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Darcy

D arcy stood rigid with shock, having heard every word of the exchange.

He had been seeking a moment’s respite from the press of the ballroom when the voices of Mrs Bennet and Elizabeth reached him. Propriety demanded he make his presence known or remove himself, but the utterance of his name had frozen him in place.

What he had heard confirmed his worst suspicions—that the Bennet family viewed him primarily as a source of financial salvation.

More disturbing still was the revelation that this was not the first time this conversation had taken place.

It was clear Mrs Bennet had pressed her daughter more than once.

The wound inflicted by Elizabeth’s concealment of her connection to Wickham, barely beginning to heal, now throbbed anew with the realisation he was no more than a walking purse to her family who, if Mrs Bennet was any indication, had not yet understood that their own actions had caused Elizabeth to flee.

And what sort of person was she to keep the truth from him?

It was true, he would have been disappointed had she told him she once held Wickham in high regard, but he would have understood.

That alone would not have altered his good opinion of her.

But the combination of keeping this knowledge from him, and for weeks at a time, along with now seeing her family for what they were gave him pause.

Elizabeth had a chance then to clarify. In fact, she had had many chances. And she’d taken none.

Her father had been willing to all but auction her off for good financial terms and connections, her mother was thoroughly motivated by money alone, and while Elizabeth had appeared the very picture of kindness and honesty that had turned out to be false.

She was holding firm against her mother, that he had heard and given her credit for but was this to be their life? A father-in-law whom he could never truly trust, a mother-in-law who would never cease her attempts to extract coins from his purse, and a wife he could no longer fully trust?

These thoughts churning within him, Darcy made his way towards a set of French doors that opened onto a terrace. The night air, cool against his face, provided little relief.

“Darcy! There you are!” Charles Bingley’s voice cut through his dark reverie. “I’ve been searching everywhere. What are you doing out here alone?”

Darcy turned to find his friend approaching, a glass of champagne in hand and a look of anxious excitement upon his face. “I required air,” Darcy replied shortly.

“You’ve been looking rather grim all evening, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

Darcy accepted the glass with a nod of thanks. “I apologise if I have dampened the festive atmosphere of your ball.”

“Not at all,” Bingley assured him. “Though I confess I have been hoping for your advice on a matter of some importance.” He glanced towards the doorway, as if to ensure they were alone, then continued in a lower voice. “I intend to make an offer to Miss Bennet before your departure for Pemberley.”

Darcy stiffened. “An offer of marriage?”

“Of course!” Bingley laughed. “What else could I mean? I have been practicing my address for the last half-hour. Would you care to hear it?”

Before Darcy could respond, Bingley launched into a heartfelt if somewhat rambling declaration of admiration and devotion. Under normal circumstances, Darcy might have found his friend’s earnestness endearing; now, with Mrs Bennet’s mercenary calculations ringing in his ears, he felt only alarm.

“Well?” Bingley asked, his expression hopeful. “Do you think she will accept?”

Darcy took a moment to formulate his response, torn between loyalty to his friend and the desire to save him from what he now perceived as a family of fortune-hunters. “Bingley,” he began carefully, “have you considered whether Miss Bennet’s regard equals your own?”

Bingley’s brow furrowed. “She has given me every reason to hope that it does.”

“Has she?” Darcy pressed. “Or has she merely been polite to an eligible gentleman who has shown her particular attention? I have observed her carefully, and while she receives your attentions with pleasure, I detect no special preference that would indicate deeper feeling.”

“No special preference?” Bingley repeated, his confidence visibly faltering. “But she smiles whenever I approach. She accepts my every invitation to dance. She listens to my conversation with interest.”

“All behaviours that might be expected of any well-bred young lady towards a gentleman who has shown her distinction,” Darcy pointed out. “I worry, Bingley, that you may be mistaking good manners for genuine attachment.”

Bingley’s face fell. “You think she does not care for me? You indicated before that you should she cared for me. We spoke of it just days ago.”

“My acquaintance with her was hours old then,” Darcy said, choosing his words with care, “that the Bennet family is in a precarious financial position. The estate is entailed away from the female line, and Mr Bennet has made unwise investments. Mrs Bennet is desperate to see her daughters well established.”

“What are you suggesting?” Bingley asked, a note of disbelief entering his voice.

“That your fortune may be a significant factor in the family’s encouragement of the match,” Darcy replied bluntly.

“I have just overheard a conversation to that effect. Mrs Bennet spoke explicitly of her designs upon my own fortune through Elizabeth, and her hopes for financial security through your marriage to Miss Bennet.”

Bingley stared at him. “Surely you do not believe Miss Bennet herself to be motivated by such considerations?”

Darcy hesitated. He had no wish to malign Jane Bennet’s character, yet he could not dismiss the pattern he perceived. “I believe Miss Bennet to be guided by her mother in most matters. She is a sweet-tempered girl, but perhaps not strong-willed enough to resist family pressure.”

“I cannot credit it,” Bingley said, shaking his head. “Not of Jane.”

“Consider this, then,” Darcy pressed. “Would it not be wiser to test the strength of her regard? Return to London for a time. If her attachment is genuine, it will withstand a brief separation. If it is not, you will have saved yourself from a potentially disastrous alliance.”

Bingley contemplated this and at last nodded, though his expression remained troubled. “You have never steered me wrong, Darcy. If you believe this course to be wise, I shall follow it.”

“And you ought to discuss it with your sister. A woman’s perspective is always helpful,” he said.

His guilty conscious reared its head for he knew Caroline Bingley would end any hope of romance between Bingley and Jane Bennet if given the chance.

He pushed it aside. He was acting from the best of motives, to protect his friend from the same greedy entanglement that he now feared had ensnared him.

They re-entered the ballroom, where the dancing continued. Darcy’s eyes sought Elizabeth immediately, finding her in conversation with Charlotte Lucas. She glanced up as they entered, her gaze locking with his for a moment before he deliberately turned away.

He would have to speak to Elizabeth about what had emerged but he did not yet know how and where this might lead.

On their way here, he’d been determined to make their marriage official with a blessing from the church, with a celebration attended by their loved ones. A real wedding, a real marriage.

Now, he now longer knew if what they had resembled anything real at all.

He thought back to the agreement. He would help her establish herself, peruse her dream of writing.

He had done that. She had a meeting with her publisher very soon.

He had freed himself from Lady Eleanor. They had what they’d wanted.

And the agreement was if one or the other felt there was no merit to the union anymore after the agreed upon term expired, they would suffer the scandal of annulment and be free once more.

He hadn’t thought he would ever entertain such a thing but now he had to wonder, was everything that had grown between them based on dishonesty? He did not think she was a fortune hunter like her mother, but she had lied. And if she had lied about Wickham, what else had she lied about?