It was Mrs Annesley who had gently proposed the idea that his sister simply needed space. Besides, Lady Catherine’s steward had written, requesting oversight from the family. Richard had agreed readily. “You have been breathing the same close air as your grief for too long. Rosings will do you good.” And so he came.
The harvest at Rosings proved bountiful. The profitability of the estate, once overlooked by Lady Catherine, was now her chief occupation. The changes she had undergone remained constant. She was not loud and brash in the manner he had once endured. There was a gentleness to her now, though it emerged only when she believed herself unobserved: in the way she spoke to tenants, in her tireless presence at the cottages of the infirm, in the worn book of scripture and sermons she kept near at all times.
Grief had carved something new into her nature. She had lost Anne five years past, and her mourning had outlasted society's expectations. Where once she had ruled Rosings with an iron voice and formidable expectations, she now ruled by service. He did not speak often of Anne—neither of them did—but the weight of her absence hung between every shared word.
One morning, Lady Catherine summoned Darcy to the breakfast room with news of a new appointment.
“The living at Hunsford has finally been filled,” she said, her tone composed but slightly brighter than usual. “My old rector had retired recently, leaving the vacancy. The young man arrived yesterday. I should like you to meet him, Fitzwilliam. He has not the grandest manner, but I believe him earnest. That counts for something.”
Darcy inclined his head. “As you wish, ma’am.”
Mr Collins proved a surprise. Young, well-mannered, and possessed of an unassuming countenance, he greeted Darcy with a reverence bordering on theatrical. He was loquacious—particularly when nervous—and seemed to hang upon Darcy’s every word, as if they were pearls dropped from Olympus. Yet there was something honest in his admiration, and the young man, though verbose, showed signs of good sense. He spoke of his intention to improve the cottages near the churchand to form a lending library for the village children. And, perhaps most notably, he deferred to Lady Catherine with a respect that did not feel altogether sycophantic.
Darcy saw no harm in the man, and, more importantly, no absurdity. Mr Collins had clearly modeled much of his behaviour on his limited acquaintance with his patroness and, more amusingly, on Darcy himself. At one point, after a particularly stiff reply, Darcy noted the rector adjust his posture to match his own, folding his hands in precisely the same manner. It was a strange sort of flattery.
He might have stayed longer at Rosings, lost in thought and task, had not a letter arrived—bearing the unmistakable scrawl of Charles Bingley. He had met the gentleman at Boodles some years ago. Despite his roots in trade, Bingley was amiable and genuine. They became fast friends. Even Bingley's cloying sister could not deter him from keeping the acquaintance.
The seal was broken with a curious mixture of amusement and dread, and the contents did not disappoint. The letter was filled with smudged ink and no less than three corrections in the first paragraph alone. Bingley wrote with his usual energy, albeit more disorganized than ever, and informed Darcy that he had leased an estate in Hertfordshire for the autumn—a place called Netherfield. He urged Darcy to join him, writing that the countryside was pleasant, the society agreeable, and—this was underlined—a certain lady “the very picture of an angel.”
Darcy blinked at the line.
“She is called Miss Bennet,”Bingley wrote. “Her family is large, but kind-hearted. The eldest sister—the angel I mentioned—is sweetness itself. Her mother has passed, and an aunt acts as chaperone. Mrs. Philips is a little excitable. However, her father is tolerable, even witty. I know you are grimacing already, Darcy, but I promise it is not so bad as it sounds. I would be honoured if you would visit—and bring Miss Darcy and your cousin, too.”
Heread the letter twice, then set it aside. The fire crackled in the grate, casting flickering shadows against the carved panelling of the library. Darcy considered the invitation. A countryside gathering, a cheerful house, and a friend so plainly enamoured that even his quill stammered. Georgiana would not want to go. She detested Miss Bingley’s fawning. He did not yet know what to make of it. But that evening, by candlelight, he penned a letter to Richard.
“Bingley has written. My friend is in Hertfordshire now, at a leased estate near Meryton. He speaks of an amiable neighbourhood and a Miss Bennet—an angel, by his account. He has asked us to join him for the autumn and I have accepted. Bingley wishes for you and Georgiana to join us.”
He paused before signing, then added, “We might send for my sister, if she is well enough. If not, we shall go alone.”
With that, he sealed the letter and rang for a footman. As the man departed down the hall, Darcy turned back to the fire, the letter from Bingley in hand.
An angel, indeed.
He had no intention of falling under anyone’s spell—but it had been some time since he had seen Charles truly happy. Too many ladies pretended love in an attempt to gain a proposal.He sounds very content.For that reason alone, he would go.
Whether or not he would stay, however, was yet to be decided.
Darcy remained at Rosings Park for another week. The days passed inquiet routine—estate correspondence in the mornings, walks along the stubbled fields now stripped of harvest, and subdued, yet pleasant, dinners shared with Lady Catherine.
Midweek, a letter arrived from Richard. He urged Darcy to go on to Netherfield without him. He would follow in a fortnight, perhaps sooner, once a matter of business that had arisen at Linden Grange was managed.
Darcy also received a missive from Mrs. Annesley, reporting on Georgiana’s progress. She had taken to riding again, and the day before, she had even laughed—just a little, just once, but it was something. For now, she wished to remain at Pemberley, and Richard believed that allowing her the space to heal on her own terms was best. Darcy felt a familiar mix of relief and regret. He had done all he could.
On his final morning at Rosings, Darcy joined Lady Catherine for a walk through the eastern grounds. The path curved past a quiet glade and up a gentle rise that overlooked the village and the distant spire of Hunsford Church. As they paused at the crest, he observed that Rosings appeared to be thriving under her care. She gave a small nod, a touch of weariness in her eyes, and replied that she no longer took such things for granted. When they returned to the house, she did not ask him to stay longer. Instead, she placed a hand gently on his arm and simply said, “You will write, Fitzwilliam.” He promised he would.
With his trunks already loaded, Darcy departed that afternoon. As the carriage passed through the iron gates and turned onto the long road away from Rosings, he leaned back against the cushions, the quiet rustle of the trees outside marking the end of a long, solemn chapter.
He travelled first to London, arriving at his townhouse just before dusk. There, he spent two nights attending to lingering business—leaving instructions with his steward, reviewing account ledgers, and issuing directives for the autumn repairs at Pemberley. He penned a fewletters to associates and briefly visited his solicitor. Before departing, he ensured his horses were well-rested and fed. The journey to Hertfordshire, though not long, would be more comfortable at a deliberate pace.
It was a damp, grey October morning when he left the city behind. The London streets were still shining with the remnants of rain, the air sharp with the scent of chimney smoke and the coming cold. As they crossed into the countryside, Darcy opened the window and watched the landscape stretch outward—meadows edged in hedgerows, trees turning gold and crimson, and distant barns dotting the fields. It was autumn in full, and the rhythm of the wheels on the road steadied his thoughts.
He had no grand expectations of Netherfield. Charles’s letters had described it as a respectable country estate, not grand but well-appointed, surrounded by a social circle that had, thus far, shown him every kindness. If Bingley had truly formed an attachment—as his blotted, enthusiastic letter suggested—Darcy intended to support him. It was what a friend would do, even if Charles’s descriptions of “an angelic Miss Bennet” bordered on absurd.
Still, Darcy could not deny a quiet curiosity. A new place, unfamiliar people, and, perhaps, some brief respite from the heaviness that had marked his summer. He sat forwards slightly as a milestone passed on the roadside. Netherfield Park could not be far now. He would arrive before nightfall, and with it, step into whatever awaited. Somewhere ahead was the woman who had, according to Bingley, turned the autumn golden.
Darcy folded his arms and gazed out at the narrowing lane. He would judge for himself.
Chapter Thirteen
