Chapter Twenty-Three #2
Mr. Bennet entered the room. “What are you doing?”
She spun toward him, the letter clenched in her hand, all careful restraint abandoned.
“Where is it?” she hissed, unable to contain her anger.
Her father stopped short, surprise flickering across his features before resignation settled in its place. Mr. Bennet sighed and shut the door behind him, the soft click of the latch sounding unnaturally loud in the charged silence.
“It is in the floor safe,” he murmured, kicking the edge of the rug up to reveal the heavy lid. “I did not deem it wise to keep it in the open any longer. The treasure-hunting fervor has yet to subside, and I did not wish to risk potential theft.”
Elizabeth’s gaze followed the motion, her anger wavering into something more complicated—relief, swiftly followed by frustration. He had not sold it. Not yet. But neither had he resolved the matter.
“Then you mean to contact the correct authorities?” Hope rose in her chest. Her voice softened despite herself, as though gentleness might coax the answer she longed for.
“I have not yet decided. Though your courtship proceeds apace, and Jane receives the attentions of two men, nothing is settled. I cannot put my family’s future at risk.”
The words landed with force. Her hopes fell as quickly as they had risen. The familiar ache returned—this endless waiting, this moral limbo in which he seemed content to linger while she frayed under the strain.
She shook her head in disappointment, unable to find any response that would not turn sharp. Her father watched her closely now, lines deepening at the corners of his eyes.
Her father placed a hand on her shoulder, and she stiffened.
“I must go,” she murmured, moving away before he could say anything further.
She dared not trust herself to speak. Not without anger spilling over, and saying things that could not be taken back.
Once safely in her chamber, she collapsed on her bed and screamed into her pillow.
The sound was muffled but fierce, torn from a place deep in her chest where frustration, fear, and helplessness tangled together.
Tears threatened, and she rolled over and stared up at the canopy above her, tracing familiar patterns in the fabric as she struggled to steady her breathing.
How much longer until I must confide in Darcy?
The question had haunted her for days, hovering at the edges of every conversation, every stolen glance, every moment when she felt his attention sharpen because her own thoughts had strayed.
Elizabeth did not wish to wait any longer.
The waiting had become unbearable. She loved him, and he deserved to know what bothered her.
He deserved honesty, not evasion and half-truths.
She could feel his concern when her mind wandered, when her replies came a fraction too late, when she withdrew into herself without meaning to.
Darcy would know what to do. The certainty of it settled her in a way nothing else had. He would not dismiss her fears, nor brush aside the law with careless indifference. He would weigh it and whatever counsel he offered would be grounded in principle as well as compassion.
Elizabeth would tell him soon. The decision steadied her resolve even as it filled her with dread. There would be consequences—of that she was certain. But secrecy had already cost her peace of mind. And she was no longer willing to pay that price alone.
Darcy had never thought himself a man inclined to flight. As he stood in Mr. Phillips’s small but well-appointed study, listening to the scratch of pen upon paper as the final terms were set down, he felt something very like relief settle upon him.
Purvis Lodge was modest—considerably smaller than Longbourn and far removed from the grandeur of Pemberley—but it was solid, well kept, and, most importantly, separate.
It would serve. More than serve, he thought.
It would grant him distance from a household that had grown increasingly volatile, and space enough to think, to act, and to protect what mattered.
Mr. Phillips cleared his throat and set down his pen.
“Given the uncertainty of your plans,” he said carefully, folding the document, “I am willing to offer the lease on a rolling monthly basis. It allows you flexibility, Mr. Darcy—and it spares me the trouble of finding new tenants should circumstances change again.”
Darcy inclined his head. “Your accommodation is appreciated. I would not bind you—or myself—longer than is prudent.”
Richard, leaning against the mantel with his arms crossed, grinned openly. “You see, cousin? I told you it would be straightforward. Country gentlemen value plain dealing.”
Mr. Phillips smiled faintly. “That we do, sir. And I should say—having two such tenants is no hardship at all.”
The agreement was sealed with a handshake after they signed the papers. Darcy took the folded lease and slipped it into his pocket, feeling the weight of it settle not merely against his coat, but against his conscience. This was the correct course. Necessary, and long overdue.
As they took their leave, Richard mounted his horse with an easy grace, still visibly pleased.
“Well,” he said as they turned onto the lane leading back toward Netherfield, “that is one difficulty neatly resolved.”
“One of many,” Darcy replied.
Richard laughed. “True enough. But a man must take satisfaction where he can. I, for one, am delighted. A household of our own—peaceful, rational, and free of your friend’s increasing…eccentricities.”
Darcy exhaled slowly through his nose. “Bingley will not see it so charitably.”
“No,” Richard agreed cheerfully. “He will take it as a personal slight. Possibly an act of betrayal. Quite likely both.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. “That is not my intention.”
“I know,” Richard said easily. “But intention and reception are rarely close relations.”
They rode in silence for a few moments, the rhythm of hooves steady beneath them. The hedgerows slipped past, green and dense, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across the road.
Richard broke the quiet first.
“I spoke with Miss Bennet again today,” he said, his tone thoughtful rather than triumphant.
Darcy’s attention sharpened at once, though he kept his expression carefully neutral. “Did you?”
“I did. And Darcy—” Richard shook his head slightly, as though in wonder. “She is remarkable.”
Darcy said nothing, waiting.
“She is attentive,” Richard continued. “She speaks and behaves not merely with courtesy, but with genuine engagement. Miss Bennet asks questions that reveal she has already considered the matter at hand. She does not perform intelligence—she possesses it.”
Darcy felt a flicker of something dangerously close to pride.
“And her wit,” Richard went on, smiling. “Subtle, dry, and perfectly timed. One might almost miss it if one were not paying attention—which, I suspect, many men do.”
“Unlike the ladies of the ton,” Darcy said quietly.
“Precisely,” Richard replied without hesitation. “My mother means well, but the parade she arranged was exhausting. Compliments rehearsed, opinions borrowed, ambitions transparent as glass. Miss Bennet speaks of life as she understands it—not as she thinks it ought to sound.”
Darcy glanced at him. “You admire her.”
“I do,” Richard said simply. “Greatly.”
The word settled between them, weighty but not unwelcome.
After a moment, Darcy asked, “Do you believe she prefers you to Bingley?”
Richard considered. “I believe she prefers sincerity to entitlement, conversation to performance, and respect to persistence.”
That was answer enough.
“And you intend to act upon this belief,” Darcy said.
“Yes.” Richard’s voice grew firmer. “I plan to call upon Mr. Bennet and request a courtship soon. Properly. Without games.”
Darcy nodded, though something tight stirred in his chest—not jealousy, but concern. “Just ensure you do so before Bingley. I do not know how Mr. Bennet will react if our friend beats you to it.”
Richard met his gaze, expression sober now. “Yes, of course. I do not enter lightly, Darcy. Nor without intention. And I have the advantage of maturity and strategy.”
They rode on toward Netherfield, the house rising into view through the trees, its familiar lines no longer offering the welcome they once had.
“How do you propose we tell Bingley?” Richard asked lightly.
Darcy’s mouth curved into something like a wry smile. “With honesty.”
Richard winced. “Ah. Then yes—he will most certainly take offense.”
Darcy squared his shoulders as they approached the drive.
Let him, he thought. Some offenses were unavoidable. And some distances—physical and otherwise—were not merely prudent, but necessary.
Darcy slowed his mount as the familiar sweep of Netherfield’s lawns came into view, the gravel crunching softly beneath iron-shod hooves.
The house looked unchanged—orderly, respectable, even serene—but he knew better now than to trust appearances.
Stability, like wealth, could be an illusion maintained only so long as no one looked too closely.
He glanced sideways at his cousin. Richard rode easily, humming under his breath, wholly unburdened by the weight Darcy carried.
There was something enviable in that freedom.
Not carelessness—Richard was anything but—but an ability to move forward without constantly calculating the cost of every step.
Darcy had always done so; it was habit, duty, inheritance.
Yet lately, Elizabeth Bennet had made him wonder whether such vigilance was always a virtue.
Purvis Lodge would give them distance, yes—but also clarity. A place where conversation need not be guarded, where decisions could be made without the pressure of Bingley’s moods or his designs. A place where Darcy might, at last, consider his future on his own terms.
And Elizabeth’s.
The thought of her returned unbidden, as it always did.
Her earnestness, her moral seriousness, the way she wrestled with questions others dismissed.
He sensed—though she had said nothing outright—that something weighed heavily upon her still.
Whatever it was, it had not lessened with time.
If anything, it pressed closer to the surface.
Soon, he thought hopefully. Soon, she would trust him enough to speak.
Darcy straightened as they reached the stables, resolve settling more firmly within him. Change was coming—whether Bingley welcomed it or not. And for the first time in longer than he could remember, Darcy felt no dread at the prospect; rather, he felt a cautious, steady hope.