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was beginning to comprehend something of the nature of the young lady beside him. Her peculiarities of manner, her unfashionable tastes—these sprang not from a desire to appear singular, as he had once supposed, but from something more sincere. She had, it seemed, never been allowed the liberty to form a just opinion of her own worth.

In a household such as the Bennets’, where liveliness passed for merit and beauty for virtue, Miss Mary had been granted neither distinction nor guidance. Among sisters so bright and easily understood, she had been overlooked, and neither her father nor her mother had thought to draw her forth. She had been left, as it were, to raise herself. And when, in some hour of trial, she found the solemn comfort of moral instruction, she clung to it with the earnest devotion of one long neglected. The sermons had not merely shaped her views; they had defined her. She had never been shown another way.

And yet, despite all this, one image returned to him with constant insistence: Miss Mary in the grove, her hair unpinned, her countenance unguarded, caught in a moment of careless freedom, as though quite another person. Her eyes sparkled not with learning, but with life. Should he never see her again, he was certain that single, fleeting sight would remain with him all his days.

He was well aware—though it was an uncomfortable thought—that by his casual remarks on sermons and the much-debated Vindication, he had, however unintentionally, made a breach in the fabric of her beliefs. He had no wish to undermine her. The conversation had arisen naturally, without design. Yet still, he feared the effect had been considerable.

That evening, found himself alone in the quiet of the Netherfield library. He knew not why he was so often drawn to Miss Mary Bennet. He was fully aware that their connection could never rise above that of mere acquaintances. The Bennets had no fortune, and Miss Mary no dowry. Despite his frugality, he had not the means to entertain such a connection. And to accept Rosemont as a gift from his father was a notion utterly repugnant to him, contrary to every principle he held.

Yet, as he reflected, it seemed as if providence had dictated his interactions with Miss Mary. Their exchanges had been marked either by sharp disagreement or by subjects too grave to be called small talk. He took it for a blessing in disguise. With each meeting, he fancied Miss Mary must grow wearied of his company, and the thought of raising any expectation in her appeared but a remote prospect.

“Lost in thought, ?”

his mother inquired as she entered, Darcy following close behind.

“Another family war council, then?”

asked.

“Have you succeeded in dislodging Bingley from his library this time?”

“There is little risk of ever needing to remove Bingley from a library,”

Darcy replied, taking a seat.

“From the billiard room, perhaps—or the ballroom—but never the library.”

“Very well,”

said , sighing resignedly.

“And what now, Mother?”

Lady Matlock regarded him with a look that mingled amusement and reproach.

“I must say, , I had expected better of you.”

He stiffened involuntarily but recovered at once, adjusting his posture with studied ease.

“And what offence may I have given this time, Madam?”

he inquired, with the utmost innocence.

“Truly, ,”

Lady Matlock continued, her tone dryly amused.

“for a man of your rank—indeed, a Colonel—I had hoped for a subtler approach. You can scarcely imagine how plain it was when you so openly signalled William to walk with Miss Mary before the entire parlour, merely to distract Mr. Collins from William’s obvious regard for Miss Elizabeth. It was altogether too overt! And then to go straight to Miss Elizabeth and proffer your invitation yourself—so excessively direct. You may thank me, my son, that I was present to repair what might otherwise have led to a most unfortunate scene.”

relaxed in his seat, a faint smile curling his lips.

“It served its purpose, did it not?”

he said.

“As for Mr. Collins, I might have avoided him easily, had the need arisen.”

“Indeed?”

Lady Matlock regarded him with dry scepticism.

“Why all this contrivance then? Darcy is his own man, and Catherine has no true claim to govern his affairs. As I wrote in my letter—let her make what noise she pleases; she has neither bite nor power to do any real harm.”

“Aunt,”

said Darcy.

“I do not seek to provoke division within the family. Aunt Catherine is my mother’s sister, and I would not willingly estrange myself from her. It would grieve my mother deeply to see such discord.”

“What, then, is your intention, nephew?”

inquired the Countess.

“Are you to marry Miss Elizabeth in secret, and acquaint your aunt with the news only when it can no longer be undone?”

“I cannot say,”

Darcy replied after a thoughtful pause.

“I confess I have entertained such a notion. Yet I would far rather endure my aunt’s displeasure in silence than give her cause to descend upon Longbourn, intent on censuring every Bennet within reach. I must secure Miss Elizabeth’s regard, and I will not allow any impediment to obstruct the course of my suit.”

“Very well,”

said the Countess, after a moment’s reflection.

“If you would have me exert my influence with Catherine, you need only say so. I shall also endeavour, William, to secure you a few moments of uninterrupted conversation with Miss Elizabeth. I am considering suggesting to your friend that he invite his betrothed for a day at Netherfield, under the guise of discussing any changes to the mistress’s chamber. I have little doubt Miss Elizabeth will accompany her.”

Darcy looked up in surprise.

“Thank you, Aunt,”

he said, with mingled gratitude and astonishment.

“Oh, but there is more to the matter, William,”

Lady Matlock continued, her tone growing more serious.

“It is my hope that Miss Bingley will observe how a true lady conducts herself with those in her service—and, more significantly still, how the servants ought to respond to her instructions.”

, eager to change the subject, was quick to interpose.

“And to what purpose, Mother? Has she not already witnessed your manner with the household? Can that not suffice?”

“There is a difference, ,”

replied the Countess.

“As a peeress, I am entitled to privileges which a young woman of no consequence may not presume to claim. Should the servants show Miss Bennet respect, it is due to her conduct during her former stay.”

nodded.

“I see. And how do matters lie with Miss Bingley, then?”

“Oh, poor girl,”

said the Countess, with a sigh of affected compassion.

“She conducts herself as though under some unseen restraint. Yet I daresay it is as well she remain in such delusion a while longer. Let her believe herself bound, until I see fit to set her free—by which time, I trust, she will be far more tractable.”

Indeed, as the Countess had so shrewdly observed, Miss Bingley’s conduct had undergone a change. She had, as promised, ceased all attempts to pursue either Darcy or , and now directed her attentions wholly toward her benefactor. Her eyes were ever upon Lady Matlock, studying each movement with anxious care, in a vain attempt to discern the lady’s approval or displeasure. In truth, Miss Bingley appeared bound to the Countess as though fastened by an invisible thread.

“I might also invite those two younger girls—Miss Lydia and Miss Catherine,”

the Countess remarked with a dismissive wave.

“Georgiana seems to take pleasure in their company.”

Darcy stiffened in his seat, his expression hardening.

“William, you need not speak,”

Lady Matlock interrupted, before he could protest.

“They are young girls—ill brought-up, to be sure—but there is no cause to forbid Georgiana’s association with them. The connection may yet be turned to advantage—for all parties. I shall keep a watchful eye. You need not trouble yourself.”

Though Darcy appeared unconvinced, he said nothing.

“Moreover,”

the Countess continued with the composure of one long used to being obeyed.

“they will be your sisters too, William, should you succeed in winning Miss Elizabeth’s affections. They cannot be left quite as they are. Someone must attempt to educate them—and I, for my part, am not unwilling to undertake the task.”

“If you intend to invite the younger girls,”

said Darcy.

“then I believe Miss Mary should be included as well. It would be unkind to exclude her.”

Lady Matlock turned to him, her brows slightly raised, and her smile tinged with amusement.

“William, I never expected to hear such a lesson in sensibility from you,”

she said.

“Miss Elizabeth must indeed be an extraordinary influence.”

gave a laugh of unrepentant amusement, for which Darcy rewarded him with a look of exasperated betrayal.

“Regardless,”

said the Countess, undeterred.

“Miss Mary’s disposition is rather singular. She appears to prefer her own company to that of any other. Only yesterday, the two of you nearly compelled her to accept your invitation to walk—and when she returned to the parlour, she looked as though she had endured a constitutional of ten miles in mourning. I dare say she was most eager to be anywhere else.”

There was a pause; then she added, after a moment’s reflection.

“No—I shall not invite her. Not until I have formed a clearer notion of her character. At present, she is a mystery to me.”

leaned back into the chair. It meant that, on the day the Bennet ladies were to visit Netherfield, he would have no opportunity of seeing Miss Mary. He could not very well go to Longbourn alone, merely to speak with her.

Why the thought should trouble him, he could not say.