Chapter 14
A Rival for Elizabeth
Darcy no longer searched for an excuse to call at Longbourn.
Seeing Elizabeth was enough. Bingley required no persuasion.
Any proposal that placed him within the same walls as Miss Bennet received immediate approval, and Darcy had long since ceased pretending his friend’s eagerness was anything but transparent.
If Bingley rose from breakfast with a distracted expression and three times asked whether the weather was suitable for riding, one had only to mention Longbourn and the matter was worked out before the second cup of coffee had cooled.
That morning, fortune favored them further.
Miss Bingley, Mrs. Hurst, and Mr. Hurst had gone into Meryton, though Darcy suspected Miss Bingley’s willingness to do so owed less to any affection for the village than to a desire to show herself indifferent to his movements.
Her attentions had cooled noticeably during the past several days.
Not vanished altogether, but moderated. She no longer hovered near his chair with the same persistence.
She no longer turned every subject toward Pemberley, Georgiana, or the supposed elegance of London society.
Whether she had grown weary of fruitless efforts, or whether resentment had overtaken expectation, Darcy could not say.
He hoped, with cautious gratitude, that she had begun to give him up.
The ride to Longbourn was pleasant despite the bite of late November air.
Bingley spoke nearly the whole way, chiefly of Miss Bennet’s improving health and the possibility of some small gathering at Netherfield once she was fully restored.
Darcy replied where necessary, though his own thoughts moved ahead of them.
Toward Elizabeth.
Always, increasingly, toward Elizabeth.
Longbourn received them with its usual mixture of propriety and warmth.
Mrs. Bennet welcomed them as though their arrival pleased her, not simply because manners demanded it, and Mr. Bennet greeted them from his chair near the fire with a dry remark about gentlemen who claimed to call upon households when everyone knew they meant to call upon particular daughters.
Bingley blushed.
Darcy did not, though it required more effort than he liked.
Miss Bennet sat near the window, pale still but considerably stronger, her workbasket beside her.
Elizabeth occupied the chair nearest the fire, a book open in her lap and one finger holding her place.
Mary was at a small table sorting music.
Mr. Wilson stood beside the mantel, and his presence altered Darcy’s satisfaction in a trice.
The man had changed.
Darcy noticed it before he had been in the room five minutes.
Wilson was no longer merely eager. His attention had acquired purpose.
The broad enthusiasm, the relentless storytelling, the awkward familiarity—those things remained in part, but beneath them lay a steadier intention.
He no longer rushed every conversation. He watched Elizabeth before speaking, waited for her responses, and, when he addressed her, did so with more care than before.
That was worse. Far worse. A foolish rival might have been dismissed. A vulgar one would have soon exhausted even Elizabeth’s patience. But a man who learned, adjusted, and improved his manner because he wished to please her was not so easily set aside.
Darcy took a seat.
Bingley drifted, as expected, toward Miss Bennet.
Wilson continued speaking to Elizabeth.
“I do not deny there is ugliness in manufacturing,” he was saying, his tone more subdued than Darcy had heard from him. “Any man who claims otherwise is either ignorant or lying. Mills are loud, hot, dangerous places when poorly managed, and too many owners concern themselves only with output.”
Elizabeth regarded him more attentively than Darcy preferred. “And you do not?”
“I concern myself with output,” Wilson admitted. “No business survives on good intentions. But if a man expects labor from those under him, he owes them more than wages counted out grudgingly on Saturday.”
Mary lifted her head from her music.
Mrs. Bennet, seated near the tea table, listened with visible approval.
Wilson continued, “My father taught me little worth keeping, but I learned early that hungry workers become desperate workers. Desperate workers break frames, threaten overseers, and burn what they cannot control. Some call it wickedness. Often it is fear.”
Elizabeth’s expression softened.
Darcy felt the shift like a physical blow.
“That is a more thoughtful view than many would take,” she said.
Wilson’s face warmed with gratitude for the praise. “I came to it through necessity, instead of by virtue. The first year I managed the mill, I lost more money to accidents, resentment, and poor oversight than I care to confess. Reform was cheaper than stubbornness.”
Elizabeth smiled. “Practical benevolence, then.”
“Precisely.” Wilson leaned slightly forward, though not too far. That, too, showed adjustment. “One may do right and still keep accounts in order.”
Darcy turned away.
He disliked the conversation. Not because Wilson spoke poorly. Because he spoke well.
The man had found common ground with Elizabeth in the very place Darcy had once feared might divide them from society.
Her trade roots, which Caroline Bingley would use as a weapon, Wilson understood as shared experience.
He could speak of business without embarrassment, of profit without disguise, of industry without contempt.
Elizabeth, whose loyalty to her father remained tender and fierce beneath composure, would not despise a man who honored honest work.
Darcy knew that.
The knowledge came unpleasantly.
Mr. Bennet turned a page of his book. “Wilson, you astonish me. Had you spoken so reasonably upon arrival, I should have had less entertainment but more respect.”
Wilson laughed, though less loudly than usual. “I shall attempt to balance both in future.”
Elizabeth’s eyes danced with amusement.
Darcy’s hands tightened slightly over his gloves.
There it was again.
A smile earned honestly.
Bingley, oblivious to every undercurrent in the room except those involving Jane, asked Miss Bennet whether she had resumed walking out of doors.
Jane answered that she had only ventured as far as the garden.
Bingley directly offered Netherfield’s shrubbery walks when she felt well enough, then appeared to realize too late that he had nearly invited the entire Bennet family to his grounds without consulting anyone.
Mrs. Bennet accepted the implied invitation with perfect grace.
“That would be delightful when Jane is stronger.”
Bingley appeared relieved. “Yes. Exactly. When she is stronger.”
Elizabeth turned her face aside to hide a smile.
Darcy saw it.
Wilson saw it too.
That was the first moment Darcy realized Wilson was watching him in return.
The knowledge changed everything.
The remainder of the call was outwardly pleasant.
Mary showed Darcy a passage from the book he had returned the previous week and asked whether he agreed with the author’s conclusions regarding Henry V.
Darcy answered carefully, grateful for the distraction, though Elizabeth’s voice continued to draw him from every subject.
Wilson had learned moderation. Worse, he had learned to appeal to her respect instead of only trying her patience.
By the time Darcy and Bingley rose to depart, Darcy felt less decided than when he arrived.
Mrs. Bennet walked them to the hall herself. “You must convey our regards to your sisters, Mr. Bingley.”
“Of course.”
“And we shall expect you all whenever Jane is well enough for Netherfield’s walks.”
Bingley smiled at Jane with such unconcealed delight that Darcy almost envied the simplicity of his friend’s attachment.
Outside, the horses waited.
Bingley mounted first, still looking back toward the house.
Darcy had just taken the reins when a movement near the side path caught his attention.
Two small figures stood half-concealed behind a hedge, beckoning with urgency.
Thomas and Toby.
Of course.
Darcy turned to Bingley. “Go on. I have forgotten something.”
Bingley glanced toward the house. “Shall I wait?”
“No. I shall follow shortly.”
Bingley, trusting and distracted, nodded and rode ahead.
Darcy waited until the groom had turned aside before walking toward the hedge.
The twins emerged together.
“You saw,” Toby said.
Darcy glanced between them. “Saw what?”
Thomas gave him a look of deep disappointment. “Mr. Wilson.”
“He is changing tactics,” Toby added grimly.
Darcy nearly smiled despite himself. “Is he?”
“Yes,” Thomas said. “Before, he only talked. Now he listens sometimes.”
“That is worse,” Toby said.
“Much worse.”
Darcy folded his arms. “And you have appointed yourselves judges of his courtship?”
“Someone must,” Thomas replied.
Toby leaned closer. “Lizzy is too polite.”
“That,” Darcy said, “is true.”
“And you are too slow.”
Darcy’s brows lifted. “I beg your pardon?”
Thomas sighed with the full weight of eight years’ experience. “We are doing what we can.”
“Are you?”
The boys exchanged looks.
Darcy’s gaze narrowed. “The misplaced boots. The salted sugar. The unusual seating arrangements.”
Toby turned to Thomas.
Thomas turned to Toby.
Neither spoke.
Darcy nodded slowly. “I see.”
“We had reasons,” Toby said at last.
“I am certain you always do.”
Thomas frowned. “You sound like Mama.”
“That is because your mother is a sensible woman.”
“She caught the sugar swap without delay,” Toby muttered.
“As would any sensible woman.”
Thomas returned to the chief matter with admirable focus. “Mr. Darcy, you must do better.”
Darcy stared. “Do better?”
“Yes.”
“In what respect?” He suspected he knew the answer.
The twins regarded him as though he had asked whether rain was wet.
“With Lizzy,” Toby said.
“Obviously,” Thomas added.
Darcy slowly inhaled. “You are attempting to help me.”
“Yes.”
“By tormenting Mr. Wilson.”
“If it helps you,” Toby insisted.
Thomas nodded. “Both.”
“And what, precisely, leads you to believe I require help?”
Toby’s expression became almost pitying. “Because you have not married her yet.”
Darcy could do nothing but look at them. Then, despite jealousy, unease, and every serious consideration pressing upon him, he laughed.
The twins did not appear amused.
“This is important,” Thomas said.
Darcy struggled to contain his mirth. “That is perfectly evident.”
“Is it?” Toby demanded. “Because Mr. Wilson has changed tactics. He resembles a military general now.”
Darcy gradually sobered. “I had observed as much.”
The admission seemed to satisfy them.
Thomas stepped closer and lowered his voice as though imparting a matter of state. “You must limit his discussions of mills.”
“Why?”
Privately, Darcy considered Mr. Wilson’s devotion to a single subject rather advantageous.
Thomas scowled. “Because Lizzy respects useful people.”
Toby nodded emphatically. “And he is useful.”
Darcy considered the point.
For all their mischief, the boys had spoken truly. Elizabeth did value usefulness. Competence. Earnest labor. Sincerity free from pretension.
Wilson possessed those qualities, or enough of them to merit consideration.
Darcy glanced back toward the house. “Then I am grateful for the warning.”
The twins brightened.
“You are not angry?”
“I cannot approve of sabotage.”
In truth, Darcy was far from angry. The knowledge that he possessed allies did much to improve his spirits.
“That is different,” Toby said, suddenly looking anxious.
“It is,” Darcy agreed.
Thomas grinned. “Then you will improve your campaign.”
Darcy regarded him. “My campaign?”
“That is what this is,” Toby said. “Courtship resembles war, except with dancing.”
“And flowers,” Thomas added. “Papa says so.”
“And considerably less blood,” Toby amended. “In most cases.”
“One sincerely hopes so,” Darcy murmured.
The prospect of fighting a duel to defeat a rival suitor was one he preferred to avoid.
Thomas nodded with satisfaction, apparently interpreting this as complete agreement. “Excellent. Then we are allies.”
Darcy ought to have corrected them. He ought to have explained that courtship required delicacy, consent, propriety, and above all the lady’s own inclination.
Instead, he found himself unexpectedly warmed by the word.
Allies.
Absurd allies, certainly.
Dangerous allies.
Muddy, meddlesome, and profoundly unpredictable allies.
But allies nonetheless.
“I shall give your advice every consideration,” he said.
Toby appeared dissatisfied. “That differs from actually taking it.”
“It is the fullest assurance you will receive today.”
Darcy raised a brow and crossed his arms.
Thomas sighed. “Very well.”
“We must go,” Toby said. “Lydia is waiting.”
Darcy narrowed his eyes at the boys. “Miss Lydia?”
The boys froze.
Then Thomas smiled with conspicuous breadth. “For lessons.”
“Miss Lydia does not share your lessons.”
“She provides moral encouragement,” Toby said.
Darcy gave them a long look.
Both boys bolted.
He watched them race across the side lawn and vanish into the shrubbery, leaving him alone with more amusement than prudence warranted and more hope than sound judgment recommended.
When he finally mounted and turned toward Netherfield, Wilson’s presence continued to trouble him.
But the feeling had changed.
Darcy had seen enough to recognize Mr. Wilson as a genuine rival.
He had also seen enough to understand that the contest was far from hopeless.
Elizabeth smiled at him differently now.
Listened differently.
Challenged him differently.
And now, astonishingly, impossibly, he had allies inside Longbourn itself.
Darcy rode back to Netherfield with the chill wind against his face and the first true sense that if he meant to win Elizabeth Bennet’s regard, he must cease merely hoping for it.
He must act.