He took a moment, his fingers tapping restlessly on the arm of his chair. “This is… not an easy thing to explain. Nor a simple story.”
Darcy leaned forward—alert, but holding his tongue. Bingley, beside him, watched with unguarded curiosity.
“After France,” Sir Thomas began slowly, “I had some modest fortune—well-invested, enough to live comfortably. More than comfortably, I suppose. I believed that I would retire to a quiet life, perhaps in Bath. But… well, you both know as well as I how such notions change when the weight of war settles on a man’s conscience.”
He looked at Darcy and Bingley in turn, his eyes keen, searching. “Shortly after returning, I became involved in assisting wounded soldiers—some of whom I had been imprisoned with. Men who had seen horrors that would make the strongest of us shudder. It started as simple relief efforts, helping them find doctors, lodging, employment when possible.” He sighed. “But the need grew, and I knew I could do more than just play a supporting role.”
Darcy sensed where this was going, and his gaze sharpened, waiting.
“Five years ago,” Sir Thomas continued, “I took the rather mad notion of purchasing Netherfield. The house was large, with ample land, and it seemed to be a perfect place to offer… refuge.”
“For soldiers,” Bingley murmured, his tone admiring.
“Yes. For those wounded in body and soul.” Sir Thomas’s eyes grew distant, his voice softening. “I employed two full-time nurses, with a physician and more nurses on retainer. I set aside the ballroom as an infirmary so those in most fragile health could receive the care they needed—round the clock, if necessary.” He gave a faint smile, though there was little humor in it. “It was my hope that it would be a place for recovery, dignity, perhaps even some degree of peace.”
Darcy and Bingley exchanged a quick look; the ballroom explained at last.
“Of course,” Sir Thomas continued, “not all wounds are physical. Some of these men…” He trailed off, a shadow darkening his face. “Some had been damaged so deeply by the war that they could scarcely function. They’d have ended up in the streets or worse without intervention.” He hesitated, then shook his head. “Most recover well enough to leave, to start new lives. But some—like Roberts and Jackson—have stayed on. I have been fortunate enough to find them work here.”
Darcy nodded slowly, feeling a twinge of respect for Sir Thomas that went beyond their shared past. It was noble, undeniably so, and the clear-eyed dedication in Sir Thomas’s gaze said more than any words could have.
“Originally, it was a cause that had widespread support,” Sir Thomas said with a bitter smile. “Meryton’s residents were proud to say that one of their neighbors was aiding the war effort in such a way. I’d donors—wealthy philanthropists who funded our efforts generously from afar. Everyone spoke glowingly of Netherfield and its occupants.”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “I sense a ‘but’ in there.”
Sir Thomas’s frown deepened. “But…three years ago, I… found myself in a position to help another… group of people.”
He paused, collecting his thoughts, and Bingley leaned forward, almost quivering now in eagerness to hear more.
“I learned about a young woman in a certain predicament.” His voice grew softer. “An ‘unfortunate,’ if you will. She was… alone, with nowhere to turn. There was… nothing I could do to help her then—or so I thought—and to my eternal regret, I learned she was sent away. I never knew where. A workhouse, most probably.”
Sir Thomas’s voice was tight with guilt. “I did not help her, and she was… lost. The shame of it nearly destroyed me. I thought to myself that Netherfield could do… more. It had the capacity to take in more than just wounded soldiers. So, I made a decision.”
He looked up, and Darcy could see the raw determination in his eyes. “I began offering shelter to young women in similar circumstances. Women with nowhere to go and no one to turn to.”
Bingley blinked, taken aback. “Young women?”
“Most of them,” Sir Thomas answered, his voice barely above a whisper. “Girls, really. Girls in their ‘interesting’ condition—young, lost, and in need. Most other shelters demand that such women give up their children. But here, I allow them to stay and raise their children if they wish, or, in some cases, I’ve found families willing to discreetly adopt.” He paused, a flicker of sadness crossing his face. “The youngest we ever took in was but thirteen.”
Darcy felt his stomach twist as he processed Sir Thomas’s words. He looked toward Bingley, who had gone pale with astonishment.
Bingley swallowed, his gaze dropping to the glass in his hand. “The… the maids… those are they, are they not? They are all so young!”
“Yes,” Sir Thomas said, his tone heavy with resignation. “Several of them are those I once took in. Not all stay, of course, but some remain on, even if their children are weaned or placed elsewhere. And, well, you can imagine… some have even found companionship among the men who also needed shelter.” He offered a wan smile. “Mr. and Mrs. Jackson were married just last month. A man once broken in body, a woman once broken in spirit. They’ve found healing here.”
For a moment, silence reigned in the study. Darcy and Bingley were both struggling to absorb the magnitude of what Sir Thomas had done, and the weight of it hung between them like a silent, undeniable presence.
Finally, Bingley spoke, his voice filled with approval. “Sir Thomas… there was no need to be secretive about this! No wonder you did not wish to give up the house until after Christmas. All those people who would be displaced… Nay, I would never ask such a thing! What you have done here, it… It is admirable beyond words.”
But Darcy’s mind was already working over the more practical implications. “How,” he asked slowly, “have you financed all this, Sir Thomas? Surely, this could not have been supported with your own funds alone. And would your supporters in London… be aware of these other endeavors?”
Sir Thomas sagged visibly, the proud set of his shoulders softening as he leaned back in his chair. “You are right, Darcy. At first, I had plenty of support. But yes, when word began to spread about my sheltering unwed mothers… and in the same house as all those unmarried young men! —well, my benefactors were swift to withdraw.” He shook his head. “These days, I am barely able to make ends meet. My personal fortune is all but exhausted, and Netherfield’s upkeep… it is well beyond my means now.”
Darcy felt a surge of anger—anger at the small-mindedness of society, at the cruelty of those who would judge and condemn without understanding. But he tempered it, glancing at Sir Thomas with a steady gaze. “And… your neighbors? Surely they know—theymustknow about all this.”
Sir Thomas’s expression grew bleak. “Most of the town would like nothing better than to see me gone. The vicar decries my work as shameful and a black disgrace upon the town, and several local businesses have threatened to refuse service to Netherfield. Even if I could afford to stay, I do not believe I could continue my work here, not with such mounting hostility. It is not fair to them—my friends here—to know they are so reviled whenever they take an errand into town.” He exhaled heavily. “The burden has grown too great. I do not see how I can carry on, even if I were to somehow secure the funds.”
A heavy silence fell between them, the bleakness of Sir Thomas’s confession hanging thick in the air. Darcy looked at Bingley, who appeared equally at a loss, his usually bright expression shadowed with dismay.
