Chapter Nineteen
Darcy rode back toward Netherfield with little attention to the path. His horse knew the way well enough, and Darcy allowed it its head while his thoughts churned.
You are a fool.
The judgment came sharp and immediate, and he accepted it.
He had lingered when he ought to have taken his leave.
Worse, he had spoken—had allowed admiration, that most dangerous of impulses, to color his words.
He could still hear his own voice, still recall the unexpected lightness that had attended her surprised expression.
Admire candor where I find it. What nonsense.
His admiration would lead nowhere he was willing to go.
He urged his horse into a faster pace and forced himself to examine the matter as he would any other problem.
Let us be clear. Miss Elizabeth is unsuitable.
First: her position. She was an unconnected gentlewoman, the niece of a minor landed gentleman with an entailed estate.
Her dowry was unknown. She had no connections of consequence.
A marriage to her would invite remark and quiet disparagement.
He had obligations—to his name, his estate, and his parents’ memory—that did not allow such indulgence.
Second: her independence of mind. She did not defer where deference was expected. She questioned assumptions others accepted without thought. Such a disposition might be praised in a man, but in a wife it promised difficulty.
Miss Elizabeth would argue. She would resist. She would expect to be met as an equal.
And he had recognized it within minutes.
Third: her circumstances. There was something indistinct about her situation.
She spent part of the year with her aunt, rode with footmen where others did not, and spoke of Town with an ease that belied her supposed station.
The irregularity suggested either pretension or complication—neither desirable.
Fourth—and here he slowed despite himself—her effect upon him.
That is the true danger.
She unsettled him. He, who prided himself on composure and discernment, found himself distracted by the memory of her expressions, her voice, the quick intelligence in her eyes.
Her refusal to be impressed should have offended him. Instead, it intrigued him.
She does not flatter. She does not yield. She does not seek.
And that, he admitted reluctantly, was precisely why she lingered in his thoughts.
Darcy clenched his jaw.
This is folly.
Attraction led to imprudence. Imprudence led to attachment.
Attachment led to concessions—first small, then irretrievable.
He had seen the pattern before. A childhood companion rose unbidden in his mind: clever, charming, forever dissatisfied.
Raised near him, educated beside him, encouraged to expect parity where none truly existed.
When reality failed to match expectation, resentment had taken root.
The man had left England altogether rather than endure the humiliation of disappointment.
Expectation is a dangerous thing. And Miss Elizabeth inspires it—in herself, and now, absurdly, in me.
He frowned.
I cannot offer for her.
Even if inclination urged him forward, reason barred the way. He could not raise expectations he had no intention of fulfilling.
Yet the thought of relinquishing her company produced an unfamiliar sense of loss.
I admire her.
The admission sat heavily as Netherfield came into view through the trees, serene and orderly.
He drew a steadying breath as he reined in.
You will be civil and restrained. You will observe, not engage.
He dismounted and handed off the reins, his expression composed once more.
And remember this, he told himself grimly as he stepped inside. Fascination is not permission—and admiration is no excuse for folly.
Brisby came to help him out of his riding clothes. “Sir,” the valet began. “I have…attended to the matter you mentioned.”
“Go on.” Darcy stared at his valet as the man undid his cravat knot, his own mind still half on the ride he had just taken and the unsettling clarity of Elizabeth’s gaze.
“Miss Bingley’s information is sadly lacking, as you suspected. The Bennet estate is entailed, but they are far from penniless. Though they do not flaunt their funds, there are signs the family is better off than their neighbors know.”
Darcy had suspected as much. The clothing the girls wore—and Mr. and Mrs. Bennet—were all finely made of excellent fabric.
The garments were styled fit for the country, however: practical, restrained, and deliberately unshowy.
Nothing proclaimed wealth, yet nothing betrayed want.
That, in his experience, was rarely accidental.
“And Miss Elizabeth?”
“There seems to be a disappointing lack of information about the girl. Her parents are deceased, and she spends only part of the year in Hertfordshire. The majority of the year is spent in town with her guardians.”
“Yes, I believe she mentioned an aunt.”
Brisby frowned slightly, the expression of a man unsettled by gaps where there ought to be answers.
“No one seems to know who the aunt is. I spoke with Mrs. Goulding’s housekeeper.
She has been in the area for nearly thirty years and prides herself on knowing the affairs of every respectable family within ten miles.
Apparently, Mr. Bennet was…persuaded to give up complete guardianship of his niece.
No one knows why. Most assume her father’s family wished to play an active role in her upbringing. ”
“Her father’s family?” Darcy repeated, turning sharply. “I thought Miss Elizabeth was a Bennet.”
“Her mother was a Bennet, sir. As a child, the girl insisted on sharing the name with her cousins, and the habit appears never to have been corrected. Locally, she is known only as Miss Elizabeth. Some assume sentiment, others convenience. I have sent out inquiries regarding her surname and have yet to receive anything conclusive.”
That, at least, rang true. Country society was forgiving of eccentricities, especially when introduced early. A child called by one name might retain it into adulthood if no one thought to challenge the custom. And yet—
Insistence, he thought. Even as a child.
“And fortune?”
Brisby hesitated before answering. “I learned only that her father’s will provided for her.
No one knows the extent of it. There is no evidence she draws upon Mr. Bennet’s income, nor that she lives as a dependent relation.
Her expenses in Hertfordshire are modest, but in Town… ” He trailed off delicately.
“In Town?” Darcy pressed.
“She is said to be well provided for. Not extravagantly—but comfortably, and without constraint. She rides her own horse. She keeps servants. Her education is considered unusually extensive.”
Darcy exhaled slowly through his nose.
“Enough,” he said at last. “You have done what you can. Continue your inquiries discreetly, but do not press where it would invite notice.”
“Yes, sir.” Brisby stepped back and withdrew, closing the door softly behind him.
Darcy stood for several moments without moving.
He told himself—firmly—that his curiosity was born solely of prudence.
Bingley’s infatuation with Jane Bennet was obvious to any observer, and Darcy would be remiss in his duty as a friend if he did not ascertain the family’s true circumstances.
Bingley needed someone who loved him for himself, not for what he could provide.
A marriage of convenience would destroy his spirit.
The Bennets might be more financially well-off than others suspected, but that did not mean they were not mercenary. That did not mean they would not seek a wealthy gentleman to increase their standing and bolster their coffers.
And yet, a treacherous voice murmured, this investigation is not for Jane Bennet. That thought irritated him deeply. The more he knew, the less sense Elizabeth made.
She behaved neither like a poor relation nor like a fortune-hunter.
She possessed confidence without entitlement, polish without ostentation, independence without defiance.
Her guardianship had been altered by means unknown, yet not under a cloud of scandal.
Her fortune existed but was not discussed.
Her name was used by choice rather than law.
She lives as if protected, he thought. Not hidden—protected. That distinction mattered.
It was likely, he reasoned, that Miss Elizabeth possessed a moderate fortune of her own, settled upon her by her father, and that her uncle merely oversaw matters in the country.
Perhaps her father’s family—whoever they were—preferred privacy, or resided abroad, or moved in circles that did not intersect with Hertfordshire society.
None of which alters the fact, he reminded himself sternly, that she is still unsuitable.
Whatever mystery surrounded her origins, it did not elevate her into his world.
She was not of his circle. She had not been raised with the expectations or obligations that governed his life.
Her opinions—however intelligently expressed—were formed without experience of the responsibilities that accompanied rank.
She speaks as if she understands them.
That was the danger. Darcy straightened, discarding the thought with deliberate force. Regardless of wealth, guardianship, or concealed circumstance, Miss Elizabeth remained entirely unsuitable. He would remember that. He must remember that.
Supper at Netherfield, as usually, promised refinement and delivered noise.
Darcy had scarcely taken his seat before Miss Bingley assumed command of the table as if it were her personal stage.
She spoke with animation and volume, guiding the conversation with an air of practiced ease, her voice rising and falling just enough to ensure attention never strayed far from her person.