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Chapter Seven

D arcy did not like calling at Matlock's dower house in the summer.

The drawing room was always stifling, the tea overly perfumed, and the dowager countess never permitted the windows to be opened past half. But he went, as he always did, because she was the only person besides Georgiana and Richard who knew the full truth of what had happened in Ramsgate.

And the only person still capable of helping him salvage it.

The dowager Lady Matlock sat like a queen among her cushions, lace cuffs tucked neatly at her wrists, her fan tapping a rhythm that suggested impatience or percussion training. It was impossible to tell which.

“You have had no luck with the letters,” she said as soon as the footman withdrew.

Darcy shook his head. “None. The solicitor I approached in Ramsgate claims Wickham departed with no fixed address. My last inquiry was returned unopened.”

“And you are certain Georgiana wrote more than one?”

“She believes it may have been four. Possibly five.”

Lady Matlock pursed her lips. “You must find them. Before someone else does.”

“I am aware.”

“And under no circumstances are you to inform your aunts or uncles.”

Darcy glanced up, startled. “Do you take me for a fool?”

His grandmother’s fan snapped closed with a precise flick. “Do not look so scandalized. You think your uncle has not his resources? Or that your Aunt Catherine would not write Wickham herself to pay for the truth? They would love to lord this over you.”

Darcy grimaced.

“Exactly,” she said, satisfied. “This is between us. And if you must enlist help, do it quietly. But no family. We cannot afford a single whisper.”

“I…” Darcy cleared his throat. “I have written to Colonel Fitzwilliam.”

His grandmother narrowed her eyes. “That was indiscreet.”

“How? He is out of the country! I had to speak to someone who knew Wickham as well as I did. I hoped…” He sighed. “Well, never mind what I hoped. But he did have one or two relevant suggestions.”

The dowager thinned her lips and emitted a small noise. “That is as may be. Now. What do you mean to do about the will? You have not employed your time well these last months.”

Darcy winced, shifting in his chair. “Not as I intended to spend it, no. It is not as simple as choosing a name from a hat.”

“You have less than seven months.”

“Closer to six.” He ran a hand through his hair. “And I have met a parade of women who make the condition more difficult with every passing fortnight.”

“Do go on.”

He did, without irony. “Miss Morgan recited Paradise Lost for forty minutes in a perfect monotone. How she managed it while dancing, I shall never know, but she paused only to ask if I liked her gown. Miss Fenton insisted I fence with her father before she would consider speaking to me.”

“What is wrong with that?”

“Her father is deceased. Rumor has it that Miss Fenton’s mother made him so.

” Darcy went on, gesturing with his fingers as he ticked off each name.

“Miss Hopewell brought her sisters—all of them—to our second meeting and informed me of her favorite baby names—plural. Miss Witherspoon will not speak unless spoken to, Miss Wyndham will not stop speaking if addressed once, and Miss Claremont insists she has visions. Of my future. Which involves goats.”

Lady Matlock blinked.

Darcy continued, “I have been offered sketches, locks of hair, family Bibles, and one rather disturbing embroidery of my initials entwined with the phrase ‘Yours eternally’ in French. The thread was pink.”

She picked up her fan again. “I am sorry, were you expecting sympathy?”

“I was expecting strategy.”

“My strategy is: leave the house.”

Darcy scowled. “I have attended every dinner, musicale, and charity auction you have insisted upon.”

“Last year . And you left them all after twenty minutes and posted your cousin Lady Regina at the door to fend them off as you departed.”

“She enjoyed it.”

“ You enjoyed it. How many wasted opportunities, Fitzwilliam?”

He looked away. “I… I did not expect to be… quite so occupied during my final year.”

Lady Matlock tilted her head. “Have you any prospects at all? Friends to visit? Eligible connections to mine for possibility?”

Darcy hesitated. “Fitzwilliam is still in Spain. Coming back next month from what his last letter said.”

“What else?”

He cleared his throat. “Bingley wrote.”

“The tradesman?

“No longer. He has just signed papers on a new estate. He wants me to visit. Soon.”

“Well, thank heaven. You must go.”

“I have not finished—”

“You never do. Go.”

Darcy’s face evaporated into horror. “Bingley has a sister.”

Lady Matlock shrugged. “So much the better. Is she single?”

“She is worse than all the others combined.”

“Then she will manage to make some other woman jealous enough to speak up for you. Where is this estate?”

Darcy paused, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. “Hertfordshire.”

The countess narrowed her eyes. “ Where in Hertfordshire?”

He sighed. “Near Meryton.”

Lady Matlock smiled. Slowly. Like a cat watching a teacup tip off a shelf.

“Oh,” she said. “ Her .”

Darcy’s chest went tight. He had not said her name. He had not even thought it… had not dared to.

“I never said—”

“You did not need to.”

Darcy grimaced. “You recall the lady, I see.”

“Elizabeth Bennet,” she said easily. “How could I forget? The girl with the notebook. The ribbon. The best charity bid I ever witnessed.”

“She is not—” Not a solution. Not an option. Not… but the words collapsed mid-thought.

“You will go.”

“I cannot—Georgiana—”

“I will keep her with me.”

“Preposterous! You want me to… to traipse across England with no goal, no plan, nothing but a deadline and my hat in my hand?”

“Then have a wife shipped in from Ireland. No? That prospect does not appeal to you, dear boy? Then you are going.”

He opened his mouth.

“You have no argument left,” she said, eyes bright. “And very little time.”

He closed his mouth.

Lady Matlock picked up her fan again. “You leave Thursday.”

Darcy rose, defeated. It was not a battle he had lost—it was one he had never truly tried to win.

“Yes, Grandmother.”

D arcy had already begun to regret coming before the carriage had even reached the gate. Curse the dowager and her strategic chessboard. He had no idea what move this was supposed to be, only that he was the piece getting dragged across the board.

The hedgerows were trimmed. The gravel walk swept clean. The house itself was modest but dignified, its facade just symmetrical enough to be smug. Bingley stood on the front steps like a man welcoming the future. Darcy felt like the messenger sent to retrieve it. Empty-handed.

Darcy stepped down and handed off his coat.

“Charles,” he said, as evenly as possible.

“Darcy!” Bingley beamed. “You made it.”

Darcy looked over the landscape. “It is very… green.”

“It is perfect,” Bingley said. “The soil is excellent, the neighbors friendly, and the entire thing cost less than a chandelier in Mayfair.”

“I do hope you are not comparing them directly.”

Bingley laughed and ushered him inside.

The entry hall smelled of new leather and ambition. The furniture had arrived just last week, but Bingley had already thrown two dinners and received calls from most of the neighborhood. He was thriving.

Darcy hated how much he envied it.

“I expect you will want to rest,” Bingley said, leading him toward the study. “But I cannot let you avoid everyone forever. We are attending the Meryton Assembly tomorrow.”

Darcy stopped walking. “I beg your pardon?”

Bingley turned, cheerful and oblivious. “The local gathering. A sort of ball, but with worse music and more cake.”

“I did not come here to dance.”

“You came here to meet people, did you not?”

“I came here to humor my grandmother.”

“And she told you to leave the house.”

Darcy narrowed his eyes. “For someone who has met the dowager but twice, you have an unsettling knack for guessing her motives.”

Bingley laughed. “It is not difficult. One need but know you to guess her advice. You can frown at the corner all evening if it makes you feel better. But I shall drag you out by the lapels if needed.”

Before Darcy could answer, a swish of silk and cologne announced the arrival of some female.

Miss Bingley.

“Mr. Darcy,” she said, sweeping into the room with a curtsy just short of a bow. “You are looking as fine as ever. So very… statuesque.”

“Miss Bingley,” he replied, inclining his head. “And you are… rather glowing.” Anything would glow wearing that shade of yellow.

She beamed as though it were a compliment. “Charles has spoken of nothing but your visit for days. I do hope you will not be too put out by our provincial entertainments. I find them quite amusing.”

“I expect they will be memorable, madam.”

Bingley clapped his hands. “Excellent! Then it is settled. We go tomorrow.”

There it was, then. The first social gauntlet.

He had not even unpacked his cravat pins, and already the battlefield was set.

L ongbourn was a flurry of pins and petticoats.

Kitty and Lydia had seized the best mirror in the house. Mary had taken refuge behind her prayer book. Jane sat at the writing desk, dutifully copying out a note of thanks for something no one would remember by next week.

Elizabeth had retreated to the window seat, her journal closed but within reach, pencil tucked behind her ear. She had not written anything worth keeping in days.

“My dear girls!” cried Mrs. Bennet from the hallway. “You must make haste! It is nearly four and we have not yet decided which gowns to wear!”

“We have,” Lydia called. “Kitty’s wearing the pink, I am wearing the blue, and Mary is wearing melancholy.”

“I prefer the green,” said Mary, without looking up.

Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder. “It suits your temperament.”

Jane smiled faintly, but said nothing.

The front door slammed. Charlotte entered, brushing dust from her gloves and pulling her bonnet free with an air of dramatic timing.

“I bring news,” she announced.