The facts were inescapable. He, the son of a gentleman’s steward—a man who had spent his youth learning estate management in service to others—had married the daughter of an earl. In any other circumstances, society would brand him exactly what Elizabeth had called him, a fortune hunter, a man who had elevated himself through calculated matrimony. If their positions had been reversed—if she had been a womanof modest birth wedding a titled gentleman—would he not have harboured the same suspicions of her motives?
The sobbing continued, but Darcy made no move. What comfort could he offer when she had made her feelings so devastatingly clear? Instead, he turned away from the sound of her distress and retreated to the study that was now his domain.
Lord Hartford had left behind a well-appointed room lined with books that spoke of scholarly interests. Leather-bound volumes on agriculture, philosophy, and poetry filled the shelves, while a massive mahogany desk dominated the space before tall windows that would offer views of the gardens in daylight. Darcy settled himself in the leather chair and drew forth writing materials from the desk drawer.
If he could not ease Elizabeth’s present distress—if indeed she would reject any overture from him—perhaps he could begin to arrange their future with some consideration for both their comfort and his own wounded dignity.
But first, he had to do something else. He had to inform those nearest and dearest to him of his change in circumstance.
He had not written to Mr Wickham or Georgiana before the wedding, for he could not imagine his sister amidst the crowd, subjected to those who would whisper about him, repeating the things Elizabeth had said to his face. He’d wanted to spare her, spare himself.
How would he explain all this to her? He still did not know. It would be even harder to write to Mr Wickham. He could not tell either the full truth. And to protect Mr Wickham, he had to ensure Georgiana did not suspect that their childhood companion, George, was involved at all.
Lies upon lies.
Georgiana,he began, then paused, his pen hovering over the parchment.
I write to inform you of a most significant change in my circumstances. I have been married, my bride being Lady Elizabeth Bennet of Hertfordshire. She is the daughter of my employer. Or rather, my former employer, Lord Hartford.
The lady is now mistress of Longbourn, the estate which Lord Hartford has settled upon us as part of our marriage arrangements.
I know this news will come as a considerable surprise, and I deeply regret that I could not inform you beforehand. The circumstances required immediate action and were rather unfortunate. She found herself in an unfortunate position that might have caused her reputation to be ruined. An urgent need for a husband arose and well, your brother was chosen.
He paused, this was as much as he could write without telling Banbury tales. In addition, he was aware he had to tell her about Elizabeth. But which Elizabeth? The one he had come to know in the apple orchard? Or the one now crying upstairs? He sighed. Aware which one it had to be.
Elizabeth is a woman of considerable intelligence and remarkable spirit—qualities I believe you will appreciate greatly upon making her acquaintance. I should very much like to invite you to visit us here at Longbourn, that you might become acquainted with your new sister. The house is comfortable and well-appointed, and I believe you would find the Hertfordshire countryside quite pleasant and not too different from Matlock.
I will explain more when I see you. I shall write to Mr Wickham post haste and inform him also, as well as Lord Matlock but please, do wait until they too have received their letters to talk to them about this matter.
Please respond at your earliest convenience, as I am most eager to know your thoughts on this unexpected development in our family circumstances.
Your devoted brother,Fitzwilliam
He set down the quilt and read through the letter twice, noting how little of the actual truth it contained. How could he possibly explain to his gentle sister that he had married a woman who despised him? That he had bound himself to a union built upon mutual resentment and misunderstanding? And all of it because of George Wickham? Georgiana was fond of George, of course she was. George had always adored Georgiana and he saw her as more of a true sister than he saw Darcy as a brother. Georgiana had been a toddler when they moved into the steward’s house at Pemberley. She had been no competition.
In fact, he had doted on her the same way Darcy doted on Georgiana. However, in time, she had come to understand that her beloved Georgie had a dark side, one that required caution. Still, he did not wish to hurt her by telling her the whole truth.
As he folded the letter along precise lines, a troubling thought occurred to him. Perhaps he should have consulted Elizabeth before extending such an invitation. After all, Longbourn was now her home as much as his, and she might not welcome a stranger—particularly one connected to him—into her domain. Common courtesy, if nothing else, dictated that he should seek her permission.
But then Elizabeth’s cutting words from the wedding breakfast echoed once more in his memory, and his momentary consideration of her feelings hardened into something approaching defiance. She had made perfectly clear her opinion of his character and motivations. Perhaps it was time he began to act with the very self-interest she had already attributed to him.
He sealed the letter with rather more force than necessary, pressing the wax seal with a sharp downward motion that left a clear impression of his family’s crest.
Chapter Seventeen
Elizabeth
The morning sun streamed through the tall windows of Longbourn’s breakfast room. Elizabeth sat at the head of the mahogany table—her table now, she reminded herself with wonder and dismay—while servants she did not recognise moved about with silent efficiency.
She had taken tea in this very room with Charles Bingley and his sisters, had admired the view of the rose garden through these same windows. Never had she imagined herself as mistress here, never dreamed that she would one day sit at this table as anything other than a guest.
The irony was not lost on her. She had always loved this house—its comfortable proportions, its well-appointed rooms, the way the morning light fell across the entrance hall. As a child, she had preferred it to Netherfield’s grander but less intimate spaces. Yet she had never, even in her most fanciful daydreams, envisioned it as her permanent home.
She could scarcely bear to look at the elaborate spread before them and found it even more difficult to meet the eyes of the man seated across from her. Darcy appeared equally uncomfortable with both the lavish breakfast and her presence. He had taken only a single piece of toast and a cup of tea, leaving the remainder of the feast untouched. His posture was rigid, his dark coat immaculate, his manner formal to the point of coldness—a stark contrast to the earnest man who had attempted to explain himself just yesterday morning.
The silence between them stretched, filled only by the soft clink of silver against china and the measured footsteps of servants attending to their duties. Elizabeth’s cruel words from the wedding breakfast rang in her ears with relentless clarity:fortune hunter,beneath my notice,used my distress to climb the social ladder. She had seen the hurt flash across his features in the moment before his expression shuttered completely, transforming him into this distant stranger who now sat before her.
How she had regretted her words. Not because she was entirely certain they were untrue but because it was so unlike her to be so cutting and cruel. Especially when she herself was no unsure of what she had seen that night. She had cried herself to sleep the night before, not exactly the way she imagined her wedding night to be. She’d cried because of her circumstances, the unfairness of it all, and the way it had made her behave. All of it was dreadful. And she felt the remnants of it all this morning.
