Darcy did not, though it required more effort than he liked.
Miss Bennet sat near the window, pale still but considerably stronger, her workbasket beside her. Elizabeth occupied the chair nearest the fire, a book open in her lap and one finger holding her place. Mary was at a small table sorting music. Mr. Wilson stood beside the mantel, and his presence altered Darcy’s satisfaction in a trice.
The man had changed.
Darcy noticed it before he had been in the room five minutes.
Wilson was no longer merely eager. His attention had acquired purpose. The broad enthusiasm, the relentless storytelling, the awkward familiarity—those things remained in part, but beneath them lay a steadier intention. He no longer rushed every conversation. He watched Elizabeth before speaking, waited for her responses, and, when he addressed her, did so with more care than before.
That was worse. Far worse. A foolish rival might have been dismissed. A vulgar one would have soon exhausted even Elizabeth’s patience. But a man who learned, adjusted, and improved his manner because he wished to please her was not so easily set aside.
Darcy took a seat.
Bingley drifted, as expected, toward Miss Bennet.
Wilson continued speaking to Elizabeth.
“I do not deny there is ugliness in manufacturing,” he was saying, his tone more subdued than Darcy had heard from him. “Any man who claims otherwise is either ignorant or lying. Mills are loud, hot, dangerous places when poorly managed, and too many owners concern themselves only with output.”
Elizabeth regarded him more attentively than Darcy preferred. “And you do not?”
“I concern myself with output,” Wilson admitted. “No business survives on good intentions. But if a man expects labor from those under him, he owes them more than wages counted out grudgingly on Saturday.”
Mary lifted her head from her music.
Mrs. Bennet, seated near the tea table, listened with visible approval.
Wilson continued, “My father taught me little worth keeping, but I learned early that hungry workers become desperate workers. Desperate workers break frames, threaten overseers,and burn what they cannot control. Some call it wickedness. Often it is fear.”
Elizabeth’s expression softened.
Darcy felt the shift like a physical blow.
“That is a more thoughtful view than many would take,” she said.
Wilson’s face warmed with gratitude for the praise. “I came to it through necessity, instead of by virtue. The first year I managed the mill, I lost more money to accidents, resentment, and poor oversight than I care to confess. Reform was cheaper than stubbornness.”
Elizabeth smiled. “Practical benevolence, then.”
“Precisely.” Wilson leaned slightly forward, though not too far. That, too, showed adjustment. “One may do right and still keep accounts in order.”
Darcy turned away.
He disliked the conversation. Not because Wilson spoke poorly. Because he spoke well.
The man had found common ground with Elizabeth in the very place Darcy had once feared might divide them from society. Her trade roots, which Caroline Bingley would use as a weapon, Wilson understood as shared experience. He could speak of business without embarrassment, of profit without disguise, of industry without contempt. Elizabeth, whose loyalty to her father remained tender and fierce beneath composure, would not despise a man who honored honest work.
Darcy knew that.
The knowledge came unpleasantly.
Mr. Bennet turned a page of his book. “Wilson, you astonish me. Had you spoken so reasonably upon arrival, I should have had less entertainment but more respect.”
Wilson laughed, though less loudly than usual. “I shall attempt to balance both in future.”
Elizabeth’s eyes danced with amusement.
Darcy’s hands tightened slightly over his gloves.
