Darcy sat before the glass as Harris prepared his razor, the faint scrape of steel against leather the only sound in the room. His reflection stared back at him, still slightly pale but also resolute. His fever had broken ten days ago, and though his strength was not yet fully restored, his determination had only grown. This day had loomed large in his thoughts since his conversation with Fitzwilliam and Georgiana. It was the day he would face Mr. Bennet.
Alone.
“Ready, sir?” Harris asked, his tone deferential.
Darcy nodded, gripping the arms of the chair as the blade glided across his jaw. He had rehearsed this meeting countless times in his thoughts, weighing every word, attempting to anticipate every possible response.
The valet leaned forward, carefully straightening the collar of Darcy’s shirt before reaching for the silk cravat laid out on the dresser. He worked in silence, his deft hands creating folds as precise as an artist’s brushstrokes.
He watched the process with a critical eye, not out of vanity, but because every detail mattered. His appearance must convey strength and dignity. He owed it to his family and himself to present himself as a gentleman.
Harris stepped back, inspecting his work with a discerning eye before nodding, satisfied.
Darcy rose, the smooth silk of his waistcoat settling against him as he adjusted the cuffs of his shirt. He crossed to the bed where his boots waited, gleaming from a fresh polish. Harrisfollowed. This ritual of dressing, something he had done since he was a boy, felt monumental now. It was the first time since his illness he had been properly attired, and it could very well be the last time he did so as the master of Pemberley.
His steps were deliberate as he left the room and descended the stairs, his hand brushing the polished rail as he approached the front hall. The butler, ever attentive, stepped forward with Darcy’s greatcoat, gloves, and hat.
“Your carriage is ready, sir,” he announced.
Darcy was as ready for this meeting as he would ever be. He donned his coat, smoothing the lapels before tugging on his gloves, the weight of his hat solid in his hands. Before he stepped out of doors, he tucked the journal in one pocket and the small parcel in the other, placed the hat firmly on his head, and, without another word, entered the carriage and settled himself against the squabs. Outside, the driver snapped the reins, and they began to move.
He had sent a note ahead. The many calls he had made with Bingley taught him that the ladies were not likely to be home at this time of day, and therefore he knew when to request a private conference with Mr. Bennet. It was the only way to ensure he could speak freely without the distraction of Elizabeth's presence or the eager curiosity of her mother.
As the carriage slowed and turned into the familiar drive, Darcy recalled the fortnight of courtship he had been allowed before his world had come crashing down around him. He had never been so content. What he felt now was only the bitterness of his circumstances. Was he never allowed to be happy?
He chastised himself. He could be happy again, if Elizabeth did not change her mind.
When he alighted, Mr. Hill greeted him with his usual calm efficiency and led him to Mr. Bennet’s book room. Darcy entered to find Mr. Bennet seated behind his desk.
“Mr. Darcy,” Bennet greeted, rising slowly. “I am pleased to see you looking so well recovered.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Your note said you had something of importance to discuss, but would it not be better to approach Elizabeth first?”
“Indeed it would, Mr. Bennet, if proposing to Miss Bennet was why I have come.”
Mr. Bennet looked at him over the top of his spectacles. “You do not mean to propose? Then I must ask what you have been about, sir.”
Darcy shook his head. “I want nothing more than to ask for your daughter’s hand. But first, I must speak to you on another subject.”
“I suppose you are now to inform me of some great scandal in the family’s history,” the older man said, sitting back in his chair.
“Not in the way you expect, I think.” Darcy removed both the journal and the parcel that contained the blanket and set them on Mr. Bennet’s desk. “Before I begin, Mr. Bennet, I must ask you a great favour.”
Mr. Bennet raised an eyebrow, his amusement tempered by Darcy’s serious tone. “You have piqued my interest, Mr. Darcy. Pray, proceed.”
“I would ask that whatever else you do as a result of this conference, that you promise to leave my sister’s fortune of thirty-thousand pounds intact and in my care.”
“Why would I have anything to do with your sister’s fortune?”
“I am about to explain. Will you give me your word as a gentleman that you will not leave my sister without the monies that my father left for her?”
“I would never strip a young woman of her family’s fortune, Mr. Darcy, though why you should ask for this promise is mystifying.”
He waited.
Mr. Bennet’s brows pinched together. “Very well, you have my word. Your sister’s fortune is safe from me.”
