He had thought he would have time. He had chosen his plan with purpose and clear, regulated intent. After the harvest, before the spring sessions. A clean calendar. A clean conscience. The last box to tick before he came of age.
He thought that he could observe, weigh, decide with the same precision he applied to investments or estate plans. That he could control it.
But now?
Who would trust his judgment after this?
Who would want a scandal hovering like smoke over the altar?
What family would want to unite themselves withhim, if it came to that?
He stood, pacing. The study was warm, but his hands were cold. He passed the clock. The ledger shelf. The worn edge of his father’s armchair. Every object in the room whispered order, structure, tradition.
None of them could save the one person in the world he was meant to protect.
He would not go to Rosings. He could not. Lady Catherine would want answers. Poke holes in his carefully constructed story. She would insist. And Darcy could not give them—could not admit that the girl he had once cradled as an infant had very nearly thrown her life away because he had underestimated the wrong man and left her alone with a charming voice and a borrowed cravat.
He turned back to the desk.
Crossed out the unfinished line.
Started again.
My dear aunt, I regret to inform you I shall not be able to attend Rosings this Easter...
He paused.
His hand clenched.
He would protect Georgiana. At all costs.
Even if it meant rewriting every plan he had ever made.
Even if it meant sacrificing certainty—that precious, brittle illusion.
Darcy dipped the pen again.
And kept writing.
May, 1811
Longbourn
The letter came inthe afternoon post, stained with rain and smelling faintly of lavender soap. Elizabeth recognized her aunt Gardiner’s hand before she broke the seal.
She read the first line three times before folding it again and setting it aside.
Plans canceled.
The summer trip to Derbyshire—the one that had been months in the making—had been postponed due to an “unexpected delay” in Mr. Gardiner’s business affairs. Nothing serious, her aunt assured her. Only a brief postponement. Perhaps September. Perhaps October.
Perhaps not at all.
Elizabeth set the letter down and rubbed her fingers, still faintly stained with ink from copying out receipts. Jane looked up from her careful notes, a faint crease between her brows.
“Bad news?”
“No,” Elizabeth said lightly. “The trip is delayed. Something in Newcastle, I think.”
