Page 6 of Mr Darcy’s Quizzing Glass

Wickham set down his empty glass and took the letter from him roughly, staring at the still-warm seal as if he wished to destroy it.

“I wish you a happy life, George,” Darcy said evenly. “Go and visit your father while you can and think on your future.”

“So I shall, since the Darcys clearly want no part of it.” Wickham pulled open the door angrily.

Darcy followed, and watching his former friend stalking down the corridor, tapped the quizzing glass. His character is unchanged. I have no need to use this.

But it was a test, was it not? His father had believed in it. Darcy was not certain, other than its usefulness in ledgers written by near-ancient hands, that he did. Quickly, before he could change his mind, he lifted it to his eye before nearly dropping it, a wave of nausea flooding through him at the sharp, piercing, cold blackness emanating from Wickham.

The following day brought with it the dreaded meeting with Mr Farnham, a neighbour who had long annoyed his father and who Darcy quickly suspected would seek an advantage over the young, untested, and bereaved master of Pemberley. He did not require a quizzing glass to see that the man was unctuous and slick. He had his late father’s word on that. Still, as Mr Farnham droned on about a verbal agreement made the previous autumn, Darcy began fidgeting.

“Is there any written document signed by my father?”

“No, it was an agreement between neighbours!” Farnham scowled, his fleshy cheeks wagging. “Our families have shared a border between those fields for a century and never found a reason to put names on paper to attest to goodwill.”

“Redirecting a stream to flood one of Pemberley’s fertile fields in order to establish a new road requires more than a handshake between neighbours.” Darcy’s eyes fell to the hand he had shaken only ten minutes prior—it had been strangely soft, with fat fingers like sausages; Farnham held both hands in his lap and stroked them as though they were painful or precious—or busily plotting his downfall.

“You must admit that a road is needed on higher ground,” said Farnham, “and there is no evidence that flooding would occur. It may wash out seed for a season, but no more.”

He tossed a sheaf of papers on the desk. “You cannot rely on your steward for everything, Darcy. Look at the maps.”

Darcy frowned, unhappy the older man understood his instinct to call Tompkins. Unrolling the maps, he peered closely at them. The temptation to use the glass was near overwhelming. Father had not, exactly, said he should not. And after all, he was already certain of his judgment of Farnham’s character. He had brought it for…for encouragement, so to speak, a reminder that he was his father’s son. Still, it was only a certain humility that made him reach for the quizzing glass—an assessment of his own judgment. Upon hearing Farnham’s chuckle, he lifted his eyes and the glass to the man.

Soft, clear light.

Well. He had failed his own test.

Misjudging a man because he repulsed me was foolish, Darcy chastised himself later. His father might not have liked Farnham and disapproved of his manners, but he had made numerous agreements with him. He had trusted his neighbour’s character, likely only after discerning it with the quizzing glass.

That decided it: much as he did not like to admit it, Darcy needed the assistance. Until he had the seasoning of experience, he would rely on the glass. A year or two, at most.

FOUR

February 1811

Since arriving in town two days earlier, Darcy had spent too many hours in his study or at his uncle’s table. Today brought no relief. He had sat through three interviews for a new companion for Georgiana; no matter what the agency had noted in its paperwork, the first two applicants were clearly unsuitable.

The third woman, however, had qualities warranting more scrutiny. He approved of her manners, and after listening carefully to her French and her thoughts on lessons and reading material, Darcy had almost deemed her worthy of the position. And yet, her stern surety in herself, while admirable, was likely excessively harsh for a girl as reserved as his sister. Of course he would not make such a decision alone. He lifted the quizzing glass from his desk to peer at the lady over her letter of introduction.

A shadow of black pulsated around her. Stunned, he shot to his feet and moved towards the door, swinging it open wide and beckoning the footman hovering nearby.

“Mrs Younge, I thank you for your time.”

An expression of angry surprise flitted across the woman’s countenance, securing for him that his estimation of her was correct. She rose, gave him a cool look, and saying nothing in response, disappeared through the door.

Roiled by angry relief that only his possession of the quizzing glass had kept him from endangering his own dear sister, Darcy took himself off to his club, where he proceeded to ignore his friends’ urgings to attend that evening’s amusements at Lady Hervey’s card party.

The last thing he needed tonight was a coquettish female or an acquaintance eager to ask his opinion. In the past few years, he had done enough in society—and raised the quizzing glass far too often—to understand the ambitions and schemes of the ton. A discussion of the weather would turn quickly to suggestions that he meet someone’s daughter. ‘So accomplished, and her dowry is more than generous.’ Another conversation on the state of the roads might inspire a proposal for his investment in a mine or a shipping concern. ‘Five thousand pounds, which you will double in a year. It is a certainty.’

The words and behaviours were familiar, the smiles and invitations cloying and disingenuous. Darcy had a small circle of those he counted as true friends, whose decency and goodness was obvious. Finding a lady of similar merit was difficult. Every time he was tempted to further his understanding of a young lady by looking through the glass, he was stopped by a single thought.

Am I unable to choose my own bride? Is my judgment so weak, my will so irresolute that I rely too much upon its powers alone?

Yet he had nearly made a dreadful mistake choosing Georgiana’s companion; why should he believe he could select his own?

Thus the conundrum he faced: power for greater insight was thwarted by the fear of learning he had no discernment at all. No one is perfect, Darcy thought, before concluding that Thomas Grey was correct: ‘Where ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to be wise’.

And rather lonely.