34. Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Four
Elizabeth sat by the parlor window, a book open on her lap, though she had not turned the page in half an hour. Outside, the golden hues of autumn had begun to settle over the countryside, the leaves whispering against the glass as the wind stirred them along the drive. Jane sat across from her, embroidering something Elizabeth had not even bothered to identify, and Kitty and Lydia had taken to giggling over some new nonsense, but Elizabeth barely registered the sound.
“Lizzy, are you quite well?” her mother asked suddenly.
Elizabeth startled, looking up. Mrs. Bennet peered at her from over her teacup, her brow furrowed in something between concern and exasperation. “What, Mama?”
“You are so dull since returning home. You ought to be quite the opposite after all your London adventures. Why, you have hardly spoken of any of it!”
“I am perfectly well, Mama,” Elizabeth said with a practiced smile.
“You do not look perfectly well,” her mother declared. “You have not once inquired about the gentleman who is to lease Netherfield. You used to take some interest in new neighbors.”
“Yes, Lizzy,” Lydia added, grinning, “what if he is handsome?”
“Better than old, fat Mr. Collins,” Kitty sighed. “Papa says he is to come next week.”
“You do not know he is fat,” protested Mary. “And he is only five and twenty. Hardly old.”
“But still dull,” Lydia decided. “ I shall save my lace for the militia.”
“Not Mr. Bingley?” Kitty asked. “They say he has five thousand a year!”
Elizabeth merely shook her head and returned her gaze to the window. It was Jane who steered the conversation away, murmuring something about how it was all only gossip for now, until this mysterious Bingley gentleman actually arrived in town with the four gentlemen and seven ladies he was rumored to be bringing. Her mother and younger sisters fell easily into speculation, but Elizabeth let their voices fade into background noise .
Only when her father entered did she lift her head.
Mr. Bennet strolled in, a folded broadsheet tucked under his arm. He met Elizabeth’s eyes briefly before seating himself in his chair by the fire. Then, with deliberate patience, he unfolded the paper and smoothed it over his knee.
Elizabeth sat up straighter.
Across the room, Jane glanced at her.
Mr. Bennet cleared his throat and peered over the broadsheet. “I do believe, Lizzy, that you are the only one in this household who cares for the latest word on political matters.”
The words sent a jolt through her, though she willed herself not to react. “It is not every year Parliament is dissolved and an election is called. Have… the separate counties determined their seats?” she asked, hoping she sounded either ignorant or detached enough to fool at least some of her family.
Her father’s eyes narrowed faintly, and he flipped the paper to skim the page. “Nothing final, but there is talk. The polling closed two days ago, of course, but the numbers have not yet reached London in full. Hertfordshire went for Morris again, I should think, but there are other, far more interesting contests yet to be decided.”
Mrs. Bennet sniffed. “And what interest is that to us?”
Mr. Bennet arched a brow. “Why, my dear, have you not heard? It is all the talk from London—an upstart challenger to a venerable old seat, and a scandal, besides! I assumed all of Meryton would be breathless to know whether Fitzwilliam Darcy of Derbyshire has defeated his opponent.”
A silence settled in the room.
Then, Lydia—oblivious and, clearly, forgetful as ever—laughed. “Why should we care for some old politician?”
Elizabeth forced herself to release her skirts, to appear unaffected. “Indeed,” she murmured. “Why should we?”
Her father’s gaze flickered to her, but he said nothing.
The conversation shifted again—Netherfield, Papa’s cousin, the militia’s rumored winter encampment in Meryton—but Elizabeth heard none of it. The only thing that mattered…
…Was back in London.
Yet another day of his life wasted.
Darcy sat hunched over his desk, his pen poised over the page, but the words blurred before him. The single candle flickered in the late afternoon light, casting long shadows across the paper. The day’s correspondence lay neatly stacked at the corner of his desk—letters from allies, notes from political acquaintances—but the only one that mattered was the letter from Georgiana.
Her handwriting had always been careful, delicate, but here, the lines wavered.
Brother,
I know you must be disappointed in me. I know you must be furious. Cousin Richard says so. He says I have embarrassed you, that I have ruined myself, and that the best thing I can do is to stay hidden at Pemberley until the talk dies away. But the talk will never die away, will it? I will always be the girl who nearly ran away with a rake. I will always be the girl who was too foolish to listen.
I was furious, you know. Furious with Richard for taking me away, furious with you for being the reason I was sent to Ramsgate in the first place. And furious that no one would let me have what I wanted. Because I did want it, Fitzwilliam. I had feelings for him. I believed he cared for me.
Richard tried to tell me the truth. He told me that I was not the only girl Wickham had charmed, that I was only the latest in a long line of foolish, na?ve creatures who had fallen for his lies.
I did not believe him. Not at first. He was so indulgent with me! But then I demanded an answer from Mrs. Reynolds, and she confirmed it. She had known things. She had always known. And I hated her for it. Hated all of you for keeping me in the dark while you knew perfectly well what kind of man he was.
I do not hate you now.
I do not know what I feel.
I am still angry. But I think I am more grieved than anything.
I was angry at you for listening to old Uncle Matlock, for leaving me, for being too busy to think of me—but now, I think I was just angry because I was alone.
I have spent so much time at Pemberley with nothing to do but think, and out of boredom, I started reading Father’s old letters. At first, I thought they would make me feel better. But they have only made me cry.
I miss him, Fitzwilliam. And I miss you.
And I am angry that I never got to know Mother. I do not even know what her voice sounded like. I used to think that did not bother me, but it does. And it makes me angrier than I can explain. More angry still that I cannot beg you to hold me when I cry.
I never wanted you to stand for the seat—I know you did not want it either. I wish you had never stood. I wish you were here instead.
I do not know what will become of me now.
Georgiana
He had expected anger. He had even expected the anger to give way, in time, to understanding—hopefully, even, to maturity. In the process, he had feared she would blame herself, but this—this heart-wrenching grief, this desolate isolation and the self-recrimination her words visited upon him—those, he had not been prepared for.
He reached for a fresh sheet of paper and dipped his pen, then paused, gripping the back of his neck.
How could he put it into words? How could he make her understand that nothing— nothing —mattered to him more than her?
He touched the nib of the pen to the page.
Georgiana,
No. That was too abrupt. He crumpled the paper and began again on a new sheet.
My dearest sister,
Too sentimental? He did not wish to smother her. She was in an agitation that would not be resolved with platitudes and vain assurances. He frowned, reaching for a new sheet.
I am not angry with you.
He hesitated. Was that what she needed to hear? Richard had said she expected his fury. Was it better to reassure her? Or would that only make her feel more ashamed?
Darcy exhaled sharply, setting the pen down. Words had never failed him before.
But this—this was Georgiana.
And she was hurting.
He pressed his fingers against his temple, closing his eyes. Perhaps he was thinking of this the wrong way. If it were Richard, he would simply issue a command: Stop your self-recrimination, and let us move forward. But Georgiana was not Richard.
She was fifteen. She was young, raw with heartache, confused by her own emotions.
Darcy rubbed his chin.
Elizabeth would know what to say.
She had a way of understanding people—not merely their words, but what they were truly saying. If Elizabeth were here, what would she write to Georgiana? Surely, one young woman might understand another.
Darcy straightened. That was it. He needed to speak to her—not as her guardian, not as the head of their family, but as her brother. As someone who had failed her and needed her to know that did not mean he loved her any less because of her mistakes.
He pulled out yet another page and dipped the pen once more, his movements slower this time, more deliberate.
My dearest Georgiana,
If you believe I am angry with you, you are mistaken. Do not heed what Richard says—he speaks from frustration and worry, not from any true condemnation. I will not pretend that I do not regret what nearly happened, but I regret far more that I was not there to prevent it. That I was not the sort of brother you could confide in before it came to such a desperate moment.
You have done nothing that cannot be recovered. Your reputation—your standing—these are matters that men like Richard and I concern ourselves with, but they do not define you. What defines you, Georgiana, is your own heart. And it is a heart that our father cherished beyond measure. Do not let your sorrow make you forget that.
You say you miss him. So do I. More than I can ever put into words.
And you remind me of him—of all the best of him. But you remind me even more of our mother. I see her in your strength, in your gentleness. You want to know what her voice sounded like? Then sing, my dear sister, and you shall hear it. You never knew her, but you are her daughter in every way that matters.
Do not think of what will become of you. Think only of what is. And what is true is this—you are my sister. And nothing, no scandal, no gossip, no misstep, can change that.
I will see you soon. If I am able, I will come to Pemberley myself. If not, I will send for Richard to bring you to me. One way or another, we will be together again.
Yours, Fitzwilliam
He set the pen down and rubbed a hand over his jaw. Was it enough? Had he said what she needed to hear?
He had rewritten several lines, stopped more times than he could count. But as he studied the final words, a strange stillness settled over him. Yes.
This was what she needed to hear.
Elizabeth would have approved .
Darcy swallowed hard and folded the letter carefully, sealing it with his signet. He rose, stepping into the hall and calling for a footman to have it posted at once.
As he turned back, his butler approached with a quickness in his stride that spoke of some urgency. “Sir,” he said, extending a folded missive. “There is word from Lord Matlock. The election had been decided.”
Darcy stopped.
His breath stilled for half a beat before he nodded once, taking the note. “Thank you.”
“Lydia, that is quite enough,” Elizabeth said for the third time in as many minutes, pulling her younger sister away from a group of eager-looking officers. Lydia pouted but allowed herself to be steered back toward Jane, who had successfully detached Kitty from a similar situation.
Elizabeth exhaled with a hiss. “I do not know how we shall manage them, Jane.”
Jane’s eyes twinkled with a mix of amusement and resignation. “As best we can, I suppose. It is only that a red coat looks rather fine, do you not think?”
Elizabeth gave her a dry look. “Oh, certainly. But they can hardly afford to feed themselves, let alone a wife. I daresay their interest in young ladies is not bound to be honorable.”
Jane gasped, though the laughter in her voice betrayed her. “Why, Lizzy! I do not recall you being so cynical before.”
Elizabeth merely arched a brow. “One must be at least a little cynical, or one risks becoming a fool.”
Jane chuckled, but before she could respond, a sharp call rang through the street, followed by a wave of excited chatter.
Elizabeth turned toward the sound, her breath catching as she saw a small but growing throng of men gathered outside the coaching inn. The crowd was thick, and as more joined, the murmur rose to a buzz of urgency.
Jane sighed, already turning away. “I do not know what they are about, but I would rather not be jostled.”
Elizabeth, however, saw the fluttering sheets of paper being passed from hand to hand. Her heart clenched. She grabbed Jane’s sleeve, tugging her back. “Wait. I need to see. ”
Jane blinked at her. “See what?”
Elizabeth did not answer. She darted forward, weaving carefully through the crowd and not caring who jostled her. A few men glanced at her in surprise—ladies did not usually push their way into such gatherings—but she paid no mind.
A gentleman she recognized—Mr. Howard, a neighbor of her father’s—was folding a broadsheet and tucking it under his coat, his face twisted in a look of deep dissatisfaction.
Elizabeth swallowed and mustered her nerve. “Mr. Howard, sir,” she said, stepping close. “Might I—might I see?”
The man turned, startled to find her there. For a moment, he hesitated, then gave a disgusted shake of his head and thrust the paper toward her. “Take it,” he grumbled. “I have seen enough.”
She took it with trembling hands.
Jane still looked perplexed. “Lizzy, what is going on?”
Elizabeth’s fingers fumbled over the page, her eyes scanning frantically. Where was it? The words swam before her.
Jane grabbed her arm. “Lizzy! We shall be trampled if we do not move.”
Elizabeth barely heard her.
Jane gave an exasperated sigh and plucked the broadsheet from Elizabeth’s grip, leading her firmly away from the crowd. “Come,” she said in that gentle but implacable way of hers. “We shall go over to the tobacconist. There is light outside his window there, and you may find what you seek without getting crushed.”
Elizabeth allowed herself to be led, though her pulse pounded. The moment they reached the quieter side of the street, she snatched the paper back, her eyes darting across the text.
And then she found it.
Election Returns for the County of Derbyshire Stanton Declared Victor by Narrowest of Margins
The long-contested election for the seat of Derbyshire has drawn to a dramatic and unforeseen conclusion. The final tally, concluded late last evening, confirmed Mr. Miles Stanton as the victor by a margin of but a single vote over his challenger, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley.
Elizabeth blinked. Forgot to breathe. Darcy lost.
By one vote.
She groaned in denial, her stomach twisting with agony. But then her gaze caught the next line, and her breath hitched.
However, in a shocking turn of events, it has been learned that Mr. Stanton was placed under arrest at his London residence in the early hours of this morning. It is reported that credible evidence has been presented before His Majesty’s Government linking Mr. Stanton to illicit dealings with known French operatives. The precise nature of these dealings remains, as yet, undisclosed to the public, though sources close to the matter suggest charges of smuggling, sedition, and acts against the Crown.
As a consequence of his arrest, Mr. Stanton shall be disqualified from taking his seat in Parliament. The authorities have yet to confirm the particulars of the legal proceedings that will follow, but it is expected that a special by-election will be called to determine who shall assume the seat.
As of this printing, no formal declaration has been made regarding potential candidates in the forthcoming contest. However, given the extreme narrowness of the original result and the widespread support garnered by Mr. Darcy, it remains to be seen whether he shall once more put himself forward for consideration.
Further details will be provided as this matter unfolds.
Elizabeth stared, the words imprinting themselves into her mind as the street, the people, even Jane’s voice, faded into the background.
Stanton would not be permitted to assume the seat. The race was not over. A special by-election would be called. Her fingers crumpled the edges of the broadsheet as the words jumbled to a blur.
She did not know how she felt.
Darcy had lost. But he had not lost entirely. Surely, in a second election, he would win handily.
Surely…
Her throat tightened.
Would he run again? Would he even wish to?
Of course, he would. He was a man of principle, and his county needed him. Like enough, Stanton still had supporters, men just as corrupt as he. Darcy would not let Stanton’s faction take the seat if he could prevent it. And he would be good at it.
Miserable, yes, but good.
For that, she could only think well of him. Her chest ached, and she had to blink several times to clear her vision. Some small, foolish part of her hoped that, with a second election ahead, Darcy and the earl might call upon her again.
It would mean nothing, of course. A mere continuation of their charade, perhaps only for a fortnight.
But still…
Still.
“Lizzy!”
Jane’s sharp whisper snapped her out of her thoughts. Across the street, Lydia was giggling far too boldly at a red-coated officer.
Elizabeth exhaled, pressing a hand to her forehead. “Oh, merciful heavens. We had better stop her before she kisses the rogue. ”
“Come on,” Jane cried. “Let us get home, out of this crush.”
Elizabeth grimaced and tucked the broadsheet into her reticule. With a final pat on the satin article—where Darcy’s fate now sat folded inside—she sighed and turned to follow her sister.