October 19, 1811
Netherfield Park
Darcy
Darcyspenttherideback to Netherfield in heavy contemplation. He had not expected to see Miss Elizabeth atop the small hill they called Oakham Mount. Compared to the Peak, it was rather disappointing, though it did offer a lovely view of the surrounding fields and houses.
Miss Elizabeth had been truly gracious to forgive him so readily. Darcy did not deserve it. His petulant words were beneath him as a gentleman, and he ought never to have uttered them. In truth, he had not realized she had overheard them at the assembly; still, his conscience had pricked with guilt as Bingley had shrugged and walked away. And if he were truly honest with himself, he hadpromptly forgotten all about it afterwards. His mind had been so focused on other things of late…
It was no excuse for poor behavior. He knew that. Thankful that he had been able to apologize, Darcy promised himself he would do better.
Richard would be ashamed of me,he mused as his horse plodded slowly along. Darcy made no effort to spur the beast into a faster canter. He needed this time to reflect and think before returning to the cloying attentions of Miss Bingley.
Darcy’s cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, was his closest friend and confidant. Richard never minced his words, saying exactly what he thought, especially if he felt it was something that another needed to hear. This past summer, Darcy had been the target of the man’s well-meaning attack. Lost in thought, the memories came readily.
“Blast it, Darcy, will you not listen to me?”
The fire had burned low in the grate, its orange light casting flickers across the study’s dark oak paneling. Fitzwilliam Darcy stood at the window, hands clasped behind his back, staring out into the lengthening shadows that blanketed the estate grounds. Behind him, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam poured two fingers of brandy into a crystal glass and handed it to his cousinwith a sigh that spoke of long familiarity—and long frustration.
“You do realize, Darcy,” Richard began as he settled into the opposite chair, “that Georgiana did not write to you because she believed you would not listen—very much as you are doing now!”
Darcy flinched, the words piercing deeper than he cared to admit. “She had every opportunity—”
“She tried to tell you,” Richard interrupted. “Twice, that I know of. Once in London—did you know he pursued her even then?—and again in Ramsgate, just days before—before that dastard Wickham made his move. But you dismissed her each time. You were too busy with estate accounts, or so she told me.”
Darcy lowered himself into the armchair, the brandy untouched in his hand. “I thought she was merely overwrought with travel and the novelty of being away. She has always been shy.”
“No,” Richard said flatly, “she has always been afraid to disappoint you.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened.
“She thinks your disappointment is worse than punishment,” Richard continued. “And why should she not? You give no quarter, even to yourself.”
“I expectmuch of those I care for.”
“Too much,” Richard replied. “And with too little grace. You think yourself above reproach, but you shut people out, Darcy. You have become so—so blasted aloof that you barely notice when others are trying to reach you.”
Darcy looked into the fire, the amber light catching in the glass he still had not tasted. “I know I was wrong,” he said at last. “I have spent the last two months reliving every moment, asking how I could have prevented it.”
“You could have been less like Aunt Catherine for a start,” Richard said dryly. “Can you not see how domineering andjudgmentalyou have become?”
Darcy’s head snapped around.
Richard held up a hand. “You will not like what I have to say, but it is true. You speak with the same conviction of being right, the same presumption that your judgment is better than others’. Heaven forbid someone question you. You talk of duty and family pride, but you forget that people are not institutions, Fitz. What is worse, this behavior extends to those with whom you hold but a brief acquaintance. If all is not as you believe it ought to be, you condemn it and everyone involved without a second thought.”
Darcy’s silence stretched long between them.
“When did it happen?” Richard asked more gently. “When did you decide no one was worthy of trust and esteem?”
Darcy let out a breath, slow and deep. “It was after my father died. Everything he built became my burden. Bingley’s family fawned over my inheritance. Wickham turned on me the moment I denied him unearned privilege. Even some of our own kin began watching me differently, calculating what favor might be gained. And now Georgiana—she cannot even speak to me of her fears.” His voice dropped. “So yes, I find solitude preferable.”
“Solitude is not strength, Darcy. It is retreat.”
“I prefer retreat to betrayal,” he muttered.
Darcy came back to the present.And yet you keep telling yourself you are trying to change,he told himself with some bitterness.You want to be better, but you only think about being better. Change requires action, not silent brooding in your study…or insulting ladies at an assembly.
Darcy clutched the reins tightly.I did not try to be amiable at the assembly in Meryton.No, he had stalked the edges of the room, grousing internally about ill-use and what he would rather be doing.I insulted a lady in public. ‘Merely tolerable,’ I called her. I could not have spoken anything less true if I tried.
