Darcy rolled his glass between his hands, staring into the ruby liquid. Every time he considered his friend’s autumn in Hertfordshire, he thought of the lovely and lively Elizabeth Bennet. Elizabeth’s situation was just as unsuitable as hersister’s, but time and distance had not been the aid in forgetting her that he had hoped.
It seemed to him that Elizabeth had gained more charms between the moment he first laid eyes on her and the time he first spoke with her; and from then on, he was entirely under her spell. She was handsome, kind, witty, and he held a great respect for her. She seemed at ease with anyone and was clever and well-informed.
And she had no trouble arguing with me.He laughed fondly into his glass at the memories of her time at Netherfield.
Had he stayed in Hertfordshire a week longer, he might have offered his most fervent affections, and devoted himself to her for the rest of his life. But he could not forget her lower situation in life or her deplorable relations.
It was a shame, really. While he was in no hurry, he was twenty-eight and would like to be married. He had even attempted to be more in society since he had returned to town. But every woman he had encountered this winter failed to compare to Elizabeth, and he still thought of her constantly.
Raised voices and laughter drew his attention from his distracting thoughts of a pair of pretty dark eyes. A small group crowded near the fireplace, looking at a sheet of paper they passed between them. He considered getting up to join them to learn what was so amusing, but then he saw his cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam stride in from the cold.
Darcy hailed him from the sofa with a wave, and Fitzwilliam gestured he would get a drink and join him. On his way back, he stopped to speak with the men by the fireplace. They exchanged several words, a few smiles, and after hearty laughter, the group broke apart, and one of them handed Fitzwilliam the paper.
“What do you have there?” Darcy asked as his cousin settled in next to him. “They were having a long laugh over whatever it is.”
“It isthehandbill,” he said, smiling. “Have you read it yet?”
Darcy sat up. “I thought it was all a joke?”
Fitzwilliam shook his head and handed it to him. “It is a legitimate enterprise.”
He read the handbill to himself until he got to the part that explained how to describe oneself. “And how does one do that?” he asked contemptuously. “Fortune and connexions first, and personality and appearance, after? Or perhaps no need to bother with the latter once you announce your income?”
His cousin gestured to the paper. “They give examples of how to describe yourself.”
Darcy read through them. The first-tier example described an affable, affectionate young gentleman, stout made, well-educated with an estate of five hundred per annum and ten thousand in the three per cent consolidated annuities. Fortune and status descended from there until the fifth tier of man was mentioned as being twenty-five, a mechanic, industrious, of sober habits and of respectable connexions.
He lifted his eyes. His income was twenty times higher than the first tier’s example, and his invested wealth was more as well. Darcy scoffed as he read the last line. “‘All letters to be post-paid.’ Well, they must be, with all the letters flowing in to be distributed to their selected desperate and lonely.” He tossed the handbill to the table.
His cousin started. “Desperate and lonely? I thought this would be perfect for you.”
Darcy coughed on his drink. “Perfect forme?” he rasped, still choking on his port. “Why would you think that a list of bachelors and spinsters registering a catalogue of their allegedly beautiful qualities to be fitted with a husband or wife would be perfect for me?”
Fitzwilliam snatched up the handbill. “You hate the season, do you not? But you want to marry. You do not actually wantto sit alone in Pemberley for half the year while all your friends marry and have children?”
“In theory, yes.” Darcy avoided his eye, and also tried to avoid thinking of a charming and beautiful girl in Hertfordshire. “But there is quite a leap from expecting to marry—as any independent man of means would—to submitting myself to this humiliation to hurry the process.”
“Why is it humiliating? It is all kept private; it is just systematised matchmaking.”
He shook his head. “Matchmaking is the sort of thing done amongst friends, sisters, parents, even the vicar. Not as a business.”
Fitzwilliam shrugged. “This just gives the individual more power in a similar process.”
“That may be true for the woman, but men need no further agency. They can pursue a woman at will.”
His cousin leant forward. “I know it is irregular,” he said. “But I thought this was not a bad idea for someone like you.”
Darcy blinked slowly. “Someone like me?”
Even in the evening lamplight, he saw Fitzwilliam turn pink. “Well, you are far better with the written word than…you know.” He gestured vaguely. “And you do not enjoy small talk or dancing, let alone flirting.”
Darcy set down his glass with a clang. “Yes, it is a miracle that I can string words together to anyone in a skirt.”
“I am sorry to offend you, but I truly thought this would appeal to you. You said yourself that marriage should be more than a strategic tool to ensure family fortunes remain intact, that you won’t marry our cousin Anne because you want a true partnership with someone you can have a clever conversation with.”
Elizabeth’s lively manner and one of her impudent speeches flashed through his mind. “You actually expect me to find awoman to love, the woman who will be the most important person in my life, through a subscription agency?” He plucked the handbill from Fitzwilliam’s hand. “It is scarcely better than putting an advertisement in the agony column.”
“Is it so odd?” Fitzwilliam recoiled under the look Darcy threw him. “Well, yes, it is odd, but there is nothing clandestine or improper about it. Like you said, it is better than the agony column, and one can get to know a woman without the pressure of an anxious mother or fearing what could be misconstrued by merely crossing the room to hear a woman’s performance.”
