“Good night, Mr. Darcy,” she replied, watching as he turned and walked away, his cane tapping unsteadily on the flags.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
LETTERS DISPATCHED
The letters hadto be written. Now.
All night, Darcy had tossed in his bed, beset by aches, pains, and lurid dreams. The storm lashed rain against the windows in relentless sheets, each gust of wind howling around the stone walls like tortured spirits.
Lightning flashed, burning images into his mind: Elizabeth’s hair tumbling free. Her lips parting. The catch in her breath when he touched her. The heat of her skin. The way she whispered his name. His body hardened, ached, burned for her touch. He woke clutching a pillow to his chest, his hips pressed shamefully against it. God help him. Desire for a fallen woman. Desire for Elizabeth Bennet.
The shame of it burned through him even now—a gentleman of his breeding entertaining such base fantasies about a woman whose virtue was already compromised, whose circumstances made any honorable connection impossible. Such weakness could not be tolerated. A gentleman did not want what he could not honorably have.
Darcy struck a match with more force than necessary, illuminating his chambers in the gray pre-dawn light. His head throbbed dully, a lingering reminder of yesterday’s storm and his ill-advisedescort mission. Elizabeth’s words echoed in his mind with maddening persistence:He is named for his father, as is traditional.
William Fitzwilliam Bennet. The timing, the name—everything pointed to one inescapable conclusion. The puzzle pieces had finally aligned into a coherent, if disturbing, picture. Collins had proposed to Elizabeth in December 1811. She had refused him. Yet somehow, nine months later, she had borne a child bearing his Christian name. The implications were unmistakable.
William. Named for William Collins, that pompous, grasping clergyman who had apparently taken advantage of a young woman’s vulnerable position and then abandoned her to face the consequences alone.
Darcy’s jaw clenched so tightly he feared for his teeth. What business was it of his if some provincial parson had compromised a gentlewoman of no particular consequence? Yet the notion of Elizabeth—proud, intelligent Elizabeth—being subjected to such treatment stirred something dark and protective in his chest.
He dipped his pen in the inkwell with deliberate precision. Facts were required. Evidence. The sort of methodical investigation that would either confirm his suspicions or lay them to rest.
My dear Bingley, he began, then paused. How did one inquire about such delicate matters without appearing to be a gossip-mongering busybody?
I trust this letter finds you and Mrs. Bingley in good health. Lady Eleanor has expressed interest in introducing Miss Mary Bennet to appropriate society in Yorkshire, and I recalled your connections in the region might prove beneficial in this endeavor.
He paused, tapping his pen against the edge of the desk. Direct inquiry would be uncouth, yet Bingley’s knowledge of Hertfordshire society made him an ideal source of information. Darcy chose his words with careful deliberation.
While at Bellfield Grange, I have made the acquaintance of Miss Elizabeth Bennet, who resides here under my aunt’s protection. While I have no recollection of the Bennets of Hertfordshire, my aunt has informed me ofyour felicitous marriage to a Miss Jane Bennet, the eldest sister. In considering suitable society for Miss Mary Bennet, I am naturally curious about the younger sisters’ current circumstances.
Miss Mary has confided in me that her sister, Elizabeth, had refused marriage to their father’s cousin, a Mr. William Collins, and that she has harbored a fear of his continued attention. Would you be discreet enough to inquire of any suggestions of irregularity that may have affected the Bennet family’s standing?
I understand this inquiry may seem peculiar, but I assure you it stems from genuine concern for those under my aunt’s care.
He completed the letter with the usual pleasantries, his hand steady despite the quickening of his pulse. A slight chill passed through him, and he pulled his dressing gown tighter, attributing the discomfort to the early hour rather than any physical indisposition.
Darcy set down his pen and rubbed his temple where a persistent ache had taken residence. The letter was diplomatic enough, yet it should elicit the information he required. Bingley was not clever enough to read between the lines and realize what was truly being asked, but he was observant enough to provide useful details.
A second letter required more delicate handling. Darcy considered his words carefully before addressing the magistrate in Meryton.
Sir,
Allow me to introduce myself as Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, Derbyshire. I write regarding a matter of character concerning a Mr. William Collins, currently rector of Hunsford parish in Kent, under the patronage of Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
I am given to understand that Mr. William Collins spent considerable time in your district during the Michaelmas to Yuletide season of 1811. As this matter potentially affects the welfare of individuals currently under the protection of my family, I would be most grateful for any information regarding Mr. Collins’s reputationand character that you might provide in your official capacity.
Please be assured of my utmost discretion in this matter.
The formal language satisfied his sense of propriety while making his concerns clear. If Collins had a history of improper behavior, it would be known. Rural parishes were notorious for their inability to keep secrets, particularly those involving moral lapses by men of the cloth.
As he sealed the letters, a sharp pain shot through his head, forcing him to close his eyes until it passed. The persistent headaches were becoming more frequent, no doubt aggravated by the previous night’s exposure to the storm. But such discomfort was a minor inconvenience compared to the satisfaction of having taken decisive action.
Darcy rang for his valet and began to dress for breakfast, ignoring the slight tremor in his hands and the unnatural warmth of his skin. There would be time for rest after his letters were dispatched. Some matters could not wait for personal comfort.
By the time the family gathered for breakfast, Darcy had convinced himself that his course of action was both necessary and noble. He took his usual seat, noting with clinical detachment how the morning light caught the rich brown of Elizabeth’s hair, and how her laugh at something Georgiana said sent an unwelcome warmth through his veins.
Such reactions were merely the natural response of any gentleman to feminine beauty, he told himself. The fact that he felt no similar stirrings when contemplating the considerable charms of Miss Caroline Bingley or any of the other eligible ladies of his acquaintance was irrelevant.
