Page 2 of Strange Happenings at Longbourn (Darcy and Elizabeth Variations #11)
Chapter Two
Darcy spent the ride back to Netherfield in heavy contemplation. He had not expected to see Miss Elizabeth atop the small hill they called Oakham Mount. Compared to the Peak, it was rather disappointing, though it did offer a lovely view of the surrounding fields and houses.
Miss Elizabeth had been truly gracious to forgive him so readily.
Darcy did not deserve it. His petulant words were beneath him as a gentleman, and he ought never to have uttered them.
In truth, he had not realized she had overheard them at the assembly; still, his conscience had pricked with guilt as Bingley had shrugged and walked away.
And if he were truly honest with himself, he had promptly forgotten all about it afterwards.
His mind had been so focused on other things of late…
It was no excuse for poor behavior. He knew that. Thankful that he had been able to apologize, Darcy promised himself he would do better.
Richard would be ashamed of me, he mused as his horse plodded slowly along. Darcy made no effort to spur the beast into a faster canter. He needed this time to reflect and think before returning to the cloying attentions of Miss Bingley.
Darcy’s cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, was his closest friend and confidant.
Richard never minced his words, saying exactly what he thought, especially if he felt it was something that another needed to hear.
This past summer, Darcy had been the target of the man’s well-meaning attack.
Lost in thought, the memories came readily.
“Blast it, Darcy, will you not listen to me?”
The fire had burned low in the grate, its orange light casting flickers across the study’s dark oak paneling.
Fitzwilliam Darcy stood at the window, hands clasped behind his back, staring out into the lengthening shadows that blanketed the estate grounds.
Behind him, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam poured two fingers of brandy into a crystal glass and handed it to his cousin with a sigh that spoke of long familiarity—and long frustration.
“You do realize, Darcy,” Richard began as he settled into the opposite chair, “that Georgiana did not write to you because she believed you would not listen—very much as you are doing now!”
Darcy flinched, the words piercing deeper than he cared to admit. “She had every opportunity—”
“She tried to tell you,” Richard interrupted. “Twice, that I know of. Once in London—did you know he pursued her even then?—and again in Ramsgate, just days before—before that dastard Wickham made his move. But you dismissed her each time. You were too busy with estate accounts, or so she told me.”
Darcy lowered himself into the armchair, the brandy untouched in his hand. “I thought she was merely overwrought with travel and the novelty of being away. She has always been shy.”
“No,” Richard said flatly, “she has always been afraid to disappoint you.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened.
“She thinks your disappointment is worse than punishment,” Richard continued. “And why should she not? You give no quarter, even to yourself.”
“I expect much of those I care for.”
“Too much,” Richard replied. “And with too little grace. You think yourself above reproach, but you shut people out, Darcy. You have become so—so blasted aloof that you barely notice when others are trying to reach you.”
Darcy looked into the fire, the amber light catching in the glass he still had not tasted. “I know I was wrong,” he said at last. “I have spent the last two months reliving every moment, asking how I could have prevented it.”
“You could have been less like Aunt Catherine for a start,” Richard said dryly. “Can you not see how domineering and judgmental you have become?”
Darcy’s head snapped around.
Richard held up a hand. “You will not like what I have to say, but it is true. You speak with the same conviction of being right, the same presumption that your judgment is better than others’.
Heaven forbid someone question you. You talk of duty and family pride, but you forget that people are not institutions, Fitz.
What is worse, this behavior extends to those with whom you hold but a brief acquaintance.
If all is not as you believe it ought to be, you condemn it and everyone involved without a second thought. ”
Darcy’s silence stretched long between them.
“When did it happen?” Richard asked more gently. “When did you decide no one was worthy of trust and esteem? ”
Darcy let out a breath, slow and deep. “It was after my father died. Everything he built became my burden. Bingley’s family fawned over my inheritance.
Wickham turned on me the moment I denied him unearned privilege.
Even some of our own kin began watching me differently, calculating what favor might be gained.
And now Georgiana—she cannot even speak to me of her fears.
” His voice dropped. “So yes, I find solitude preferable.”
“Solitude is not strength, Darcy. It is retreat.”
“I prefer retreat to betrayal,” he muttered.
Darcy came back to the present. And yet you keep telling yourself you are trying to change, he told himself with some bitterness. You want to be better, but you only think about being better. Change requires action, not silent brooding in your study…or insulting ladies at an assembly.
Darcy clutched the reins tightly. I did not try to be amiable at the assembly in Meryton.
No, he had stalked the edges of the room, grousing internally about ill-use and what he would rather be doing.
I insulted a lady in public. ‘Merely tolerable,’ I called her.
I could not have spoken anything less true if I tried.
Darcy recalled the rest of the conversation with Richard.
The silence returned, but now it was less sharp.
“I do not know how to do this,” Darcy admitted quietly. “How to…unlearn ev erything I’ve become.”
Richard stood, placing a hand on his cousin’s shoulder.
“You start by listening. By giving people a chance to show you who they are before you decide for them. Georgiana still loves you—she always will. But you must earn her trust again. And maybe—just maybe—you ought to try to earn the trust of someone who is not a blood relation.”
Darcy nodded, slowly, the weight of truth sinking into his chest. “I shall try.”
Richard gave a crooked smile. “That is all I ask.”
The rhythm of hooves against the dry autumn path brought Darcy back to the present with a jolt.
The past—the confrontation with Richard, the guilt after Ramsgate, the realization of how far he had fallen from his father’s example—still echoed in his mind.
But it was midday now, and the golden light of the sun filtered through the thinning canopy above.
Netherfield lay a few miles ahead, and he was once again astride his horse, the wind brushing his face, his gloves faintly dusted from the trail.
He shifted in the saddle, the warmth of the sun doing little to ease the tightness in his chest.
He had done it. He had apologized. It was a good first step.
Darcy could hardly believe the words had passed his lips, and yet they had—awkward, earnest, imperfect. Elizabeth Bennet had stood before him, flushed from her climb, her eyes bright with surprise, and rather than retreat behind his usual armor of reserve, he had offered her honesty.
It had cost him more than he had anticipated. To admit fault, to lower his pride even a fraction, had felt like stepping into the unknown. But what surprised him more was how right it had felt once it was done.
Her response had not been what he expected. She had listened. And more than that—she had accepted it.
Darcy frowned slightly, reins slack in one hand as his horse climbed the slight rise of the road.
How easy it had been to speak with her. That still unsettled him.
Conversation, especially with strangers, often felt like a performance or an obligation.
Yet with Miss Elizabeth, it had been natural—like breathing in fresh air after too long indoors.
And she had not spared him. She had met his apology with wit, with probing questions, with that arched brow of hers that seemed to pierce right through his polished exterior. She had challenged him—and he had welcomed it.
He thought again of Richard’s words, spoken weeks ago with a soldier’s bluntness: You shut people out, Darcy. You forget to ask what others feel. You wear your reserve like a fortress and call it strength.
He had not listened then—not fully. It had taken Georgiana’s near-ruin to open his eyes. But it had taken an insignificant country miss to press him, to make him try. Change was not just necessary—it was possible.
A part of him still resisted. Small talk remained a torment and likely always would.
Meaningless society chatter drained him.
And after years of betrayal, false friendship, and avaricious flattery, he had learned to guard his trust with barbed wire.
But today, atop Oakham Mount, he had laid down a piece of that armor—and he had not perished for it.
What now?
He glanced up at the road ahead, squinting against the sunlight.
Netherfield would soon come into view, with Bingley no doubt eager for a hunt or a dinner party or some other cheerful engagement.
Miss Bingley would resume her subtle, suffocating campaign.
The drawing rooms would once again echo with idle gossip and brittle laughter.
But he would be different. At least, he would try. He would not waste this moment of clarity. Miss Elizabeth had offered him a second impression. He would not squander it.
He straightened in the saddle, the cold air brushing past his jaw. For the first time in days, perhaps weeks, something like hope stirred within him—not for society, not for approval, but for a self he might still yet become.
“Darcy!” Bingley called to him from the stable doors as he approached. “I had no notion you were out riding. I would have accompanied you had I known. Tell me, what think you of the surrounding countryside?”
He contemplated his answer carefully as he dismounted.
It would not do to let the restless irritation that still simmered beneath the surface to lash out and attack Bingley.
“It is lovely,” he finally replied. “I rode to a little hill the locals call Oakham Mount. Your stable master recommended it.”
“Giles is filled with knowledge.” Bingley strode to his side as Darcy handed off the reins.
“There are ruins and such in the county. I should love to explore.” They strode side by side towards the garden, Bingley leading the way.
Darcy glanced at his friend curiously but followed along silently until they were some distance from the house.
“In truth, I sought you out so I might speak with you,” Bingley said as they came to a stop beside a bench. “I want your opinion on a…sensitive matter.”
“Go on.” Bingley was one of his closest friends. Darcy would help if he could.
“It is Miss Bennet,” came the reply. “I know I just met her, but is it possible…does love at first sight exist? Two dances and one evening in her company and I feel as if I have known her for my entire life. I cannot speak to my sisters of the matter. They will declare me mad and do everything in their power to separate me from the lady.”
“Slow down!” Darcy held up a beseeching hand.
“Now, let us speak of this rationally. Does love of that nature exist? I cannot answer you. Never have I experienced such a thing. Can one form an accord—an immediate bond with another after but one meeting?” He paused, thinking about his discussion on the hill with Miss Elizabeth.
“Yes, I believe it is entirely possible for that to occur. And it sounds as if you experienced such with Miss Bennet.”
“That is precisely what I mean! It is as if she and I were meant to be.”
Darcy sighed. “I will not dispute your sentiments, my friend. Only show caution. Take your time coming to know Miss Bennet—or any lady in whom you may show interest. Our society and its expectations for propriety make it difficult for a young couple to truly know each other before marriage. Do the best you can.”
Bingley laughed. “I half expected you to tell me I was speaking nonsense,” he confessed. “Thank you for the sound advice. I have but one more question. How can I keep it from Caroline?”
“In that, my friend, you are on your own. I promise, however, that I shall not…encourage your sisters towards disapprobation.” Darcy smiled, wincing at how false it felt.
“I can ask nothing less. Now, let us return to the house.” Bingley clapped him on the shoulder. “It is time I trounced you at billiards.”
“You say that every time we play, and I always win.” Darcy’s quip made Bingley laugh again.
“There is a first time for everything.”