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It must surely be counted among the more unfortunate workings of Providence—and among man’s more enduring miseries—that the very individual a gentleman would most ardently wish never to behold again should not remain at a comfortable distance, glimpsed only in the press of a ballroom or from a passing carriage, but should instead emerge as the near relation of the very lady to whom he has but this moment offered his hand.

In the varied annals of gentlemen’s misfortunes, such unhappy coincidences may not be without precedent; and , with what humility he could summon, did not presume himself the first to suffer so mortifying a fate. Yet in one particular, he believed his case unmatched: that he had entrusted the whole of his modest fortune—the same sum upon which he had, in recent weeks, founded all his hopes—to the management of the very gentleman he had long hoped never to meet again.

To , the revelation descended with all the crushing weight of retribution. That one foolish act of his boyhood—an act so unpardonably rash, so violently at odds with every tenet of gentlemanly behaviour—that solitary blot upon his otherwise unexceptional record of conduct had risen from its shallow grave, summoned by the hand of Providence with the merciless punctuality of Nemesis herself.

had first made the acquaintance of Miss Madeline Chambers when he was but six years old. He was in Lambton with his uncle Darcy and his cousin; together, they paid a visit to the bookshop there, an establishment his uncle frequented with some regularity. Behind the counter stood a young lady of perhaps ten or eleven, her face freckled and her curls escaping in lively disorder, who kindly offered to share her barley sugar with the two boys as though it were the most precious of gifts. sat perched upon the counter in wide-eyed awe, watching her dart about the shop like a woodland sprite among the shelves.

The acquaintance did not end there. , a frequent visitor to Pemberley, found himself in Lambton with a constancy that never failed throughout his childhood. His uncle’s errands to the bookseller—twice a week, without fail—became minor adventures, and the boys never failed to accompany him. Miss Chambers was always there, always cheerful, and always—though he did not yet know it—impressing herself more firmly upon his youthful fancy during the six years that followed.

He did not think himself in love. At twelve, no boy ever truly does. Yet there was, in every young gentleman’s upbringing, a season of absurd devotion to some poor girl who never asked for it. George Wickham changed muses as often as cravats. Even the stoic Darcy, with his early fondness for decorum and stiff collars, had once been struck senseless by a visiting niece of Mrs. Reynolds—a lively creature who left broken hearts and overturned flower pots in her wake.

’s feelings, however, were quieter, stranger—less romance than enchantment. He did not understand it. He could not have named it. And yet, under its spell, he committed one of the greatest blunders of his youth.

The news of her marriage reached him only on the very morning it was to take place. He had come to Pemberley the previous evening for a brief visit and was at breakfast when Mrs. Reynolds, that unwitting bearer of misfortune, casually remarked to Uncle Darcy that a wedding gift for Miss Chambers must be seen to.

froze; his fork halted midway, his tea untouched. Before the toast had grown cold, he had already quitted the house.

He rode without design, yet—as is often the case in such unfortunate circumstances—found himself at the very church where the ceremony was to be performed. He had no purpose beyond observing silently from a side window. But alas! Fate—and the lingering recklessness of youth—conspired against him.

As he stood amidst the gravel and dust of the churchyard, a small stone, unremarkable in every way, came into his hand, as if drawn there by instinct rather than will. He scarcely marked its weight before it had flown from him. Whether it was jealousy, despair, or sheer folly that urged him to cast it, he never knew. But cast it he did.

And, merciful heavens!—he struck the groom.

He fled the scene with the swiftness of a highwayman, his identity, fortunately, concealed. That was the last time he had set eyes on Miss Chambers—until this morning.

And now he stood quite at a loss: ought he confess? Offer an apology? And would it even be received? One had only to glance at Mr. Gardiner’s brow to see that the injury had been both deep and severe. A little lower, and the poor man might have worn a black patch over one eye for the rest of his life—and such a detail never looked well in a family portrait.

“You were in love with my aunt, and now you have proposed to me,”

said Miss Mary, in a tone so composed it might have served to note the hour or the weather.

could only marvel at her composure. She had spoken not a word since their encounter with Mr. Gardiner in the parlour—an introduction during which had done his utmost to smile, to bow, and not to disgrace himself entirely. Miss Mary had stood by in silence, gracious and unflinching, like a figure carved in stone at the threshold of some classical tragedy.

Now, on the garden path, she had spoken at last. And , whose dignity had suffered no small injury, could do little more than return her gaze with the pained, rueful expression of a man who found his romantic past returned to him with more force than fondness.

“I was twelve, Mary,”

said he, with the solemnity of a man standing trial for high treason.

She glanced up at his use of her Christian name, and he was almost certain he saw the faintest curve of a smile before her eyes returned to the gravel at her feet.

“Old enough,”

she replied, with perfect composure.

“to very nearly kill a man. Or, at the least, to leave him half-blind for life.”

“Mary,”

he said again, ignoring the gentle reproof in her arched brow.

“I need your advice. Should I come forward? Confess all? Apologise? What would your uncle say? And your aunt—how might she react?”

Mary turned to him slowly, looking at him as one might upon a man freshly recovered from a head injury.

“You caused my aunt to faint outright in the middle of her wedding ceremony. And now you ask how she might react?”

paled.

“It was only a pebble!”

“It was my uncle’s forehead,”

she returned.

“And had it landed two inches lower, I might have had to introduce you today as the gentleman who blinded my uncle in one eye, and is now seeking to join the family by marriage.”

“I was twelve,”

he groaned.

“Must we speak of it now?”

“Yes,”

said Mary, her tone positively cheerful.

“For now that you are in a most pleasing state of contrition, we may turn our attention to a matter of greater import.”

He eyed her warily.

“What, I beg, could be of greater importance than my imminent disowning by your entire family?”

She stopped walking. He stopped too, reluctantly, as men do when they sense a trap but have nowhere better to go.

“I think,”

she said slowly.

“that the time has come for you to accept the Rosemont estate from your father.”

His jaw fell open.

“Darcy,”

he muttered with a dark look.

“I shall make him regret this.”

“Indeed,”

she replied, her brow arched.

“Shall you cast another stone in righteous fury? I must caution you, however—this mischief was not the doing of your cousin. The command, I regret to say, came from a much higher authority.”

“My—? Mother? She knew about—about this?”

Mary nodded with infuriating serenity.

emitted a sound somewhere between a groan and a supplication, and collapsed onto the nearest bench, as one struck down in battle.

"I ought to have accepted that commission in Portugal," he muttered into his hands.

"Well," said Mary, folding her hands demurely before her, "since you did not—and now find yourself encircled by forces on all sides—might it not be wiser to wave the flag of surrender and spare yourself further distress? Surely even the army would advise as much."

He peered at her through his fingers, warily.

“You are enjoying this.”

“Immensely,”

she said, and smiled with such satisfaction that any proper chaperone would have summoned smelling salts.

Then, in a gesture that exceeded the usual bounds of modesty, though not of affection, she took her place beside him and laid one gloved hand upon his arm. A silence fell between them, and neither spoke for some time.

"I was on the point of walking away that day, Mary," he said quietly. "The day we met again in the grove. I had waited for an hour on both previous days, yet you never came. That day, I waited half an hour, then turned towards Netherfield, never to visit again. Yet, for reasons I cannot name, I felt compelled to retrace my steps to the grove once more."

Mary smiled, not with amusement now, but with a softness that stilled him. "Had you walked away that day, I might have spent my life giving sermons to hedgerows and drawing-room chairs. But you did not. You stayed, and I have known life in its truest sense ever since. It is a gift I shall never forget. I love you for it."

He looked at her, taken aback by the quiet intensity of her tone.

“And because I love you,”

she continued.

“I shall speak plainly. There is no shame in accepting Rosemont: none. It is not charity. It is your inheritance, offered with affection, not condescension. Indeed, your honour will be all the greater if you accept it as such, and prove yourself equal to the task of managing it.”

He shook his head, the motion heavy with frustration—or despair.

“I cannot, Mary,”

he said, his voice roughened by conflict.

“You can,”

she replied, her tone gentle yet resolute.

“You merely will not.”

“I always meant,”

he said, faltering.

“to save enough from my commission. To make something of myself before I—before I ventured to offer for a lady like you. I wanted to be able to support you by my own resources. I have tried—I have struggled—but it has never been enough. To accept Rosemont would be, to me, to admit that I have failed.”

Mary reached for his hand, folding it in both of hers.

“,”

she said softly.

“to love a man for his pride is to love a shadow. I have no need of pride. I have you. And you have done more with your life, more with your honour, and more with your heart, than any other man I know.”

He stared at her, uncertain whether he ought to argue or fall to his knees.

“If your parents and your brother offer you a home, take it. And if you cannot do so for your own sake, then do it for mine. I want a husband who will not ruin himself in the name of stubbornness, but will thrive for the sake of those who love him. It is not weakness to receive what is offered out of love. You must not mistake pride for principle.”

There was silence for a long while.

He sighed.

“Very well. I shall accept it. But I wish you to know I am doing so under duress.”

Mary rose, satisfied.

“Of course you are. As any intelligent husband must, from time to time.”

“And you will not speak of... the incident... again?”

She leaned close.

“Only when it is useful, my dear. And on that subject, I find I require one more thing.”

regarded his betrothed warily. She had already proved herself a worthy opponent in the game of strategy—though he rather suspected his mother had dictated every line in advance.

“Only this,”

she said, offering her hand to help him rise. She bent toward him—but then, halting, turned her face aside, a maidenly blush rising to her cheek.

She said nothing, nor was it necessary.

For knew what was asked of him.

And, for once, he did what was needed.

Some time later, they found themselves once more upon the familiar bench—that silent witness to so many negotiations of the heart.

stirred first.

“I believe I must go and see your father. He is already aware of the nature of my affections.”

“I suspected. He would not have danced with me otherwise.”

“You still have not answered my earlier question. Ought I go to your uncle and make a full confession?”

“No,”

she said firmly.

The simple syllable had the weight of a verdict.

“I do not expect my uncle to punish or provoke,”

she continued.

“He is not a man who wastes his energies on grudges. And of greater consequence—I do not wish you to abase yourself for a mistake made when you were but a boy.”

stirred, visibly uneasy.

“Still, Mary… I shall have to see the man. Frequently, I imagine. I cannot like the notion of carrying it with me, like a spectre haunting every gathering. Would it not be better to speak of it openly, and be done with it?”

“No, ,”

she said again, more gently this time, and added, with a dry smile.

“It is of no consequence now. It has fulfilled its purpose.”

“Ah, so the only purpose was to coerce me into accepting Rosemont.”

“I coerced no one. And I do not believe you agreed to my request out of guilt for a boyhood folly. Do you?”

“No,”

admitted .

“While I have every confidence in my ability to manage and improve Haddonwood, I now prefer a quiet life—with you beside me. I have endured enough noise to last a lifetime.”

“I thought as much,”

said Mary, the corners of her mouth lifting in quiet satisfaction.

Then, quite without warning, sprang to his feet.

“Before I go and request your father’s blessing—and submit myself to his undoubtedly thorough scrutiny—I must ask one further thing of you.”

Mary looked up, curious.

“Which is?”

“Now that you have proven yourself a tactician worthy of the Fitzwilliam name, I require your assistance in our final offensive—a decisive and elegant counterattack.”

“What sort of villainy are you planning?”

“That,”

said with a dangerous smile.

“must wait until after I survive your father.”

As it happened, the interview was brief, though not without its share of merriment. Mr. Bennet, with the sly humour that was the curse and delight of his household, observed that his wife was already near to bursting from the strain of keeping one daughter’s engagement a secret; he could not, in good conscience, saddle her with another. A compromise was swiftly reached: Mrs. Bennet would remain blissfully in the dark for precisely one day.

was satisfied. A single day was all he required.

And he meant to use it—thoroughly, precisely, and with a flourish.