Chapter 3
A chill winter day saw the residents of Darcy House well-protected against the cold outside, and equally well-occupied.
Georgiana was in the drawing room, playing the pianoforte under the fond and encouraging eye of Mrs Annesley, while Darcy entertained their unexpected guest in his study.
The door to the study was firmly closed, and Darcy sat in his favourite chair, feeling an unaccustomed mix of apprehension and embarrassment.
Ordinarily, he found the room comforting. The shelves were lined with familiar volumes, the fire burned steadily, and the tall windows admitted a pale winter light that softened the edges of the furniture. It was a space designed for reflection and order. Today, it did little to calm him.
Colonel Fitzwilliam occupied the chair opposite, his posture relaxed, one boot stretched toward the hearth.
His favourite cousin and companion since boyhood was normally one to talk rather than listen, but he had sat in attentive silence as Darcy related the events of the past weeks, from the ill-considered remark at the concert to the present state of the rumours.
He did not spare himself in the telling.
Having described the spread of gossip through London with a frankness that surprised even him, Darcy took a deep breath.
Sharing his troubles with his cousin was something of a relief, but it was not enough to speak of the difficulty.
Something must be done about it, and there was only one thing left to do.
No matter how little he cared for the idea.
“I believe I must now call upon Miss Elizabeth,” he finished. “I will explain what has occurred and make my apologies to her directly.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam raised his eyebrows. “A significant risk, do not you think?”
Darcy frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
“You wish to snuff out this gossip,” his cousin continued. “There is no small risk that calling on her could give the story fresh life. If anyone learns you have been to her house, it will be taken as confirmation of everything the gossips are already saying.”
Darcy folded his hands together, aware that he was bracing himself. “I do not see how I can avoid it. The situation began through my carelessness. It is only right that I should address it with her.”
“Right, perhaps,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said dryly. “Wise, no. If you wish to put an end to this nonsense, the simplest course is to attach yourself elsewhere. Appear publicly with another lady, and the world will conclude that you never cared for Miss Elizabeth at all.”
The suggestion struck Darcy with unexpected force.
He felt a sharp flare of irritation, quick and unwelcome, and was forced to look away lest it show too plainly. The notion of deliberately courting another woman, even in pretence, filled him with a distaste he found difficult to disguise.
“That would be unfair,” he said at last, his voice carefully controlled. “To Miss Elizabeth, in particular. The gossips would merely say that I had grown tired of her.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam regarded him with interest. “And why should that concern you?”
Darcy hesitated only briefly. “Because it would reflect poorly on her. I will not resolve this by damaging a lady’s reputation further.”
“Then what do you propose?” his cousin asked.
Darcy considered his words carefully. “If Miss Elizabeth agrees, we might arrange to appear together in public several times. Casually, as though by accident. If we conduct ourselves with perfect indifference, it should soon become evident that there is nothing between us.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam made a thoughtful sound. “That is a delicate game you suggest playing.”
“It is preferable to the alternatives.”
“Is it?” Colonel Fitzwilliam leaned forward slightly. “You must know how this will look. A man of your position appearing repeatedly in the company of the same young woman invites interpretation, however indifferent he may appear.”
Darcy stiffened. “You exaggerate the danger.”
“And you dismiss it out of hand.” His cousin’s tone was mild, but his gaze was sharp. “Why does it matter so much to you what people think? If they believe you infatuated, let them. You are not obliged to satisfy their curiosity.”
Darcy felt the question settle heavily between them.
“I do not care what they think of me,” he said. “I care what they think of her.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam studied him for a moment, then smiled faintly. “You are proposing a course that could place a great deal of power in Miss Bennet’s hands. If she chose to press the matter, she might attempt to force you into an engagement.”
Darcy met his gaze steadily. “She would never do such a thing.”
There was a pause.
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s expression softened, his earlier amusement giving way to something more contemplative. “You have a high opinion of her.”
Darcy did not respond. He was suddenly very conscious of how much he had revealed already.
“I trust her character,” he said instead.
Colonel Fitzwilliam rose restlessly and crossed to the window, where he stood for a moment looking out at the pale winter light beyond the glass.
The street below was quiet, the air sharp and clear, and a thin frost clung to the edges of the iron railings.
When he turned back, his expression was no longer amused.
“You are determined, then,” he said.
Darcy inclined his head. “I am.”
His cousin studied him with a mixture of resignation and concern.
“You always were. Very well. If you insist upon going through with this, I shall not attempt to dissuade you further. But do not deceive yourself as to the difficulty of what you propose. From all you have said of her, I do not believe Miss Bennet is a woman who may be managed.”
Darcy almost smiled. “No. Indeed, she is not.”
“You seem to approve of the characteristic,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said dryly. “I suppose I ought to have known you would value stubbornness.”
Darcy did not reply. He had risen as well, though he was scarcely aware of doing so. The decision had been made long before this conversation began. Whatever doubts remained were not of the sort that could be resolved by argument.
Colonel Fitzwilliam moved toward the door, then paused.
“I shall remain here this morning. It has been too long since I heard Georgiana play the pianoforte. Will she indulge me, do you think?” His crooked smile made it obvious that Fitzwilliam knew as well as Darcy did that their ward would like nothing better.
Darcy laughed. “You know she will. And perhaps you might stay until I return?”
His cousin smiled faintly. “I will attempt to keep her occupied long enough that you may conduct your business without interruption. Do try not to scandalise half of London before dinner.”
Darcy accepted the rebuke with good grace. When the door closed behind Colonel Fitzwilliam, he remained where he was for a moment, alone once more in the quiet of his study.
The fire had burned lower. Darcy did not trouble to ring for more coal.
Instead, he stood very still, aware of an unfamiliar restlessness beneath his usual composure.
He had undertaken unpleasant duties before.
He had confronted creditors, dismissed servants, negotiated disputes among his tenants, and endured conversations that left him weary and dissatisfied.
None of those tasks had unsettled him in quite this way.
He told himself firmly that there was nothing to anticipate. This visit was necessary, and nothing more.
Elizabeth Bennet had been drawn into a situation of his making.
Courtesy, honour, and common decency required that he explain himself to her.
He would apologise, as he ought to have done earlier, and propose a solution that would allow the matter to be put to rest. Once that was accomplished, there would be no further cause for anxiety.
And yet, even as he formed the argument in his mind, he was aware of a contradictory sensation that would not be silenced so easily.
He was looking forward to seeing her.
The admission was unwelcome, but it persisted.
He attempted to reason with himself, to remind himself of the awkwardness that must attend the meeting, of the coolness with which she had often regarded him, of the sharpness of her wit when she was displeased.
Then, too, it was only too obvious that Wickham had been spreading his lies again.
He could not discount the possibility that Elizabeth might believe them truths.
None of it was enough to give him a distaste for the meeting.
The thought of her expression when she saw him again, of the quick intelligence in her eyes and the readiness of her smile, intruded despite his efforts.
Not for the first time, Darcy wondered whether she would be astonished by his appearance at her uncle’s house, or whether she would receive him with the same composed politeness she had displayed at the ball.
He hoped, perhaps unreasonably, that she would not be indifferent.
Darcy turned away from the window and rang for his coat. Mrs Gibbon appeared almost immediately, his housekeeper’s manner as orderly and efficient as ever.
“I am going out,” he said. “I shall not be long.”
“Yes, sir.” She hesitated, then added, with a glance toward the closed door of the drawing room, “Miss Darcy is in good spirits this morning. She has been practising diligently, and she appeared most happy to play for the colonel.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
Mrs Gibbon inclined her head and withdrew. Darcy took up his gloves and hat, delaying only long enough to ensure that his appearance was beyond reproach. It would not do to arrive looking hurried or unsettled, whatever he might feel.
The carriage ride to Gracechurch Street was shorter than he expected.
As the familiar streets of fashionable London gave way to narrower roads and more modest houses, Darcy found himself observing his surroundings with more approval than he had expected.
This was not an elegant quarter. There were warehouses in view, solid and busy, their doors opening onto the street.
Carts passed regularly, laden with goods, and men in plain coats moved with purpose from one building to another.
But though not fashionable, it struck him as respectable, even comfortable.
There was an order to it that Darcy appreciated.
Everything appeared well maintained, the houses clean, the shops thriving.
This was a place where people worked, where effort and industry were visible rather than concealed beneath ornament.
To dismiss it without ever troubling to look closely would be a serious misstep.
The carriage came to a halt before a neat, well-proportioned house. Darcy descended and dismissed the driver, then stood for a moment on the pavement, aware that this was the point beyond which retreat would be both cowardly and ridiculous.
He mounted the steps and knocked.
The door was opened by a maid who regarded him with evident curiosity. Darcy gave his name and waited, his expression carefully composed, while she disappeared into the house.
He was shown into a small, pleasant drawing room. It was comfortably furnished rather than fashionable, with a few well-chosen pieces and a fire burning cheerfully in the grate. Books lay upon a table near the window, and there was a sense of domestic ease that struck Darcy at once.
Elizabeth was there, as were Miss Bennet and Mrs Gardiner.
All rose to greet him and exchange bows.
For once, the formalities of society were a welcome distraction.
Though knowing that a difficult discussion lay ahead, there were nonetheless the rituals of greeting the ladies and asking after their parents, and of paying his respects to Mrs Gardiner as his hostess.
Darcy hoped he did it all suitably enough, if perhaps not elegantly.
Inevitably, the conversation faltered when it had all been said.
Darcy had rehearsed what he meant to say.
He had resolved to be clear, respectful, and restrained.
Yet now that the moment had come, he found the words did not arrange themselves quite so readily.
He found himself acutely aware of Mrs Gardiner’s presence.
She had seated herself a little apart, near the window, her manner attentive but unobtrusive.
Yet there was nothing casual in her observation.
Darcy recognised at once that she was listening, weighing, and forming her own conclusions.
Whatever passed between him and Elizabeth in this room would not remain solely between them.
It would be remembered, repeated, and judged.
The knowledge altered everything.
He had intended to be direct. He had resolved to lay the matter plainly before Elizabeth and trust her intelligence to discern his meaning.
Yet the proprieties of the moment asserted themselves with unshakable force.
This was not a private meeting between equals.
It was a gentleman calling upon a young lady in her aunt’s house, under her aunt’s eye.
Frankness, however well-meant, could easily be mistaken for presumption.
Darcy felt the weight of his position keenly.
One injudicious word might be taken as an insulting suggestion that her reputation required his protection, or worse still, as an accusation of cunning.
There had already been enough misunderstandings between them.
He would not allow his own carelessness to give rise to further injury.
Explanations, he told himself, must come later.
For now, restraint was the wiser course. He would begin with an apology, with courtesy, and with as little assumption as possible. If he must err, it would be on the side of caution rather than candour.
The choice came with its own difficulties. Elizabeth had made her preference for plain-speaking clear enough. She might think him evasive, even insincere, but that was a lesser harm than speaking too freely in company where every word carried consequences.
Having settled this, Darcy returned his attention fully to her. “I wonder, Miss Elizabeth,” he said at last, “if you have heard any surprising news in London of late.”