Chapter 2
Darcy House, London
The letter arrived after breakfast.
Darcy had been examining the estate accounts forwarded from Pemberley in the morning room, his sister seated across from him with her embroidery.
The footman brought the post on a silver tray.
Three letters: one from his steward at Pemberley, another from his aunt Lady Matlock, and a third in Bingley's hasty scrawl.
Darcy broke the seal on Bingley's letter first, expecting some cheerful discourse on hunting prospects or an invitation to Scarborough.
The words struck with unexpected force.
I write with grave news. A letter reached me from Mr Hurst. As you know, he and my sister have made use of what remains of my lease on Netherfield to get away from town every now and then.
During their last visit, they were made aware of rather dreadful tidings.
Mr Bennet of Longbourn passed suddenly on the twenty-seventh instant.
An apoplexy, the physician said. The family is devastated.
Miss Elizabeth bears the weight of managing everything, as you might expect.
The situation is complicated by the entail.
Longbourn passes not to Mr Collins as was believed, but to some distant Scottish cousin none of them have ever met.
They face displacement within weeks. I fear for the family, especially Miss Bennet, of course.
My thoughts wander to her more often than I care to admit.
Darcy set the letter down carefully, his fingers resting on the edge of the paper. The room seemed suddenly too warm despite the chill.
“Is something amiss, brother?” Georgiana asked, glancing up from her work.
“Bingley writes that an acquaintance has died. Mr Bennet of Longbourn in Hertfordshire.”
Georgiana's needle paused. “How very sad. Were you well acquainted with the gentleman?”
“Not especially.” Darcy rose, moving to the window without conscious thought. “He had five daughters. The family will face some difficulties, I imagine.”
He did not elaborate. How to explain the complexity of his feelings to his innocent sister? The guilt that churned in his chest at the mere mention of the Bennet name?
It had been five months since that disastrous morning in the Hunsford parsonage lane when he had laid his heart bare before Elizabeth Bennet and received only righteous anger in return. Her words had seared themselves into his memory with a clarity that time had done nothing to diminish.
Had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.
The accusation had been just. He knew that now, though the recognition had come slowly.
He had proposed with an arrogance that still made him wince in recollection.
He had enumerated all the obstacles to their union: her inferior connexions, her family's want of propriety, the degradation such a match would bring him.
And he had expected her gratitude for his condescension.
What manner of man behaved thus?
You are the last man in the world I could ever be prevailed upon to marry.
He had left Kent immediately, his pride in tatters.
At Pemberley, he had thrown himself into work with desperate energy.
The new watering system for the lower fields had been completed ahead of schedule.
Every tenant cottage had been inspected, and he had ordered repairs where needed.
He had increased his donations to the village school, visited the sick, and attended to estate business with a thoroughness that had his steward commenting upon his diligence.
As if industry might somehow prove he was not the man she had named him.
After a while, he had taken Georgiana away to London. A change of scenery and the excitement of town ought to improve his mood, thus had been his reasoning.
Yet every evening, when the work was done and he sat alone in his study, her face rose before him. The flash of her eyes as she had refused him. The tremble in her voice as she had catalogued his failures. The set of her shoulders as she had walked away.
He had been so certain of his reception. So confident that his consequence and fortune would overcome any objections she might harbour.
And now her father was dead.
Darcy's hands gripped the window frame. Elizabeth Bennet at Longbourn, managing the chaos of grief and practicalities.
Comforting her mother, who must be beside herself.
Dealing with solicitors and creditors and the hundred grim details that followed a death.
And all the whilst knowing that in mere weeks, everything familiar would be torn away.
She would have nowhere to go. The Bennets had little beyond the estate itself. Mrs Bennet's jointure would not support five women in anything approaching comfort. They would be scattered amongst whatever connexions would receive them, reduced to seeking charity from relations.
The thought of Elizabeth Bennet in reduced circumstances, her pride forced to accept dependence, and her liveliness dimmed by want, was insupportable.
Yet what claim had he to concern himself with her welfare? She had made her opinion of him brutally clear.
“Will you attend the funeral?” Georgiana asked quietly.
Darcy had not realised he had been standing at the window for so long, the letter still clutched in his hand.
“I think not,” he said at last. “The family will have sufficient to manage without unnecessary guests.”
Even as he spoke, doubt gnawed at him. Should he not go? Offer whatever assistance he could provide? But his presence would only distress Elizabeth. Whatever help she required, she would not wish to receive it from him.
Georgiana set down her embroidery, her young face troubled. “You seem quite affected by the news, brother. It is very sad, of course, but you did not know the family well.”
“Bingley was attached to the eldest daughter. Mr Bennet and I spoke at length last autumn when he visited Netherfield. Bingley and Miss Jane Bennet did not pursue their courtship, and Bingley removed to Scarborough.”
“How dreadful for them all,” Georgiana murmured.
“Indeed.” Darcy returned to his seat, attempting to focus once more on the estate accounts before him. The figures blurred before his eyes.
Georgiana returned to her needlework, but her concerned glances suggested she sensed more than he had revealed.
Darcy made a pretence of attending to correspondence for the remainder of the morning. His mind returned again and again to Elizabeth. He could imagine her in her black mourning dress, facing the Scottish heir who would displace her from the only home she had ever known.
What might have been had his proposal been accepted? She would have been Mistress of Pemberley. Secure. Protected. Her family safe, their futures assured by his consequence and wealth.
But at what cost? A loveless marriage for her, bound to a man she despised. Her spirit crushed beneath obligation's weight.
Better by far that she had refused him, harsh though the rejection had been. Still, that knowledge did nothing to alleviate the persistent ache in his chest.
At luncheon, he found he had no appetite. Georgiana made several attempts at conversation, which he answered with mechanical courtesy whilst his thoughts churned elsewhere. Finally, she set down her fork and regarded him with open concern.
“You are not yourself, William.”
“Forgive me. I am poor company today.”
“Is there nothing to be done for the Bennets? You have always taught me that we have obligations to those in distress. Should you call on them?”
Darcy looked at his sister, so earnest in her compassion. How to explain that his obligations had been forfeited by his own behaviour? That the very person most in need of assistance would find his help abhorrent?
“My presence would not be welcome,” he said at last.
Georgiana appeared perplexed by this response.
After luncheon, Darcy retreated to his study, ostensibly to attend to business. Instead, he sat at his desk and read Bingley's letter again.
Miss Elizabeth bears the weight of managing everything.
Of course she did. Elizabeth would never collapse into hysterics as her mother surely had. She would be the one holding the household together, writing letters, receiving condolences, maintaining order whilst her own heart broke.
The urge to be there, to offer assistance, to somehow ease her burden, rose in him like a physical ache. Yet his presence would only add to her difficulties.
He rose and moved to the window once more, staring out at the busy streets of London.
He had spent five months attempting to prove to himself that he was not the man she had described. He had acknowledged his pride, his disdain for those outside his immediate circle, and his unjustified interference in Bingley's courtship.
But had he truly changed? Or had he merely performed the actions of a better man whilst remaining, at heart, as proud and selfish as ever?
The question tormented him through the afternoon.
At dinner, Georgiana made another attempt to draw him into conversation.
“I have been thinking,” she ventured, “about what you said regarding Mr Bennet's daughters. Five ladies without a father's protection. It must be very frightening for them.”
Darcy set down his fork. “It is unfortunate.”
“More than unfortunate, surely. If they are to be displaced from their home as well...” She trailed off, her eyes studying his face. “I wondered if perhaps you knew them better than you indicated. The family, I mean.”
“I was acquainted with them last autumn,” he replied. “Miss Jane Bennet is an amiable woman. Bingley was quite taken with her.”
“And the others?”
Darcy hesitated. How to describe Elizabeth in neutral terms when merely thinking of her made his chest tighten? “The second daughter is intelligent. Witty. She has a lively mind and is not afraid to express her opinions.”
Georgiana's expression suggested she heard what he had not said. “She sounds remarkable.”
“She is.”