Chapter 7
Seven
THE FIRST PALE LIGHT touched the rooftops across Mayfair when Fitzwilliam Darcy abandoned any pretense of sleep.
He stood at his study window, still in shirtsleeves, watching the city rouse itself.
Elizabeth’s words from their quarrel had kept him awake, each accusation a brand that refused to cool.
You separated them not because Jane was indifferent, but because her family was deemed unsuitable.
Her voice had been cutting, stripped of the musical quality he had come to anticipate. What gnawed at him now was not her anger—he had weathered worse—but the truth beneath it.
He had misjudged Jane Bennet. Worse, he had allowed his own prejudices to color his counsel to Bingley. The adverse consequences for both parties were as plain as the division in his own house.
The portrait of his father hung above the mantle, the elder Mr. Darcy’s stern features rendered in oils that caught the growing light. That same rigid dignity had passed to Fitzwilliam along with Pemberley and the burden of the family name.
“A Darcy must always consider consequences beyond his own desires. Particularly when those desires might lead to an imprudent attachment.”
The memory surfaced unbidden. He had been sixteen, spending the summer at the home of his father’s closest friend.
Sophia Fairmont had been eighteen and beautiful, with golden hair and a laugh that made his adolescent heart race.
For weeks he had followed her, composing terrible poetry, gathering wildflowers for her room.
When he had finally gathered courage to declare himself, she had laughed. Not unkindly at first, but with increasing mirth as she called her friends to share the jest: the awkward Darcy boy, so serious and proud, fancying himself in love.
His father had found him hiding in the library afterward.
“You have a tender heart beneath that Darcy pride,” the elder Darcy had said, settling into the adjacent chair.
“It makes you vulnerable. Society demands strategic thinking from a gentleman of your position. Work outside those models at your peril. Guard your heart.”
The same warning he had passed to Bingley, believing himself wiser than his amiable friend. Yet Elizabeth’s voice intruded:
You had no right to make that determination.
No right. The phrase challenged everything he had believed about his role as friend, guardian, master of Pemberley. Was that arrogance, as she had suggested? Or proper exercise of the influence his position afforded?
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. “Enter.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam appeared, already dressed for riding. “Good morning, Darcy. I thought I might find you awake. Shall we ride before breakfast? Hyde Park will be nearly empty at this hour.”
“Yes.” Darcy welcomed the distraction. “I will call for my riding clothes.”
They cantered through Hyde Park, early morning mist still clinging to the grass. Few others were about, allowing them to ride at a satisfying speed that cleared Darcy’s mind of everything but physical exertion.
When they slowed near the Serpentine, Colonel Fitzwilliam glanced at his cousin. “So—will you tell me what troubles you, or shall we pretend it concerns wool prices?”
Darcy’s mouth twitched. His cousin, having no need for stoicism in his station, was apt at seeing through it. “Elizabeth and I quarreled.”
“Ah. Your first marital dispute. Was it about household arrangements?”
“No.” Darcy hesitated, then decided honesty was necessary. “It concerned Bingley and her sister Jane.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam raised an eyebrow. “The lovely blonde from Hertfordshire? What about her?”
“You recall I advised Bingley to abandon his interest last autumn.” At his cousin’s nod, Darcy continued, “Elizabeth has learned of my involvement. She believes I misjudged her sister’s affections and interfered inappropriately.”
“And did you?” The direct question held no judgment.
Darcy’s instinct was to defend himself, to repeat the reasoning that had seemed sound months ago. But in the clear morning light, with the weight of Elizabeth’s disappointment still heavy upon him, his certainty wavered.
“I believed Miss Bennet indifferent to Bingley’s attentions. I saw no particular partiality.”
“Yet Mrs. Darcy disagrees.”
“She claims her sister’s reserve masks deeper feelings, that Jane was genuinely attached and heartbroken at his departure.” The admission cost him something he could not yet name.
The Colonel was quiet as they guided their horses along a tree-lined path. “You know, Darcy, not everyone shows feelings as plainly as Bingley. Some people guard them carefully, especially in public.”
“As I do.” The parallel struck him for the first time. Had he expected Jane Bennet to demonstrate an openness he himself would never display? “As I do.” He flinched.
“Exactly.”
Perhaps he had envisioned Charles’s future wife to mirror Charles in her behavior—a joyful if na?ve lady whose expressions always lay plainly across her face.
Except the traits that made Charles Bingley trustworthy and pleasant were the same disadvantages best curbed by a partner who was more circumspect, who could navigate the machinations of his sisters and of humanity at large.
Would he have approved if Jane appeared as incautious as his friend, especially given her family’s lack of decorum when out in society?
In society. Here the true faults in his logic unveiled themselves.
An unmarried woman could not behave as Charles did without a measure of silent condescension or approbation; someone would swiftly advise her to curb her enthusiasm, no matter how genuine it was.
For a woman like Miss Bennet, whose family hung like a millstone around her neck, any measure more than the usual conviviality would only reinforce the opinion that she shared her family’s lack of manners.
Elizabeth displayed none of the crass behavior of her blood relations. Neither did Jane Bennet.
Out loud, Mr. Darcy said, “While no man is obliged to take pity on a woman for the circumstances of her birth, I confess I cannot fault Miss Bennet for concealing more emotions than the average person if the example she observes every day proves the wisdom of doing so.”
“I agree,” said Fitzwilliam. “No matter a woman’s true motives, a lady’s entire future depends on her public conduct. Overt displays of favoritism before an attachment is secured might provoke gossip.
“ And if Mrs. Darcy, who knows her sister intimately, attests to the genuineness of her attachment...”
“Then I may have been mistaken.” The concession came with difficulty.
“The question is what you do now.”
They rode in silence, the steady rhythm of hooves on packed earth punctuated by occasional birdsong.
Darcy considered not just his error regarding Jane Bennet but the broader implications Elizabeth had raised.
Had he been overly hasty in dismissing her family as unsuitable?
The very connections he now shared through marriage?
“There was more to it than Miss Bennet’s seeming indifference,” he admitted. “The family’s situation, their lack of connections or fortune, Mrs. Bennet’s vulgar behavior at public gatherings... I considered these factors in my advice to Bingley.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam gave him a sharp look. “Yet you married into this same family.”
“Under different circumstances.”
“Were they so different? Or did something change in your assessment of what truly matters?”
What had changed? The compromise at the cottage had forced his hand, yet Darcy could not honestly claim he had married Elizabeth solely from obligation.
Even in those early days, something about her had drawn him in—her lively intelligence, her fine eyes, the way she challenged rather than flattered him.
“I must speak with Bingley.” The words emerged abruptly. “If I was wrong about Jane Bennet’s feelings, I owe him the truth.”
The Colonel nodded approvingly. “And Mrs. Darcy? What will you say to her?”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. “That is more complicated.”
“Is it?” Fitzwilliam reined in his horse, forcing Darcy to stop beside him. “In my experience, the simple approach is often best. Admit your error, apologize sincerely, and listen to what she has to say.”
“You make it sound remarkably straightforward.”
His cousin grinned. “The concept is simple. The execution requires courage. But I have never known you to lack that particular quality.”
As they turned their horses toward home, Darcy considered his cousin’s advice. Could it be so simple? To acknowledge his error, to lay aside the Darcy pride that had governed his actions for so long?
“What did you think of Mrs. Darcy at dinner the other night?” he asked.
“Think of her?” Colonel Fitzwilliam laughed. “Darcy, she is magnificent. Intelligent, spirited, and not the least intimidated by you or Caroline Bingley. I could not have chosen better for you myself.”
Despite his troubled thoughts, Darcy felt pride at this assessment. “She is unlike anyone I have known. She sees through pretense instantly, values substance over appearance, and speaks her mind without calculation.”
“All admirable qualities, especially in a wife. Too many men marry decorative dolls who cannot sustain a conversation beyond fashion and gossip.”
“Elizabeth reads extensively, argues philosophy with conviction, and has made more acute observations about my character in weeks than most have managed in years.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam raised an eyebrow. “It sounds as though your hasty marriage has yielded unexpected benefits.”
Darcy thought of the nights they had shared, the surprising ease they had begun to find in each other’s company before last night’s confrontation. The memory of Elizabeth’s face transformed by pleasure, of her trust as she surrendered to his touch…
“It has.”