Page 3 of Only Mr Darcy (Obstinate, Headstrong Girl #1)

CHAPTER TWO

D arcy wakened the next day, far too early, with a gathering sense of guilt.

He had been angry. No—he had been furious. Had he lost his temper the slightest bit more thoroughly, he might have proposed to the pretty country miss he had danced with at last night’s assembly and—out of sheer retaliation for Lord Matlock’s insolent letter—found himself betrothed to someone barely acceptable in order to flaunt his own independence. Unfortunately, he probably had given the girl hopes, which he tried never to do. If he had danced twice with the same female at a ball in town, the morning broadsheets would already be spreading news of a pending engagement. He could not even remember the details of her face—only her overall impression of great beauty.

What is wrong with me? Why would I behave so poorly? I noticed the prettiest girl in the room, begged for an introduction, and then made my admiration public by asking her for two sets! I ought to have danced the duty-dances with Mrs Hurst and Miss Bingley and ignored every other female in attendance!

After his morning ablutions, he made his way to the breakfast parlour—which was thankfully empty. There was little that appealed, and although he filled his plate, afterwards he could not say what he had consumed.

When his man brought him the letter, however, his belly churned, and he wished he had eaten nothing at all. It was from Mrs Abigail Darcy, his spinster cousin who was now Georgiana’s companion. Somehow, he knew it would not contain any news that he wished to hear. Nevertheless, duty demanded he give it his immediate attention.

Dear Mr Darcy,

It is only with the greatest reluctance that I recount to you your sister’s progress—or lack thereof. As you know, I agreed to leave my home and position with Judge Darcy to assist you, only because of the obligation of family; our collective honour demanded it.

I am sorry to report that she does not seem to appreciate my sacrifice in the slightest, nor the sacrifice of her great-uncle Darcy, whose home is now suffering without benefit of my oversight.

As you know, under my auspices and with my tutelage, Judge Darcy’s two daughters married—and married well. I know whereof I speak. I understand what skills a young lady must possess if she expects to take with the ton. She must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve any attention at all.

To Georgiana, I can only credit her command of the pianoforte; in all other areas she is woefully lacking any skill whatsoever: her education has been conspicuously deficient. I have hired masters, but I must insist you order her to take more seriously the lessons they attempt to teach. She takes part but half-heartedly, with the sullen air of one who believes herself above such instruction.

She will never find a husband if she continues to behave in this insipid manner.

The letter continued on in this vein, full of rebuke and criticism and demands for improvement.

Abigail Darcy was not particularly benevolent or charming; she was fussy, strict, and arrogant. Yet, she was also the very pinnacle of propriety and discretion, a lady who would never steer his sister wrong amongst the censorious, judgmental members of the ton . She had guided his two cousins—neither of whom he thought half as intelligent, lovely, or good-natured as Georgiana—into successful matches. After the monstrous error he had made choosing the deceptively warm and affable Mrs Younge, he could hardly select a worse companion—and yet he felt that whatever he did, whatever move he made, it was the wrong one.

Obviously, his once happy and gracious young sister was not yet restored from her aborted entanglement with the nefarious George Wickham, and he was out of ideas for helping her to recover.

The sound of voices echoing beyond the door told him he was about to be joined at the meal by Caroline Bingley and her sister—the only people guaranteed to make an awful morning worse. Quickly, he tucked the letter into his coat pocket and slipped out of the room by the opposite exit. Not many minutes later, he galloped across the park upon his stallion Apollo’s back, alone, not desirous of any company—speeding through the fells as if he could outrace his conscience.

It did not help near as much as he wanted it to.

I do need a wife , he finally admitted to himself. I need help .

Almost in response to his surprise at the thought, he slowed the stallion to a walk.

Since his father’s death, he had done everything on his own—always feeling that he must. He had no one he could turn to for counsel or aid—not his conniving, money-hungry maternal uncle, the earl, nor his harsh, authoritarian paternal great-uncle, the judge. His father had warned him what accepting support from either of those two men could mean, in the long term; they were not men to whom it was wise to owe favours. His cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, was a friend as much as a relation; yet, look what trusting him had done: he had given Matlock a tool that could be used against them both.

There was no way to keep the colonel out of Georgiana’s life, regardless of his own wishes. Darcy’s father had done the best he could in naming Fitzwilliam as joint guardian, worried lest anything happen to Darcy before she was safely wed, and believing that the colonel was a good man who cared for her. But Colonel Fitzwilliam still answered to Matlock, who would clutch her settlement in his meaty fists with as much greed as Wickham if given the chance, and the shared guardianship was a thorn in Darcy’s side.

Even surrounded by friends, Darcy was, in essence, a lonely man. He had accepted that he always would be, that he would take a bride for Pemberley’s sake, but not for love—never would he allow himself to be that vulnerable again. But now, he needed assistance—no, worse, Georgiana needed it. A woman’s help, and as respectable a companion as Mrs Abigail Darcy was, his sister would never blossom under her exacting care.

Perhaps my actions at the assembly were not mistaken after all. Might Miss Bennet be an answer?

She seemed kindly and sweet; in their admittedly fleeting conversations of the evening before, her expressed interests were in simple, homely things, such as few females of the ton would admit to enjoying: creating receipts in her stillroom, stitching gowns for a tenant’s newborn child, playing charades with her sisters. She was a placid lake amidst a sea of schemers, and a man might find rest within her stillness.

“Am I losing my mind?” he asked aloud. “Have I found the unlikeliest solution in the world, or the best one?”

He kicked Apollo back into a gallop, not knowing the answer.

The day following the unhappy, unfruitful assembly, Elizabeth left the house early to do what she always did when the weather proved fair—and sometimes, like today, when it proved mediocre.

Fishing is a man’s activity , she had been told time and again by Mama, who said she would be humiliated forever if anyone outside the family ever discovered her fondness for the sport. Nevertheless, her father did not mind—Mr Bennet was inclined to do nothing except laugh about it. It was her uncle Gardiner who had taught her when she was but a child of eight. She could still recall him, sitting patiently upon this bridge on this very river, untangling her line whenever she snarled it hopelessly—which she had managed to do approximately every five minutes.

Uncle Gardiner had dared her to try it on her own once he had departed. Her mother had been very angry with him about everything to do with angling—and not out of any fear that Elizabeth might drown.

Elizabeth could not prevent a private smile at the thought of Mrs Long or Lady Lucas discovering that the second-eldest daughter of Longbourn was a mannish, wild fisherman. Her mother feared her own spiteful friends, and if those ladies ever discovered Elizabeth’s secret, they would surely needle Mrs Bennet mercilessly. Most of Longbourn’s tenants knew, of course. A new, sturdier, wider bridge had been built a few years ago farther upstream; although this older bridge Elizabeth favoured was seldom used by others, it still saw travellers, including their tenants. But they did not count, for they were protective, kindly, and did not gossip about Elizabeth.

Perhaps my willingness to share my catches has increased my popularity with them . She smiled to herself.

Elizabeth’s earliest fishing excursions had been wildly unsuccessful, so not only had she been required to cope with a hectoring mama, but had no fish to show for her trouble. But she had written to her uncle, asking him questions, and he had written back, answering them, sometimes illustrating lures and knots and hooks or even the fish snagged upon them. Of course, that was before Aunt Gardiner had come along; he had much more time to spare for letters and visits back then. Not that she would trade her aunt for a dozen letters per week, but it had been a nice way to capture and hold her uncle’s attention—she could admit that now.

Somewhere along the way, however, she had grown to love the sport, all on her own—even though, and perhaps even because , she was not supposed to.

What would Mr Bingley think of her fishing—angling, as her uncle called it—expeditions? Would he be horrified at the idea of his wife participating in such a thing? There were women who fished, certainly. The broadsheets sometimes called attention to this duchess or that countess on a fishing yacht, illustrated by drawings of women in regal, impractical attire, pole in the water. It was not as though it was completely unthinkable.

But those women participated in just the right way—surrounded by servants who would deal with tying lures or baiting hooks or netting slimy fish or anything and everything the slightest bit untidy.

Elizabeth glanced down at her bare feet, her dress drawn up to her knees and tied there to keep it from getting wet. Well, how else can I keep from ruining my clothing?

Besides, there was no sense in day-dreaming about being Mr Bingley’s wife as of yet, before Fate had turned him towards her; there was plenty of time for them to fall in love later. It was a good thing, really, that she did not immediately find him impressively attractive—it would prove, once everything had worked out satisfactorily, that all was as it was meant to be. They would laugh together about her finding him rather young and him finding Jane prettier. After all, that awful Mr Darcy was spectacularly handsome, and what good had it done anyone?

What if Grandmama had uttered the unique appellation ‘Fitzwilliam’ before she had died? came the disquieting thought. She shivered in response, even though the sun was now high in the sky.

It was probably time to go. The fish were no longer biting. She had a stringer in the river with her catch, six good-sized carp—most of which she would bring to the Ryder’s farm on the way home. Their five boys ate enough for five men, and Mr Ryder had been feeling poorly of late. She rose from the bridge where she had been sitting and tramped to the river’s edge; setting her pole on the ground, she began wading into the shallows.

A man’s deep voice nearly startled her into falling into the river. “What in the devil do you think you are doing?”