Chapter 11
Darcy had long believed that certainty, once reached, ought to bring peace. It was a conviction grounded in habit and reinforced by experience. Decisions, once made, relieved him of the burden of indecision. Conclusions, once drawn, allowed him to proceed without hesitation or regret.
To his dismay, he had discovered that the veracity of this belief did not extend to matters of the heart.
The club was quieter than usual, the late morning hour discouraging all but the most habitual of its members.
The fire burned low, its warmth subdued, and the muted sounds of the street beyond the windows seemed distant, almost unreal.
Darcy sat opposite Bingley at a small table near the window, his posture composed, his expression attentive.
To any casual observer, he would have appeared entirely at ease.
Bingley, for his part, was in excellent spirits.
He spoke with easy animation of Jane Bennet, of the pleasure he found in her company, of the growing assurance that her gentleness was not weakness but steadiness of feeling.
There was no attempt at concealment in his manner.
His happiness was evident and unforced, and Darcy listened with a mixture of genuine satisfaction and quiet contrition.
“I begin to think that I was a great fool to doubt her regard,” Bingley said with a cheerful laugh.
Darcy smiled faintly. “You were cautious, not foolish. There is a difference.”
Bingley waved the distinction aside. “If there is, I am glad to have passed through it quickly. At last, everything seems to be turning out as it should.”
The words lingered with Darcy longer than Bingley could have intended.
“I am glad of it,” Darcy said after a moment. “Truly.”
Bingley studied him with a look of mild surprise. “You sound almost relieved.”
“I am,” Darcy replied without hesitation. “You deserve happiness, and I am glad not to stand in its way.”
“You never did so deliberately,” Bingley said, his tone gentle rather than reproachful.
Darcy inclined his head. “Deliberate or not, the effect was the same.”
Bingley accepted this without argument, though his gaze remained thoughtful. He had known Darcy long enough to recognise when an apology was not merely courteous but sincerely felt.
After a brief pause, he spoke again, more carefully this time. “You have been very grave of late. I wondered whether it might have something to do with the rumours.”
Darcy’s expression tightened almost imperceptibly. “They have not improved.”
“So I have heard everywhere I go,” Bingley replied. “It is a shame your efforts have not been more successful. For my part, I thought the plan an excellent one.”
“London society is remarkably resistant to correction,” Darcy said dryly. “Especially when speculation has already found its audience.”
Bingley smiled. “You have made another attempt since the ‘accidental’ meeting in Hyde Park, then?”
“Yes.”
“Another supposedly coincidental meeting?”
Darcy hesitated only briefly. “I thought it best.”
“And was it effective?”
Darcy considered his answer with care. “Not in the way I intended.”
Bingley laughed softly. “A pattern begins to emerge, do you not think, my friend?”
There was a pause, during which Bingley regarded Darcy with increasing curiosity.
“That is your difficulty in doing away with the rumours, I think: there is too much truth in them. You are fond of her,” he said at last.
Darcy did not answer at once.
The truth had been forming within him for some time, asserting itself gradually through resistance and denial until there was no room left for uncertainty. He had examined it from every angle, tested it against reason, weighed it against duty and consequence, and found that it remained unchanged.
He loved Elizabeth Bennet.
The knowledge brought no relief. It brought weight.
“Yes,” Darcy said quietly. “I am.”
Bingley’s face lit up at once. “Then there is nothing to be done but to act.”
Darcy shook his head. “I only wish it were so simple, but the situation is not straightforward. I cannot act, at least not in the sense that you mean.”
Bingley frowned. “You cannot mean that you will do nothing.”
“I mean,” Darcy said with measured clarity, “that I will do nothing dishonourable.”
“I cannot imagine what dishonour you apprehend.”
Darcy leaned back slightly, his gaze drifting toward the window. “She does not care for me.”
Bingley opened his mouth, then closed it again. “You cannot know that.”
“I do know it,” Darcy replied. “She agreed readily to a plan designed to separate us publicly. She offered no hesitation, no reluctance that might suggest regret.”
“Or,” Bingley countered gently, “she may be exercising propriety.”
Darcy smiled faintly. “You are generous.”
“I am hopeful,” Bingley said. “There is a difference.”
“If she felt as I do,” Darcy continued, “surely she would have given some sign. But there was nothing upon which I could pin my hopes.”
Bingley fell silent, considering this.
It was at that moment that they were hailed from across the room by a familiar figure. Colonel Fitzwilliam, who had known Bingley long enough to consider him his own friend as well as Darcy’s, looked over their table and, upon seeing their gestures of welcome, approached it.
“Darcy,” he said warmly. “Bingley. May I join you?”
“Of course,” Bingley replied.
Fitzwilliam seated himself, glancing between them with interest. “You look as cheerful as I have ever seen you, Bingley, but my cousin seems dreadfully serious. Well, then, Darcy, have you been weighed down by business or sentiment?”
“I suppose I must say sentiment,” Darcy replied reluctantly.
Fitzwilliam smiled knowingly. “Then I suspect I know the subject.”
“You may,” Bingley said with a chuckle.
Fitzwilliam turned to Darcy. “Then I shall add to it. Have you invited a lady to my mother’s ball yet?”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. “I have not.”
“You cannot intend to attend alone.”
“No, of course not,” Darcy said impatiently. “It is an essential component of the plan. But as my aunt’s parties are held in high esteem, I may be confident of being accepted even when issuing a tardy invitation.”
“If this concerns Elizabeth Bennet,” Fitzwilliam said, “you are being unnecessarily obstinate.”
“If it concerns Elizabeth Bennet,” Darcy replied steadily, “I am being exacting.”
His cousin gave him a long look. “Well, well, Darcy,” he said at last. “Is this an admission, then? You are prepared to confess that you do care for the lady?”
“I — yes,” Darcy said abruptly at last, looking away. “Yes, I can no longer deny it. For what little good it may do.”
“She would be a fool not to accept you,” Fitzwilliam said lightly. “Ten thousand a year and Pemberley are persuasive arguments.”
Darcy’s expression hardened. “I will not be accepted on such grounds. It would be a cruelty to us both to allow it. As much as I hate the thought of being without the woman I love, it is infinitely preferable to marrying her if she does not love me.”
Fitzwilliam regarded him with fresh interest, his smile turned crooked. “That is a high standard.”
“It is the only one I will permit myself,” Darcy replied.
“You may suffer for it,” Fitzwilliam observed.
“I already do,” Darcy said quietly.
The conversation drifted after that, though Darcy remained only partially attentive.
His thoughts returned again and again to Elizabeth.
To her composure during their meeting at Mr Gardiner’s warehouse.
To the readiness with which she had agreed to the plan.
To the careful distance she maintained even when gratitude softened her manner.
No matter how much he wanted to imagine she shared his feelings, he would be a fool to confuse mere civility for affection.
As the days passed, Darcy knew he must invite some lady to the countess’s party, yet the prospect filled him with an unease he could neither explain nor dispel.
Every attempt to imagine himself arriving with another woman ended in dissatisfaction.
He found fault where none existed, dismissed possibilities without reason, and delayed decisions that should have been simple.
Perhaps inevitably, Georgiana noticed.
She did not speak of it at first, but her concern grew more evident as the days passed.
Darcy knew himself to be restless in a way she would never have seen before, distracted even in familiar routines, prone to absent-mindedness, but even his best attempts at self-discipline could not seem to restore his mind to composure.
At last, she ventured a gentle inquiry.
“You seem troubled,” Georgiana said hesitantly one evening. “Is it something I have done?”
Darcy looked at her in surprise. “No. Never that.”
She studied him with careful attention. “Then it must be something that weighs upon you more heavily than you wish to admit.”
Darcy hesitated, then smiled faintly. “You are very perceptive.”
“I have learned from the best,” she replied.
He said nothing more, unwilling to burden her with what he could not resolve himself. Yet her concern lingered with him, a reminder that his distress was not as invisible as he had hoped.
It was on the morning of the seventh day that the note arrived.
It bore Mr Gardiner’s hand.
Darcy tore it open without delay, his pulse quickening as he read the brief request for a meeting at the warehouse. No explanation accompanied it, no hint of its purpose.
His first thought was of Elizabeth. Something must have gone wrong.
Darcy did not recall giving instructions for the carriage, only that it was ready almost at once.
He scarcely noticed the streets as they passed, though he had travelled them before, and more than once to the same destination.
His thoughts were fixed entirely upon the note folded in his coat pocket and the fear it had awakened.