After church, Darcy rode towards Meryton, Fitzwilliam close behind.
Mrs. Long’s information about Mr. Bennet and his father had been confirmed by the other families as he and Fitzwilliam made their rounds. It had taken several days, and they were just now returning from the last visit. Despite it being Sunday, Mr. Robinson had been pleased to see them and had invited them in for tea. Bingley was noticeably grateful that Darcy was making himself more amiable with his neighbours, but he was, for obvious reasons, spending most of his own time at Longbourn.
As he and Fitzwilliam rounded a bend, Darcy’s gaze caught on several children gathered outside the front door of a little house just down the lane from the high street. At their centre stood Miss Elizabeth Bennet, her face smiling and warm as she handed out small packages to them from the basket that hung over her arm. A small boy clung to her skirts, his face cast up to her, eyes wide with gratitude as she leaned over to offer him a kind word. The scene, so simple, so natural, struck Darcy with a force that made him draw up sharply.
He had not expected to see her again today. She had been wistful, even sad after the service, but she was not one to remain so for long. She found ways to be happy instead—would that he could learn how to do the same.
“What is it?” Fitzwilliam asked, stopping beside him.
Darcy shook his head slightly, his eyes still on Elizabeth. “She is remarkable,” he said quietly, the words escaping before he could contain them.
Fitzwilliam followed his cousin’s gaze. “Miss Elizabeth? She is indeed charming.” His voice dropped so that no one but Darcy could hear. “But I fear your attention to her is rather sudden.”
“It is not,” Darcy admitted softly.
“Ah,” Fitzwilliam replied with mock seriousness, “could it be her singular wit or her kind heart that has captured your interest? Or . . .” He raised a brow. “Perhaps it is her connection to Mr. Bennet?”
Darcy stiffened, his jaw tightening. “Do not be ridiculous.”
“You are not a man prone to sentiment, Darcy. You have admired women before, but you would never have considered someone like Miss Elizabeth Bennet—pleasant as she is—if not for the peculiar circumstances we now find ourselves in. Convince me otherwise.”
Darcy’s gaze snapped to his cousin. He was appalled by the accusation. “Do you believe me to be calculating in my affections? I was drawn to her before any of this came to light.”
Fitzwilliam shrugged. “You are the last man who would intentionally seek out a woman for nothing more than her connections. But I would wager that somewhere in that formidable brain of yours, the thought has crossed your mind: what if marrying her resolves this entire debacle? If the Bennets are connected to the Darcys, marrying her could bring Pemberley back to her family line. Or, say that the worst happens, and you lose your standing? Perhaps you could run PemberleyforMr. Bennet and simply pay him a percentage of the property’s income? No one need ever know.” He shook his head. “You say you were drawn to her before you went to London. But you left her behind, Darcy.”
He had gone to London for the journal. But were he scrupulously honest with himself, he had also meant to forget Miss Elizabeth. To try, at any rate. Darcy turned away. Was he truly so contemptible? Had he allowed such calculations to influence his regard for Miss Elizabeth? His regard was true, of that he had no doubt. But would he have returned to Hertfordshire without this . . . complication?
“Let us say you marry the girl. I will even allow that you could be happy. But what happens if Miss Elizabeth learns that her father is the rightful heir to Pemberley? Do you think she would be pleased with her marriage? Or would she suspect that you only married her for material gain?”
Darcy’s silence was answer enough. It would crush her. And that would crush him.
But Fitzwilliam was not yet done. “You would never recover her trust. You would lose her, Pemberley, and every ounce of happiness you thought you had. It is a house built on sand. And the waves will come. Sooner or later, they always come.”
Darcy’s hands clenched at his sides, the weight of his cousin’s words bearing down on him. “Do you think I do not know?” he snapped.
Fitzwilliam’s expression eased slightly. “Very well. But you must remember what matters most. Until and unless we can determine that Mr. Bennet has no claim, you cannot approach her. And meanwhile, consider this: if he has no claim, would you approach her at all?”
Before Darcy could respond, they were interrupted.
“Mr. Darcy. Colonel Fitzwilliam.”
Darcy turned sharply to see Miss Elizabeth approaching, her hands tucked inside her cloak against the chill.
She ought to have a muff.
Miss Elizabeth’s cheeks were flushed, which made her dark eyes appear more luminous. Darcy’s pulse quickened, though he schooled his features to hide any perturbation.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said with a bow. “Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon,” she replied, her gaze flicking between the two men. “It is a fine day for contemplation, it seems. You both appeared quite lost in thought.”
Fitzwilliam chuckled. “Merely discussing the pleasures of the local countryside.”
Miss Elizabeth’s brow arched, and Darcy noticed the faintest hint of scepticism in her expression. “How curious,” she said lightly. “I had not thought Meryton would provide food for such sober reflections.”
Darcy found himself unable to meet her gaze directly, his thoughts racing. Had she overheard? Or was she simply as perceptive as ever, noticing the tension that hung between him and his cousin?
Miss Elizabeth’s attention shifted to Fitzwilliam, her tone turning playful. “I know that Mr. Darcy has been quite severe upon us. What of you, Colonel? Have you any critique of our modest village?”
