself equal to the task.”
Richard raised his glass. “Heaven help you, Darcy.”
Darcy almost laughed. Providence led me to her. Providence will show the way.
The house had long since gone quiet, yet Darcy lay awake, his hands folded upon his chest, his gaze fixed upon the dark canopy above him.
Netherfield, usually so still after nightfall, seemed to hum with a restless energy—an echo, perhaps, of the neighborhood itself.
Even in silence, Hertfordshire felt unsettled; the very ground beneath it had been disturbed and could not yet be coaxed back into calm.
Sleep would not come. His thoughts returned, with tiresome persistence, to Elizabeth Bennet.
He had not meant to dwell upon her so insistently.
Admiration, he told himself, was not affection; respect was not attachment.
Still, the distinctions grew thinner with every recollection.
He saw her as she had stood at Lucas Lodge, her eyes bright with curiosity rather than calculation, her smile quick to appear and quicker still to vanish when something thoughtful took its place.
He heard her voice—not soft in the affected manner of the fashionable world, but clear, animated, alive with conviction.
It was the ease of it that unnerved him most.
With Elizabeth, he did not measure his words as if each were a coin to be weighed and spent with care.
He did not brace himself for judgment or anticipate ridicule.
The mask he had worn so long—polite reserve mistaken for pride—had slipped away almost without his noticing.
He had spoken honestly, and worse, he had wished to continue doing so.
Darcy had never been susceptible to romantic fancy.
He had observed love from a distance—alliances formed for advantage, admiration mistaken for affection, passion cooled by reality.
He had believed himself immune, or at least cautious enough to avoid entanglement without certainty.
There he was, lying awake, his heart stirred not by beauty alone, but by intellect, by moral seriousness, by a woman who questioned the world rather than accepting it as presented.
His thoughts wandered, inevitably, to the fever that had seized the countryside.
Shovels in the common. Whispers in drawing rooms. Hope sharpened into greed, excitement edging toward disorder.
He had seen such things before—not in Hertfordshire, but elsewhere, when men convinced themselves fortune lay just beneath their feet, if only they dug deep enough.
It troubled him.
The law was clear. Human behavior was not. And beneath all the speculation and careless talk, Darcy sensed a deeper unease, one that had touched Elizabeth herself. Her questions upon Oakham Mount had not been idle—he felt certain. They had been personal. Pressing. Heavy with consequence.
What if what is right harms those you love?
He still had no answer . But he knew this: Elizabeth would not choose lightly. Whatever decision lay before her—or her family—would be weighed with conscience, not convenience. That knowledge drew him toward her more powerfully than any flirtation ever could.
He turned onto his side, staring now at the faint outline of the window where moonlight traced the edge of the curtain.
Tomorrow, he would call at Longbourn. He would speak with Mr. Bennet, properly, honorably.
He would continue, as he must, to navigate Bingley’s affairs, the neighborhood’s unrest, and his own uncertain footing in a place that had already begun to feel perilously like home.
And Elizabeth—his Elizabeth would be there.
The thought settled over him with a strange mixture of calm and anticipation.
If this is love, he reflected, then it is not the thunderbolt poets promised. It was quieter. Deeper—a steady awakening rather than a sudden blaze.
Darcy closed his eyes at last, aware that whatever sleep claimed him would be filled with her presence—and with the inescapable certainty that his life, like Hertfordshire itself, had already begun to change.