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Your devoted sister,
Georgiana
P.S.—James says Hertfordshire is very pretty in spring. I would not know, but I thought you might find this observation relevant.
Darcy read the letter twice, his smile widening at his sister’s transparent joy. Georgiana, so guarded since her near-disaster at Ramsgate, who had retreated into music, walks, and the safe company of Mrs. Annesley, had found the courage to write of a gentleman. A gentleman with kind eyes who turned the pages correctly, sang hymns badly, and noticed she did not care for crowds.
But the smile faded as reality, cold and financial, swept in to reclaim its territory.
The Ashworths were securely anchored in the upper reaches of the ton—respectable, well-connected, and entirely accustomed to luxury. While a second son entering the church was hardly a pauper, Mr. James Ashworth could not afford a wife without a settlement, and Darcy was not convinced of the man’s motives.
“You were smiling a moment ago,” Bingley observed, setting down his cue while Hurst poured himself another drink. “What changed?”
“My sister writes to say she has met a gentleman. A Mr. James Ashworth—Lord Ashworth’s second son. She is…” He searched for a word that did not reveal the full weight of what he had just read. “Remarkably taken with him.”
“Then you must be delighted.”
“I was. Briefly.” Darcy retrieved his cue, not for play, but because a man must hold something when delivering news he has not yet digested. “He wishes to speak with me on a matter of some importance.”
“But that is excellent news! Ashworth is a thoroughly respectable family—good connections, comfortable estate, no scandals that I am aware of. And after that unfortunate business she barely escaped, would it not do her good to form a proper attachment with a man who deserves her?”
Bingley referred to a scoundrel who had presented himself as charming and solicitous to his innocent sister, and almost prevailed upon her to elope with him, were it not for Darcy’s surprise visit. Georgiana had wept for a month. She still flinched at loud voices and unexpected visitors.
“It would do her good,” Darcy agreed, “if I were in a position to provide for her as the settlement requires.”
Bingley’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean? Surely Georgiana’s dowry is—”
“Invested. In shipping. Three vessels bound for India, departed October and not expected before midsummer at the earliest.”
“Surely your father would have impressed upon you to keep dowry funds in safe Consols.” Bingley raised his eyebrows, and even Hurst tore himself away from the brandy decanter, ambling over with a glass in hand. “My father put Caroline’s and Louisa’s dowries in three per cents, not even five. Dull as ditchwater, he said. He had watched two business partners lose everything to shipwreck.”
“Indeed.” Hurst took a slow sip, his eyes narrowing over the rim of his glass. “Risky business, shipping. Not the sort of venture a Darcy of Pemberley locks a sister’s fortune into. Sounds devilish thin, old man.”
Darcy met Hurst’s critical stare without flinching. “My sister is barely sixteen and has not yet been presented at Court, Hurst. Regardless of how highly she esteems Mr. Ashworth, he has not yet taken holy orders, nor does he have a living or an income sufficient to maintain a wife of her rank. Whatever his merits, the match is premature. I shall write immediately to Lady Matlock to keep a prudent eye on the matter.”
“You’ll break the girl’s heart, Darcy,” Bingley protested, leaning his weight against the table. “And you’ll insult Lord and Lady Ashworth. If it’s merely a question of liquidity until these merchant ships dock, I can advance the thirty thousand against the return. Consider it settled.”
Hurst grunted, swirling his brandy. “Fair offer. If you’re short of ready coin, Bingley’s coffers are deep enough to float a navy.”
Darcy allowed himself to imagine accepting. The relief of it would prove short-lived. Even if Bingley never pressed for repayment, especially then—it would put an unbearable weight on their friendship.
“No. I cannot take it.” Darcy stood firm. “If I marry a woman worth eighty thousand pounds,” his voice dropping into a harsh, flat register, “in less than a fortnight, and borrow thirty thousand from my best friend in the same breath, what does that make me?”
“You are making yourself miserable,” Bingley said, slapping his shoulder. “Come, let us set the balls afresh and take it out on the cue sticks.”
Even Hurst put down his glass and smiled, shaking Darcy’s hand. “Now, that’s a fellow done well. Marry the girl, let the fortune settle the dowry, and everyone is happy.”
Except Darcy. Who would be exactly the man he despised, what everyone already assumed him to be—a scoundrel who had somehow convinced a dying man to name him in an unjust will to force a marriage on an unwilling woman while benefiting if she refuses.
Bingley fished the red from the pocket and spotted it afresh at the far end of the table, but the butler appeared in the doorway before either man could take his shot.
“A visitor, sir. For Mr. Darcy. Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
Darcy’s pulse skipped in a way that would have mortified him if anyone had been keeping count.
“Show her in,” he told the butler. “I will attend her directly.”
He straightened his coat and steadied himself. She might have come with news, or she had discovered a loophole. Perhaps there was a more recent will the Bennets had unearthed.
