Chapter Four
The morning had begun with every appearance of promise.
Sunlight filtered cleanly through the tall windows of the drawing room at Mill House, falling in smooth, golden bands across the carpet and catching upon the polished surfaces of the furniture.
The air was mild, touched with the faint salt of the sea, and carried with it that peculiar freshness which seemed to invigorate both body and mind.
It was, by every measure, a day well-suited to pleasant engagements—and Darcy had intended to enjoy it as such.
He stood near the writing desk, a letter unfolded in his hand, its contents already committed to memory though he had read it but once.
He had not meant to read it at all. The seal had been unremarkable, the direction written in a hand he did not immediately recognize.
Only after breaking it open had he understood his mistake.
Hargrave.
Darcy’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly as his eyes moved once more over the lines.
Mr. Darcy,
It is with continued interest that I write regarding the matter previously set before you. You have, I observe, chosen silence in place of reply—a course which I must interpret not as indifference, but as deliberate refusal.
You are, of course, at liberty to persist in such a position. Even so, I would caution you not to mistake liberty for consequence. Opportunities neglected have a curious way of returning in less agreeable forms.
I should be most reluctant to see circumstances arise which might render our future dealings…less cordial than they might otherwise have been.
Consider well, sir, whether it is prudent to disregard an offer that will not be extended indefinitely.
I remain, with particular interest,
W. Hargrave
Darcy exhaled slowly through his nose.
“A thinly veiled threat,” he muttered.
There was no overt impropriety in the language—no statement that could be seized upon or challenged—but the implication was unmistakable. Hargrave’s patience had worn thin, and with it, whatever pretense of civility had cloaked his earlier correspondence.
Darcy folded the letter once, twice, his expression hardening.
“You mistake me entirely, sir.” He crossed to the hearth without hesitation and cast the paper into the fire.
The flames caught at once, curling the edges, darkening the ink until the words dissolved into nothing.
He watched until the last trace of it was consumed.
Hargrave had written often—far too often.
At first, the letters had been merely persistent, filled with arguments of profit and progress, of industry and advantage.
Darcy had refused him plainly. When that refusal had not been accepted, he had ceased replying altogether.
The letters had persisted, regardless, and he recalled consigning them to the fire.
And now this.
Darcy turned away from the hearth, his thoughts sharpening.
He did not fear the man. There was nothing in Hargrave’s position—either social or financial—that could threaten him directly.
Pemberley was secure. Its lands were his, its rights well established and protected by law.
No tradesman, however ambitious, could compel him to relinquish what he chose to keep.
What does he intend?
The question lingered, unwelcome but persistent.
Hargrave had grown bolder. That much was evident. Whether such boldness sprang from desperation or design, Darcy could not yet say.
There must be some means—legal, proper—by which the man might be made to cease his pestering altogether. To continue thus, pressing his claim through insinuation and repetition, was an impertinence Darcy had tolerated long enough.
He would write to his solicitor.
Yes—that would be the first step. A formal notice, perhaps. A clear declaration that no further correspondence would be entertained. If Hargrave persisted beyond that, then—
A light knock sounded at the door, interrupting his thoughts. Before he could respond, Georgiana entered. She did not so much walk into the room as glide in with barely contained energy, though there was a touch of indignation in her expression that immediately caught Darcy’s attention.
“Brother!”
Darcy turned, the tension of his earlier reflections easing at once. “Georgiana.”
She came toward him quickly, her composure struggling against visible frustration. “Mrs. Younge is insufferable.”
Darcy lifted a brow. “Indeed?” His sister had thus far given him no reason to doubt her companion’s suitability.
“She attempted to prolong my lessons—quite unnecessarily, I might add—declaring that they must be completed before I engaged in, and I quote, ‘frivolous fraternization with lowly tradesmen.’”
Georgiana’s imitation of Mrs. Younge’s tone was so precise—so severe in its affected gravity—that Darcy could not suppress the faintest hint of amusement, though it was quickly overtaken by displeasure.
“She said this to you?”
“Yes. And in such a manner as to imply that our engagement this afternoon is both improper and beneath consideration.”
Darcy’s expression cooled. “I informed Mrs. Younge of our plans,” he said. “She has no authority to interfere.”
Georgiana’s annoyance vanished at once, replaced by bright satisfaction. “I knew you would say so.”
“You are to attend,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind. “Your engagements are not subject to her approval.”
Georgiana beamed. “Then I shall go and prepare at once.”
“Do so.”
She turned, her earlier frustration entirely dispelled and moved toward the door with renewed lightness—very nearly a skip in her step.
Darcy watched her go, his expression thoughtful. The moment the door closed, he crossed to the bell and rang it. Mrs. Farr appeared promptly.
“You sent for me, sir?”
“I did. Pray inform Mrs. Younge that I wish to speak with her.”
“At once, sir.”
Mrs. Farr withdrew, and Darcy returned to the hearth, though his thoughts were no longer upon Hargrave.
Mrs. Younge. There had been, of late, a tone—subtle, but persistent—in her remarks. A certain inclination toward judgment, particularly where new acquaintances were concerned. Darcy had tolerated it thus far, attributing it to caution, perhaps even to misplaced zeal.
But this—To speak so to Georgiana. To attempt, however gently phrased, to direct her conduct contrary to his own expressed wishes—It would not do.
A knock sounded once more.
“Come.”
Mrs. Younge entered with her usual composed demeanor, her expression arranged into one of respectful attentiveness. “You wished to see me, Mr. Darcy?”
“I did.” Darcy regarded her steadily. “I am given to understand that you spoke to my sister this morning regarding her attendance at our engagement this afternoon.”
Mrs. Younge nodded her head. “I may have expressed some concern, sir. Only in the interest of Miss Darcy’s well-being.”
“In what manner?”
She hesitated—just enough to suggest reluctance, though not so much as to appear evasive.
“I thought it prudent,” she said, “to remind Miss Darcy that not all acquaintances are equally suitable. Young ladies, particularly those of her station, must be guarded against forming connections which might—however unintentionally—prove disadvantageous.”
Darcy’s gaze did not waver. “You refer to the Gardiners and Miss Bennet.”
“I refer only to the general principle,” Mrs. Younge replied smoothly. “Though it is true that familiarity with those outside one’s proper sphere can sometimes invite misunderstandings. I should be most distressed if Miss Darcy were to be—misled.”
The word lingered, delicately placed. Darcy recognized it for what it was. Manipulation. Concern, artfully presented. Doubt subtly introduced. All couched in the language of propriety. “I appreciate your concern,” he said at last, his tone even.
Mrs. Younge’s expression lightened, as though reassured. “Then you understand my intention, sir.”
“I do,” he replied. “And I dismiss it.”
A flicker—brief, but unmistakable—passed through her eyes. “Mr. Darcy—”
“You will keep your opinions to yourself,” he insisted, his voice firm now, leaving no room for misinterpretation. “It is my responsibility to determine with whom my sister shall associate. Not yours.”
Mrs. Younge lowered her gaze. “Of course, sir. I meant only—”
“You meant to advise where advice was neither requested nor required.”
She drew a breath. “I beg your pardon if I have overstepped.” The apology was properly formed, though something in its delivery lacked sincerity.
Darcy inclined his head. “See that it does not occur again.”
“Yes, sir.” She curtsied, her expression stiff and formal once more and withdrew.
Darcy remained where he was after her departure, his thoughts settling.
There was something in her manner—something beneath the surface—that he did not entirely trust. He would observe more closely.
For now, however—He turned toward the door.
The day awaited, and with it an engagement he found himself anticipating with a degree of interest he did not care to examine too closely.
Elizabeth Bennet. The name alone was enough to dispel the lingering irritation of the morning. Darcy left the drawing room and made his way upstairs, where Georgiana was already prepared, her expression bright with expectation.
“Shall we go, Brother?”
“We shall.”
He offered his arm, and she took it at once.
Together, they descended and stepped out into the clear, welcoming day, the carriage already waiting to convey them to Mrs. Peacock’s—where, if he had any reason to suppose rightly, the afternoon would prove far more agreeable than the morning had begun.
The sound of wheels upon the street drew Elizabeth once more to the window, though this time she did not pretend indifference. The Darcy carriage came into view with a subtle elegance that matched its owner, the dark horses stepping neatly as they drew to a halt before the house.
“They are punctual,” Mrs. Gardiner observed, rising with poised readiness. “Your uncle has sent his apologies once more. Business, it seems, will not be denied.”