Darcy accepted them with a nod, sorting through the correspondence with practiced efficiency. One envelope stood out—thick, cream-colored paper bearing the unmistakable seal of Matlock. He broke it open and unfolded the letter, his uncle’s familiar script unfurling across the page.
My dear nephew,
I confess myself intrigued by the recent news surrounding you and your rather novel undertaking at Netherfield. Sir Thomas’s reputation precedes him—whether that is to his credit or his detriment depends entirely upon the circles in which one travels.
It strikes me, Fitzwilliam, that you have stumbled upon an opportunity that, handled correctly, could yield dividends far beyond mere goodwill in the neighborhood. Imagine, for instance, the leverage such a project might lend to a man with aspirations of public office. It is, after all, one thing to speak of compassion and quite another to be seen acting upon it.
I am curious to hear your thoughts. How, precisely, do you intend to align this endeavor with your ambitions? And more importantly, how do you mean to prevent it from appearing… imprudent? You have a rather questionable litany of accomplishments yourself, and though I have spoken favorably of you seeking public office, I have held my reservations about your appeal, for I do not think you would be universally palatable. Indeed, this… project of yours could prove the lynch pin that unites the voters of Derbyshire around a common cause. But it must be done strategically, else you chance appearing as a sentimental fool rather than a beneficent strategist.
I look forward to speaking with you more about this.
The letter was signed with the earls’s seal and signet—all the pomp and flair that was to be expected of the man. Darcy read the letter twice, his eyes lingering on the precise, almost detached phrasing.
His uncle’s suggestions were laid out like a campaign strategy: exploit Sir Thomas’s efforts for public sympathy, position the residents of Netherfield as pitiable beneficiaries of Darcy’s intervention, and frame the entire endeavor as a testament to his leadership and moral vision. It was a carefully constructed path to influence—a path that led straight through the lives and dignity of others.
He set the letter aside, his fingers drumming briefly on the desk as his thoughts churned. Once, not so long ago, he might have entertained such a plan. He had been raised to see influence as power and power as duty, with appearances the currency of his world.
And his uncle was right—he didnothold universal appeal for the voters of Derbyshire. There were no large industrial cities where the allure of his business acumen would draw support. And the gentlemen farmers, the wealthy and powerful, would be naturally prejudiced against him for blurring the lines between trade and gentility. Hewouldneed some… some device, as it were, to succeed.
Even now, the temptation lingered. His uncle’s argument was persuasive, and Darcy could imagine how easily such a strategy might yield success.
But the cost—it was too clear now. He thought of Sir Thomas, whose work had already been maligned by those who refused to see the value in helping people rebuild their lives. To turn those people into mere symbols, tools for political gain, was not just an insult to Sir Thomas’s vision—it was a betrayal.
Darcy leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting to the window as he imagined whatshewould say. Elizabeth, with her sharp eyes and unwavering principles. She would see through any such maneuver in an instant. Her approval—no, her respect—was something he valued more than he had ever thought possible. And she would never forgive him for such a calculated exploitation of others, nor would he deserve it.
He rose abruptly, pacing the room. His boots barely stirred the thick carpet, but his thoughts were louder than any steps. His uncle’s letter had awakened memories he rarely allowed himself to visit: the day he told his father he intended to back Bingley in his ventures. His father’s face had been thunderous, the disapproval as cutting as it had been predictable. “Trade?”The word had come out like a curse.
Darcy knew even then that his father saw it as a betrayal of everything the Darcy name represented. He could still hear the words ringing in his ears:“You are the head of Pemberley, Fitzwilliam. Your duties are clear. Or have you forgotten your place entirely?”
But there had been no forgetting the debt he owed Bingley—a debt no amount of wealth or lands or even family honor could erase. Bingley had pulled Darcy from the wreckage in Paris, risking his own life to save him when all seemed lost. To turn his back on that would have been to turn his back on honor itself. He had chosen loyalty to a friend over obedience to his father, and the price had been estrangement from the home he loved.
Years had passed since then, and in those years, Darcy had seen both the best and worst of his world. He had watched men of standing manipulate their reputations to shield themselves from accountability, using appearances as armor against consequence. He had also seen men of modest means rise above their circumstances, driven by nothing more than grit and character.
And now, his uncle asked him to step back into that gilded cage, to play the game of appearances at the expense of those who needed help most. To use the people of Netherfield as pawns, to turn their struggles into a spectacle for his own benefit—it was a bitter echo of the values he had spent years rejecting.
Darcy exhaled slowly, his decision forming with unshakable clarity. His gaze settled on the letter from his uncle one final time. Indeed, hehadbeen thinking, rather recently, too, that politics might be the next logical step for him. Who but he had so utterly bridged both spheres of aristocracy and trade? He could speak to things no other could, and could understand matters that others had never conceived. He knew what must be done, and he knew how to make it happen.
But his uncle’s idea of success—prestige, influence, appearances, and all he would have to do to achieve it—felt hollow now. Darcy wanted something better. He wanted something meaningful.
He wanted Elizabeth.
And for the first time, he understood exactly what that meant. It was not about winning her favor with grand gestures or noble intentions—it was about becoming the kind of man who deserved her partnership. A man whose name would stand not for vanity, but for genuine good.
Darcy dipped his pen in ink and began a reply to his uncle. It would be brief, polite, and resolute. There would be no campaign for office, no manipulation of public sentiment. There was work to be done—work that mattered. And Darcy would see it through.
Elizabeth stood at herwardrobe, her hands trembling and her throat tight as she folded a wool shawl into her trunk. She refused to let herself falter, though every fold of fabric felt heavier than the last. Jane’s quiet footsteps padded across the room behind her, but Elizabeth didn’t turn. She knew what was coming—what had been coming since she’d mentioned her plans to leave for London.
“Elizabeth,” Jane said, her voice gentle but insistent, “you cannot mean to go now.”
“I do mean it. I had a letter from Aunt Gardiner this morning. She wishes for my assistance with their Christmas party, and I agreed to go.”
Jane stepped closer. “But why now? What about theNetherfieldparty? You were just as much a part of planning this as anyone else. More so, even. Do you not care how much we all need you? How important this is?”
Elizabeth snapped the trunk lid shut and latched it with finality. “I am certain everything will carry on perfectly well without me. You, Jane, are more than capable of managing it all. Everyone will be just as charmed and delighted as they expect to be.”
Jane’s brows knit in confusion, her voice tinged with hurt. “Elizabeth, this was partly your idea. You were the one who went to speak with Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley—no one else knows that, but I do. You convinced Papa to lend his approval—you know, without you pushing him, he never would have, and Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley would have found no other inroad into the neighborhood. And now you are walking away, with no explanation other than… Aunt Gardiner’s party?”
Elizabeth froze, her hands on the latch. For a moment, the words she wanted to say surged to the surface. She could not stay here and watch it happen. She could not stand by asheturned everything into a spectacle. But she swallowed them down, forcing her voice to work.
