Chapter Text
May 8, 1815, Darcy House, London
“You cannot leave now, Darcy. You must be seen.”
The sentiment was a familiar refrain that had haunted Darcy since the first weeks of the Season. He did not look up from the desk where he sat, his focus determinedly set upon the letter opener he was idly turning between his fingers.
Outside the windows of his London house, Mayfair teemed with the peak of the Season, a feverish mass of performative bustle and vapid laughter. This year, the gaiety felt particularly brittle, stretched thin by the news of the Usurper’s return and the frenzied mobilization of the army.
“London has seen enough of me, Cromford.”
As he spoke, Darcy did not miss the silent exchange of concern passing between his cousins. Viscount Cromford, the elder brother of Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam and the heir to the Earldom of Matlock, stood near the sideboard, his posture exuding the effortless authority of a man born to lead the family’s interests. Across the room, the colonel was seated by the fire, his fingers tapping restlessly against a copy of the Gazette.
“No one leaves Town just when the Season enters full swing,” said Fitzwilliam. “Not unless he has something to hide from.”
“Which is precisely why you cannot simply flee to Pemberley and bar the gates,” Cromford said. “The whispers have moved from the card rooms to the most exclusive assemblies. If you vanish now, Darcy, you will provide damning confirmation of their little tales.”
Darcy did not reply to that.
“They are calling her ‘Derbyshire’s Peak of Indiscretion,’” Fitzwilliam said, with none of his customary tact.
It was a cruel play on the famous geography of his home county, and exactly the kind of clever malice the ton rejoiced in. Hearing it from his cousin’s lips lodged a cold pressure within his chest.
Fitzwilliam continued ruthlessly, “And they are calling you worse. Leaving now, weeks before the first prorogation of Parliament, looks like a confession of shame, Darcy.”
“Let them call me what they will,” Darcy bit out, finally setting down the letter opener and pushing himself to his feet. His study was spacious by any conventional measure, but at present, the walls felt as though they were hemming him into a space far too small for his rising frustration. He paced toward the window.
“Oh they are,” said Cromford.
Darcy’s thoughts turned to the nursery at Pemberley, to the small, trusting face of the child within. “I have a responsibility that far outweighs the petty opinions of White’s or Almack’s. My place is in Derbyshire. At Pemberley, with Rose.”
“Yes, Rose. Such a dear girl.” Cromford spoke casually, as if the topic were of little consequence. “Speaking of responsibility, Darcy, I should like to hear your thoughts on her future. If you allow these rumors to solidify into truth through your own silence — ”
“I will thank you not to speak further of the rumors. I find them abhorrent.”
In the ghosted reflection of the windowpane, Darcy caught the look passing between his cousins.
“Perhaps we may strike a bargain, then,” Cromford said, his tone shifting into the persuasive one he employed for political maneuvering. “You may have your retreat to Pemberley. Indeed, go tomorrow, if the city has truly become such a trial. But in exchange, you will give us the first week of August.”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed. He knew the nature of his cousin’s ‘bargains.’ They were rarely innocuous, and never without a cost to his own solitude. “The first week of August?”
“Word has reached me that Lord Cresswell wishes to host a small gathering at his estate then. It will be an intimate gathering of the notable families in the county. If the Master of Pemberley is seen among them, accepted as usual, the rumors will lose their potency.”
From the mention of Lord Cresswell’s name, Darcy knew this was no mere social call. “I have no intention of attending.”
The hair on the back of his neck prickled at the hush that followed his words. He didn’t need to turn to know they were exchanging another significant glance, but he felt a chafe of irritation at the intuitive familiarity of it — the way they could so effortlessly synchronize their interference into his private affairs without a single syllable.
“Let us dispense with the fiction of a neighborly invitation, then,” Cromford said easily. “We all know what this is about. Lady Arabella will be there.”
No further elaboration was needed. Lady Arabella was the daughter of the late Earl of Strafford, and the niece to Robert Cresswell, Baron Cresswell. She was a woman of such exalted lineage and vast fortune that her mere presence sufficed to elevate the social standing of any room she entered. On paper, she was a flawless diamond of the marriage market: refined, accomplished, and irreproachable.
In short, she was the perfect mistress for Pemberley, and the mere thought of her in his house made the air in his lungs feel thin.
“I am not interested in a match, strategic or otherwise. And the prospect of a week of social entertainments holds even less appeal.”
“Imagine, if you will, my surprise,” said Fitzwilliam.
Ignoring him, Darcy continued firmly, “My presence is required at Pemberley. Rose is but two years old; she does not understand the frivolities of the ton, but she understands my absence.”
“She will understand a life of closed doors even better if you do not act,” Cromford said bluntly.
Darcy looked past the rooftops of Mayfair northward, toward the place that offered the only peace he could envision. Already, he was imagining the long ride home, the clean, country air where the wind did not carry the whispers of the ton, and the road that led him to his daughter.
The distant future, with all its inevitable social trials, was one he could not think of now.
“I will not go,” he murmured into the quiet of the room.
Cromford exhaled a slow breath. “Your refusal to acknowledge the rumors does not stop them from spreading. It only ensures that when the girl is old enough to enter society, the whispers you ignore today will be the only history she has to her name.”
“The ton will have discovered a fresh curiosity to occupy themselves with long before she reaches that age.”
Against the backdrop of the busy street, the reflection in the pane caught that damnable glance passing between them again; then, Darcy watched as Fitzwilliam artfully arranged his features into a look of gracious surrender.
“Very well, Darcy. If your heart is so set upon Pemberley, then I shall gladly depart Town with you at dawn.”
Darcy turned and eyed him warily. His cousin was rarely without a secondary objective. And while the prospect of Fitzwilliam’s society at Pemberley was usually a welcome one, under these circumstances…
“The carriage is already sufficiently encumbered,” he said flatly.
“I travel light; you will find my few personal effects present no obstacle to the swiftness of your departure.”
“Then there is the matter of the rumors. Cromford has made it clear that my departure will become a matter of unseemly debate. Your absence alongside mine will only serve to underscore the perception that I am validating their suspicions.”
His cousin laughed outright at him. “Truly, Darcy, you cannot believe me fooled by this unconvincing display of social caution. It is settled.”
“It is most certainly not settled.”
Fitzwilliam continued as if he had not spoken. “Let us say no more of house parties and strategic necessities. I shall be at your door at dawn, in full anticipation of pestering your trout and depleting your finest vintages.” He gave a sharp snort. “God knows I’ve nothing better to do while the rest of the army is in Flanders and I am left to ornament the London clubs.”
Darcy did not return his cousin’s smile. He knew he was being steered forcibly toward a destination he had already refused, and by the most literal of means: the house party lay to the north, and his cousin was attempting to secure a place for himself for every mile of the journey in that direction.
But across the room, Cromford’s mien had changed. He met Darcy’s eyes with a pleading look that stopped the retort on Darcy’s tongue. It was a plea to give Fitzwilliam a purpose, however trivial, to distract from the galling idleness of a safe London post. While the rest of the army moved across the Channel, Fitzwilliam remained behind, sidelined by the strings their father had so ruthlessly pulled to keep his younger son from the front.
Darcy looked back at Fitzwilliam — a blade left to chafe in its scabbard — and exhaled slowly. “Fine. You may accompany me north. But spare me the pretense. I know you too well to believe this discussion is truly finished.”
“Of course it is not the end of it!” his cousin exclaimed. “You are never to be rid of us that easily! We are your dearest — ”
“Affliction,” supplied Darcy wearily.
“Relations,” Fitzwilliam corrected with a grin, though he did not dispute the alternative. “And it is our duty to ensure you do not bury yourself alive in Derbyshire before we have had our say.”
“What a splendid moment of cousinly harmony,” Cromford said brightly, reaching for his hat. “But we shall leave you to your preparations.”
May 10, 1815, Hatchards, London
Elizabeth found a temporary refuge in the high shelves of Hatchards. Outside, on Piccadilly, she could hear the faint cadence of marching as yet another regiment moved toward the docks. The capital felt like a city under siege from its own anxiety. Every day brought fresh rumors from across the Channel; every night, the heavy rumble of supply wagons shook the windows.
But here, inside of the bookshop, the air was different. It was comforting, and still. In the worlds within these covers, one could skip to the final chapter to ensure that all was set right.
Elizabeth moved deeper into the shop, her fingers trailing along the spines of the new releases. She sought a distraction, a story where the characters were safe, and perhaps a little absurd, and the ending was happy. Her fingers had just closed around a book when the relative quiet of the shop was broken by the sound of a heavy footfall one shelf over.
She didn't look up at first, her focus remaining on the volume she now held in her hand. But then, a figure moved into the periphery of her vision.
The world seemed to freeze. She did not move; she barely dared to breathe. Her throat had gone dry.
The height was unmistakable. So, too, was the commanding line of his shoulders and the dignity with which he held his head. Each detail coalesced into an impression so familiar, so deeply etched into her memory despite three years of bitter memories and lingering regret, that it sent her reeling. Her heart gave a thud against her ribs.
Mr. Darcy!
The figure turned, stepping into the stronger light near the window.
It was not him.
The man was older, his hair a different shade, his features possessing none of the severe aspect she had spent a thousand days attempting to erase from her mind. He was merely a tall gentleman browsing the latest books.
Releasing a breath, Elizabeth allowed the tension to drop from her shoulders, leaving a strange ache in its wake. After three years had reduced her acquaintance with Mr. Darcy to a mere memory, with so many hurtful words between them, to discover that a passing resemblance could still possess the power to upend her composure so completely was the most ridiculous absurdity. She had persuaded herself that the past was long in the past, a lesson safely learned; yet here, in the dim light of a London bookstore, her own supposed indifference betrayed her.
With a mental sigh, Elizabeth forced her attention back to the shelf, her hand shaking as she replaced the book and blindly reached for another. Her fingers, still trembling from her internal skirmish, missed their mark. The book, along with two others, tumbled from the shelf.
“Oh, good heavens!” she murmured, a blush stealing over her cheeks. She bent quickly to retrieve them, but another hand, gloved and graceful, was already there.
Elizabeth looked up, an apology already on her lips, but her words paused as she took the measure of the lady before her. She was a woman of striking elegance — tall, fair, and possessing features of a classical perfection — yet it was the kindness in her hazel eyes that truly caught Elizabeth's attention.
“I believe these were in the process of being selected by you?” the lady said, smiling. Her voice was as polished as her attire, yet entirely without condescension. “Unless the Hatchards ghost has grown more aggressive in forwarding its literary recommendations?”
Elizabeth felt a laugh bubble up, dispelling the last remnants of her embarrassment. “Unfortunately, I cannot lay claim to any supernatural interference; my own clumsiness must bear the full credit for such a display.”
“Lady Arabella Seymour,” the lady introduced herself. “And this,” she gestured to the young man who had retrieved the other fallen books with an air of boredom, “is my brother, Philip, also known as The Earl of Strafford.”
Lord Strafford gave a stiff nod, his eyes passing over Elizabeth with dismissal. His countenance, though pleasing enough and possessing the same light coloring that distinguished his sister, was etched with a self-satisfied hauteur, an overzealous attempt at consequence beyond his tender years. She did not imagine he was much older than eighteen, however much he labored to appear a man of the world.
Yet if his greeting was wanting in warmth, Elizabeth’s was not wanting in propriety. She yielded the requisite curtsy, her expression remaining unfailingly composed as she addressed him. “Lord Strafford.” She held his gaze politely for a beat, then turned her full attention to his sister. “I am Elizabeth Bennet,” she said, holding her smile. She had long ago learned to offer her name with equanimity, though inwardly she braced for the inevitable withdrawal.
“I am delighted to meet your acquaintance, Miss Bennet,” Lady Arabella returned, with genuine warmth.
“The delight is mutual, Lady Arabella.”
The delight was also entirely unexpected. The name ‘Bennet’ was more often a cue for new acquaintances to recall pressing engagements elsewhere than a prelude to further connection.
Lady Arabella’s gaze dropped to the book Elizabeth held. “That particular book is an enchanting escape from everyday life. I recommend it highly.”
“Then I am glad my clumsiness brought it to my hand,” replied Elizabeth. “I am only too happy to escape reality with a good book when the opportunity arises.”
The other woman’s eyes lit up. “I have frequently found the people we meet on the page to be far superior to those we meet in the real world — present company excepted, of course.”
“Because they never overstay their welcome,” suggested Elizabeth, warming to her amusement, “or because they never insist on talking about the weather?”
Lady Arabella laughed, a light sound that drew a disapproving glance from her silent brother. “Precisely so! Oh, I am convinced we shall deal admirably together, Miss Bennet. Perhaps you would consent to call upon me this Thursday? I am often at home in the afternoons, and I should like very much to further our acquaintance.”
All her lightheartedness was instantly replaced by a familiar uneasiness. Elizabeth was not entirely certain Lady Arabella perceived the taint that currently clung to her family — and the thought of accepting a friendship offered in ignorance felt like an unpardonable deception.
“You are most kind. I am grateful for the invitation, but…”
I should be sorry if my association occasioned you any difficulty.
While she paused, mentally sifting through the various social fictions for a way to confess her situation without inviting pity or articulating the indelicate, Lady Arabella said firmly, “Miss Bennet, if my presence at your side occasions a few glances from the bored and the bitter, I shall find the spectacle entirely amusing.”
It was at that moment that Lord Strafford, who had been maintaining a posture of boredom while his impatience grew increasingly visible, stirred. His gaze sharpened. “Bennet? Wait. I have heard that name.”
“Pip,” Lady Arabella said, her voice dropping to a warning murmur.
The young earl scowled at his sister.
Lady Arabella ignored him and said to Elizabeth, “I recognize your name, and my invitation stands. Thursday, at four?”
With no remaining path of retreat, Elizabeth could only smile at how neatly she had been cornered and say, “I shall be there. Thank you.”
“Excellent. We are in Berkeley Square for the Season. You will find Strafford House easily enough; look for the stone lions at the entrance. Until Thursday, then, Miss Bennet.”
“I shall look forward to it. Good day, Lady Arabella. Lord Strafford.”
Elizabeth remained in place for some moments after they had gone, puzzling over the implications of the new acquaintance. Eventually she roused herself enough to select a book, before summoning her maid to accompany her back to the house the Bingleys had taken in Town.