“Anything you wish, my love,” Darcy replied, his gaze fixed warmly upon his dear wife, who had become even more dear to him in the weeks since they had married. He hated the thought of returning to Pemberley, if only because it meant that business would intrude into the time they spent together.
“This year, sir,” she said with an impish look, “I hope I might persuade you not only to remain for the dancing, but to open it with me.”
That caused Darcy to smile broadly, something he had discovered himself doing with far greater frequency in the past weeks than at any other period of his life.
“I should be delighted to open this—and any other celebration—with you for the rest of my life, Elizabeth.” With those words, he rose and helped her to likewise stand, drawing her gently into his embrace as he bent to press a brief kiss to her lips. “Indeed, I believe we shall make it a new Darcy tradition. We shall open the dancing together, so the people of Pemberley may see that their master and mistress stand united in all things.”
Elizabeth’s eyes softened at his words, and her hands came to rest lightly against his chest. “I believe,” she said quietly, “that your tenants will like that very much.”
“And I believe,” Darcy replied, unable to resist another kiss, “that I shall like it even more.”
He kissed her again, slower this time, lingering as though unwilling to surrender even a moment of her nearness. Elizabeth’s hands slid upward from his chest to rest against his shoulders, drawing him closer still, and Darcy deepened the kiss at once, pouring into it every measure of love, gratitude, and desire that had steadily grown within him since becoming her husband.
A soft sound escaped her as his hand settled at her waist, and the knowledge that he had drawn such a response from her nearly undid his remaining restraint. He lifted his head only enough to rest his forehead briefly against hers, both of them slightly breathless.
“You realise,” he murmured, his voice lower now, “that you make it exceedingly difficult for me to behave with any degree of sense or propriety, even here in our own home.”
Elizabeth laughed softly, though the colour in her cheeks deepened beneath his gaze. “Do I indeed?”
“You do.” His thumb brushed lightly along her jaw before he claimed another kiss, warmer and far less restrained than the last. “And I cannot find it in myself to regret it.”
If the Darcys returned to their chambers that morning rather than venturing out amongst the Lakes, no one was troubled enough by the circumstance to remark upon it, indeed, no one other than the few servants who accompanied them even noticed, and they only wore smiles as they speculated amongst themselves how soon the Darcy heir would be born.
Thirty
Mid-September
It took Charles Bingley above a fortnight to complete all the arrangements in London necessary to place the control of his sister’s dowry formally into his uncle’s care. For several consecutive days he met with solicitors and bankers, determined to ensure every detail had been properly settled, and afterwards spent another day or two engaging a secretary to assist with his correspondence going forward.
Before leaving Scarborough, his uncle had offered the advice in a manner that could scarcely be mistaken as gentle.
“Charles, you write worse than a schoolboy still in leading strings,” he had scolded whilst attempting to decipher the notes his nephew had hastily scratched upon a page. “How do you expect anyone to read this when it resembles Sanskrit more than English? If you cannot be troubled to write legibly, then at least have the good sense to employ a secretary for your business correspondence. And your personal correspondence, as well—that is, if you wish anyone to read it.”
At the time, Bingley had laughed, though not without some embarrassment, for he could not deny the justice of the rebuke. Darcy had made similar observations often enough over the years, as had others, although generally with more restraint and tact than his uncle had shown. Yet now, reflecting upon all that had occurred, Bingley found himself less inclined to laugh away such criticisms.
He was resolved at last to conduct himself as a gentleman ought—with steadiness, purpose, and the ability to manage his own affairs. Darcy, he thought, was perhaps the best example of such a man he had ever known, even though Bingley had enough sense to know that imitating his friend in every particular would only end in failure. No, Darcy had been born to the life of a great landed gentleman and trained for its duties from childhood. Bingley, by contrast, had only begun trying to become such a man within the last few years.
Still, he could no longer deny that he had spent far too much of his life drifting along whilst others made decisions on his behalf. He had trusted too easily, questioned too little, and yielded too often merely to preserve harmony. The painful revelations concerning Caroline had only forced him to acknowledge truths he ought to have recognised long before now.
Employing a secretary seemed, therefore, a sensible beginning.
The next step was returning to Netherfield.
It had been many months since he had abandoned his leased estate, another decision for which his uncle had not spared him criticism. Indeed, the older man had appeared almost personally offended by the matter.
“You leased a respectable estate in a pleasant neighbourhood,” his uncle had declared, “and then fled it because your sisters wished for town amusements and were not satisfied with those of the gentry they found in the country. Doubtless, they expected the same sort of attention and amusements in the country that they did in Town. If you mean to own an estate one day, Charles, then you must first learn to remain upon one. Not only that, but did you not say that you paid attentions to ayoung lady there for months and then left her without a word. At the very least you ought to apologise to her.”
Bingley had been disconcerted by his uncle’s words and had not liked viewing himself through his eyes. For the first time, Bingley began to wonder if he had caused some harm to Miss Bennet through his actions—or rather through his inactions. He had abandoned her after paying her considerable attention. That neither his sister nor his friend had sought to tell him that the lady was in Town had been difficult to realise, but at least, Darcy had the decency to apologise.
However, even if his friend had misled him—perhaps misled was too harsh, he thought, for Darcy had admitted that his belief in the lady’s lack of affection for him was sincere, if wrong—ought not he, as a gentleman, have discovered for himself what Miss Bennet thought about him? Could he not have returned sooner and spent a bit more time with her? After all, he had been the recipient of her smiles and conversation, such as it was. At the moment, he could scarcely recall what they had discussed.
It was strange to realise that his friend had married Miss Bennet’s sister. Last autumn, it had seemed that the two were constantly at odds, but now, they were married. Bingley had suspected that they had formed some sort of truce when they met again at Pemberley. Despite his sister’s claims to the contrary, he knew their meeting at Pemberley had not been intentional.
He contemplated these changes as he made his way from London to Netherfield. Once he had hired a secretary, the first assignment he had given to him was to write to the housekeeper to open the house. Idly, he wondered how he would be received, but he was determined to act as he ought to have done before.
First, he would pay calls to his neighbours, starting at Lucas Lodge and working his way around to Longbourn. He hoped that doing so would allow Miss Bennet time to accustom herself to his being there—assuming that such was necessary. Still, he had timed his visit to arrive late in the week and would attend church on the Sabbath and then begin to pay calls to his neighbours.
Saturday, 19 September 1812
