Page 4 of Elizabeth Bennet and the Scottish Laird

Darcy's hands gripped the window frame. Elizabeth Bennet at Longbourn, managing the chaos of grief and practicalities. Comforting her mother, who must be beside herself. Dealing with solicitors and creditors and the hundred grim details that followed a death. And all the whilst knowing that in mere weeks, everything familiar would be torn away.

She would have nowhere to go. The Bennets had little beyond the estate itself. Mrs Bennet's jointure would not support five women in anything approaching comfort. They would be scattered amongst whatever connexions would receive them, reduced to seeking charity from relations.

The thought of Elizabeth Bennet in reduced circumstances, her pride forced to accept dependence, and her liveliness dimmed by want, was insupportable.

Yet what claim had he to concern himself with her welfare? She had made her opinion of him brutally clear.

“Will you attend the funeral?” Georgiana asked quietly.

Darcy had not realised he had been standing at the window for so long, the letter still clutched in his hand.

“I think not,” he said at last. “The family will have sufficient to manage without unnecessary guests.”

Even as he spoke, doubt gnawed at him. Should he not go? Offer whatever assistance he could provide? But his presence would only distress Elizabeth. Whatever help she required, she would not wish to receive it from him.

Georgiana set down her embroidery, her young face troubled. “You seem quite affected by the news, brother. It is very sad, of course, but you did not know the family well.”

“Bingley was attached to the eldest daughter. Mr Bennet and I spoke at length last autumn when he visited Netherfield. Bingley and Miss Jane Bennet did not pursue their courtship, and Bingley removed to Scarborough.”

“How dreadful for them all,” Georgiana murmured.

“Indeed.” Darcy returned to his seat, attempting to focus once more on the estate accounts before him. The figures blurred before his eyes.

Georgiana returned to her needlework, but her concerned glances suggested she sensed more than he had revealed.

Darcy made a pretence of attending to correspondence for the remainder of the morning. His mind returned again and again to Elizabeth. He could imagine her in her black mourning dress, facing the Scottish heir who would displace her from the only home she had ever known.

What might have been had his proposal been accepted? She would have been Mistress of Pemberley. Secure. Protected. Her family safe, their futures assured by his consequence and wealth.

But at what cost? A loveless marriage for her, bound to a man she despised. Her spirit crushed beneath obligation's weight.

Better by far that she had refused him, harsh though the rejection had been. Still, that knowledge did nothing to alleviate the persistent ache in his chest.

At luncheon, he found he had no appetite. Georgiana made several attempts at conversation, which he answered with mechanical courtesy whilst his thoughts churned elsewhere. Finally, she set down her fork and regarded him with open concern.

“You are not yourself, William.”

“Forgive me. I am poor company today.”

“Is there nothing to be done for the Bennets? You have always taught me that we have obligations to those in distress. Should you call on them?”

Darcy looked at his sister, so earnest in her compassion. How to explain that his obligations had been forfeited by his own behaviour? That the very person most in need of assistance would find his help abhorrent?

“My presence would not be welcome,” he said at last.

Georgiana appeared perplexed by this response.

After luncheon, Darcy retreated to his study, ostensibly to attend to business. Instead, he sat at his desk and read Bingley's letter again.

Miss Elizabeth bears the weight of managing everything.

Of course she did. Elizabeth would never collapse into hysterics as her mother surely had. She would be the one holding the household together, writing letters, receiving condolences, maintaining order whilst her own heart broke.

The urge to be there, to offer assistance, to somehow ease her burden, rose in him like a physical ache. Yet his presence would only add to her difficulties.

He rose and moved to the window once more, staring out at the busy streets of London.

He had spent five months attempting to prove to himself that he was not the man she had described. He had acknowledged his pride, his disdain for those outside his immediate circle, and his unjustified interference in Bingley's courtship.