Chapter Twenty-Eight #3
The word struck him like a physical blow.
It could not be. Sudden clarity slammed into Darcy full force, disorienting and undeniable.
Elizabeth de Bourgh. Her interest in Lady Catherine, her vague explanations about her background, her eyes.
He remembered where he had seen them. Sir Lewis and his brother, Nathan de Bourgh, had the same eyes.
Anne had inherited the shape, but not the color.
I am such an idiot.
The thought was uncharitable and wholly accurate.
“I must find my aunt.” He moved away from his cousin towards Lady Matlock as he looked around the room, scanning faces with growing urgency.
Where is she? He wished to see her, speak with her, bask in her presence.
How does she know Lady Hertford? He needed everything to make sense.
The room felt suddenly too crowded, the air too warm.
“What do you mean, that chit is here?” Lady Catherine stood with Lady Matlock. “I will not stay if she is in attendance.”
Darcy slowed, dread pooling in his stomach even as he strained to hear more.
“Keep your voice down, Catherine.” Lady Matlock’s tone was sharp with warning.
“Your niece has more connections than both of us combined. I will not have you malign her in my house. For what it is worth, they departed after the previous set. Lady Hertford had another engagement. I am merely pleased—nay, honored—that she came here for part of the evening. Her charges are both polite, refined, and elegant.”
“You have allowed yourself to be drawn in. How can you allow such low-born riffraff in your home? Our bloodlines will never recover from the debasement.” Lady Catherine shook her head, her indignation vibrating with long-practiced outrage.
She noted Darcy standing there, agape, and snapped her fingers.
“Anne needs a partner for the set. You will oblige your cousin.”
“I shall dance with Anne, Aunt.” Bramley stepped forward at once, placing himself between Darcy and Lady Catherine with quiet firmness. “Darcy looks a little ill.”
Darcy nodded. He felt ill. He felt like a fool. Worse than a fool. The room tilted slightly as the truth pressed in from all sides—every clue he had dismissed now assembled into something coherent and devastating.
I will not believe it until I set eyes on her—on them both.
The evidence pointed in one direction, but he could not allow himself to hope.
Not without confirmation. Hope had already made him reckless once; he would not grant it power again without certainty.
And yet, as Anne and Bramley moved away to take their places, Darcy remained rooted to the spot, heart pounding with the terrible, thrilling possibility that Elizabeth Bennet—Elizabeth de Bourgh—had been closer to him all along than he had ever understood.
Richard accompanied Darcy back to his house after the ball. He did not wish to retire. The evening lingered about him still—the noise, the light, the impressions not yet settled into sense. He had just handed off his gloves when the butler approached, bearing a salver.
“An express for Colonel Fitzwilliam, sir. Delivered not a quarter hour past.”
Richard, who had been in the act of loosening his cravat, paused and took the letter with a raised brow.
“At this hour? Either I am about to be congratulated or condemned.”
“Given the hour,” Darcy returned, “I should prepare for the latter.”
Richard broke the seal with practiced ease, his expression shifting as he read—not sharply, but enough that Darcy marked it. When he finished, he let out a quiet breath and gave a short, rueful laugh.
“Well. There ends my season.”
Darcy straightened. “What has happened?”
“Orders,” Richard said, tapping the letter lightly against his palm. “I am to rejoin my regiment within the week. Apparently, I have been enjoying myself too thoroughly to be trusted any longer in Town.”
“So soon?”
“So it would seem.” He cast a glance toward the stairs, as though imagining his mother’s reaction. “My mother will be inconsolable. She had, I believe, at least three more heiresses prepared for my inspection.”
Darcy’s lips curved faintly. “A loss keenly felt, I am sure.”
“Profoundly. I shall disappoint them all.” Richard folded the letter and slipped it into his coat with an ease that did not quite conceal the weight of it. “Still, it cannot be helped.”
Darcy regarded him more closely. The levity remained, but it sat differently now—lighter on the surface, less so beneath.
“You will write,” he said.
“If there is anything worth saying,” Richard replied, though his tone softened. Then, after a brief pause, “Take care of yourself, Darcy. And—” he hesitated, only slightly—“do not delay where it matters. Circumstances have a way of deciding for us if we do not decide first.”
Darcy inclined his head, the words striking deeper than their lightness suggested.
“I will remember it.”
Richard gave a small nod, as though satisfied, and with that the moment passed—folded, like the letter itself, into something that would not be easily forgotten.
Elizabeth did not immediately retire when she reached her chamber. The noise and brilliance of the evening still pressed upon her senses, and though she had borne it well, she felt the need of something steadier—something true.
She crossed to her writing desk and broke the seal on a letter that had arrived that morning but remained unread in the press of preparations. Anticipation coursed through her as she read her beloved aunt’s words.
My dearest Elizabeth,
I understand your fears. You stand now at the edge of that world which has so long been kept from you, and I would not have you enter it unguarded—not in your manners, for those I trust entirely, but in your heart.
You will be admired. You will be pursued.
Some will see you clearly; many will not.
It is the nature of such places to mistake brightness for worth and consequence for character.
You must not allow yourself to be chosen where you have not first chosen. Affection freely given is the only kind that endures without regret. Anything else is but arrangement, however prettily it may be dressed.
I would not have you fearful—but I would have you discerning. There is a difference, and you are well capable of it.
As for those who may seek you, I shall not presume to judge them from afar. You must do that for yourself. Only remember this: a man’s regard is best measured not by what he declares when observed, but by what he does when no advantage is to be gained.
You have always seen more clearly than most. Do not doubt that gift now.
Yours in unchanging affection,
Caroline
Elizabeth folded the letter slowly, her thoughts quieter than they had been all evening. The noise of the ballroom seemed distant now—less compelling, less certain. Her aunt’s words did not dictate her course, but they steadied her steps upon it.