He felt the truth of it and shifted in his chair and pretended to read the handbill again. “Well, it, it is just not the sort of thing for wealthy or for well-disposed persons. I suppose it is useful for someone who has no one to introduce them into the world. In fact,” he went on just as Fitzwilliam opened his mouth to argue, “it is just the sort of thing useful to a man of dissolute character.” Wickham would probably write to every woman with a fortune and misrepresent himself to them all.
“But you are not such a man, so who cares?”
He cast about in his mind for a reply. “Or it is intended for a low woman trying to raise herself.”
“Any woman does the same thing dressing for a ball, and with society’s tacit approval. At least by going through this agency, they are candid about it.”
“If it is such a grand idea, why do you not try it?” Darcy asked smugly, certain that he had turned the tide of this debate.
“Oh, I intend to.” Darcy felt his mouth fall open. “Not to find a wife, but I knew before I got my hands on that advertisement that I would have to subscribe to get you to do it. Just don’t tell my father. He still holds hope of marrying me off to the wealthy daughter of Lord Stewart. She is taller than I am, and three stone heavier. And I am not certain she bathes.”
“So a stranger off the subscription list would be a marked improvement for your prospects.”
Fitzwilliam laughed and took a drink. “Maybe it would be. And maybe I will fall in love before you do.”
“You cannot fall in love through letters,” he cried. “It is not sound; you know it is not sound.”
“I say it is, and the only way you can prove me wrong is to write to a few women and then feel nothing for any of them, no inclination to meet any of them, no inclination to know any of them better.”
“Absolutely not,” Darcy said, reading through the handbill again. He wanted to marry, but it was far too soon to think that someone with his wealth and connexions, and, if he was being honest, his age and appearance, would have trouble meeting and earning the affections of a worthy woman. He had only not met her yet.
The thought that he had perhaps met her, and had left her in Hertfordshire because of her embarrassing family, pressed heavily on his mind. He knew that he loved Elizabeth even then, but he still left. Darcy sighed and avoided his cousin by staring harder at the advertisement.
“It is an institution that unites people seeking matrimony,” Fitzwilliam said gently. “You eventually want to get married, you do not want to marry Anne, you hate parties, and you excel at writing long letters. They may as well have personally invited you to become a subscriber!”
He had to forget Elizabeth Bennet, and pouring himself into spending a month or so getting to know a correspondent would at least be a distraction. And for the sake of appeasing Fitzwilliam, he could write to a woman, and with that came the added pleasure of proving to his cousin that no one fell in love through letters.
“You will do it?” his cousin asked eagerly. Fitzwilliam knew him well; he must have seen the agreement in Darcy’s eyes. “Subscribe for the season, that is all I ask. Write to a few women to learn if any of them might suit you.”
“One,” he mumbled. “I will write to one.” He could not imagine the effort it would take to know several women at a time through a series of letters. Heaven forbid he mistake a Susan for a Sarah and write to the wrong lady.
“One at a time?” Fitzwilliam’s voice lilted hopefully. He agreed with a nod. “Excellent! We can go to Bishopsgate Street on Wednesday. You might be married before the season is over.”
“Are you wanting to lay a wager?” Darcy teased. “That I shall find a wife through this matchmaking business before you do?”
“Oh no, I will not take that wager,” he cried, shaking his head.
Darcy smirked and crossed one leg over the other. “Then you have little faith in the business, after all.”
“No,” his cousin said firmly, setting down his glass. “I won’t take that bet because you are going to meet your future wife from that list, and I would not have her hate me or you when she learns about us wagering over ever finding her.”
Chapter Two
The office in Bishopsgate Street was in the City—within the gate and nearly in the shadow of St Helen’s—before it became Gracechurch Street. The ward was filled with warehouses, inns, courts, and merchants, and near to number five there appeared also to be a ready-made linen warehouse, a stationer, and a shipping and insurance broker.
“Look, I can select a bride and then cross the street to the stationer,” Fitzwilliam said cheerfully when the hackney driver stopped. “I will need plenty of paper for all the ladies I plan to write to.”
Darcy watched the steady stream of passers-by and watched a man enter number five. He had the look of a clerk or a merchant. “Are you certain this is wise?”
His cousin threw him a dark look. “Give me your description. Go home, and I will subscribe you so you cannot change your mind. That is a respectable business, and you agreed to conduct this business.”
Darcy saw the truth in it, however nervous he now felt about the scheme. He drew out a small envelope with his description. “Just place me in the first tier and be done with it.”
“Against people from trade?” he teased. “Too high and too conceited for the second class?”
“Not at all,” Darcy said, drawing back. “Bingley is from trade, and he is one of my closest friends.”
Fitzwilliam’s eyes brightened. “Why not marry Miss Bingley and save yourself a few quires of paper writing to a stranger?”
