Page 25 of The Power of Refusal

O ne morning at breakfast, Charles set down his newspaper and looked across the table with a queer expression. When Jane looked up, she asked after his concern.

“Darcy has married,” he said.

Elizabeth’s head swam. Pinpricks of light flashed in blackness before her, and she grasped the edge of the table for support. Her breakfast was leaden in her stomach. She forced herself to breathe.

Jane asked Charles for particulars. Elizabeth was torn between the need to run away as far and as fast as she could from the news and the desperate need to know.

“Lady Harriet Halliday. I think I may have met her. Miss Darcy married her brother a few months ago.”

“Are there any details?” Jane asked.

Elizabeth could not even form a thought. Mr Darcy had married. He had married. He was lost to her. Completely.

“Not a one. The bare minimum of information. I am not surprised Darcy did not feel the need to rattle on about it.”

“I wish them has every happiness,” Jane said. She looked over at Elizabeth, expecting her to repeat the sentiment. Instead, Elizabeth could not speak. Her body felt numb. She leant against the table as if she were about to collapse.

“Lizzy, what is it? Are you ill?” Jane leapt up to go to her sister. Elizabeth forced herself to take a deep breath and attempt a smile.

“I feel a little lightheaded. I think I need some air,” she said. She managed, she knew not how to rise, place her serviette on the table, and walk unsteadily from the room.

Mr Darcy had married.

Not only had he married, but he had married the daughter of an earl, who no doubt had the rank and fortune she so thoroughly lacked. He need not “rejoice in his bride’s inferior connections.” Elizabeth’s imagination conjured a scheming Miss Bingley with a title, latching on to the brother of her own brother’s bride. Thrown together by the marriage of their siblings, the situation would provide ample opportunity for a grasping sister to entice Darcy. Or compromise him. He would be honour bound to offer for the lady since his sister had married into the family.

Elizabeth stopped her racing thoughts. She was grasping for a reason for the marriage, besides the obvious one. Mr Darcy had fallen in love with another. He had forgotten her, as any sensible man would do. He rightfully resented her foolish rejection. It had been years since then. Surely she was no longer of any consequence to him.

Elizabeth walked a great distance from the house, not turning until her tears had stopped. She could do nothing. As much as her mind wished to find a way that this did not mean she was no longer loved, there was none. As she trudged back to Lockwood, she resolved she would serve her sister, and, with providence, assist with a child who ought, if there was any good thing left in the world, arrive in six months. Her path forward was as a respectable spinster, caring for the children of others..

∞∞∞

Darcy had imagined all too frequently arriving at Pemberley with his bride. He could conjure the expression of delight on Elizabeth’s face when she saw the stone facade from the approach across the lake. He envisioned her warm greetings to the assembled staff as he introduced Mrs Darcy. Only with great effort did he put those images from his mind as he and Hattie drove up to the sweep before the grand entrance to Pemberley House.

By arrangement, only Mrs Reynolds and Mr Dawson, the butler, stood at the front steps. The journey had been exceedingly taxing to Hattie. She acknowledged with tears she lacked the strength to enter the house under her own power. Darcy teased that he always intended to carry his bride over the threshold, but she required far more than that.

Darcy sent word from the road to Mrs Reynolds, who, with her usual efficiency, had everything arranged for Mrs Darcy’s comfort. A bath chair had been got, an easily accessible chamber furnished with all that might be required, a bed built lower to the floor to allow Mrs Darcy to get in or out without help. As before, Darcy ordered the room always be filled with flowers.

Hattie retired immediately, and Darcy, leaving her in the hands of a trained nurse hired for the purpose, set about all the labours that awaited him at the estate.

Darcy sensed Mrs Reynolds follow him with her eyes as he attended his wife. She had long hinted at her desire to see the mistress’s chambers occupied and the nursery filled. It was not long before the subject was unavoidable.

“Nurse Brown has requested a syllabub for Mrs Darcy. She does not expect her to come to meals at present,” Mrs Reynolds said as Darcy was departing the breakfast room alone.

“I will dine in her chamber with her, provided she is up to it. Whatever she wishes to eat, she must have,” he said sternly. “I am sure you are aware of the seriousness of Mrs Darcy’s illness. No effort, no expense should be spared on her behalf.”

“Of course, Mr Darcy. We will see to her every need.”

The two met eyes. Darcy suddenly was six years old. He could not pretend Mrs Reynolds did not deserve some further explanation.

“I am sure it appears quite irregular. When Georgiana married, the prospect of my being all alone here every winter struck me as grossly unappealing. Hattie, Mrs Darcy, has consumption, as you have likely deduced. She has missed out on a great deal of life, but she deserves more than being a spectator. She never expected to marry. She certainly will not have children. But I have taken it as my purpose to make her remaining time happy and comfortable. Syllabub for every meal, if that is what she desires.”

Mrs Reynolds regarded him with a solemn expression, a glint of tears in her eyes.

“I wish you happy, sir,” she said, then turned to head to the kitchens, her apron lifted to her face.

Hattie rallied after a few weeks of rest. They dined together in the small dining room. Darcy drove her around the park, and on inclement days they would slowly stroll the gallery. Hattie often joined Darcy in his study, where she reclined on a chaise and alternately chatted and dozed as he worked. Darcy read to her, although her taste was far more frivolous than his. Hattie was an appreciative audience as he performed the voices in the novels she enjoyed.

Indeed, Darcy was not alone. He had no companion for the long rides he was wont to take. Hattie’s stamina did not allow a great deal of exertion. Still, she endeavoured to be companionable, asking after his interests and work, and begging for stories of the goings on-at the estate. She undertook a small amount of sewing, but Darcy insisted he had staff to provide such work, and she ought to spend her time on pursuits she enjoyed.

“I cannot be useless, Darcy. Why should I not pick up a needle to assist with the baby clothes we seem to require every month on the estate?”

“Do you enjoy the sewing? I have no objection if you like it.”

“It is tolerable. It passes the time when you are occupied,” she said.

That particular turn of phrase still sat so ill with Darcy that he could scarcely maintain his usual composure. “I would prefer you occupy yourself with matters you find more pleasurable. Do you wish for company whilst I am out? We could engage a companion, or you could invite a friend to stay.”

“You are too generous, Darcy. I have a personal maid, a chambermaid, a nurse, and a footman at my disposal at all times. Another person would make things rather crowded,” she said with a chuckle.

“You forget the grooms, stableman, and the gardener who supplies your bouquets. I think Cook has taken on another scullery maid to free up hands to make your syllabubs, as well,” he said, smiling.

Hattie laughed, as he had hoped. “I am responsible for half the village. You send to town for new things every time you decide my shawl is deficient or my stockings too thin. I am content, however. I want for nothing.”

“As it should be,” Darcy said, and tucked the rug around her legs as she rested her head on the mountain of pillows stacked on her chaise longue.

∞∞∞

Spring arrived at Pemberley with an explosion of colour that drew gasps of delight from Hattie whenever Darcy wheeled her chair through the gardens. The gardeners had outdone themselves this year, planting additional beds of early-blooming flowers near the paths most accessible to Mrs Darcy's chair.

“Look there,” Hattie said one mild April morning, pointing to a patch of Georgiana’s daffodils, “I have never seen such a perfect shade of yellow. They look like little soldiers standing at attention.”

Darcy smiled, noting how the morning light brought a hint of colour to her wan cheeks. “Shall we collect some for your room?”

“Oh no, let them stay. I should hate to diminish such a lovely display.” She reached back to pat his hand where it rested on her chair. “Though I wouldn't object to sitting here a while longer to admire them.”

Darcy immediately called for a footman to bring cushions and blankets. Soon they were settled comfortably, Hattie well-wrapped against the spring chill, as Darcy read to her from a novel she had selected. He had grown quite skilled at different voices for each character, though he still maintained it was quite beneath his dignity.

“You enjoy it,” Hattie teased when he protested. “I saw you practicing the pirate's voice in your study yesterday when you thought no one was looking.”

“I was merely clearing my throat,” he replied with mock severity, but his eyes crinkled at the corners.

On rainy days, they developed a habit of taking tea in the gallery, where Hattie would have Darcy describe the stories behind the portraits. She was particularly fond of his heavily embellished tale of his great-aunt Sophia, who had allegedly scandalised the family by running off with an Italian music master, only to return twenty years later as a wealthy widow with a string of profitable vineyards to her name.

“I think I should have liked her,” Hattie mused, studying the portrait of a handsome woman with laughing eyes. “She knew how to make the most of her time.”

Darcy glanced at his wife, noting the meaningful tone in her voice. “Indeed, she did. Though I dare say she caused my great great grandfather no end of grief in the process.”

“Sometimes grief is worth it, for the right cause,” Hattie said softly. Then, brightening, “Now, tell me again about the ghost that supposedly haunts the north gallery. Mrs Reynolds swears she's seen it, though she won't admit as much to anyone but me.”

As summer approached, Hattie's strength waned noticeably, but her determination to find joy remained unwavering. She insisted on having her chair moved to different windows throughout the day, following the sun like a determined cat. Darcy took to conducting estate business in whatever room she occupied, spreading his papers across tables and chairs whilst she dozed or offered occasional commentary on his tenants' requests.

“Mr Simmons needs another year to repay that loan,” she said one afternoon, having listened to Darcy muttering over his accounts.

“How did you come to that conclusion?”

“His wife Maggie just had their fifth child, and he has no proper help with the harvest until next year. Give him time. He's a good man.”

Darcy studied her thoughtful expression. “You have never even met Jacob Simmons.”

“No, but I listen when you talk about your tenants. And I watch from the windows when they come to call.” She smiled. “I may be confined largely to this house, my dear, but I make it my business to know its people.”

That evening, Darcy adjusted the loan terms without saying another word. When he told Hattie, she simply nodded and returned to her embroidery – a new hobby she had taken up despite his protests that she needn't exert herself. The delicate flowers she stitched were destined for the christening gown of Simmons’s newest child.

“I know you said I need not feel obliged to be useful,” she said as she worked. “But bringing beauty into the world is never an obligation. It is a privilege. And I am blessed to have the time to do it.”

Darcy watched her careful stitches, each one placed with deliberate care despite her trembling fingers and felt his heart swell with an emotion he couldn't quite name. It was not the passionate love he had once dreamt of finding, but it was deep and true nonetheless

∞∞∞

Mrs Prudence Brewster, at forty-five, had appointed herself the matchmaker of Cambridgeshire in general and the village of Lockwood, in particular, despite her notorious lack of discernment. At her home but three miles from Lockwood house, she entertained frequently. Upon becoming acquainted with Elizabeth, she undertook a familiar maelstrom of matchmaking efforts, with hopes of seeing Elizabeth well-settled, viewing each gentleman as the one to finally succeed where others had failed.

A Mr Bromley took the lease at Whittlesford. Though pleasant enough, his conversation ran to farming, shooting, and local politics. At Mrs Bewwster’s dinner party, he monopolised Elizabeth’s attention with tedious persistence.

“Miss Elizabeth, you must join us for cards,” Mrs Brewster urged. She had positioned Elizabeth beside Bromley and attended to their every exchange with relish. As Elizabeth prepared to depart, Mrs Brewster hissed, “Two thousand a year, and such fine manners!”

“He spoke for a quarter hour about crop rotation,” Elizabeth reported later that evening, settling onto Jane's bed. “I confess I nearly fell asleep at table.”

“But he seems kind,” Jane ventured. “And his estate is well-managed.”

“Dear Jane, even you cannot make Mr Bromley interesting.” Elizabeth adjusted her sister's shawl. “He has all the vivacity of a turnip.”

Jane's gentle laugh turned to a sigh. “I only wish to see you happy.”

“I am content here with you,” Elizabeth replied, though both sisters knew the word 'content' concealed much.

“He is rather dull,” Jane admitted finally. “Though Mrs Brewster declares him perfect.”

“Mrs Brewster would declare a fence post perfect if it had a good income.”

Two days later, Jane missed breakfast again. When Elizabeth found her, she was bent over her chamber pot.

“Sit with me,” Jane gasped between heaves. “Please.”

The midwife confirmed what they feared and hoped. Jane gripped Elizabeth's hand. “Don't leave me. I cannot bear to lose another.”

Elizabeth remained with Jane each day. Every morning, she smoothed Jane's hair as she retched. Each night, she read aloud until Jane's breathing steadied.

Mr Bromley appeared at Lockwood one Tuesday morning, having ridden from Whittlesford Manor specifically to extend a dinner invitation. He spent twenty minutes detailing the proposed menu, the arrangement of his dining room, and his recent success with forcing asparagus. She noted his obvious good breeding, his careful manners, his modest prosperity - qualities that might once have seemed adequate, but now served only to highlight all that was absent. His conversation never ventured beyond the domestic concerns of his estate. When he finally took his leave, having twice enumerated his plans for new window hangings, Elizabeth felt as if she had aged considerably. She kindly declined his invitation, her thoughts ever with Jane who startled at every twinge.

“Miss Elizabeth, you must join us,” he said. “We so enjoy your company. “

Elizabeth sighed. “I thank you, but I cannot leave Jane.”

“He means to propose,” Mrs Brewster declared over tea, clasping her hands. “Such an eligible match! And after refusing so many, surely you must see reason.”

“Then he shall be disappointed,” Elizabeth replied, hearing Jane call from upstairs. “Excuse me.”

“What if-” Jane would start, at any shadow of discomfort.

“Shh,” Elizabeth would soothe. “Let me tell you about Mrs Brewster's latest schemes...”

The weeks passed in watchful terror until to her great joy, Jane felt the quickening.

∞∞∞

Darcy was long accustomed to Hattie’s sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, and persistent fatigue. He did not pretend she was not ill, but he had seen her joyful and nearly lively. Though Hattie's first year at Pemberley passed in tolerable contentment. For above a year, Darcy allowed himself to hope; it was only as the next autumn approached that he began to perceive the first shadows of what was to come.. He wondered whether he had been too much of an optimist. Her cheeks had grown pale and gaunt, a stark contrast to the cheerful demeanour she attempted to present. The persistent fatigue that plagued her was clear in every laboured breath and each weakened gesture. She developed an intermittent blue tint to her lips and fingertips. Nurse reported fever and night sweats, and often severe coughing fits. Hattie hid the bloodied handkerchiefs from him, but the laundress reported to Mrs Reynolds, who would have no secrets from him. He mentioned his worry to Hattie.

“You need not fuss, Darcy. I am content. If I have your company when I am awake, all is well,” Hattie insisted.

Darcy thought he saw a different shade in her expression, more sadness than he had seen in the past. The first months at Pemberley, Hattie had at times been almost animated. She happily joined him in the phaeton or the garden. Now, she was more often than not bedridden and too weak to engage in daily activities. He spent countless hours at her bedside, offering words of encouragement and support. They reminisced about the joyful moments they had shared as friends. The gentle caress of his hand upon hers seemed to bring a momentary solace to Hattie’s troubled countenance. Despite her weakened state, they held genuine affection and respect for one another.

Darcy consulted the London physician by correspondence. He had examined Hattie and declared her well enough for travel at a sedate pace after their wedding. His response was not encouraging.

Dear Mr Darcy,

Thank you for your letter of consultation. I am grieved to hear of your wife’s continuing deterioration. Her condition is unpredictable, but the changes you report lead me to believe she is in her last illness.

In time, her breathing will become extremely laboured, with increased pain in the chest, leading to loss of consciousness. Should her coughing be extreme, or her chest pain unbearable, laudanum may be administered. I advise sparing use as morphine will depress her respiration. Care should be taken to keep her well warmed in the winter months.

It is impossible to predict the progress of the disease. Eventually, when she no longer has periods of consciousness, there will be a cessation of breathing and heart failure.

Whilst it is distressing to witness, death from consumption is usually peaceful and without untoward pain.

In view of your current observations, it would be well to invite Lady Harriet’s other family members to attend her. I remain your servant,

Robert Koch

Darcy penned the necessary letters to the Hallidays, including Georgiana. He had hoped for a longer period of health with Hattie. The short months of their marriage seemed like thievery. There was little to be done in the face of such a relentless foe. When he sat with her of an evening, she wished only he hold her for a little while.

“I am so sorry, Darcy. I had hoped to remain with you for far longer. You have been so good to me, and now I am such a great deal of trouble,” Hattie said.

“I am happy to have care of you, Hattie. You are no trouble. I only wish I could do more for your comfort,” he said.

“I have always had the feeling it never was intended I should live long,” she confessed. “Until you proposed, I never thought of being married. You have given me so much I never imagined for myself,” Hattie said as he stroked her hair.

“You deserve far more, Hattie. I hope you will have many more good days,” he said.

Hattie leant back and looked at him. “Do not be foolish, Darcy. Every day I lose a little. Everything I lose, I never gain back. I have had some years to think about this. As unjust as my illness is, you have given me more than I expected. I was a bride. I am mistress of a great estate, not that I do more than chat with Mrs Reynolds, but it is enough. I know you would cure me if you could, and that makes me feel cherished. It has to be enough. There is nothing anyone can do to stop it.”

Darcy was unaccustomed to problems he was powerless to solve. He could not make sense of a young lady being doomed to so short a life. Despite ample money, excellent connections, the best of caretakers, Darcy could do nothing to stop the receding tide of Hattie’s life. Neither could he disguise his grief. Tears welled in his eyes.

“I am loathe to leave you alone, Darcy. You are far too young to spend the rest of your days in solitude,” Hattie said softly, reaching out to grasp his hand.

Darcy shook his head, unable to speak for fear his voice would break.

Hattie’s eyes softened with understanding. “I am grateful for every moment you have given me. I need you to promise me something.”

“Anything,” Darcy managed to whisper.

“Promise me that after I am gone, you will open your heart again. That you will seek happiness and love.”

Darcy’s brow furrowed. “Hattie, I cannot—”

“Of course, you can, and you must,” she insisted gently. “You cannot sacrifice yourself to the weight of duty and expectation. Your capacity for love is too great to be buried with me.”

She paused, her gaze intent upon his face. “You once told me of someone you loved who married another. I know that wound still pains you, but it also shows the depth of feeling you’re capable of.”

Darcy stiffened slightly, surprised by her reference to his past.

Hattie continued, her voice soft but firm. “Please find happiness, Darcy. I wish to be certain you will not be forever alone. When the time is right, promise me you will allow yourself to love again.”

Tears now flowed freely down Darcy’s cheeks. He brought Hattie’s hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles. “I promise,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “For you, I promise I shall try.”

Hattie’s face relaxed into a peaceful smile. “Thank you. That is all I ask.”

Darcy stayed with her until she drifted off to sleep. As he quietly left her bed chamber, closing the door gently behind him, he leant against the wall in the hallway, overcome with emotion.

Soon, Pemberley filled with guests. Lord and Lady Halliday arrived first, sombre and resigned. Georgiana stepped in as hostess and saw to everyone’s comfort. Lady Julia occupied a cot in Lady Harriet’s chamber, tending to her sister. At mealtime gatherings, conversation was sparse. The company revolved around Hattie. A palpable sense of impending loss permeated the grand estate. Hushed conversations and muffled sobs echoed through the corridors, a testament to the profound impact Hattie’s illness had upon all who cared for her.

Lady Harriet Halliday Darcy passed away at twenty-four years of age, surrounded by her loving family and husband. The Hallidays accompanied her body back to the estate where she had been born, to join her grandparents in the family crypt. Georgiana and Hal departed last, leaving Darcy alone again at Pemberley.

In the aftermath of Hattie’s passing, Pemberley was shrouded in a veil of mourning. The once vibrant gardens, now tinged with the melancholy hues of autumn, seemed to echo the profound sense of loss that permeated every corner of the estate. Darcy stood alone, gazing out upon the vast expanse of his domain. He found solace in the memories he had shared with Hattie. The strength she had shown, even in the face of her own mortality, would forever remain a part of him. He resolved to remain as Hattie had been, unfaltering despite the empty future before him.

∞∞∞

Once Jane had felt the quickening, she turned her attention from fear of losing the baby to a single-minded dedication to her condition. Her entire focus shifted internally. She grew in size and serenity whilst Elizabeth took on any task that did not require her sister’s touch.

Charles insisted they ought to go to London whilst Jane could still travel. He convinced Jane their best hope for a successful lying-in would be in the hands of a London physician.

“We will take comfortable rooms in town, but in a smaller place so there is no space for guests, except for Lizzy, of course. Her presence is required. But now your mother knows you are expecting, I fear she will appear at Lockwood one morning and insist on staying,” Charles said.

Jane was torn. She ought not to deprive her mother of knowing her grandchild, but she dreaded her mother’s presence at her lying-in. Rather than allow matters to be taken from their control, she agreed to remove to London several weeks before she expected to give birth.

Charles’s man of business located a small townhouse on Berkley Square that suited their purposes. They moved there whilst Jane was not yet so unwieldy as to find travel unbearable.

Charles renewed his acquaintances in town and spent a short time at his club every few days. He still relished social contact, and he gathered the news of the town for the amusement of Jane and Lizzy.

“Hurst tells me Caroline and Sir William are living separately. Not even a year,” he said one morning.

Elizabeth looked up in alarm. “Please tell me we will not be required to entertain either ofthem.”

Charles laughed. “Caroline has taken herself to Bath, so we will be spared her company. I would hardly know her Sir William if he bit me, so it is unlikely we will need to see him.”

“Oh, but it is so sad,” Jane said.

“Sad, but not surprising. Caroline aspired to someone higher and richer than Sir William.She settled for a title before she was thoroughly on the shelf. He needed her dowry, for a certainty. Now, she is his problem, not mine,” Charles said. “I heard another piece of news, however, which is quite sad. It seems Lady Harriet, who married Darcy, has died. She was but twenty-four.”

Jane gasped. “In childbed? Did she die giving birth?”

Charles took her hand. “No, my dear. Do not borrow trouble. It is a queer thing. She died of consumption. She was never expected to survive long. Word is, he married her to take her to Pemberley and care for her until she died. They say he was devoted to her care, and they never— well, she was quite ill.”

Elizabeth made a study of the tablecloth. Her hands trembled as Charles recited his tale.If Mrs Darcy had recently died, they could not have been married more than a year and some months. Even though this unknown lady had married the man she loved, Elizabeth was saddened by her shortened life. Her throat tightened as she thought of Mr Darcy experiencing such sorrow.

The table was silent for a moment. Then Jane spoke.

“It would be well to send a condolence letter, Charles. Whatever your falling-out, Mr Darcy was once a good friend to you, and he has suffered a terrible loss,” she said.

Charles blew out a breath.

“Do you recall, Jane, how when we met, I called you ‘my angel?’”

“I do. Am I no longer your angel, Charles?” Jane tea sed.

“You always are. I realise you are also my better angel. You force me to be a better man, even when I would rather be obstinate. You are correct, my dear. I will attend to the condolence letter.”

∞∞∞

Pemberley was in full mourning for the mistress who had presided there for mere months. Darcy curtailed his already sparse social calendar. Echoing silence permeated the house. Hattie had been little seen or heard outside her own chamber, but her loss took a lightness from the place. The stillness allowed Darcy a deeper contemplation of his own lack of purpose.

Caring for Hattie had required him to communicate more with staff and physicians, as well as with her family. Without her needs to meet, Darcy’s world shrunk yet again to himself and those who relied on him for their livelihood. He threw himself into improving conditions for his tenants. He explored investments to shore up Pemberley’s finances in the event of poor crops. For months after Hattie’s passing, he saw no one outside of the staff and tenants of the estate.

There was always ample work for Darcy to attend to. Tenant disputes, repairs to cottages, Mrs Reynolds’s questions, and decisions. Dozens of decisions every day. Darcy had always risen to the task. Of late, he had a sinking feeling as though all he did was make decisions for the benefit of others. His days were empty and endless. Despite activity enough to render him exhausted at the end of the day, his sleep was restless. Often, he would find his candle guttering after reading for hours in bed, unable to relax into sleep.

Harris, the valet, always turned his master out perfectly, but he could do nothing to remedy the deep circles under his eyes or the gaunt appearance of his face. Mrs Reynolds ensured the meals presented were tempting and nourishing, but still Darcy’s clothes hung on him. Mrs Reynolds confessed to Darcy that she had written to Viscountess Grethem who acted at once.

Dearest Fitzwilliam,

How I miss you, dear brother! I am well and comfortably ensconced at Briar Lodge. We are but a few miles from the Briarwood estate, with plenty of company and kind neighbours.

Hal and I were thinking of travelling as the weather is improving, and we would like to pay a visit to Pemberley. I am, as you may recall, awfully fond of the daffodil field and would not want to miss their beauty.

I hope I am still welcome at Pemberley. Please do not fuss about our arrangements. We will be happy in my old chambers together.

I look forward to seeing my cranky brother in a few weeks’ time

G

Darcy suspected the breezy tone of Georgiana’s note. He would, of course, be delighted to have his sister and her husband stay. Her excuse of seeing her birthday flowers, weeks before their expected bloom, seemed contrived, but his mood lightened in anticipation of seeing his dear Georgie.

Georgiana and Hal had broken through Darcy’s gloom after some days. Conversation at dinner, company on rides and the womanly touches Georgiana brought to the household eventually pulled Darcy out of his doldrums.

“Do you intend to rusticate here for the rest of your days, Fitzwilliam? You are not happy,” Georgiana said. Her manner had grown more direct, and the maturity she had gained as a married woman bolstered her authority.

“I am in mourning, Georgiana. What would you have me do?”

“I would have you live. This is mere existence. What has brought you any joy in the last months since Hattie declined?”

Darcy shook his head. In truth, even his meals had become tasteless. He rose and completed his duties with no relish. His life was resoundingly empty.

“So, you agree. This cannot continue, Fitzwilliam. If nothing else, a change of scenery might shake you out of your melancholy. I am sure Hattie would not approve of your turning into a recluse.”

Her words were like a knife to his heart. Hattie had spoken to him of this.

“All right, Georgiana. You seem far better equipped than I to direct my life,” he said.

Georgiana pulled a face. “You tease, but I cannot say you have directed your life to any beneficial effect these last months. I would have you leave Pemberley at the very least. Come see Briar Lodge, visit your cousins, stay in London for a while. Anything but sitting alone in your study brooding.”

Darcy blanched. Brooding? Had he sunk so low that his sister saw him as a sullen creature, moping about Pemberley? It was not an image he relished. Who was he, then? He had always boasted a resilient character capable of facing a challenge with brio. Who was this sleepless ghost haunting the halls of his estate with no purpose in mind?

Darcy agreed to return with them to Briar Lodge for a visit. He would write to Richard and determine whether he was at liberty to do…something. And worst case, he would go to London, if only to show Georgiana he took her words to heart.

As he prepared the correspondence on his desk for his departure, a letter in a strangely familiar scrawl caught his attention. He knew Bingley’s uncommonly ill-formed hand still. How jarring to hear from him after so many years.

Mr Darcy,

I respectfully ask you to pardon me for addressing you in this your season of sore anguish and bereavement. I have long owed you an apology for my rash temper, which caused the break in our friendship. I am heartily sorry for it and beg for your forgiveness.

I have learnt of the loss of your dear wife, Lady Harriet, and I am grieved. I wish to express my deepest sorrow and regret over her untimely death and extend to all her family my most sincere sympathies and condolence in their sad bereavement. For you, I feel overwhelming sorrow.

I do not expect a renewal of that friendship which I so foolishly severed, but I would welcome any connection you might wish to renew.

May God comfort you and be with you in your hours of need and bereavement. Your servant,

Charles Bingley

Darcy’s eyes welled with tears as he set the letter down. He was astonished at how deeply affected he was. Losing Bingley’s amiable company had been a trial. Darcy knew he lacked the will to force himself into society; Bingley had cajoled him into a richer life. In truth, he ought to have written his own apology long ago. He had been wrong, he had been arrogant, and he ought not to have left matters as he did.

Darcy had learnt Bingley married Miss Jane Bennet some years ago, and that he purchased an estate in Cambridgeshire. He would respond to Bingley’s letter and seek his old friend out. Then, he thought of seeing Elizabeth when once again in company with Bingley. He must consider long and hard before he subjected himself to watching Elizabeth as the wife of another. How galling to know someone else was her lover. Yet he still longed to cast his gaze on her beautiful eyes. Perhaps, through Bingley, he could learn of some need Elizabeth had that he could supply in anonymity. All these considerations brought home to him how thoroughly he had removed himself from the world, and how poorly that isolation had served him.

Bingley and Darcy met by arrangement at White’s on a quiet morning before the Corinthians crowded the rooms and began their card games. Darcy settled in a private corner, having arrived quite early. He fiddled with his black armband. Georgiana had told him he might leave off wearing it, it being a year since Hattie’s passing. Darcy was not yet ready to surrender the mark of sorrow, or to resume the expected frequency of social obligations that might entail.

“Mr Darcy,” a voice said. Darcy looked up. There stood his old friend Bingley, still with a jovial smile. He looked untouched by the seven years since last they met.

“Bingley, please, I am Darcy to you. It is my very great pleasure to see you once again,” Darcy replied.

Bingley shook his hand and, setting his stick against the table, sat across from him.

“Please accept my condolences, Darcy. I know it was quite some time before I wrote, but I only heard the news recently.”

“Your letter touched me deeply. I should have made amends to you many years ago.”

“Not at all, I was at least as much in the wrong as you were,” Bingley insisted. “And I suffered no great harm, as Jane agreed to marry me as soon as I took myself back to Netherfield.”

Darcy, at the mention of Netherfield, asked Bingley about his new estate and how he came to purchase it. Darcy was not familiar with the area and sought information about the climate and crops. They resumed an easy, even jocular comradery as though no time had passed.

“Jane will be taken to bed any day now. I am more nervous than you can imagine at the prospect. We came to London to seek the best physician. After so many years of marriage, finally having a child is both thrilling and terrifying.”

“I congratulate you. I will keep Mrs Bingley in my prayers.”

“I must confess, we are also in London for privacy. That seems illogical, I am sure, to come to the city to avoid society, but we took a small set of rooms for the nonce, in order to discourage an excess of visitors. Jane has her sister with her, but she wishes for no more than that. With no extra chambers, we can accommodate no additional guests.”

Recalling Mrs Bennet, Darcy could understand why Mrs Bingley would prefer not to invite her to the childbed chamber. He wondered which sister was with them. He longed for information about Elizabeth but could not properly inquire.

“There is an advantage to a snug establishment. I have at times wished to chop a wing off Pemberley to discourage a plethora of visitors.”

“If you choose to do so, please let me know. I imagine a wing of Pemberley would be a splendid addition to Lockwood,” Bingley jested.

Darcy had a long-forgotten sense of comfort. Bingley was always easy, aside from the one time when Darcy had incensed him. To be back on terms with him was most welcome.

“I have no hostess, or I would invite you to dinner whilst you are in town. I suppose Mrs Bingley is not much in society, though,” Darcy said.

“No, she remains at home. After her confinement, we would have you to our little lodgings. When Jane is up to it, of course.”

“When the day comes, I will attend most gladly.” Darcy truly meant his polite acceptance. A quiet dinner with a friend from his past, the serene Miss Bennet, now Mrs Bingley, and, if the stars aligned, a sighting of Miss Elizabeth, or Mrs Couper. He still wished to gaze upon those very fine eyes that enchanted him so many years ago.