6. Chapter Six
Chapter Six
Darcy sat at the desk in his study, his fingers drumming absently against the dark wood as his eyes skimmed the latest letter from Sir Frederick. The room was quiet, save for the faint rustle of papers and the occasional creak of the chair as he shifted. Benedict, his butler, had brought in a tray of tea earlier, but the pot sat untouched. Darcy’s focus was fixed entirely on the correspondence in front of him, though his mounting frustration made it difficult to concentrate.
The matter of Miles Stanton loomed large. Sir Frederick’s report detailed yet another grievance from the local farmers, this time concerning the sudden enclosure of what had long been considered communal grazing land. The land in question had supposedly been purchased by Stanton six months prior, but Darcy could not shake the feeling that something about the transaction was amiss.
The land should not have been sellable—not without significant legal hurdles, at least. As Darcy understood it, the grazing rights had been part of a long-standing arrangement dating back to the previous century. Such land, though technically owned by a minor noble family, had been left to the use of the local sheepherders by tradition and a series of informal agreements. Now, Stanton’s actions had disrupted the fragile balance, sparking unrest and mistrust.
Darcy frowned, leaning back in his chair and tapping the letter against the desk. Why was the land sold in the first place? And by whom? Sir Frederick had promised to investigate further, but the magistrate’s tone in the letter suggested there was little hope of reversing the transaction. Stanton’s dealings, while morally dubious, were often just within the bounds of the law, leaving Darcy with few options beyond trying to mitigate the damage.
He sighed, setting the letter aside and reaching for another from his growing stack of correspondence. Before he could read the first line, the door creaked open, and a small, hesitant voice broke the silence .
“Fitzwilliam?”
Darcy looked up to see Georgiana standing in the doorway, her hands clasped in front of her and her expression uncertain. She was tall for her age—already nearly to his shoulder—and her fair curls framed a delicate face that seemed perpetually shadowed by hesitation. She was dressed simply in a pale morning gown, though there was a streak of charcoal smudged on one sleeve, a telltale sign of her recent attempts at drawing.
“What is it, Georgie?” Darcy asked, softening his tone as he set the letter down.
Georgiana stepped inside, biting her lip. “Mrs. Younge says I ought to practice the minuet again with Monsieur Rousseau this afternoon. But I do not want to.”
Darcy raised an eyebrow. “You do not want to?”
Georgiana shook her head, her curls bouncing slightly. “He keeps correcting me every time I miss a step, and he says my arms are too stiff. He says I do not take it seriously, but I do! I just…” She trailed off, her hands twisting nervously. “I just do not like it.”
Darcy regarded her for a moment, his mouth twisting with a mixture of sympathy and exasperation. This was not the first time Georgiana had pushed back against her lessons, though she rarely voiced her complaints so openly. “You must understand, Georgiana, that Monsieur Rousseau is only trying to help you improve. If he is correcting you, it is because he wants you to succeed.”
“But I do not want to dance for him,” she muttered, her eyes darting to the floor. “He stares at me too much. It makes me feel—wrong.”
Darcy’s frown deepened. He had hired Monsieur Rousseau on the recommendation of Lady Matlock, but Georgiana’s discomfort gave him pause. “Very well,” he said finally. “I will speak with Mrs. Younge about adjusting your schedule. Perhaps a different tutor would suit you better.”
Georgiana’s head snapped up, her blue eyes wide. “You mean it?”
“Yes,” Darcy said firmly. “But, Georgiana, you must also make an effort. I will not excuse you from every task you find unpleasant.”
She nodded quickly, though the relief on her face was palpable. “I will try,“ she promised.
Darcy allowed himself a small smile. “Good. Now, if there is nothing else—”
“Wait!” Georgiana stepped forward, clasping her hands. “I was wondering if—if you might take me to the park today? Just us?”
Darcy hesitated, glancing at the clock on the mantle. It was nearing two o’clock, and the earl would not appreciate being kept waiting. “We will discuss it later,” he said, rising from his chair and shrugging into his coat. “I must leave now, Georgiana. Your lessons will continue as planned this afternoon.”
“But—” Georgiana began, her face falling.
“Later, Georgiana,” Darcy said, his tone firm but not unkind. He stepped toward her, resting a hand briefly on her shoulder. “Behave yourself. I will see you this evening.”
Georgiana nodded reluctantly, stepping aside as Darcy moved past her. Mrs. Younge appeared in the hallway as he left the study. She curtsied briefly before ushering Georgiana toward the music room.
Darcy descended the staircase, nodding to Benedict as the butler opened the front door for him. The brisk air of the London streets greeted him, but his mind was already turning back to the earl, Stanton, and the tangle of problems awaiting him.
Gracechurch Street, London September 18, 1812
Dear Papa,
I write to you not as your second and most dutiful daughter, but as a woman cast adrift in the treacherous sea of London society, where the currents are treacherous, the fish all have sharp teeth, and the lifeboats appear to have been set aflame for sport.
It is with no small degree of regret that I must inform you that our venture into high society has not gone precisely as planned. Last evening, I was unwittingly caught up in what one might call an… adventure. You, of course, would call it a blunder. Imagine, if you will, your daughter—the very picture of respectability—unwittingly causing a very public incident, interrogated by a peer of the realm, and forced to dance with a man who looked as though he would rather face a firing squad.
The earl, who is at once both terrifying and fascinating, seems to believe I am in possession of secrets too dangerous to be trusted to my own keeping. I suspect he is mistaken, though I suppose it is possible I have been carrying out nefarious plots in my sleep. Stranger things have happened. You will be pleased to know, however, that I defended my honor with what I hope was sufficient impertinence to do you credit.
The man with whom I was compelled to dance—a Mr. Darcy—proved himself to be as cheerful and engaging as a storm cloud. He said little, frowned much, and seemed determined to ensure I had no illusions about his willingness to suffer through the ordeal. I daresay we made a fine pair, each more miserable than the other, much to the delight of our audience.
I do not know what further humiliation awaits me today, for we are summoned once more to the earl’s residence this afternoon. I expect I shall either be summarily dismissed or pressed into further absurdity. Rest assured, I shall keep my head held high (though my bonnet may slip, as I have had little success in securing it properly).
Pray do not worry, Papa. Whatever the outcome of this visit, I am certain you will have enough material for months of ridicule at my expense. I only ask that you reserve some portion of your mirth for poor Aunt and Uncle Gardiner, who are enduring all of this with admirable fortitude.
Yours in disgrace and defiance, Elizabeth
Elizabeth sat back, reading over the letter with a small, satisfied smile. It was as cheeky as she dared to be, and she could almost hear her father chuckling as he read it. She folded the paper neatly and sealed it, placing it on the corner of the desk for her uncle to post later.
The smile faded as she glanced at the clock. Nearly one. She had promised her aunt she would be ready by half-past, but the thought of returning to the earl’s house made her almost ill to her stomach. She had spent the morning inventing every excuse she could think of to delay her preparations. When the maid arrived to help dress her hair, Elizabeth insisted she could manage on her own, despite the maid’s dubious expression. The truth was, she simply wanted to put off the moment when she had to face herself in the mirror and remember the evening before.
Now, however, there was no more time to waste. Elizabeth rose from the desk with a sigh, crossing to the dressing table. Her hair was pinned loosely, the curls not nearly as tidy as they should have been. Her gown, though respectable, was creased from having been hastily chosen and laid out hours earlier. She frowned at her reflection, tugging at the hem of her sleeve as though that would magically improve her appearance.
“It will have to do,” she muttered to herself, straightening her posture. The effect was marginally better but still left her feeling underwhelmed.
Her aunt’s voice floated up the stairs, calling for her to hurry. Elizabeth sighed again and grabbed her bonnet, tying the ribbons in a bow that was both too tight and slightly crooked. No matter. She had dallied too long and run out of time for perfection.
Darcy arrived at Matlock House precisely a quarter hour before the appointed time. Punctuality was his habit, and he found it useful to arrive early for meetings with his uncle, who had a way of ambushing his guests with half-planned schemes. Better to be prepared than caught unawares, Darcy reasoned.
The earl’s butler greeted him at the door with a low bow and ushered him inside. Darcy handed over his hat and gloves, adjusted his coat, and followed Benedict’s gesture toward the drawing room, where his aunt was seated by the window, a tray of tea laid out before her.
“Darcy!” Lady Matlock exclaimed, rising from her chair with a smile that softened the sharp lines of her features. “What a pleasant surprise. I had not expected you again so soon.”
“I am here at the earl’s request,” Darcy replied, bowing slightly. “He indicated he wished to speak with me further this afternoon.”
His aunt waved this off as though the earl’s demands were of little consequence. “Well, he can wait a moment. Come and sit with me. I am positively starved for decent company—your uncle has been holed up in his study since breakfast, muttering about Derbyshire and Parliament, and I cannot seem to get a coherent word out of him.”
Darcy hesitated, glancing toward the doorway. “I would not wish to intrude.”
“Nonsense,” she said, patting the seat beside her. “You will have plenty of time to suffer through whatever tedious matters he wishes to discuss. For now, indulge me. I insist.”
Darcy was about to acquiesce when the door opened, admitting a footman who bowed and said, “Mr. Darcy, the earl requests your presence in the study at once.”
Lady Matlock let out a theatrical sigh, waving her hand dismissively. “Very well. Off you go, then. It seems I must rely on Reginald for entertainment—though he is far less interesting.”
Darcy allowed himself a faint smile. “Another time, Aunt.”
The footman led him through the corridors to the study, where the door stood ajar. The familiar scent of the earl’s favored tobacco greeted him before he even stepped inside, which meant the earl had spent the morning plotting things. He always cut a fresh Havana when he was plotting things. And, indeed, when he entered, he found the earl seated behind his desk, a cigar in hand and an open ledger before him .
“Ah, Fitzwilliam,” the earl said, looking up. “Prompt as always. Sit, sit.”
Darcy complied, taking the chair opposite his uncle and waiting patiently as the earl glanced over his papers. After a moment, the earl set the ledger aside and leaned back in his chair, puffing on his cigar. “I trust you are not too put out by last night’s festivities,” the earl began, his tone almost conversational.
“Not at all,” Darcy replied evenly, though his jaw tightened at the memory. “I was more curious about the purpose of last night’s… arrangement.”
The earl’s lips widened behind his cigar, as though suppressing a smile. “All in good time. For now, there are more pressing matters to discuss.”
Darcy’s brow furrowed. “Such as?”
The earl tapped ash from his cigar, his gaze sharp and assessing. “There is every likelihood that Parliament will be dissolved within the next few weeks. I expect a general election will be called before the end of the year, and very likely sooner rather than later.”
Darcy straightened. “You expect? Or you know?”
The earl gave a faint shrug, his expression inscrutable. “Let us say that I am well-informed. The political climate is ripe for change, and certain conversations have made it clear that preparations are already underway. The Prime Minister’s assassination has left gaps that must be filled, and Derbyshire cannot afford to have its interests ignored.”
Darcy exhaled slowly, his reluctance simmering just below the surface. “And you would have me be the one to fill those gaps.”
“I would,” the earl said simply. “You are well-positioned to unite the fractured interests of the county. Stanton’s influence must be broken, and you are the only man with the resources, connections, and integrity to do so.”
Darcy shook his head. “I have no desire for such a position.”
“And yet,” the earl said, his voice hardening slightly, “it is a position that may fall to you whether you desire it or not. Sometimes, Fitzwilliam, we do not choose our responsibilities—they choose us.”
Darcy leaned forward, flexing his palms and studying them as he spoke. “You speak as though the voters would flock to my banner the moment I declare my intentions. I told you last night they will not. Stanton has spent years cultivating mistrust in nearly everyone of adequate resources to challenge him. I am hardly the man to counteract that.”
The earl regarded him for a moment, puffing on his cigar in silence. Then, instead of responding, he checked his watch and leaned back in his chair .
“You are avoiding my question,” Darcy pressed, his frustration edging into his tone. “What was the purpose of last night’s charade? Why introduce me to Miss Bennet, and why insist upon such a public display?”
The earl smirked faintly, his expression maddeningly opaque. “Patience, Fitzwilliam. All will become clear.”
Before Darcy could ask more, the door opened, and the butler announced, “Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, and Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
Darcy turned, his irritation briefly forgotten as the three guests entered the room. His gaze settled on Miss Bennet first, almost involuntarily. As before, her gown was modest—this one pale green muslin with no ornamentation, save for a simple gold ribbon at the waist—but it flattered her figure in a quiet, unassuming way. There was a wrinkle near the hem and a slight crease at the bodice, signs of slipshod preparations that made her seem all the more out of place in this setting. Her hair, pinned loosely at the back of her head, was far from the polished perfection he was accustomed to seeing in London drawing rooms, though a stray curl framed her face in a way that was unintentionally fetching.
But it was not her attire or her figure that caught his attention. It was her expression—an uneasy mix of uncertainty and defiance that seemed entirely at odds with her otherwise unremarkable appearance. Her dark eyes darted around the room, clearly taking everything in, and when they briefly met his, he caught a flicker of something unexpected: an obstinance that burned beneath the surface. It was not the look of a woman accustomed to elevated company, but neither was it the look of someone entirely cowed by it.
She curtsied when the earl greeted her, the motion practiced but stiff, and the faint tightness of her smile betrayed her discomfort. Yet, even in her obvious nervousness, there was something in her posture—a refusal to be reduced to the shrinking figure she might have been expected to present—that made Darcy pause. What was the earl’s purpose in bringing her here? She was not polished, not strikingly beautiful, not the sort of woman who would command attention in a room like this. And yet, Darcy found it difficult to look away.
“Ah, excellent,” the earl said, rising to his feet. “Come in, all of you. Please, be seated.”
Darcy resumed his seat, his mind churning with questions as the Gardiners and Miss Bennet settled into the chairs provided. Whatever his uncle’s plans were, it was clear he intended to keep them close to his chest for a while longer.