Chapter 3 #2
“She did not ‘put me up to it,’” Anne corrected gently, lifting her head to look at him, her expression turning profoundly tender. “Your sister merely... expressed a quiet concern. You know how deeply she feels, and how hesitant she is to speak of her own heart.”
“I do,” Darcy said quietly. He looked past Anne for a moment, out the window toward the rolling hills, his mind turning over the implications.
Georgiana was dearer to him than almost anyone in the world, save the woman currently in his arms. He had spent years fiercely protecting his little sister, guarding her heart against those who might seek to use her.
But Elias Bennet was not George Wickham.
Elias was quiet, honourable, and deeply serious.
He had no fortune, it was true, but he had character in abundance.
And if Georgiana’s heart was beginning to incline in that direction.
.. well, Darcy knew better than most that character and mutual respect were a far firmer foundation for happiness than mere wealth or grand connections.
“She cares for him, then,” Darcy said, bringing his gaze back to his wife. It was not a question.
“I believe she does,” Anne answered softly, her hand coming up to cup his jaw, her thumb stroking his cheek.
“Nothing has been spoken of, of course. Elias is far too honourable to presume upon your hospitality or your sister’s kindness when he has nothing to offer her.
He would never speak until he had secured a position and a future. Which is why...”
“Which is why he needs a position,” Darcy finished for her, understanding perfectly, leaning into her touch. “A position that will allow him to rise, to prove his worth, and to eventually present himself as a man capable of supporting a wife.”
“Yes,” Anne whispered. She looked at him with vulnerability and a depth of love that made his breath catch.
“I know it is a great deal to ask, Fitzwilliam. To use your influence in this way. If you feel it is inappropriate, or if you object to the... the potential outcome regarding Georgiana, I will not speak of it again. Your judgment is always sound.”
Darcy’s expression softened into one of profound, overwhelming love. He tightened his hold on her, pulling her flush against his chest, his arms a secure fortress around her.
“Anne,” Mr. Darcy said, his voice low and fiercely tender. “Do you truly think I would stand in the way of genuine affection because of a lack of fortune? I married the woman my heart demanded, despite every expectation of the world, and it was the greatest blessing of my life.”
She looked up at him, her eyes shining with unshed tears of happiness. “I know you would not. But she is your sister. It is your duty to protect her.”
“And I am protecting her,” Darcy replied, brushing a stray curl from her cheek, his eyes locked on hers.
“By ensuring that the man she seems to favour is allowed to prove himself. I have observed Elias, Anne. He is a good man. A serious man. If he can survive Fletcher, he can survive anything. And if, in a few years, he has established himself and wishes to speak to me regarding Georgiana... I will not turn him away.”
Anne let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, a radiant, tearful smile breaking across her face.
She threw her arms around his neck, burying her face in the curve of his shoulder.
“Thank you,” she murmured fiercely against his skin.
“Thank you, Fitzwilliam. You are the best, the most generous of men.”
Darcy held her close, burying his face in her pale hair and breathing in her scent, his own heart swelling with a fierce, protective love. For a long moment, they sat together in the quiet library, the afternoon sun warming them, surrounded by the deep, unshakable security of their marriage.
“I will write to Fletcher this evening,” Darcy said finally, his voice muffled against her hair, his hands stroking her back.
“I will tell him I am sending him a recent Oxford graduate man to evaluate and keep, if he proves worthy. Fletcher will see for the rest. It is the best I can offer presently.”
Anne pulled back slightly, her eyes dancing with gentle amusement. “You make us sound very formidable, Mr. Darcy.”
“We are formidable, Mrs. Darcy,” he agreed smoothly, his eyes warm with adoration. “Especially when my wife has set her mind to a task.”
He leaned in then, capturing her lips in a slow, deeply romantic kiss that spoke of years of shared trust and profound intimacy.
Anne responded instantly, her hands sliding up to tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, leaning her body fully into his.
The estate accounts and the London solicitors were entirely forgotten in the warmth of his embrace.
When they finally parted, Darcy kept her close, resting his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling. “You may tell Georgiana,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, “that her ‘quiet concern’ has been noted, and that her brother is attending to the matter.”
Anne smiled, a soft, luminous expression that made him feel like the luckiest man alive. “I will tell her. Though I suspect she will know the moment she looks at me. She knows I cannot keep a secret from you, Fitzwilliam. My heart is too plainly yours.”
“I should hope so,” Darcy said, kissing the tip of her nose, then her lips once more. “Now, Mrs. Darcy, unless you have any further interventions to stage on behalf of young potential lovers, I believe I was attempting to review the northern tenantry accounts.”
Anne laughed, a sound like silver bells, slipping gracefully from his lap and standing before him, her eyes bright with love and triumph. “The accounts must wait, Fitzwilliam. I believe it is time for tea. And I must go and put your sister out of her misery.”
Darcy watched her walk toward the library door, his heart full to bursting, marvelling anew at the quiet strength and endless grace of the woman he had married.
Just as she reached the threshold, she paused and looked back over her shoulder, her expression turning suddenly serious, her eyes filled with an ocean of love.
“Fitzwilliam?”
“Yes, my dearest?”
“Thank you,” she said again, her voice soft but incredibly clear in the quiet room. “Not just for Elias Bennet. But for always listening to my heart.”
Darcy smiled, a look of absolute, unwavering devotion. “It is the only voice I ever wish to hear, Anne. Always.”
He watched the door close behind her, the room suddenly feeling a little emptier without her light. Then, with a quiet sigh of profound contentment, Fitzwilliam Darcy reached for a fresh sheet of paper, dipped his pen into the inkwell, and began to write to Mr. Fletcher.
***
The chambers of Mr. Francis Fletcher, Solicitor at Law, situated in the sober and respectable environs of Lincoln’s Inn, were not designed to offer comfort, but rather to inspire a profound and immediate sense of legal gravity.
The walls were lined floor to ceiling with dark, leather-bound volumes of jurisprudence; the air was perennially thick with the dry, slightly acidic scent of old paper, sealing wax, and the quiet accumulation of wealth.
Mr. Fletcher himself sat behind a massive desk that looked very nearly like a fortress.
He was a man in his late fifties, possessed of a sharp, hawkish profile, a pair of spectacles that he used more as an instrument of intimidation than of sight, and a mind that operated with the relentless, unyielding precision of a finely wrought clock.
Across from him sat Mr. Pope, his junior partner—a man whose milder temperament and more diplomatic manner served as an excellent foil to Fletcher’s severity.
Between them, upon the desk, lay a stack of briefs, deeds, and Chancery petitions that had been steadily mounting long before the commencement of the Michaelmas term.
“The dispute over the Harrington estate cannot be delayed another week, Pope,” Mr. Fletcher declared, tapping a long, ink-stained finger against a particularly thick bundle of parchment.
“The heir is growing restive, the widow is threatening to appeal to the Chancellor, and if we do not unpick this tangle of entails by Tuesday, we shall have a full-blown scandal on our hands.”
Mr. Pope adjusted his cuffs, his expression one of weary resignation.
“I am entirely in agreement, sir. However, the documentation for the Harrington case alone spans three generations of wills that are remarkably poorly drafted. I have spent the better part of the last three nights attempting to trace the line of the secondary inheritance, but the sheer volume of reading required has been considerable.”
Fletcher frowned, a formidable expression that usually caused junior clerks to quail.
“We are short-handed, Pope. That is the long and the short of it. Since young Charlton left us to marry that heiress in Bath—a terrible waste of a good legal mind, if you ask me—we have been drowning in paperwork. The clerks are adequate for copying, but they lack the intellect to parse a complex settlement. We require a man who can actually think.”
It was at this precise moment that the door to the inner sanctum opened, admitting Mr. Smythe, the senior secretary. Smythe was a man who moved with the silent, unobtrusive efficiency of a ghost, his existence entirely devoted to the smooth functioning of the office.
“The morning post, Mr. Fletcher,” Smythe murmured, advancing to place a small silver salver upon the desk. “And a letter delivered by special courier. The seal is from Derbyshire, sir.”
Fletcher’s sharp eyes snapped toward the salver. He reached out, his long fingers breaking the heavy wax seal bearing the crest of the Darcy family.
“From Mr. Darcy of Pemberley,” Fletcher murmured, adjusting his spectacles as he unfolded the thick, cream-coloured vellum.