CHAPTER 2 WAGER OF AFFECTATIONS
Boredom overtook Elizabeth on this fine spring morning at Longbourn. Somewhere beyond the morning room, her mother’s voice climbed toward its familiar crescendo.
“Five daughters, Mr. Bennet, and not one of them in London. The Fevershams are hosting their niece, while Lady Lucas has Charlotte and Maria attending every ball of consequence—and here we languish in Hertfordshire like women of no importance whatsoever.”
The library door remained firmly closed. Her father had perfected the art of selective deafness over twenty-five years of marriage, and Elizabeth could not entirely blame him.
Elizabeth returned to her book, though the words blurred before her eyes.
Her mother would exhaust herself eventually.
She always did. And her father would emerge from behind that closed door only when the noise had reached such a pitch that even his obstinate disregard could no longer pretend ignorance.
“The connections we might have cultivated. The gentlemen we might have secured. Instead, we waste the season on nothing at all.”
Elizabeth’s finger traced the line she had read for the fourth time.
Her mother, she had to admit, was not entirely wrong.
Here they sat, five unmarried daughters watching the London Season unfold from the wilds of Hertfordshire, with no assemblies until autumn and the militia officers decamped to Brighton.
Even tedium required some variety to sustain it.
A perfectly ordinary morning at Longbourn, indistinguishable from a hundred others that had preceded it.
Until Kitty gasped.
“Someone’s riding up the drive. And in such a hurry!”
Elizabeth smiled without looking up. “If it’s Mr. Collins returning to inflict another proposal upon us, I’m hiding in the library.”
“It’s not Mr. Collins.” Kitty’s voice pitched higher. “It’s a gentleman on horseback. A very fine horse. And he’s riding like—oh! He’s going far too fast!”
The proclamation sent all five sisters rushing to the window. Their mother followed, clutching her lace cap as though the mysterious rider might steal it from her head.
“Oh. Who would arrive at such a speed? It’s most alarming. Hill! Hill, where are you?” Mrs. Bennet fluttered her handkerchief, summoning the butler who had already heard the commotion. “There’s a rider—perhaps news of your uncle Gardiner taken ill, or—”
“It’s Mr. Darcy,” said Jane quietly.
Elizabeth’s eyebrows rose. The gentleman from the Meryton assembly? The one whose opinion of her charms had proved so memorably underwhelming? What business could possibly bring him to Longbourn, and in such a state?
“Are you certain?” Elizabeth asked, leaning closer to the glass.
“Quite certain.” Jane’s serene expression flickered with concern. “We met him several times at Sir William’s last autumn.”
Elizabeth studied the approaching rider. The horse, a magnificent black stallion, was lathered from exertion, its sides heaving. Darcy sat rigid in the saddle, his dark coat billowing behind him. Even furious and travel-worn, he cut an imposing figure. “What on earth is he doing here?”
“Perhaps he’s come to apologize for being so disagreeable at the assembly,” Lydia suggested with a giggle. “You remember, Lizzy. His comment: tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me.”
Oh, she remembered. The words had lodged themselves in her memory with the tenacity of a splinter, producing a small, sharp irritation whenever she thought of him. Which was not often, she assured herself. Hardly ever. Only when provoked by younger sisters who found the whole affair hilarious.
“He looks angry,” Kitty observed, unusually perceptive. “Very angry.”
She was right. Even through the water-smeared glass, Elizabeth could see the hard set of his jaw and the way his gloved hands gripped the reins. This was not a social call. This was a charge of the light brigade directly to their front door.
The knocker rattled with enough force to make Lydia squeak.
“Good Lord!” Mrs. Bennet’s shrill voice echoed from the hall. “Who on earth—Hill! Answer that immediately. Tell whoever it is that we’re not receiving.”
But Hill had already opened the door. Elizabeth heard the murmur of voices—Hill’s deferential tones, then a deeper voice, clipped and commanding, barely controlled.
“I require an immediate audience with Mr. Bennet. It is urgent.”
“Gracious!” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed. “Such violence. Girls, upstairs immediately. I will not have you exposed to an agitated gentleman, whatever his consequence.”
“Mr. Darcy, ma’am,” Hill announced from the doorway. “For Mr. Bennet. He says it’s a matter of some urgency.”
“Mr. Darcy.” Mrs. Bennet’s hand flew to her throat.
“But we’re not prepared, that is, we weren’t expecting.
Hill, show him to the study immediately.
No, wait, the drawing room. No—” She whirled on her daughters.
“Upstairs. All of you. A gentleman in such a state is not fit company for young ladies.”
“Mama,” Jane protested gently, “surely if he’s calling on Papa—”
“Upstairs!” Mrs. Bennet’s voice achieved a pitch that suggested imminent hysteria. “And for heaven’s sake, someone fetch your father from his library. Tell him he has a visitor. A very agitated visitor.”
As her sisters reluctantly began ascending the stairs, Elizabeth rushed toward her father’s study. Someone had to alert him, and if she happened to catch a glimpse of what had brought Mr. Darcy to their door in such a state, well, that was merely incidental.
Through the partially open door, she saw him. He paced like something caged, his dark hair windswept and falling across his forehead in a manner that would have sent his valet into hysterics.
Then his eyes met hers.
The impact of that direct gaze stole her breath. She had expected to see anger, yes—but not the raw anguish beneath it. For one unguarded moment, he looked… lost. Desperate.
Elizabeth’s breath caught, and her pulse kicked against her throat in a way that annoyed her intensely.
Then her father stepped out of the study, and the connection broke. Darcy followed Hill, and Elizabeth stood frozen in the corridor.
“Elizabeth Bennet!” her mother’s voice shrilled from the stairs.
Elizabeth darted toward the stairs, but when her mother and sisters vanished around the landing, she slipped down the servants’ corridor, heart pounding at her audacity.
The linen closet shared a wall with her father’s study, and the aged oak paneling was thin enough that voices carried clearly.
She had discovered this architectural quirk as a child hiding from punishment, and it had proved educational on many occasions since.
Being the smallest of her sisters, she was able to squeeze herself into the narrow space and wedge herself between the shelves. The small space smelled of lavender and starch, and dust tickled her nose. She suppressed a sneeze, pressing her ear against the wall as the study door clicked shut.
Proper young ladies did not eavesdrop on private conversations. Proper young ladies did not deliberately disobey their mothers’ explicit instructions. Fortunately, Elizabeth had never aspired to be a proper young lady—merely a passably convincing imitation of one when circumstances demanded.
Through the wall, she heard her father’s voice, dry and amused as always.
“Mr. Darcy. What an unexpected pleasure. Do sit down.”
“I will not sit.” Darcy’s voice was tight, controlled in a way that suggested the opposite of calm. Each word emerged clipped and precise, as if he was physically forcing them past clenched teeth. “This is not a social call.”
“I gathered as much from your rather dramatic arrival. My wife is currently having vapors upstairs. I believe you frightened my daughters quite thoroughly. Well done.”
Elizabeth could picture her father perfectly—leaning back in his favorite chair, fingers steepled, that sardonic expression he wore when observing human folly he found particularly entertaining.
She had seen that look directed at her mother’s theatrics, at Mr. Collins’s obsequious posturing, at every ridiculous visitor who had ever darkened their door.
“I am not here to discuss your wife’s sensibilities,” Darcy bit out. “I am here about the thirty thousand pounds you relieved my father of at the card tables.”
Silence. Even through the wall, Elizabeth felt the weight of it. Thirty thousand pounds. The sum was staggering. Had her father won that much from Old Mr. Darcy? And he’d never told any of them?
“Ah.” A pause, then the creak of Papa’s favorite chair. “You’ve been reviewing your father’s finances, I see.”
“You took advantage of a grieving widower.” Darcy’s accusation emerged sharp enough to draw blood. “You befriended him, guided him through London’s gambling hells, calculated odds, and systematically stripped him of his daughter’s entire dowry.”
Elizabeth pressed a hand over her mouth. All those years of Papa declaring London Seasons a waste of funds and virtue. All those years of watching her friends marry while she and her sisters waited in Hertfordshire. All along, her father had possessed a fortune.
“My dear Mr. Darcy,” her father replied, his tone gently chiding, “if righteous fury alone could restore dowries, every gaming hell in London would be bankrupt.”
“Don’t. Don’t you dare make light of this.”
“I’m merely noting that your dramatic entrance, while impressive, does little to alter the facts. Your father wagered, and lost, a considerable sum eight years ago. The transaction was legal and witnessed.”
“He was in no state to make such decisions. You knew he was grieving my mother’s death. You plied him with drink and false hope and then systematically stripped him of his daughter’s entire future.”
Her father sighed, and Elizabeth could picture him removing his spectacles, polishing them methodically as he often did when pretending patience.