Page 30 of Mr. Darcy’s Forgotten Heir (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A GENTLEMAN'S DOUBT
The drawing room at Bellfield Grange had been contrived by sensible hands for comfort rather than display: a bright fire, a well-scrubbed floor, a writing table set not for drama but for work.
The room possessed a warmth that Pemberley often lacked—perhaps it was the smaller scale, or the well-worn comfort of furniture chosen for use rather than display.
Aunt Eleanor sat at the writing desk. The scratch of her pen was the only sound in the room.
She did not immediately look up at his entrance, and Darcy took a moment to study his mother’s twin.
They were born identical, and while his mother had passed twelve years ago, he wondered how alike they would be if she had lived.
It occurred to him, not for the first time, how strange it was that his memories of his mother remained intact while so many more recent events had vanished into fog.
The physician had explained something about older memories being more deeply etched, but Darcy found the selectivity of his amnesia maddening.
“Good morning, Fitzwilliam,” Eleanor said, setting aside her correspondence. “You look better rested today.”
“Thank you, Aunt.” He crossed to an armchair positioned near the fire. “Though I confess I find sleep elusive in unfamiliar surroundings.”
“Bellfield has never been unfamiliar to you,” she replied with a hint of reproach. “You spent half your childhood summers here.”
“So I am told.” He could not keep the edge from his voice. “Along with many other things I am apparently meant to know.”
Eleanor sighed and rang for tea. “Your memory will return in its own time. The physician assured us that pressing too hard may do more harm than good.”
“I am not a child to be managed with vague reassurances.” Darcy stared into the fire. “Twenty-two months of my life simply… gone. And no one will speak plainly about what transpired during that time.”
“Because speculation and rumor serve no purpose,” Eleanor replied calmly. “Better to allow authentic memories to surface than to plant false ones.”
The conversation stalled as a maid entered with the tea tray.
Darcy watched the familiar ritual with detachment.
He had been subject to this dance of evasion since regaining consciousness—concern for his health used to deflect direct questions, half-answers offered with sympathetic smiles, and the constant, infuriating assurance that all would become clear “in time.”
“I must admit,” he began once they were alone again, measuring his words carefully, “I remain curious about your connection to the Bennet family.”
Eleanor’s expression did not change. “Do you.”
“I am aware of no connection between Countess Blackmore and the Gardiners of Gracechurch Street—textile tradespeople.” He heard the chill in his voice and let it stand. “Nor any connection between myself and Hertfordshire significant enough to justify such intimacy.”
“A remarkable number of connections will present themselves,” she said mildly, “when one is willing to look.”
“So I am constantly reminded.” He set his cup down with more force than intended, the china rattling in protest. “What possible connection could you have with the Gardiner family that would justify offering indefinite shelter to his nieces? One of whom has a questionable reputation, by her own sister’s admission? ”
“The Gardiners are people of substance and integrity, regardless of their address or profession. As for Miss Elizabeth’s reputation, I would caution you against forming judgments based on fragmentary information.”
“I prefer clarity to riddles,” Darcy retorted. “If you wish me to understand, perhaps you might fill in the considerable gaps.”
Eleanor chewed on her quill, considering him. “There are circumstances you do not recall and details I am not at liberty to spread before the breakfast tray. I ask you to trust me: the Miss Bennets are here by right of kindness, prudence, and—yes—honor.”
Honor. The word landed with an ungentle thud. His honor had become everyone’s favorite stick to measure him by, or to beat him with. Half of London had apparently measured it and found it wanting. The other half had been too busy watching him stumble over his own name.
The door opened and Georgiana swept in, all fresh cheeks and bright eyes. “Aunt Eleanor, Mrs. Honywood asks—” She stopped at sight of Darcy, then brightened. “Good morning, Brother.”
“Miss Bennet and I encountered one another in the library yesterday,” Darcy said, almost conversationally. “I confess I did not expect to find her free with the household’s books. I presume your kindness is boundless. I suppose Aunt Catherine has approved of this arrangement?”
“Oh, but Aunt Eleanor holds just as much rank,” Georgiana said with an impish smile. “Lizzy and Mary are such delightful company. Lizzy particularly—she has the most amusing way of?—”
“Miss Bennet’s amusement value is not in question,” Darcy interrupted curtly. “What concerns me is the influence such a woman might have upon impressionable young ladies.”
His sister’s expression shifted from enthusiasm to something approaching indignation. “Influence? Fitzwilliam, you speak as if she were some sort of corrupting force rather than?—”
“Rather than an unmarried woman with a child and a reputation in ruins?” Darcy’s words came out harsher than he intended, but his frustration had reached its breaking point. “Yes, Georgiana, that is precisely what I fear, and I want to know why Aunt Eleanor offered her refuge.”
“Oh! Well, Lizzy is—” Georgiana began, a flush rising to her cheeks.
“A dear friend of mine,” Eleanor interrupted smoothly, placing a hand on Georgiana’s wrist. “And in need of a quiet place to recover from family difficulties.”
Darcy did not miss the pressure of Eleanor’s fingers against Georgiana’s skin, nor the way his sister’s mouth snapped shut at the silent warning. The exchange lasted only a moment, but it confirmed his suspicion that he was being deliberately kept in the dark about something significant.
“I see,” he said, though he did not see at all. “How fortunate for Miss Bennet to have such influential friends in her time of need.”
“Fortune has little to do with it,” Eleanor replied, her voice taking on an edge he rarely heard. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have correspondence to complete before the post rider arrives.”
It was a dismissal, plain and simple. Darcy rose, leaning on his cane, and inclined his head stiffly. “Of course. Georgiana, would you walk with me? I find I require some exercise.”
His sister glanced at Eleanor, who gave an almost imperceptible nod before returning to her writing desk. The silent communication between them felt like another exclusion, another reminder that he stood outside a circle of understanding that once would have naturally included him.
“You have become quite close to Miss Elizabeth,” he observed when they stepped out into the Yorkshire autumn scenery. Sheep dotted the paddock, herded by a crew of efficient sheepdogs.
Georgiana stiffened. “She has been kind to me.”
“I do not doubt it,” Darcy replied, choosing his words with care. “She seems to possess a certain… charm. But I must caution you, Sister. Influence works subtly, and Miss Bennet’s is not the sort you should encourage.”
Georgiana stopped walking abruptly. “What do you mean by that?”
“Simply that her situation is… unclear. By her own sister’s account, she was cast out by her family. Such circumstances usually suggest impropriety of some kind.”
“Usually,” Georgiana repeated, her voice uncharacteristically cool. “But not always.”
“Rarely otherwise,” Darcy countered. “I merely suggest prudence. Until we understand the full circumstances?—”
“And yours, Brother?” Georgiana interrupted, color rising in her cheeks. “Have your influences always been so unimpeachable?”
Darcy blinked, startled by both the interruption and its content. Georgiana had never spoken to him with such defiance. “I beg your pardon?”
“You speak of Elizabeth’s reputation with such certainty,” Georgiana continued, her voice trembling slightly but gaining strength. “Yet there are rumors about you as well. Six months of rumors.”
“All untrue. I’m surprised at you, listening to gossip and lies. Why Aunt Catherine has declared them absolute twaddle.”
“How can you be certain if you cannot remember?” Georgiana’s eyes blazed with a fury he did not understand, or rather feared. Hadn’t he saved her from exactly this downfall at the hands of… that… militia man. What was his name?
“Because I know myself,” Darcy retorted, anger rising to displace his shock. “Whatever else I may have forgotten, I have not forgotten my principles. The rumors are false. Utterly false. I have never compromised a woman in my life.”
Georgiana’s face softened fractionally, but her next words landed with devastating precision: “Then where is your signet ring?”
His hand moved reflexively to the empty space on his finger where the Darcy signet ring should have rested—had always rested, since his father’s death.
Its absence had troubled him since he first noticed it missing, but the explanation seemed straightforward enough: stolen by the highwaymen who had attacked him.
“The thieves took it.” He touched his bare finger, the skin smooth where the weight of the ring should have been.
“Did they?” Georgiana asked quietly. “Are you certain?”
“What are you suggesting?” His voice had grown dangerously low.
“Nothing,” Georgiana replied, dropping her gaze. “Only that perhaps you should consider whether your certainty about Elizabeth’s character is justified, when there is so much about your own recent past that remains unclear.”
When he didn’t reply, she curtsied. “Forgive me, Brother. I have correspondence to attend.”