Page 3 of The Widower of Pemberley

She should not like too much company, or dancing, or being in town.

She must not be the sort of woman whom my mother would have approved of.

Above all, she must be nothing like Mary was.

Another squeal from Emily.

These features must be avoided, but one should not simply list what one did not wish for. What traits did he hope his future wife would possess?

She must have a real affection for Emily.

Someone sensible, calm, and not too pretty.

Religious, observant, serious about serious matters.

She should be poor, bringing little wealth to the marriage, and have no connections of note.

This was a surprise. Darcy had not known that he specifically wished forthat.

This is why writing his thoughts on paper was so valuable.

Beneath that line Darcy added:

I have made one woman miserable already. I do not wish to do the same to a second. I am confident that my person and my estate make it so that I shall have few difficulties attracting any woman whom I might choose. The rumours about the nature of Mary’s death will only make that a little more difficult. But the stiffness in my character, my unbending tendencies, and that coldness that Mary remarked on in me will make it impossible for any woman who expects to find joy in my companionship to be happy. If my wife has gained a great improvement in station and material condition through marrying me, she would have no cause to repine. But I must ensure that she is acquaintedwith the deep flaws in my character before she accepts my offer.

I will not sell a fraudulent bill of goods.

“Watch me! Watch me! Papa, watch me!”

Darcy looked over at Emily. She twirled and whirled—until she missed a step, fell to the floor, and broke into sobs. Darcy jumped from his seat and picked her up, bouncing her in his arms. “There, there. There, there, Em-Em. See, there is nothing wrong.”

The girl continued to wail, and Darcy sighed quietly.

When unhappy, she was not so easy to settle as she had been merely a few months before.

Bingley shrugged when Darcy glanced at him. “I am afraid that after she had shredded me to bits twice, she lost interest in chasing.”

“My dear, dear girl,” Darcy said to Emily, “you know that I must sometimes attend to other matters.”

She suddenly stopped crying and exclaimed, “Let me down! Down! Down. Put me down!” She then ran over to his writing desk, shouting, “Drawing, drawing!”

She climbed into Darcy’s chair, carefully pulled the quill out of the ink jar, and proceeded to scratch over what Darcy had written while cheerfully letting a great deal of ink drip.

Darcy took the quill from her and said, “You are not dressed in your writing apron. No using ink in these clothes.” The admonition was too late; there was already an ink blotch on her dress. He really should have stopped her sooner, but it was difficult to prevent her from playing her games and tricks when it was not absolutely necessary.

She had sneaked out of the nursery and crawled into his bed a few days after Mary died, sobbing and asking whether he would also fall from a balcony and die. He had let the girl sleep with him. She had needed the comfort. He had needed it as well.

The dim image of Mary falling as she lost her grip on her rope in the moonlight, the thud that her head had made. All mixed with Wickham’s startled face as his plan to run away with Mrs. Darcy ended, along with Mrs. Darcy.

“I want to draw like you!” Emily began to sob.

“I am writing.”

“I want to write like you. Write! Let me write.”

Darcy sighed. “If you are going to do this, we shall do it properly. I shall call for the apron first.”

“Hurrah!”