Page 8 of Penned by Mr Darcy (…By Mr Darcy #3)

Darcy

A fter they had been to Meryton to ask the doctor to pay another visit to Miss Bennet, he and Bingley went out to the wider Netherfield estate for a ride.

It was a relief to be free of their guests and the others in their party.

Bingley was an oddity to Darcy, in that he found his presence so easy to endure, as though he were not in company at all.

As they galloped through the countryside, Darcy felt his mind begin to clear, as the tension that had so tightly wound began to melt away.

They came to a stop next to a stream, and they both dismounted to allow the horses to drink. Bingley sat on the grass, paying no mind to the dampness, and stared out ahead. Darcy studied him closely, a dreamlike expression on his face that Darcy did not like the look of at all.

He soon discovered why.

“I am going to ask her to marry me.”

Darcy had to bite back the first retort upon his tongue. It felt inevitable, really, for Bingley’s adoration for the girl was palpable, but to hear the words out loud was another thing entirely.

“I would not advise it.”

“Why?”

“You barely know her!”

“It does not matter. People have married far sooner!”

“And how many of those people are happily married? In my limited experience, hasty marriages are long regretted.”

“You are a cynic. We need not marry quickly; I have no objections to a long engagement.”

“Then why rush?”

“Life is short, Darcy. She is gravely ill! What if she dies without knowing my true feelings?”

“Miss Bennet is not going to die.”

“You do not know that. Have you truly never been in love, Darcy?”

“I have not – and I would wager that you have not either.”

“You do not know what you are talking about.”

“I know that a pretty girl has smiled at you. I do not think that the basis for a lasting and meaningful union. I have seen little else to suggest that Miss Bennet has any attachment towards you.”

The hurt in Bingley’s expression was obvious. His pale cheeks tinged red, something that always happened when he was angry – or embarrassed, or happy, or really when he expressed any emotion at all. How tedious, Darcy thought, to have your body betray your secrets so easily.

“Is it so impossible that you do not understand a situation?” Bingley said sharply.

“You see only what you wish to see. Just because you believe society is filled with fortune hunters who would only pursue us for our wealth, does not mean that it is true! Even if it were true, Miss Bennet is quite aside from all of that.”

“She is the eldest of five unmarried daughters, the father of whom is an insignificant gentleman with an entailed estate. Do you really believe that they have not been instructed to entangle any single man of worth?”

“You are too distrusting.”

“Why should I trust people I do not know? The world is not as easy as you would have it, Bingley.”

“Miss Bennet is entirely trustworthy.”

“Is she?” Darcy asked. “Tell me, and tell me honestly, you have had no invitation to visit her room after nightfall?”

“Darcy!” Bingley exclaimed, his face now the exact shade of a ripe summer strawberry. “How dare you?! She is a lady, and she is gravely unwell!”

“Forgive me.”

“There has been no such invitation, and nor shall there ever be. I am appalled you would even make such a suggestion. I do not understand the nature of your quarrel with the Bennet family. I have found them very welcoming during our time here.”

“Too welcoming, perhaps.”

“I disagree.”

“I urge you to consider if she is suitable for a wife.”

“Suitable? Her father is a gentleman, no matter what your own opinion of him may be, and that is far more than can be said for mine. She is kind, and beautiful and…”

“And has given you no indication that your feelings are returned.”

“You have seen little of us together!”

“Precisely. You have spent very little time with her, and it is little more than fantasy than to claim undying matrimonial love after two dances and a period of convalescence in your house, in which time you glimpsed her twice through a door!”

“What is this really about, Darcy?”

“It is about protecting you from yourself.”

“I am not a child! You look at me as though I know nothing. Well, I do know myself, Darcy. I know what I feel, and I know what my heart is telling me I must do!”

“I beg you, please do not make a decision whilst she is in residence. I say this only out of concern for a dear friend.”

“I cannot claim to agree with you – but I will wait, as a favour.”

“Thank you.”

“Do not tell Caroline. I am sure that she and my sister would scheme and plot if they do not agree with the match, and I do not have the energy to have everyone against me.”

“I am not against you, Charles. I am very much with you – which is why I urge you to move carefully. I would not see you with a broken heart.”

“I will keep your warning in mind, but speak no more of it.”

“That is all I ask.”

They remained in silence, staring at the horses.

“I am sorry if I spoke harshly of Miss Bennet,” Darcy eventually said. “It does not mean that I retract what I said, but I am sorry to cast doubts over her character.”

“But you are not sorry to have insinuated she does not care for me?”

“No, I am not.”

“I think I will return to Netherfield to see that Miss Bennet is well. Perhaps you should ride on. Something has gotten you riled up, Darcy, and I do not believe it is my fault. You should clear your thoughts before you return, lest you offend everyone who cares for you today.”

Darcy remained silent, his eyes fixed on Bingley as he turned his horse from the stream and mounted once more. With a swift kick to the animal’s side, Bingley was gone, galloping into the distance and leaving Darcy alone in the quiet wake of his departure.

He drew a slow breath and lifted his gaze to the sky. He was steadfast in his belief that his counsel to Bingley had been justified; he would not retract it. Still, perhaps his delivery had been… flawed. These matters were never simple, and he seemed to stumble with every attempt.

Moving toward the water’s edge, he stared down at the rushing stream.

Its ceaseless flow mirrored the state of his mind since Miss Elizabeth’s arrival—restless, unordered, and impossible to calm.

Maybe it was that very turmoil, born of his own helplessness, that had compelled him to caution Bingley.

The stream gurgled over the rocks, indifferent to his presence, carrying on without pause—just as the world seemed to do, no matter his turmoil. Darcy crouched, his gloved fingers brushing a smooth stone at the water’s edge, grounding himself in the moment, in something tangible.

He had not anticipated how thoroughly Miss Elizabeth would unsettle him. Her wit, her candour—so unlike the women of his usual acquaintance—had pierced through his defences with alarming ease. She had a way of seeing him, truly seeing him, and it unnerved him more than he cared to admit.

And yet, it was more than that. There was a steadiness in her, a fire tempered by compassion, that had taken root in his thoughts.

He had come to believe it a danger—not to himself, but to Bingley.

Jane Bennet's composure, so serene it bordered on unreadable, had left Darcy uncertain of her feelings.

He had spoken as he thought best, out of loyalty, out of care.

But even now, a whisper of doubt lingered.

The breeze stirred the trees overhead. He stood slowly, brushing dust from his coat, the silence around him deepening. It was done. Bingley would return to town, and Miss Bennet would be left behind. It was the right course.

Wasn’t it?

Darcy turned from the stream, the question still echoing as he rode back to the house.

When Darcy entered the house after seeing to his horse, he removed his riding gloves with slow, deliberate movements, stretching his stiff fingers as he crossed the threshold.

The doctor was just making his departure, his expression sombre.

At the sight of his grave face, a flicker of regret stirred in Darcy.

Regret for what he had said to Bingley about Miss Bennet, and for having questioned the severity of her condition.

“How does Miss Bennet fare?” Darcy asked, his voice low.

“It is as I feared. Winter fever, with particular sickness in the lungs,” the doctor replied with a sigh.

“I see.”

“I’ve told Mr Bingley I shall return first thing in the morning. If she shows no improvement, I will apply leeches. Poor girl. I was present when she was born, and for the births of all her sisters. It’s difficult, seeing her like this.”

Darcy gave a quiet nod. The words brought to mind the physician from Lambton, the man who had delivered both him and Georgiana. Would that doctor speak of him with such familiarity, such feeling? Was it possible to hold affection for a life one had merely observed at its edges?

“Good day, sir.”

“Good day.”

Darcy turned away, ascending the stairs without pause. He had no appetite for conversation. The argument with Bingley echoed endlessly in his thoughts, each repetition chipping away at his certainty, leaving behind an uneasy hollowness.

“Mr Darcy.”

He paused. The voice was unmistakable.

“Miss Elizabeth.”

She stood at the top of the landing, eyes red, her composure visibly frayed.

“Forgive me,” she said softly. “I didn’t expect anyone to pass through here.”

“You’ve been crying.”

“Yes,” she said with a heavy sniff, her hands rising and rubbing at her pink cheeks. “Yes, I suppose I have.”

“Why?”

“My sister’s condition worsens, Mr Darcy. And I can do nothing. I sit beside her and try to comfort her, but I am helpless. Forgive me. No doubt a more accomplished woman would bear it with grace and restraint. I fear I am not that sort.”

“I do not think less of you for it. What has changed in her condition?”