Chapter Four
White Club, London
Darcy
White’s was thin of company for a Wednesday evening, and Darcy had secured a table near the fire while he waited for Richard to arrive.
He was glad of the quiet. Much of the day had been spent with Georgiana, and the remainder given over to correspondence requiring his attention, none of it difficult enough to deserve the time it had demanded.
He had therefore no inclination for a crowded room, nor for acquaintances determined upon conversation merely because chance had placed them in his way.
Darcy had arrived in Town only the day before, intending to remain long enough to see how Georgiana fared under Mrs. Younge’s care.
Her letters had spoken warmly of her new companion, and everything Darcy had heard since his arrival had confirmed them.
Having sent word to Richard that morning, he had proposed they meet at White’s that evening, where they had passed many an hour together when both happened to be in London.
Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam arrived some minutes later, bringing a gust of cold air with him and calling for brandy almost before he had taken his seat. The usual greetings disposed of, he accepted his glass from the waiter and regarded Darcy across the table.
“You look considerably less harassed than when last I saw you. Am I to conclude that Mrs. Younge continues to impress you as well as your letter suggested?”
“She does, and very well indeed.” Darcy turned his own glass once between his fingers. “It has been only four months, and Georgiana is exceedingly fond of her already.”
“So I gathered when I saw her last week. I believe Mrs. Younge’s name occurred three times before Georgiana had finished telling me about a book they were reading.”
Darcy smiled faintly. “Only three?”
“I may have lost count.”
It was difficult to resent the observation when Darcy had noticed much the same thing himself.
Mrs. Younge had been established with Georgiana for some months now, and whatever reservations Darcy had entertained at the beginning had steadily diminished.
She had proved attentive without being officious, sensible without severity, and sufficiently young in her manner to draw Georgiana into conversation without appearing to demand it.
More importantly, Georgiana was happy.
“She writes to me twice a week now without being reminded,” Darcy said. “Every letter contains some account of what they have been doing. Their reading, their walks, some visit or excursion Mrs. Younge has contrived for her amusement. I begin to think I found precisely what I was searching for.”
Richard raised his brows. “High praise indeed. I recall a man not four months ago who appeared convinced that no woman in England could satisfy his requirements.”
“I was not so unreasonable.”
“You dismissed one for speaking too much about linen.”
“For speaking of nothing else.”
“An important distinction.”
“I was wrong to doubt whether a suitable person might be found,” Darcy said, ignoring him, “and I own the mistake gladly.”
That admission cost him very little. Georgiana’s improvement was evidence enough.
There was greater animation in her letters and less of the diffidence which had sometimes made even the simplest decision appear troublesome to her.
Mrs. Younge had not attempted to force her from her reserve, which Darcy suspected was precisely why Georgiana had begun to emerge from it of her own accord.
“She has even begun speaking of the summer already,” he continued. “She wishes to go to Ramsgate in June.”
“Ramsgate?”
“With Mrs. Younge. Sea air, bathing, a change of scene. Mrs. Younge believes it would do her good, and Georgiana has taken very warmly to the notion.”
“Then let her go.”
Darcy glanced at him.
Richard shrugged. “Why should she not? She will be nearly fifteen, Mrs. Younge will be with her, and Ramsgate is hardly the Indies. If the anticipation gives her pleasure, I see little harm in it.”
“Nor do I.” Darcy took a sip of his brandy. “I confess I am pleased that she should look forward to anything so far in advance. She has never been fond of alterations in her arrangements.”
“Then perhaps Mrs. Younge deserves some credit for persuading her that an alteration need not be an evil.”
“Perhaps she does.”
There had been a time when Darcy would have disliked the suggestion that another person understood Georgiana’s wants better than he did.
He could admit now that such jealousy would have been both foolish and selfish.
He was her brother, not a young woman with whom she might share every small confidence.
There were matters upon which Georgiana would never speak freely to him, however affectionate their relationship, and Mrs. Younge appeared to have supplied precisely the companionship that had been wanting.
Richard watched him for a moment. “You are very satisfied with yourself.”
“With Mrs. Younge.”
“No, with yourself for finding her.”
Darcy gave him a level look. “Must you spoil every generous sentiment?”
“I should hate for you to become vain.”
“There is little danger of it while you remain in England.”
“Then I perform a valuable service.”
Richard settled farther into his chair, extending one boot towards the fire.
For a few moments they spoke of other matters, a horse Richard was considering purchasing, an alteration proposed for one of the Pemberley farms, and an acquaintance whose recent marriage had provided half their circle with more amusement than the gentleman himself appeared to derive from it.
It was Richard who eventually returned them to more dangerous ground.
“Speaking of marriage,” he said, with an innocence Darcy distrusted immediately, “has this general improvement in your household extended to the other matter we discussed?”
Darcy regarded him over his glass. “What other matter?”
“You know perfectly well.”
“I am afraid you discuss so much nonsense that I cannot be expected to retain all of it.”
“The extraordinary woman whom you intend one day to marry for affection, esteem, common principles, and every other virtue you were good enough to enumerate for me.”
“I did not enumerate them.”
“No. You merely supplied them one at a time.”
Darcy looked towards the fire. “If you mean to ask whether I have met anyone I wish to marry, the answer is no.”
“Not even a possibility?”
“None.”
Richard sighed. “London and Derbyshire disappoint you again.”
“Frequently.”
“You spent some weeks in Town before you left last year, and have hidden yourself in Derbyshire for nearly all the time since. Surely, before your retreat to Pemberley, some lady managed to survive an evening in your company without being found wanting.”
Darcy shook his head at his cousin. “None whatsoever. I did dance with Miss Thornbury at the Ashworths’ the week before I left for Derbyshire.”
“Ah. Progress.”
“Scarcely a quarter of an hour had passed before she had contrived to mention Pemberley five times.”
Richard laughed. “Perhaps she admires Derbyshire.”
“She has never been there.”
“That does weaken my defence of her.”
“She asked whether the picture gallery was as extensive as she had heard, whether my mother’s jewels remained in the family, and whether I generally passed the whole summer at Pemberley.”
Richard’s amusement increased. “Efficient.”
“I am glad you find it entertaining.”
“I find your indignation entertaining. Miss Thornbury’s conduct sounds rather less so.”
Darcy looked down at his glass. He was accustomed to being regarded as a desirable match.
It would have been absurd to pretend otherwise.
His fortune was considerable, his estate ancient and prosperous, and his connections such as society valued.
He did not object to a woman knowing these things.
He objected to the uncomfortable suspicion that, with too many of them, there was very little they cared to know beyond them.
“I do not expect a woman to be ignorant of my circumstances,” he said. “I should merely prefer that they not constitute the whole of my recommendation.”
“That is rather different from expecting her never to think of them.”
“I expect no such thing.”
“Good, because you would be disappointed. Pemberley is not a minor inconvenience which may be politely overlooked. Neither is ten thousand a year.”
Darcy’s expression hardened slightly. “I am aware of my income.”
“I thought you might be.”
“What exactly is your point?”
“That a sensible woman may know perfectly well what you possess and still value you for yourself. The two are not mutually exclusive.”
Darcy was silent.
Richard had the irritating habit of introducing reason into an argument just when Darcy would have preferred to dismiss it.
“I would rather remain unmarried,” Darcy said at last, “than spend my life wondering whether my wife would ever have looked twice at me had I possessed five hundred a year and no estate.”
Richard contemplated this. “At five hundred a year you would be a very different man.”
“My character would not necessarily be different.”
“No, but your life would be. Your education, your habits, the society you keep, the responsibilities you bear. Pemberley has had some hand in making you what you are, Darcy, whether you choose to admit it or not.”
Darcy frowned, though he could not entirely dispute the observation.
Richard smiled. “Do not look so injured. I am not suggesting you marry the first woman who asks to inspect the family jewels. I merely say you may make the business impossible if you require a woman to separate you entirely from everything belonging to you.”
“I require sincerity.”
“That is more reasonable.”
“And affection.”
“Eventually, I hope.”
Darcy gave him a look.
Richard laughed and raised his glass.
Darcy allowed the subject to lapse. He had no wish to defend a principle he considered perfectly obvious.
He wanted a marriage in which affection was not merely an agreeable consequence but a reason for entering into it.
He had seen such a marriage in his own parents, and no argument concerning settlements, connections, or convenience had yet persuaded him that he ought willingly to accept less.
“There is one matter upon which I have at least made progress,” he said after a moment.
Richard’s eyes narrowed with interest. “You have?”
“I saw Lady Catherine just before Christmas.”
“That does not generally qualify as progress.”
“I told her I have no intention of marrying Anne.”
Richard lowered his glass, his eyes widening in shock. “Plainly?”
“As plainly as I am speaking to you now.”
“And you survived?”
“Barely.”
Richard laughed. “I wish I had been there.”
“I was exceedingly grateful you were not.”
“How did she receive it?”
“Precisely as you would expect.” Darcy finished what remained of his brandy and set the glass upon the table.
“She informed me that the matter had been understood since our infancy, that my mother had desired the match, that the union of Pemberley and Rosings was the natural expectation of both families, and that I was allowing obstinacy to overcome duty.”
“And what did you say?”
“That whatever she and my mother may once have wished, I had never entered into any engagement with Anne and would not do so merely to satisfy an expectation formed without consulting either of us.”
Richard regarded him with renewed interest. “I begin to regret my absence more than ever.”
“She then accused me of disregarding my mother’s dearest wish.”
The humour left Richard’s face. He knew, as few people did, how little patience Darcy possessed for anyone employing his mother’s memory against him.
“And?”
“I told her that my mother’s dearest wish, so far as I had ever understood it, was the happiness of her children.”
Richard lifted his glass towards him. “Well done.”
“I did not say it to earn your approval.”
“You have it nevertheless.”
Darcy shook his head, but some lingering satisfaction remained. The conversation at Rosings had been deeply unpleasant, yet he was glad it had occurred. Lady Catherine might continue to believe him misguided, ungrateful, or obstinate, but she could no longer honestly claim to misunderstand him.
“And Anne?” Richard asked.
“What of her?”
“Did you speak to her?”
“There was nothing to say. Anne has never behaved as though she considered us engaged, whatever her mother chooses to imagine.”
“True.”
“I will not embarrass her by discussing a proposal I have never made.”
Richard nodded. “Probably wise.”
The waiter returned to replenish their glasses, and for a little while neither spoke. Beyond their corner, the subdued murmur of conversation continued, now and then accompanied by the scrape of a chair or a burst of laughter from another table. Darcy watched the fire settle lower in the grate.
“You know,” Richard said presently, “for a man so determined to marry for love, you have chosen an uncommonly difficult way of going about it.”
“I was unaware there was an easier one.”
“You might begin by not assuming every unmarried woman who knows your income is conspiring to obtain it.”
“I do not.”
“Only most of them.”
Darcy almost smiled. “I shall endeavour to become less suspicious for your comfort.”
“Do. I worry about you.”
“I am touched.”
Richard’s grin faded into something more thoughtful. “She may surprise you, whoever she is.”
“Who?”
“The woman you eventually marry.”
“You speak with remarkable confidence in her existence.”
“Someone must. You appear determined to despair of her before you have met.”
“I do not despair of anything.”
“Of course not.”
Darcy ignored the familiar provocation. Yet the thought remained after Richard had turned his attention to his brandy.
Somewhere, perhaps, there existed a woman capable of knowing what he possessed without valuing it above everything else, a woman whose regard could neither be purchased by Pemberley nor commanded by his name. Whether London contained such a woman, he had begun seriously to doubt.
But he would not lower the standard merely because it proved difficult to satisfy.
“I would rather have nothing at all,” he said, more quietly, “than marry a woman who wanted the name and not the man who carries it. Not for duty, not for convenience, and certainly not for Pemberley.”
Richard regarded him across the table. This time there was no teasing in his expression.
“I know.”
Darcy inclined his head, and nothing further needed to be said.
Richard signalled for another measure of brandy, and their conversation moved on to less consequential subjects.