Fitzwilliam acquiesced. “Next is, ‘I am twenty-seven years of age, a widow, of a large family, full-made and tall, worth four thousand, enjoy poetry and plays.’ Large family?” He pulled a concerned face.
“As in many brothers and sisters, or in her brood of fatherless children?”
“I say no on your behalf. Let us move on. What about, ‘I am a young lady in the county of Surrey, worth one thousand, fair hair and small, very affectionate, active spirit, fond of conversation and cards.’ Fond of conversation would be good for you.”
The lady from Surrey sounded as if she wanted late parties with friends every night. “If she has to say ‘fond of conversation,’ she has been told she talks too much.”
His cousin swore. “You only look at women to find a blemish! Not enough talking, too much talking.” While Darcy put on his coat, Fitzwilliam read down the page. “What about, ‘I am thirty years of age, widowed and no children, father was in banking, fair hair and complexion, well-tempered and sociable, enjoy riding, worth fifteen thousand pounds.’ It is not every day you find a woman with a heart for riding.”
Fitzwilliam’s approving tone stopped Darcy while he fastened his coat buttons. If his cousin was interested, he could not select this woman even if he had wanted to. “This is the first tier of ladies, is it not? Their dowries and incomes are not as high as I would have thought, aside from this woman.”
“Are you marrying for money?” his cousin asked after a pause.
“No!” He abhorred being pursued for his fortune and income; he would never allow that to be what drew him to a woman. “I was only surprised that most of the ladies in this first tier have small dowries. What about you? You need to marry with attention to money.”
“My per diem in the Foot Guards is two pounds a day, thank you. I can well afford a wife.” Darcy held his gaze, and Fitzwilliam looked away. His father supplemented his income, but his brother would not continue the practice after he inherited. “Yes, it would be helpful if she had her own money,” he muttered.
“I suppose it would help if she was handsome also?” Darcy said, to lighten his mood. “Or enjoyed riding?”
“Always.” Fitzwilliam grinned.
If there were few women of means subscribing to this curious scheme, he ought to let his cousin write to those ones. Besides, it was not as though he was actually going to meet any of these ladies. “I am uncertain about the banker’s daughter. I will pass. Read on.”
“I am twenty years of age, of middle stature, tolerably pretty, lively disposition, fond of books and the country, with one thousand on the death of my parents.”
Darcy reflected for a long moment. Lively meant her correspondence might be engaging. Fond of books might mean she was well-educated. Fond of the country might mean a gentleman’s daughter, although he was a spendthrift if she had only a thousand pounds after he died.
For the first time, he felt a small amount of excitement about the enterprise.
“Nothing?” Fitzwilliam asked. “Then what about ‘I am of age, auburn hair, short but with?—’”
“No, the last one was suitable. I pick her.”
“Are you certain? There are four others I have yet to read.”
“That lady will suit the purpose.” A diversion from lingering thoughts about a different lively woman was all he needed. “Leave me that lady’s number, and I will write to the office to see if she will correspond with me. The rest of the lovely spinsters I leave to your witty correspondence.”
Elizabeth satat the table in the drawing room with Jane, the papers from the matchmaking office spread between them. Her uncle had gone to the office in Bishopsgate yesterday, and in this morning’s two-penny post came the list of eligible gentlemen. There were two sheets full of descriptions to read through. Her aunt, who pretended to have no interest in the enterprise, sat nearby with her work. Elizabeth suspected she was attending to their every word.
She stared at the sheets but hesitated to read them. What had seemed an amusing diversion a few days ago was now a reality. These men were considering marriage. Even if she was not ready to commit, if she wrote to a gentleman, she would have to do it with the honest intention of getting to know him.
“You do not have to write to anyone, you know,” Jane said, patting her hand when Elizabeth still had not begun.
It was natural to feel some nerves, after all. And to be anxious was not entirely bad. One could feel anxious before something exciting just as much as they might feel anxious before something alarming. But if she was to hint to Jane that there were charming and respectable men in London who were open to marriage, men more faithful than Bingley, she would have to prove it so by writing to one.
“Of course I do,” she said cheerily. “I am eager for the endeavour to begin, and you must help me choose—unless you see one for yourself.”
Jane smiled. “I leave all the bachelors to you.”
Elizabeth scanned the list, looking at the incomes down the page. “I put myself in the second tier, but with my lack of fortune, I could have been in the third.”
“You are a gentleman’s daughter, my dear,” her aunt said. “For that reason, you ought to be in the first.”
“My worth is fifty pounds a year,” Elizabeth said flatly, “and that is only after both of my parents are dead. I think I am fortunate to have a claim to the second class.”
“A worthy man would not care at all about that,” said Jane.
“Wickham did,” Elizabeth mumbled. “And he was a worthy man.”
