Page 65 of Count the Cost (The Secrets of Elizabeth Bennet #2)

T he long coach ride from Netherfield had Darcy uncharacteristically unable to concentrate on his book. The wedding he had so dreaded might be over, but now he was leaving with a stirring of hope within him; such hope as he had not imagined before making the journey.

Surely — surely she would not have spoken to him so civilly, stayed beside him at the wedding breakfast if she had not thought to give him hope. Would she?

He recalled the look in her eyes at the first sight of him, sure it was longing he sensed. Might he … could he … have hope?

Back in his library at Darcy House, he sank into his father’s old, worn leather library chair by the fire; comforting.

Reaching into the pocket of his jacket, the one nearest his heart, he touched the sample piece of doeskin; the one that Mr. Reed had given him just after Christmas, when they had discussed the contract.

Since he had discovered that the contract was with Elizabeth — Elizabeth — he had kept it with him, nestled in whichever pocket was closest to his heart.

He held the sample reverently, and touched it to his cheek. It was soft and pliable, like his favourite gloves. Elizabeth was so clever, so observant, and with a fine mind for ideas, for new things, for fabrics, and quality. She was utterly competent, sure of herself and independent.

Later, he sat in the same chair and sipped his after dinner coffee. He remembered Elizabeth at the house party, and her kindness both to her great aunt, and to the very young and very shy Lady Mildred.

And at the beginning of their acquaintance she had told him that ladies needed to feel special, and seemed pleased when he told her that Georgiana had found her shawl did just that.

Nobody else had ever spoken so plainly to him; it had been refreshing.

What might Georgiana’s life be like if she had Elizabeth as a sister?

Her warmth and courage, her self-assurance, and her humour; all would assist his sister to become more confident, he was certain.

Elizabeth would be worth every sacrifice he might give. She would change his life and that of those around her in only the most positive of ways. Could he win her? Could he persuade her to consider marriage?

His one visit to Oakfield displaced the thoughts in his mind. Her words were painfully clear in his memory. She had been insistent that she had to protect herself and her family from the scorn of society, and the disdain of those who sneered at the taint of trade.

She said she had to remain independent, and his pride at his own honesty and honour had blinded him to the import of her words.

He had, instead of discovering why she had done this, concentrated on his own feelings of rejection, of being deceived by her, and his own sense of humiliation.

He leaned forward and lowered his head into his hands, feeling he could not bear the weight of his own misplaced pride.

Of course he was wealthy, and working to make Pemberley even more so. But he had inherited a vast fortune. Easier to build on that than to start from nothing.

Elizabeth had started from nothing. She had built up her own fortune.

By dint of genius, diligence, seeing opportunity and weighing the risks and rewards in her mind and following through with that she deemed possible, she had made stunning progress.

In just looking at Oakfield, he could see she had earned her own security and comfort.

And what had he done? Burdened her with his own dismay, his own grievance and derided her wishes.

Why had she kept her secrets? He recognised that she had kept them from almost everyone, not just himself. She said that she was afraid gentlemen might attempt to compromise her to gain her fortune and her business. She wanted to feel safe.

Darcy groaned. And what had he done? Shouted down her concerns, saying that disguise of any kind was abhorrent to him. Selfish. He was a selfish being and it was no surprise to him that she could not and did not, trust him.

He had been wrong that she was not worthy of him, a Darcy. He was not worthy of her.

Wealth, connections, vast estates; none of them made him worthy of having her as his wife, protecting and loving her.

Elizabeth had been right; she did not need a husband — especially not a husband who would not listen, who did not hold her in the highest regard. His greatest duty and joy must be her comfort and contentment.

If he could win her, he would give his whole life to have her be happy and feeling safe.

He sat up straighter. There was no point sitting around feeling sorry for himself.

He must discover what she needed and take action — tangible evidence so that she could see it; so that marriage to him would mean she could be safe, could be a businesswoman, safe from the harpies in town, and with the protection of his name.

He must act.

He lifted his head at the knock on the door. “Enter.”

The butler came in. “A package has just arrived for you, sir.”

Darcy was puzzled, but on unwrapping it, his heart pounded heavily within him.

Inside, a pair of gentlemen’s dark doeskin gloves.

Hand tooled into the supple leather, on the cuff, the discreet lettering.

FD. The enclosed printed card read only “Compliments of Gardiner’s Eastern and Oriental Emporium. ”

How could Elizabeth have had his initials on the gloves? There had barely been time to package them up, and certainly not time to send them to Mr. Walters in Derbyshire to be tooled and have them shipped back to town.

Perhaps … perhaps she had ordered them earlier for him, and at that moment, his thoughts raced out of control, and he had to force himself back to the task he had set.

He glanced at the pile of correspondence that awaited his attention. Tomorrow, he must be in the right frame of mind to begin to catch up with the arrears of work that always piled up, even with only a short stay away.

Not tonight, though. Tonight he could think how he was to present evidence to Miss Bennet that he was a man of his word; a man of honour.

On the top of the correspondence was a thick packet, and the direction was written in the hand of his London lawyer.

He almost groaned; the packet undoubtedly held several contracts and leases which he would be expected to read, understand and make detailed comments and alterations on.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, when he could think of something other than Miss Bennet.

A sudden idea brought him to his feet, searching through the second drawer down on the left side of the desk. “Aha!” He snatched at the folder of papers and turned to the chair at his desk after ringing the bell and requesting more coffee.

Then he settled down to read the settlements his father had made on his mother, pen and notepad at hand.

Settlements were legally binding on the husband after the wedding.

If he could write that Elizabeth’s business and personal fortune, both current and future, were included in the document and settled on her absolutely, giving her the right to continue the business, close it, sell it, bequeath it to the person of her choice; then perhaps she would see that he loved her as she was, that he wanted the right to be beside her all the days of their life, giving her help and encouragement if it was requested, but staying out of her business unless she asked for assistance.

He would not make the mistake of trying to manage her.

He found himself wondering what had started her whole intention to build a fortune.

He smiled slowly at the papers in front of him.

He must not make the mistake of assuming she would be open to an offer; he would begin to call on her, not put pressure on her, allow her to perhaps see the real Fitzwilliam Darcy, and pray that she liked what she saw.

But he would be ready with the papers whenever the opportunity arose. He drew the chair closer, lifted his pen and began to write instructions to his lawyer, and he wrote on steadily late into the night.