Page 31 of Some Natural Importance (Pride, Prejudice and Romance #3)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

If he made his farewells, he did not recall it. Darcy scarcely recalled how he had managed to arrive in his rooms at Netherfield.

He had gone to Longbourn anticipating that he would be the welcome saviour to their troubles, greeted by Elizabeth—if not by the widow and her youngest daughters, who he assumed were uninformed of the plans—as the companion of her future life, the pillar upon which she could lean for strength and consolation.

When she had crumbled, her spirit and body sagging under the weight of her father’s loss, and fallen into his embrace, he felt he knew her heart.

Her arms wrapped around him; his arms held her tight.

She was so small. Always her spirit had overwhelmed him, but in his arms, pressed up against his chest, he could feel how truly slight she was.

The top of her head barely reached past his chin—of course he had had to kiss her hair.

It smelled of roses and fresh air; he knew he smelled only of road dust and himself.

But then she had pushed him away, confused and distraught.

Her father’s death was shock enough, but the news that she was to be his bride seemed to cut her more deeply.

She was...repulsed. By him. Clearly Mr Bennet had told her nothing, revealed nothing by letter or in conversation.

Had her father been too weak-willed to tell her, knowing of her dislike for her prospective groom, or simply too weak?

Had he been too ill and run out of time to explain his plan? Their plan?

Or was he a fool, the victim of a fine joke played by a dying charlatan?

No— that he could not believe. But he was foolish to assume a young woman scarcely ten days into her mourning could meet his words with any expectant joy.

Relief, yes. But an absolute ignorance as to his purpose, to the plan her father had set in place?

He could not be angry; there had been little time for Mr Bennet to explain and perhaps he had had no strength with which to hold a pen.

Patience. He must have patience, for now.

Darcy walked over to his traveling writing desk and pulled out the leather packet containing the marriage articles signed, and backdated, by Mr Bennet and their solicitors.

Darcy knew he did not have to marry Elizabeth to ensure the Bennets’ welfare.

The money in the bank would go through Mr Gardiner; Mr Philips could be engaged to oversee the return of the acreage and its profits to the Bennets.

Except for one ugly fact: the impending arrival of their cousin, who would inherit it all when he came and wed one of the sisters.

The security from such an alliance had always been Mrs Bennet’s hope.

She would be maintained and supported as mother-in-law to the new master of Longbourn.

Keeping the funds separate to support the Bennets would involve further subterfuge and some connexion to them.

Of course, Darcy realised he could oversee in full the caretaking operation from a distance.

But now, with the idea having been considered over many nights, he could not be satisfied with that, for himself or for Elizabeth.

He did not have to marry her.

He wanted to marry her .

She wanted neither to be true.

Five years ago, he had married a dying woman whose mother was more eager than she for the attachment.

Was he now to take another bride, uncertain of the attachment but driven to the altar by a parent?

He remembered Anne’s eyes, full of pain and sorrow, as she expressed her reluctance to tie him to her disgrace. Her mother would hear none of it.

“Darcy, now is the time for you to do as your mother and I planned, and marry Anne. Give the babe your name, give Anne the happiness she seeks and her health will follow.” The imperious tone he was accustomed to hearing in Lady Catherine’s voice was overtaken by desperation.

“We must do all that is required to preserve her name, the de Bourgh name. We must protect her.”

Too late, his aunt had finally protected her daughter—by demanding the sacrifice of her nephew’s future and his lineage. He had hoped for a happier bride in his second wedding.

Darcy hefted himself to his feet and looked for his jacket.

Bathed, dried, and rested, he knew he must join the rest of Netherfield’s residents for dinner.

His arrival, announced in a hurriedly written letter delivered late yesterday, had been unceremonious.

His carriage, carrying only his trunk and his valet, arrived not long after he had, dirty, hungry, and stewing in anger.

Had he known such an entrance would scare off Miss Bingley’s entreaties, he would have ensured to always present himself in such a way.

But good manners and social graces required he make an effort to greet his hosts; a tray in his rooms, though preferable, would be seen as a most peculiar affront.

“Darcy!” Hurst strode towards him. “Finally, some company in this house who is of no relation to me!”

Ah yes. Hurst’s mother, aunt, sister, and brother-in-law, Mr Robbins, were here as well. A merry party of strangers, whose conversations would divert him from his need to sort out practically everything.

“It has been good to have family about. Others have been less fortunate.”

“Ah, it is a bad business there with Bennet. A good man, seldom bestirred to action, struck down suddenly.” Hurst clapped Darcy’s shoulder. “You knew him better than I. The family is well, I hear.”

“You hear? Has no one called at Longbourn?”

“Louisa and my sister were there the other day. Said they have never seen so much black bombazine.”

“Has anyone heard from Bingley? I have not known the direction to send a letter.”

“Caroline knows it.” Hurst lowered his voice. “She does not write to him. She wishes him not to hear about Bennet and come flying back here to marry Miss Bennet. She is a pretty girl but now she brings four sisters and that mother with her into marriage. Caroline is concerned about any attachment.”

“Is she?” Darcy growled, purposely ignoring the incredulous look Hurst shot in his direction. “And she did not join your wife and sister in calling on the Bennets?”

“She had a cough and felt that if she was not herself dying, that she may infect and kill off the rest of the Bennets.” Hurst nodded towards the drawing room, where a rising beat of shrill voices awaited them. “Shall we?”

Must we? Hurst had delivered valued intelligence, and now Darcy feared he must pretend he was not affected by any of it.

“Of course.”

The moon yet lit the night sky when Elizabeth woke.

The sheets were rumpled, and the bed warm, made even warmer by Jane, who remained deep in slumber.

Elizabeth lay still, grateful her sister rarely woke till after eight, thinking on what Mr Darcy had revealed to her the day before and the conversation they must have this morning.

How could any of this be true? Her father would not scheme her—her!

—into a marriage based on financial solvency.

It was akin to selling her to the highest bidder.

Mr Darcy was beyond arrogant; he was a liar.

She would not believe what he said to her, nor what he claimed her father had agreed to.

She took a deep breath to calm herself. The words of Lieutenant Wickham filled her mind, confusing her more than ever.

If Mr Darcy was in need of money, why would he marry her ?

Nevertheless, Mr Wickham’s report on Mr Darcy’s character rendered his motives even more difficult for her to understand.

Claims of affection and a desire to help a family with whom he was hardly acquainted? Impossible! But what was the truth?

Quietly, she climbed over Jane and slid her feet onto the cold floor.

She slipped out the door and into her own room, and after washing and dressing, Elizabeth set out on the path to Larkspur Stream.

The sun was just breaking through the mist when she came down the small hill to the water’s edge.

Mr Darcy had arrived earlier, of course, looking tall and imposing in his black coat and black beaver.

Like a spider spinning its web, he thought he would ensnare her in his perverse scheme.

Well, she knew how to tear silken threads.

He turned, his expression bland, and bowed. “Miss Elizabeth.”

“Mr Darcy.”

He stood very still, then gestured towards the woods. “This path is little travelled at this hour. Shall we walk?”

“Please, sir.” She walked ahead a few steps and then turned quickly, her emotions brimming over.

“Let me understand the tale you have spun. My father, aware of his mortality, asked you to manage his affairs by purchasing a parcel of land that was not part of the entail, and then return that land or the profit from its sale to my mother and sisters under the condition that I marry you. Is that the sum of it?”

“You have the particulars confused with the motivations, but yes, in broad terms.”

“Whose motivations? My father’s or yours?”

“My only motivation was to lend assistance to your father.”

“By paying him to marry me, under the guise of buying land?”

His eyes betrayed a glimmer of irritation before he responded. “I ask you to set aside your scepticism and suspicion and think about what I have told you.”

Elizabeth could not fault that he seemed in earnest. Had her father been the same, thinking of how to assure his family’s well-being? Her eyes stung; how she wished she could imagine it, but she knew such a plan was beyond his energies. So had Mr Darcy been the architect of this plot?

“My father was no great schemer and he certainly was no planner,” she said slowly. “How could my father decide to tie our fates together? My father, who planned nothing beyond ways to escape attendance at assemblies and his wife’s company.”

Mr Darcy withheld his response until they each rounded their way past a pair of thick oak trees.