No,he thought.I am weary.
The rest of the meal passed under a strained politeness, conversation drifting to safer subjects—music, the weather, the prospects of the militia’s arrival. Yet Darcy found little relief. His thoughts returned again and again to the Bennet family—Miss Bennet’s quiet dignity, Miss Elizabeth’s intelligence and fire—and to the unfairness with which they were discussed in his presence.
I disapprove of this,he admitted silently.But I allow it.He allowed it because it reminded him of his own purposes—and that he ought not to be attracted to the impertinent miss from the neighboring estate.
That, perhaps, troubled him most. For beneath his irritation lay conflict: loyalty to his friend, disdain for Miss Bingley’s tactics, and an unwelcome, persistent awareness that the family he had dismissed so readily now occupied his thoughts far more than was prudent.
And Elizabeth—
No. Do not think of her.
He took a measured sip of wine, schooling his expression into calm. But fascination, once awakened, was not so easily commanded to rest.
Darcy remained in the drawing room some time after the others had risen, the decanters half-emptied, the candles guttering low.Miss Bingley’s voice lingered in his ears—sharp, insinuating—but it was not her barbs that troubled him most. It was the clarity that followed them.
This is the danger,he admitted at last.Not to Charles alone—but to me.
He had told himself, repeatedly and with conviction, that Bingley’s possible attachment to Miss Bennet was ill-advised: the disparity of their social positions—Bingley moved in higher circles, the uncertainty of affection, the likelihood of disappointment. Those objections remained intact. And yet, beneath them lay a more disquieting truth—one he had avoided naming.
If Charles married Jane Bennet, then the Bennets would become constant. Visits would multiply; intimacy would be unavoidable. And Elizabeth—quick-witted, composed, irreverently intelligent Elizabeth—would be present as a matter of course. Not as a novelty encountered occasionally in company, but as a fixture. A relation. A familiarity.
I should see her often,he thought, the realization striking with unwelcome force.Too often.
He imagined it with alarming ease: shared dinners, walks, conversations that sharpened rather than soothed his mind. The small sparks he had tried to dismiss would be given air, given time. He would be expected—by affection, by courtesy, by friendship—to remain. To attend. To endure.
And endure he would not.
For already he found his composure tested, his judgments unsettled.
This is precisely how one loses command of oneself,he told himself grimly.
Darcy had always prided himself on restraint. On mastery. He did not indulge impulses; he governed them. Yet the very effort of governance now revealed how near the edge he stood.
I cannot allow myself to be compromised,he resolved.Not by inclination. Not by proximity.
The solution, then, was plain—if not easy. If Bingley persisted, Darcy must remove himself. Distance would be necessary. Visits shortened. Time divided. Perhaps even a temporary return to Derbyshire under the guise of estate business. He would counsel Bingley where he could, but he would not remain in Hertfordshire long enough to test his own resolve.
Better to lose time than to lose control.
I must make plans,he concluded.Firm ones.
For while Charles’s happiness mattered greatly to him, Darcy knew—knew with chilling certainty—that the greater risk lay not in his friend’s heart, but in his own.
Chapter Twenty
It was a bright November day when the militia arrived in Meryton, the sky clear and sharp with the promise of approaching winter. The general populace had known of the soldiers’ coming for some weeks; anticipation had built steadily, fed by speculation, gossip, and the natural excitement that attended any disruption to the settled rhythm of country life. Shopkeepers lingered in their doorways, children clustered at corners, and more than a few ladies contrived errands that required passing through the main street at precisely the right moment.
The colonel of the regiment and a few of his officers had come ahead of the men some time ago to secure lodgings and make the necessary arrangements. Some of the four-and-twenty families who made their aquaintances at Sir WIlliam’s fete deemed him an enjoyable man, open in manner and eager to ingratiate himself with the local gentry. His courtesy was undeniable, though whether it sprang from genuine good sense or from a desire to please at all costs remained to be seen. Elizabeth, who had observed him only briefly, withheld judgment. Amiabilitywas a pleasant quality, but it did not always accompany firmness of command. Would his soldiers be allowed more freedom than was good for them, encouraged into idleness and mischief by indulgent leadership? Or would he prove capable of maintaining proper regulation and discipline? Only time would answer.
That morning, before the inevitable excitement could spill into heedlessness, Mr. and Mrs. Bennet took the opportunity to speak frankly with their children. Such moments of united parental resolve were rare enough to command attention.
“Militiamen are not evil,” Mr. Bennet began, standing near the mantel with his hands clasped behind his back, his tone measured rather than indulgent. “They can provide social diversion and entertainment, and I do not object to either. But it is not wise to trust them fully. Too many families have fallen from society’s grace because of a silver tongue and an excess of charm.”
Elizabeth noted the deliberate way he spoke, as though choosing each word to impress rather than amuse. This was not one of his habitual ironies, but something closer to earnest counsel.
“It is also worth knowing,” Mrs. Bennet added briskly, eager to reinforce the lesson while maintaining a note of maternal pride, “that while a man looks exceedingly dashing in a red coat, being part of the militia does not provide enough income to support a wife—except in the rarest of circumstances. Colonel Forster is married, or so Sir William has said, but he is the colonel. His income must be sufficient—or else his bride’s dowry was of considerable size.” She smiled broadly at all five of her girls, her gaze lingering with satisfaction. “All of you are destined for a life of leisure as a gentleman’s wife. Kitty, Lydia—you are too young to be out and thus will not be around the officers. Still, I urge you to take care when walking out with your sisters and cousin.”
The youngest girls nodded obediently, though Lydia’s compliance was more theatrical than sincere. “I think it would be wonderful to see a man in a red coat,” she sighed, her expression carefully arranged to suggest youthful romance rather than defiance, her manner befitting a young lady on the cusp of womanhood.
