Chapter One
The afternoon following the day he and his sister arrived to visit Bingley at his newly leased estate in Hertfordshire, Darcy settled at the writing desk in the drawing room to put thought to paper.
He and Georgiana would attend the local assembly as part of Bingley’s party in a few hours, and Darcy wanted to settle his mind on these points first.
He first, as was his unvarying habit, wrote the date at the top of the page.
Darcy’s daughter ran circles round the sofas and small tables in the room behind him, while Bingley chased the girl and made cheery promises to her of chewing her bones to the marrow if she did not run faster.
Georgiana grinned to watch them, exhibiting more cheerfulness in Bingley’s presence than Darcy recalled her showing since Mary had died. It surprised him how strongly she had been affected by the events of the weeks that made Darcy a widow, since Georgiana had disliked his wife.
Despite her clearly improved mood, Georgiana kept her book half raised in front of her face to (almost) politely avoid conversation with Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst.
Bingley’s sisters wore tight expressions, and Miss Bingley said every time Emily came near, “Sit with me and we can play with your doll. Do you not wish to take your doll to a tea party? I always loved tea parties.”
Darcy wrote:
Considerations on my intention to find a second wife:
Emily must have a mother. My habits are too austere for the easy comfort of a child.
I either indulge her too greatly or I say nothing and depend upon the nursemaid to handle the tempest. I have striven to act with less of the coldness that made Mary miserable, but my true nature will be understood in time by my child.
She must have a woman to whom she can turn for affection and care, and it should not be a hired servant.
Emily loves Georgiana dearly, but Georgiana is practically a child herself and will marry in time.
There are occasions when she requires discipline, and while she has no mother for her to turn to for comfort, I cannot bear to impose it.
With a loud scream of delight, his daughter knocked over a light side table.
Bingley took the opportunity as Emily stared at the destruction that she had wrought to grab and shake the girl and pretend to bite her.
Emily giggled and protested loudly, “No eat me! No eat me! Let me down! Let me down!”
She ran over to Darcy, hugged his legs, and shouted, “Castle! Castle!”
Darcy kissed the dear creature’s hair. “I am writing, my sweet.”
She climbed into his lap and looked at Bingley, who slowly approached. “No! No!” she shouted. “You can’t get me while I’m with Papa. Castle!”
Darcy hugged his daughter, enjoying the washed smell of her hair and the comforting weight of her. “Dearest, I thought you wanted Mr. Bingley to chase you.”
“No! No! You’re the castle.”
“Yes, of course, but can I write while you sit in safety? You might guard the drawbridge of the castle.”
“Oh, very well, if I must,” was the girl’s reply in startlingly clear English. It happened sometimes that she spoke with adult turns of phrase, and it was strange and delightful to hear.
Darcy laughed at her tone and, while holding her, dipped his quill in the ink.
His father would have pushed him or Georgiana away and demanded they be dragged screaming to the nursery if he was busy with any sort of business.
Before Mary had died, Darcy would have done the same.
But now he simply found joy in having Emily with him, even if it meant he could not settle his thoughts into order.
She needed him.
The tiny little heiress, endowed with all seventy thousand pounds of Mary’s fortune and, until he married and had another child, the part of Darcy’s own fortune that was not tied up with the entailed estate.
Despite that great sum of money, she had no one besides him in the whole world whom she could claim as her own.
Darcy wrote:
I must marry to secure an heir, which is necessary as Pemberley is entailed.
To release my carnal lusts in a healthy and morally acceptable manner—
Emily bumped his arm, making him draw a long line through what he had already written.
“Emily.”
“I want to draw, want to draw. Just like you!”
“Come now,” Bingley said, “Your papa is writing a business letter—he writes so very many. It is most diligent of him.”
“I cannot claim that. I am writing a note to settle my own thoughts on a matter of some importance, but it is not a business matter.”
“Wholly different,” Bingley replied cheerfully.
“Emily, your papa is listing all the deficiencies he has found in my new house. You must—do not look surprised, Darcy, I can guess your secrets. And do not laugh either. It will not put me off the scent. Emily, you are a terrifying monster. You must chase me now.”
Bingley donned a quite weak expression of shock and horror on his face and backed away, waving his arms and crying, “Ahhh! Ahhh! Don’t tear me apart! Ahhhh!”
Even her papa’s lap was no match for such a temptation, and she ran after Bingley, fingers formed into claws and bellowing happy roars.
Darcy turned back to the paper. If he was going to start his quest for a second wife tonight, at this pastoral assembly—as good a place as any—he wished to settle his mind upon these points now.
While he was still in mourning for his wife, and he always wore lavender, grey, and black clothes, the general opinion must be that he had already delayed longer than he ought in seeking a new mother for his tiny daughter.
As affectionate memories did not make it impossible for him to imagine himself attached to a different woman, he could give himself no further excuse.
Principles to follow in seeking a second wife:
She must not be from the best circles in society.
She should not be lauded for her beauty, wit, and charm.
She should not like too much company, or dancing, or being in town.
She must not be the sort of woman whom my mother would have approved of.
Above all, she must be nothing like Mary was.
Another squeal from Emily.
These features must be avoided, but one should not simply list what one did not wish for. What traits did he hope his future wife would possess?
She must have a real affection for Emily.
Someone sensible, calm, and not too pretty.
Religious, observant, serious about serious matters.
She should be poor, bringing little wealth to the marriage, and have no connections of note.
This was a surprise. Darcy had not known that he specifically wished for that.
This is why writing his thoughts on paper was so valuable.
Beneath that line Darcy added:
I have made one woman miserable already.
I do not wish to do the same to a second.
I am confident that my person and my estate make it so that I shall have few difficulties attracting any woman whom I might choose.
The rumours about the nature of Mary’s death will only make that a little more difficult.
But the stiffness in my character, my unbending tendencies, and that coldness that Mary remarked on in me will make it impossible for any woman who expects to find joy in my companionship to be happy.
If my wife has gained a great improvement in station and material condition through marrying me, she would have no cause to repine.
But I must ensure that she is acquainted with the deep flaws in my character before she accepts my offer.
I will not sell a fraudulent bill of goods.
“Watch me! Watch me! Papa, watch me!”
Darcy looked over at Emily. She twirled and whirled—until she missed a step, fell to the floor, and broke into sobs. Darcy jumped from his seat and picked her up, bouncing her in his arms. “There, there. There, there, Em-Em. See, there is nothing wrong.”
The girl continued to wail, and Darcy sighed quietly.
When unhappy, she was not so easy to settle as she had been merely a few months before.
Bingley shrugged when Darcy glanced at him. “I am afraid that after she had shredded me to bits twice, she lost interest in chasing.”
“My dear, dear girl,” Darcy said to Emily, “you know that I must sometimes attend to other matters.”
She suddenly stopped crying and exclaimed, “Let me down! Down! Down. Put me down!” She then ran over to his writing desk, shouting, “Drawing, drawing!”
She climbed into Darcy’s chair, carefully pulled the quill out of the ink jar, and proceeded to scratch over what Darcy had written while cheerfully letting a great deal of ink drip.
Darcy took the quill from her and said, “You are not dressed in your writing apron. No using ink in these clothes.” The admonition was too late; there was already an ink blotch on her dress.
He really should have stopped her sooner, but it was difficult to prevent her from playing her games and tricks when it was not absolutely necessary.
She had sneaked out of the nursery and crawled into his bed a few days after Mary died, sobbing and asking whether he would also fall from a balcony and die. He had let the girl sleep with him. She had needed the comfort. He had needed it as well.
The dim image of Mary falling as she lost her grip on her rope in the moonlight, the thud that her head had made. All mixed with Wickham’s startled face as his plan to run away with Mrs. Darcy ended, along with Mrs. Darcy.
“I want to draw like you!” Emily began to sob.
“I am writing.”
“I want to write like you. Write! Let me write.”
Darcy sighed. “If you are going to do this, we shall do it properly. I shall call for the apron first.”
“Hurrah!”
Carrying Emily, Darcy rang for a servant, who was sent to fetch the nursery maid and the apron that Emily was made to wear when she worked with ink.
Then he walked in circles with her. She seemed sleepy, but it was still several hours before she would usually be put to bed by the nurse.
Whilst she slept, Darcy would be at the ball, hunting for her new mother.