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was both surprised and, it must be confessed, secretly pleased to discover that Miss Mary was already in the garden as he turned onto the path toward Longbourn. She was not alone; both her elder sisters were likewise present, each evidently awaiting her suitor. Darcy and Bingley dismounted at once, and made their way without delay toward their intended, the couples soon dispersing in different directions.

Miss Mary alone remained where she stood, watching as tethered his horse beneath a nearby tree.

His recent visit to Town had accomplished its purpose, though not without some exertion. It required two days to persuade his commanding officer to consent to the sale of his commission. As he had anticipated, there was considerable resistance; they were eager to persuade him into yet another post. But he was determined to withdraw entirely.

On Saturday, the matter was settled: the requisite papers were signed and witnessed, and his return to Hertfordshire undertaken on horseback. He arrived at Netherfield too late to call at Longbourn, and with Sunday being the Sabbath, he was obliged to wait until this morning to see Miss Mary.

His intentions were now entirely fixed. He meant to pursue Miss Mary in earnest—to speak of his hopes, to describe the future he wished to share with her, and to entreat her to consider him as a suitor. Though he had not yet secured Darcy’s agreement to invest in Haddonwood, he remained confident of success on that front. And if it became necessary to withdraw part of his investment with Mr. Gardiner, he would do so without hesitation. He would not accept charity—not from his parents, and certainly not from a cousin who was as dear to him as any brother.

Much, it seemed, had occurred during the brief span of his absence. Aunt Catherine had arrived and, by all accounts, created no small disturbance. His mother, meanwhile, was said to be laying plans of her own, though had little notion of their nature. He even cherished a quiet hope that he might at last uncover the long-guarded secret his mother held over Aunt Catherine—an intrigue that had engaged his curiosity for years. Darcy’s engagement, as expected, had also taken place while he was away, though it was being kept secret for the present, so as not to interfere with whatever scheme his mother now pursued.

perceived that both Darcy and his mother had, ever since his return, worn an expression of quiet triumph—one that, to his increasing vexation, suggested they had long since guessed the true purpose of his recent journey to Town, though he had confided in neither. Their mutual air of having been proved right was almost intolerable. Still, for Miss Mary’s sake, he had endured it and would continue to do so.

“I trust, Colonel, that your affairs in Town were brought to a satisfactory conclusion?”

Miss Mary inquired, drawing him from his reverie.

“They were, Miss Mary,”

he replied with a slight nod.

“I sold my commission.”

“That is gratifying, I am sure,”

she said, her tone so moderate it might have been employed to comment on the weather. had anticipated—if not rapture—at least some modicum of animation.

He gave a slight frown.

“Is something amiss, Miss Mary?”

“And how, sir, do you propose to live?”

she asked, folding her hands with an air of calm but pointed interrogation.

Ah, so that was it. She was concerned—and rightly so. After all, he had—foolishly, and with more candour than was ever wise—confessed to her that he could not afford to marry as he chose. That had been spoken by a Colonel; now, he was not even that.

“Miss Mary,”

he said, doing his utmost to sound composed.

“Darcy has offered me a partnership in his horse-breeding enterprise.”

There was but a slight lift of her brow, nothing more.

He pressed on, explaining the particulars with the gravity of a man presenting evidence before a magistrate. The venture had shown steady profit, he said, and with expansion in view, it required additional capital—which, he was pleased to say, would be his own.

“All my funds, in fact, are entrusted to your uncle,”

he continued.

“Darcy placed them with Mr. Gardiner, and it is from that stock I shall draw to enter Haddonwood as a partner.”

Then, with sudden resolve, he turned to her fully and—very gently—took her hands in his.

“Miss Mary,”

he said, his voice low.

“I fear I may have—unintentionally—misled you. My attentions, which I cloaked in the guise of friendship, were never meant to trifle with your regard. At that time, I could not honourably pursue more. But now—now I am resolved.”

Her lips parted slightly—whether from surprise or in preparation for a rebuttal, he could not yet say.

“I will not pretend to offer you a life of luxury, nor one to which you are accustomed.”

Her eyes fell to the floor, giving a moment’s concern. Then she raised them again.

“Yet,”

he continued, regarding her with anxious hope.

“I cannot imagine a life in which you do not play a part.”

Her eyes flew open at this, sharp and searching.

“I am confident,”

he pressed on.

“that though there may be hardship at the start, I can apply myself with diligence. I possess, I flatter myself, a sensible understanding of horseflesh and a practical disposition—qualities that, in time, I believe will improve my circumstances. In light of this promise, Miss Mary, would you be willing to enter into an engagement with me?”

“Only know,”

he added, his voice softening.

“that I have endured much—far more than I have ever spoken aloud—and some of the scars left behind may take time to heal, if they ever heal at all. Yet I hold hope… that your presence might ease their healing.”

At this, Miss Mary gently withdrew her hands from his, placing them at her sides with composed dignity. She then took a deliberate step back, fixing her gaze upon him with the air of a governess surveying an unruly pupil. , to his chagrin, could not help but be reminded once more of Miss Gloomfell, his childhood governess.

“Scars, Colonel,”

she said, her voice rising, firm and commanding.

“are not easily healed. But they reveal much of a person’s character. I presume I am to understand this as a proposal?”

found himself on the verge of a smile, despite the gravity of the moment.

“I had thought that was clear, Miss Mary.”

“Very well,”

said she, without hesitation.

“Then I accept—because I am in love with you. You have given me more than you may know, ever since the day you first appeared to me in that grove. I had not known myself until you looked upon me and saw something worthy of your regard. And so—yes—I accept your proposal.”

felt something shift in the air—like the turning of a tide—and was just about to speak when she continued.

“However,”

she said.

“there is still the matter of scars.”

He blinked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“My uncle and aunt—the Gardiners. Have you been introduced?”

“I have not. Darcy managed all the arrangements.”

“Well, that will not do.”

She turned with decisiveness.

“They are here now. I imagine Fitzwilliam told you.”

“Fitzwilliam?”

She glanced over her shoulder with a smirk.

“Ah, yes. Since you ceased answering to that name at the age of twelve, I agreed to call your cousin thus—as he is to be my brother, after all.”

“I am content with it,”

he said slowly.

“But do you believe this is the time for such introductions?”

“I can think of none better,”

said she, with quiet authority. “Come.”

And come he did—though not without misgiving. knew Miss Mary was not of a romantic disposition, nor was he. Still, he had entertained certain expectations of how his betrothal was to begin. A formal introduction to the lady’s uncle was not among them.

As they approached Longbourn’s entrance, he caught sight of four figures in the distance, each observing him with expressions that ranged from polite curiosity to open amusement.

Darcy’s, in particular, bore all the signs of triumph.

Miss Mary walked with swift purpose, and he, with his long legs, easily kept pace beside her. When they entered the parlour, a gentleman—broad, genial, and distinguished by a scar that hinted at accident or misadventure—rose to greet them.

Across the room, a lady turned from a child’s lesson and regarded him. Her gaze was warm, yet steady.

took one look—and his faculties deserted him.

It occurred to him, with a sinking heart, that there was rather more behind the self-satisfied looks worn by both his cousin and his mother than he had cared to imagine.

It had been barely two days since Fitzwilliam had laid down his sword and sold his commission. He might have been forgiven for believing himself that he was, at last, beyond the reach of danger or exertion.

Yet he now perceived—suddenly, and to his cost—that the truest peril lay not upon any field of war, but here, in this modest parlour, before a lady who bore no weapon save a book of instruction and a look of uncommon sweetness.

She did not move, nor did she speak—but Heaven help him, he was quite undone.

Rosings Park, Kent

Lady Catherine

Lady Catherine de Bourgh remained firmly planted in the centre of her drawing-room at Rosings, her arms extended with the solemnity of one receiving tribute—though she bore no olive branches, only letters, one in each hand. Both unopened. Both delivered by express post. Both, she felt in her very soul, threatened to shake the very foundations of her authority and position in the world.

Three days prior, she had departed Hertfordshire with the smug triumph of a general returning from campaign. Not only had she extracted from that ambitious Miss Bennet a promise not to presume upon an engagement with her nephew, Darcy, but she had also cut short a most inconvenient complication. And all of it accomplished without a whisper reaching the ears of her brother or his wife, the Countess—those tireless, self-appointed guardians of virtue and reason. She knew full well they would never have sanctioned such intervention, not where their precious nephew was concerned. They had made it their mission, these many years, to thwart her at every turn.

And yet—these letters! One bore her sister-in-law’s seal, the other her brother’s. That both should arrive on the same day, by express post no less, could signify only one thing: her intervention had been discovered.

Lady Catherine was overtaken by a disquiet she would not acknowledge. It was not remorse—she held herself above such vulgar sentiments—but something colder, more deliberate. Alarm, perhaps. Or the earliest stirrings of dread. There were matters—long buried—that her brother and the Countess knew too well. Secrets laid to rest with care, which now, with one ill-considered journey into Hertfordshire, threatened to awaken.

She turned her attention to her sister-in-law’s letter. The paper was thick; its seal, half-crushed by the haste of the post. She broke it with swift resolve—then hesitated, as though the words within might scald her fingers.

Composing herself, she unfolded the page, and with a faintly theatrical air of disinterest, adjusted the spectacles she would never admit to requiring, and began to read.

Netherfield, Hertfordshire

My dear Catherine,

It has come to my attention—though only by the most innocent means, I assure you—that we both found occasion to visit Hertfordshire of late. How remarkable that our paths did not cross. Still, the air was thick with family concern; one could hardly mistake the scent.

I write to inform you that William’s affections are most seriously engaged, and his intentions widely observed. Any failure to bring it to its proper conclusion would no doubt provoke the kind of curiosity best avoided, especially by those of us who have long memories and excellent recall. You know how very attentive I am to detail, especially where the past is concerned—especially the past which others take such pains to bury.

You understand, I am sure.

With all appropriate regard,

Matilda

Lady Catherine uttered a strangled exclamation—somewhere between a gasp and a protest. The implication was as plain as daylight—and infinitely more disturbing: should Darcy fail to marry that insufferable Miss Bennet, the Countess would see fit to revive a certain ancient truth Lady Catherine had laboured for years to see securely buried.

This was no idle threat. Matilda had never favoured speech where a blow would serve.

But perhaps—just perhaps—her brother might yet be brought to reason. Surely he, at least, would act with the calm moderation proper to his rank and sex.

Clinging to this final hope as though it were a lifeline, Lady Catherine broke the seal on the second letter, and began to read.

Matlock House

Catherine,

I had not intended to remark upon your recent excursion to Hertfordshire, but as it has become something of a topic within the family, silence now seems rather more pointed than polite. I assume, of course, that your intentions were—as ever—inspired by your singular view of duty.

For years, I have exercised patience in the name of family harmony, often to the astonishment of others. But I trust you will understand that I no longer consider it my place to restrain my household—least of all my wife—when she chooses to act in the family’s true interest. I would advise you not to test the boundary between endurance and indulgence.

As for myself, I have found that some patterns, if indulged too long, begin to resemble permission. That, I think, would be unwise.

Draw from that what you will.

Yours,

Matlock

Lady Catherine sighed, and folded the letter. There was nothing for it. She must return to Hertfordshire—once more.

With great dignity, she rose and rang for her maid.

“See that a trunk is packed,”

she instructed.

“We depart at first light.”

Longbourn