The vicar stood frozen for a moment, his face reddening with fury, but he seemed to recognize that he was outmatched. He gathered his hat and coat, glaring at Darcy before storming from the room.
Darcy closed the door behind him, the sharp click of the latch echoing in the silence. When he turned back, Sir Thomas sat slumped in his chair, his hands resting heavily on his desk. The firelight cast deep shadows across his face, emphasizing the weariness etched into his features.
“I apologize for the interruption,” Darcy said. “I had not intended to intrude.”
Sir Thomas lifted his gaze, his eyes filled with quiet resignation. “You need not apologize, Darcy. The vicar’s opinions are hardly a secret, though hearing them aloud—in my own home—does little to lessen their sting.”
Darcy hesitated, searching for the right words, but none seemed sufficient. Finally, he gave a small nod. “If there is anything more I can do…”
Sir Thomas waved a hand dismissively. “You have done more than most. Let us leave it at that.”
Darcy inclined his head and exited the room, his thoughts a maelstrom. As he passed Mrs. Jackson in the hall, her gaze met his, and he offered a small, reassuring nod. Her lips trembled, but she returned the gesture before turning away.
It was then, as Darcy ascended the stairs to his own chambers, that the full weight of the vicar’s words struck him. This party was not enough. Goodwill and festivity alone could not undo the damage of years of prejudice and mistrust. Sir Thomas’s people needed more than a single night of acceptance—they needed a future.
Darcy’s steps quickened as a plan began to take shape in his mind.
Darcy folded the thickpaper carefully, the ink barely dry, before placing the letter into the envelope and sealing it with his signet. The faint scent of the wax lingered in the room as he pressed his thumb over the seal, ensuring it was set firmly. The task gave him a moment of pause—a brief chance to consider whether he had chosen his words with the necessary balance of formality and urgency.
It had been a few weeks, at least, since he last wrote to Colonel Fitzwilliam, and while the circumstances of the letter were unusual, he knew his cousin would rise to the occasion. Fitzwilliam always had a knack for knowing when Darcy truly meant more than he admitted in writing.
He rang the bell for Roberts, who appeared a moment later at the door.
“This letter is to be sent at once,” Darcy instructed, holding out the sealed missive, along with several coins. “Have it sent express to London. I should like it to reach Colonel Fitzwilliam without delay.”
“Very good, sir,” Roberts replied, taking the letter with his remaining hand and tucking it carefully into his pocket.
Darcy watched him retreat, a flicker of admiration stirring as the man’s determined gait carried him out of the room. Roberts was proof of the resilience Darcy admired in those who resided at Netherfield—proof, too, that Sir Thomas’s efforts were far from misplaced.
Indeed, it was not enough, this party. It would create a momentary reprieve, perhaps even kindle some goodwill within the community—but what then? Would the people here look more kindly upon Sir Thomas and his dependents? Or would the party only serve as further fodder for Meryton’s relentless gossip?
The townspeople had softened, that much was clear. Whispers of the upcoming Christmas revelry had stirred curiosity where once there had been only disdain. The butcher’s hearty assurances, the draper’s enthusiasm, and the baker’s delighted ambition all hinted that the tide might turn. And that was not even to begin speaking of the local gentry who had tendered their acceptance. Yet, the larger question still loomed.
He paused by the window, looking out over the snow-dappled grounds. The air was still, the house unusually quiet, save for the faint echo of children playing with down the hall. Healthy children—children who were safe, with a roof over their heads and full bellies. Children who were not consigned to the workhouse at age five.
He should have been satisfied. They were doing a good thing here. The preparations were progressing, and the hint of the community’s approval seemed just within reach. But approval alone would not sustain what Sir Thomas had built here.
Darcy paced back toward the desk, his eyes dropping to survey the papers scattered before him. Sir Thomas had saved so many—men who had gone on to carve out extraordinary lives, even before this venture at Netherfield. He thought of Watts, the promising solicitor; Pence, now a thriving merchant; and Drummond, who had risen to prominence in the Admiralty. They were but a few of the men who owed their lives to Sir Thomas’s daring.
It was time to call in those debts.
Darcy pulled out fresh paper, his pen moving swiftly across the page. Letters of inquiry, requests for support, names and ideas forming in quick succession. And the more he wrote, the brighter his inspiration burned.
Apprenticeships for soldiers. Partnerships with merchants and tradesmen. Opportunities for the women who sought a new start. Each thought took shape with a clarity that had been eluding him since the idea of the party began.
A knock at the door pulled him from his focus. Bingley appeared, his grin as bright as the afternoon sun. “Darcy, are you hiding in here? Sir Thomas has just inspired Roberts to show Mrs. Bennet the plans for the ballroom, and I fear it may be the end of us all.”
Darcy set down his pen, looking up with the faintest glimmer of amusement. “Is she staging a coup?”
Bingley laughed. “I would not call it that, but she is certainly campaigning for her own vision of Christmas splendor. It involves far more ribbons than I think Sir Thomas anticipated.”
Darcy shook his head, rising. “I shall come at once, if only to prevent utter anarchy.”
As they made their way toward the ballroom, Bingley leaned closer, his voice low. “It is working, Darcy. The town is curious, the plans are coming together—and dare I say, even Sir Thomas is starting to look a bit less gloomy.”
Darcy nodded, a flicker of satisfaction sparking within him. “It is a start.”
Eighteen
