A quiet breath escaped Darcy, the amusement thinning as the thought settled.
“In truth,” he continued, more wry than resentful, “Elizabeth will bear the spectacle far better than I. Society delights in its pageantry. I do not.” His expression grew thoughtful. “It is not admiration I dread—but being made a display, as I shall certainly be if your mother has her way.”
Over the rim of his glass, Hurst regarded him with one brow faintly raised.
Richard watched his cousin for a moment, the teasing softening into something more knowing. “You may dislike the theatre of it,” he said mildly, “but you have long been a principal actor. You will manage well enough. And Elizabeth”—his smile returned—“will manage you. I have seen how she already does it when you do not even notice.”
A low sound—half huff, half laugh—came from Hurst.
Darcy’s lips twitched despite himself.
A discreet knock interrupted them.
“Enter,” Hurst called.
The butler appeared in the doorway. “Dinner will be served in an hour, gentlemen. Mrs Hurst has directed that you be given time to refresh yourselves. Your baths are prepared.”
Dinner at Netherfieldthat evening was subdued. Fitzwilliam suspected that he and Darcy looked as weary as they felt; they had ridden hard and long. The Hursts spoke quietly between themselves, leaving the gentlemen undisturbed and wisely refraining from pressing them into conversation.
Fitzwilliam could only hope that Wickham was at last contained—and that no member of his family would ever again suffer that man’s interference. If fortune favoured them, he would be tried for desertion and shot, and the matter ended.
When the meal concluded, Fitzwilliam pushed back his chair.
“Mrs Hurst, thank you for an excellent dinner. If you will excuse me, I believe I shall retire.”
“I must do the same,” Darcy said. “Pray forgive us. We are not unequal to the saddle, but today’s exertions were uncommon.”
Mrs Hurst responded with easy kindness, assuring them that no apology was required and expressing her hope that rest would restore them fully by morning. Her manner held neither curiosity nor reproach—only quiet consideration.
With brief farewells, the gentlemen withdrew. Fitzwilliam would have gone directly to his chamber, but Darcy paused at the foot of the stairs.
“If you will indulge me a moment,” he said quietly.
Reluctantly, Fitzwilliam altered course and followed him into the small sitting room adjoining their chambers. Darcy closed the door behind them and remained standing.
“You have had some time to consider today’s events,” Darcy began. “How are you truly? I know you are concerned for Miss Bennet—and for the possibility of Collins renewing his addresses. Are you resolved to interfere should he persist?”
Fitzwilliam did not answer at once. He moved to the hearth and braced one hand upon the mantel, staring into the low fire.
“I cannot, Darcy.” The words came harder than he intended. He turned, some of the anger he had been suppressing rising despite himself. “Even if I wished it—if I were certain of her feelings—I cannot offer her what she deserves.”
Darcy did not interrupt, even as his expression grew tight.
“You know as well as I that I have no estate,” Fitzwilliam continued, his tone steadier now. “Yes, I have saved most of my pay these ten years. At your urging, I invested what I could and reinvested the returns. I have done tolerably well.” He drew a breath. “But it is not enough to retire and live upon half pay—not with a wife accustomed to an estate, to servants, to security.”
He fell silent, jaw tightening before he spoke again.
“I cannot claim that I am in love with her—yet,” he admitted. “But I am nearer to it than I expected to be. Given time…” He shook his head faintly. “I could not see her lost to a man like Collins. If she chose a man my equal, I might accept it. If Bingley returned and offered for her, I would step aside; that is, if she accepted him. But not Collins.”
The room fell quiet.
After a moment, Darcy crossed to him and laid a hand briefly upon his shoulder.
“If I were to find an estate within your reach,” he began carefully, forestalling the protest he saw forming, “would you consider purchasing it? I do not propose a gift; only that I secure it and allow you to repay me from its income over time.”
Fitzwilliam shook his head at first. “I cannot immediately see how such a scheme would succeed.”
He paused, then looked at his cousin. “If you were to discover a property for which I might place a reasonable sum in earnest, and if you would advance the remainder as a loan—at proper interest—we might contrive an arrangement that benefits us both. But it must be a loan, not charity. I would pay the market rate, not some indulgent figure devised for my comfort. On those terms, I might consider it.”
