Page 14 of The Power of Refusal

M r Hunt returned after a fortnight with more scraps of paper covered with his pencil marks. His report was thorough.

“The Bennet family is well regarded in town. None of the merchants complained about the payment of their bills, but the haberdasher was alarmed they might be in financial straits when I asked about them. He seems to rely heavily on Mrs Bennet’s custom, as she spends freely on lace and fripperies for herself and her daughters.”

This information matched Darcy’s experience. The estate remained in Mr Bennet’s hands, so Miss Elizabeth must still be there. He had seen no sign of her in Cheapside in several months.

“The estate is a fair to middling property, not as well-kept as one might prefer. Surely it would be a fair investment with a more diligent steward. The gentleman is not prompt about attending to things—he is rarely in society, but no one had anything negative to say about him. He manages things, after a fashion. They are surely living beyond their means, but not so much that anyone is banging on the door for payment.” Mr Hunt consulted his notes, then continued.

“The younger ladies are, hmm, well, they are flirtatious, but there are few gentlemen in town for them to flirt with. The youngest is unguarded, loud even. I saw the eldest lady as well, shopping and at church. She was less exuberant than the youngest.”

Darcy forced himself to sit back. He had inched to the edge of this seat, listening for news of Elizabeth.

“The eldest girl is said to be courting with a parson from Alton. He has a small parish, with not a great deal of money. He is well liked. I checked in Alton as well, to be safe, but there is nothing objectionable about him. The banns have not been read yet, but everyone said they had made a match.”

The bottom fell out of his world. Elizabeth was to be married. To a parson, no less. He dropped his chin and gazed unseeing at his feet. Hunt droned on with some information about Mr Collins, which interested Darcy not at all. Elizabeth was to be wed.

Mr Hunt had stopped speaking. Over the dull thud of his heart pounding in his chest, Darcy heard him say. “Was there anything else?”

Swallowing hard, Darcy considered. What else could he possibly ask? He had lost her.

He could only wish her happy from a great distance. Or perhaps, “You are certain it is the eldest Miss Bennet?”

“I am.”

Darcy resisted the urge to sink into his chair and bury his face in his hands. He could not come to terms with this news. Mr Hunt shuffled his feet as the silence stretched on.

“ Who is this parson, and what is his parish?” Darcy asked.

Mr Hunt identified the parish of the church of St Lawrence, and the vicar in question was a Mr Couper.

Pain throbbed in Darcy’s head. His breath was rapid and shallow. He could think of nothing that would relieve his misery. Somehow, he dismissed Mr Hunt, paying him more than he required and reminding him the matter was to be kept in complete confidence.

Some weeks later, Mr Couper of Alton Parish received a significant sum by messenger sent anonymously, with the instruction he was to make improvements to his parsonage and use the remaining funds to supplement his income.

∞∞∞

Jane and Bingley were in town staying with the Hursts for several weeks as Charles had some matters of business to attend to prior to their return to Lockwood, their estate. Elizabeth remained with the Gardiners, forgoing the dubious pleasure of spending time with Mr and Mrs Hurst.

Jane and Charles invited Elizabeth to join them at Lockwood for a visit. After her long absence from Longbourn, Elizabeth knew she ought to relieve her aunt and uncle of her presence for a spell. And escaping the city and its legion of unappealing suitors held its own appeal.

With the Bingley carriage at her disposal, Jane offered outings to Elizabeth. Jane was horrified at Elizabeth’s attire, which was reminiscent of what their sister Mary might have worn in the distant past. She insisted on a trip to a modiste, where Elizabeth indulged herself with one gown after a design she had made based on a fine fabric in her uncle’s warehouse. Jane offered to purchase far more, but Elizabeth was determined to live within her meagre means.

As they were about to leave for Lockwood, the post arrived. Charles handed Elizabeth a letter and she tucked it into her reticule to share as they travelled. Her farewells to aunt and uncle Gardiner and the children were warm and glassy-eyed. It had been a long visit, and in some ways, the most peaceful interlude in Elizabeth’s life.

“I hope you will return, Lizzy. We will miss you terribly,” Mrs Gardiner said, lingering with Elizabeth in her arms.

“I will be back, of course, Aunt. I must tell you again how grateful I am for your kindness. Allowing me to stay so long has been a great boon for me,” she replied.

“And for us, my dear. You have been a delightful addition to the house. I will keep sending you cuttings as the material comes in. My customers ask for your sketches, and you ought not disappoint them,” Mr Gardiner said.

Elizabeth squeezed his hands. She promised to supply sketches and to write often. Whilst Elizabeth had been welcome at Gracechurch Street, and Jane seemed almost giddy to have her company, this latest move had underlined her feeling of having no home of her own.

Certainly, no letter had arrived begging her to return to Longbourn. Her mother’s only attentions came in the form of shopping lists, more often than not without the funds to make the purchases. Her father rarely wrote, and when he did, he might send some arcane joke from his reading with no personal message. Only Mary wrote with regularity, and Elizabeth had grown to appreciate her next youngest sister.

When the excitement of their departure died down and the roads became more mundane, Elizabeth recalled the letter in her reticule. She scanned it quickly, then said, “Oh!”

Jane looked up from her light doze and raised her brows in question.

“Mary is to be married!” Elizabeth said.

“Mr Couper has come up to scratch at last?” Jane asked with a smile

“So it seems.. She says he has come into a little money. He has had the parsonage renovated and he can now afford to wed,” Elizabeth reported.

“How wonderful! When is the wedding? Oh, dear, will we need to turn the carriage back towards Hertfordshire?” Jane asked.

“She does not say. The first banns were read, perhaps last Sunday? She sent a list from Mamma of what I was supposed to purchase. But no money! Oh Jane, Mary will have no wedding clothes if I cannot—”

“I am sure Aunt Gardiner will assist. Please copy the list, and I will post it with a bank draft at our first stop,” Charles said.

Elizabeth thanked Charles for his usual generosity, and Jane embraced him with the radiant admiration she always bestowed on him. Mary would have her wedding clothes after all, and Elizabeth would not be required to dip into her dwindling funds to supply them.

∞∞∞

The rhythmic clip-clop of hooves echoed through the crisp afternoon air. The scent of damp earth and ripening wheat enveloped him, a poignant reminder of the estate’s cyclical life. Ahead, amidst a sea of woolly sheep, a figure materialised. Jacob Simmons emerged from the flock, his weathered face breaking into a warm smile.

“Mr Darcy,” Jacob called, doffing his ragged woollen cap. He made a respectful bow, but his eyes twinkled with familiar warmth.

Darcy felt the stiff set of his shoulders soften. “Jake, how many times must I insist? It is Darcy when we meet like this.” He paused, a smile tugging at his lips. “I hear congratulations are in order?” Darcy felt nostalgia fill his chest. He was of an age with Jake Simmons, and as lads they had spent time together. Jake was rangy and compact, but Darcy suspected his strength exceeded his own by a long way, given the hard work the tenant farmer’s life demanded.

Jacob’s face lit up, pride and joy radiating from every line. “Indeed, sir! Maggie’s done wonderfully, and our boy, he’s got a set of lungs on him, that’s for certain!”

Darcy chuckled, a bittersweet ache blooming in his chest. “I must pay my respects then. I’ll meet you at the cottage.” Darcy said, canting his head up the path.

As he approached the Simmons’ home, the contrast between the weathered stone facade and Pemberley’s grandeur struck Darcy anew. He dismounted, his boots crunching on the gravel path. Inside, the air was thick with the mingled aromas of fresh bread, clean linen, and something indefinably new—the scent of a life just begun.

Maggie Simmons, her face glowing despite evident fatigue, rose to greet him. “Mr Darcy,” she beamed, cradling a swaddled bundle. “Would you like to meet our Thomas?”

Darcy nodded, suddenly aware of the rapid beating of his heart. As he gazed at the sleeping infant, a lump formed in his throat. Tiny fingers curled around the blanket’s edge, pink and perfect. The weight of his own solitude pressed down upon him with crushing force.

“He’s a fine boy,” Darcy murmured, his deep voice uncharacteristically soft. “You must be very proud.”

“We are, sir,” Maggie replied, her tired eyes shining. “And we’re so grateful for the lovely basket Mrs Reynolds sent.”

Darcy nodded, a pang of guilt mingling with his melancholy. He was thankful for Mrs Reynolds’s efficient care of his tenants, but he remembered his mother’s personal attention to such matters. It had been decades since Pemberley had a mistress to nurture the families in its care. The absence felt more acute than ever.

As he left the cottage, the weight of missed opportunities settled on Darcy’s shoulders like a leaden cloak. His childhood friend’s life had diverged dramatically from his own. Whilst Darcy had been sent to elite schools and groomed for his role as master of Pemberley, Jacob had apprenticed to a sheep farmer. Now, Jacob had a life rich with love—a kind wife, two sweet girls, and a newborn son. And Darcy had what?

For all his wealth and status, Darcy found himself envying the simple, profound joy he’d witnessed in that humble cottage. The peaceful life of a man surrounded by the love of a good woman and children suddenly seemed more precious than all the riches of Pemberley.

Georgiana’s worried words from breakfast echoed in his mind: “ Brother, I fear for you. I cannot be your only company forever .”

Darcy sighed deeply, running a hand through his wind-tousled hair. The setting sun painted the sky in vibrant hues of orange and pink, the warm colours a stark contrast to the chill settling in his heart. Unbidden, the image of a pair of fine, laughing eyes rose in his mind.

“Elizabeth,” he whispered, the name tasting of both honey and vinegar on his tongue. The memory of her laughter, musical and unrestrained, rang in his ears. Her wit, her spirit, her unabashed honesty—all stood in vivid contrast to the parade of simpering debutantes his aunt kept throwing in his path.

As he mounted his horse, the leather saddle creaking beneath him, Darcy felt the truth settle in his bones. No other woman would do. The spark he’d felt with Elizabeth Bennet had illuminated the possibility of a love both passionate and profound. He’d rather face a lifetime of solitude than settle for a pale imitation of that connection.