Page 5 of The Same Noble Line (Darcy and Elizabeth Happily Ever Afters)

D arcy remained at Miss Elizabeth’s side as they strolled back toward Longbourn, their discussion pleasantly subdued. Bingley’s gaze frequently drifted toward Miss Bennet, his expression both fond and resolute, and Miss Bennet returned the look with more animation than he had seen in her last autumn.

He blinked when she smiled at his friend. Miss Bennet’s smile was as modest as she was, but there was admiration and affection in her aspect. Had he been wrong about her sentiments?

Everything in his life was uncertain at the moment, and he did not like it. “Miss Elizabeth,” he said quietly, “forgive me, but does your sister care for Bingley?”

Miss Elizabeth was taken aback, but her answer was confident. “She does, Mr. Darcy.”

“Thank you,” he said. He believed her to be telling the truth, which meant they might not be leaving the area in two weeks. He glanced down at the woman who walked steadily at his side.

He found he could not mind.

Georgiana, her eyes bright with enjoyment, was listening intently to one of Fitzwilliam’s cheerful stories, and he allowed the sound to wash away his perturbation.

They were entering the house when a young woman’s voice broke through the quiet.

“Her hat is hideous , Kitty!” Miss Lydia cried. The words carried all the way to the front hall.

“Harriet thinks it fashionable,” Miss Kitty protested loudly.

“I could wear a bucket and look better!” Miss Lydia proclaimed.

Darcy saw Bingley grimace slightly at the raucous tone. Georgiana glanced up at her brother, her lips pressed together in an attempt to keep her composure, though a hint of compassion shone in her eyes. Fitzwilliam’s face revealed him to be quietly appalled.

“Lydia, it is not seemly to mock another, particularly one of your own friends,” Miss Mary’s reproving tone came next, its sanctimonious edge making Darcy wince, though he schooled his expression quickly. “You ought to have more consideration, as a young lady ought to set an example—”

“Good heavens,” Mrs. Bennet interrupted, her voice laden with exasperation. “Who has ever seen a girl of eighteen act as though she is a parson? Leave them be, for goodness’ sake.”

It was clear where the youngest girl had learnt her manners.

A barely audible sigh escaped Miss Elizabeth. She shot a quick, resigned look at Miss Bennet as they both removed their bonnets and cloaks and without hesitation strode forward with a practiced air of calm and purpose. Bingley trailed after them. Darcy followed his friend, Georgiana and Fitzwilliam behind him.

“Kitty, Lydia,” Miss Elizabeth said gently but firmly, her voice somehow cutting through the din while maintaining a reasonable volume. “That is quite enough about the hat. And, Mary,” she continued, a soft smile on her lips, “you are quite right, kindness is important. Let us just save our debate for another time, shall we?” Her head tipped ever so slightly in Bingley’s direction, and Miss Mary pressed her lips together, displeased. He felt somewhat in charity with Miss Mary. She was not wrong; she simply had a way of stating her concerns that had no chance of succeeding.

Miss Bennet added, “Harriet is a friend to us all. I think she would be pleased if we admired her new hat the next time we see her wearing it.”

Miss Mary, the tilt of her chin indicating a sense of vindication, tightened her grip on her book but refrained from adding anything more. Miss Lydia huffed, and Miss Kitty gloated, but then they sat back and began to work on some sort of craft that was spread out on a little table between them. For a brief moment, there was calm.

Bingley visibly relaxed, and Georgiana accepted the chair Miss Elizabeth offered her. Mrs. Bennet, though visibly put out, was resigned. “Well, I suppose there is no harm in it. Harriet is a sensible enough girl, though it is a pity about her taste. She will never have a beau if she insists on wearing such dreadful things.”

Miss Elizabeth cast a faint smile at her elder sister. Their ease handling the family’s chaos struck Darcy as rather maternal. In the past he would have ascribed that trait to Miss Bennet alone, but now he found himself admiring Miss Elizabeth’s quiet authority. Yet another trait that would make her an excellent bride.

For someone else.

Georgiana’s eyes held a flicker of pity as they swept the room, lingering on Mrs. Bennet and her daughters. Fitzwilliam, on the other hand, caught Darcy’s eye with a look of barely concealed dismay, his brow raised in a silent warning that Darcy understood all too well. The message was clear: Could he imagine this family presiding over Pemberley? Fitzwilliam’s subtle headshake was all it took to confirm what Darcy already knew he should do. Walk away and never return.

Darcy required a moment to steady himself and turned toward the window. But as he did, his eyes fell once again on Miss Elizabeth. The fading winter light spilled through the glass and cast her in a soft glow. There was no denying her strength, nor the quiet dignity that seemed an integral part of her character. It captivated him against his will, and he felt the newly familiar, unwelcome longing for something he could not have.

She was everything admirable—compassionate, intelligent, and loyal—and yet her family, the very world she came from, was a storm of impropriety. He could scarcely envision her mother in Pemberley’s halls, her sisters under its roof, without flinching.

He would not be able to remain at Pemberley and watch everything his family had worked to achieve crumble to pieces through neglect and mismanagement. He imagined Mrs. Bennet would spend every last shilling in the accounts, and Mr. Bennet would not stop her. On the other hand, should Mr. Bennet not be connected to the Darcys, he and Miss Elizabeth would still be worlds apart, her family’s conduct forever marking a divide he could not bridge. Could he?

He could make no decisions until he discovered the truth of his fears. There was no point in ruminating over this now.

Resolute, he tore his gaze away from Miss Elizabeth, forcing the warmth he felt to retreat back into that dark, unyielding part of himself that shut away everything but duty. Still her image lingered, etched firmly into his thoughts as if she had already claimed a place in his heart from which she would never be excised.

Darcy forced himself to look about the room. Bingley was sitting by the fire, engrossed in conversation with Miss Bennet. Miss Elizabeth sat to one side of her eldest sister, while Georgiana listened to Miss Kitty’s recounting of the Netherfield ball. For once, Miss Lydia was not imposing herself upon the conversation but was instead speaking quietly to her mother. Miss Mary, as always, was engrossed in a book. This seemed as good a time as any. Darcy leaned toward Fitzwilliam. “Shall we pay our respects to Mr. Bennet?” he murmured.

Fitzwilliam nodded, his expression cool and impassive. “I will say it again: only if you wish to proceed.”

“I must.”

His cousin’s expression hardened. “Then I think it would only be polite. We would not want him to think we have forgotten him.”

Darcy strode to Georgiana’s side and inclined his head to speak softly to her. “Georgiana, Fitzwilliam and I will return shortly.”

She smiled at him. Miss Elizabeth rose. “Are you seeking my father?” she inquired quietly, and Darcy nodded. “Allow me to show you the way.”

Miss Elizabeth knocked on the door to the book room. They waited and she knocked again before they heard a muffled invitation.

“Papa,” Miss Elizabeth said as she opened the door, “here are Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam to see you.” She curtsied and left them there.

As Darcy stepped inside, he was struck by the room’s elegance. It was larger than he had expected, almost imposing, with three walls lined with towering bookshelves, each shelf packed tightly, some bowing slightly under the weight of all the volumes. The rich scent of leather and old paper filled the air, and he found himself instinctively drawn to the sheer variety of titles—histories, treatises, novels, even a few rare works from Swift and Defoe that he would like to acquire for his own library sat on a shelf near him. Fitzwilliam was eyeing them too, as though the titles could tell him what he wanted to know.

A heavy oak desk stood prominently near the side of the room nearest the window, its dark surface polished but bearing the marks of frequent use. Behind it was Mr. Bennet, a book balanced precariously on his knee and a pair of spectacles slipping down his nose.

At their entrance, Mr. Bennet slid a ribbon between the pages to mark his place, then set the book down with a casual ease. Behind him, the tall window framed the study’s north wall with the drapes pulled back, offering the room some natural light and an unfiltered view of the wilderness on that side of Longbourn’s property.

Mr. Bennet waved them to two chairs before his desk. “Ah, gentlemen. Come to inspect the library?”

“Not today, sir,” Fitzwilliam replied smoothly. “We thought it only proper to pay our respects.”

Mr. Bennet chuckled. “Ah, propriety—the very lifeblood of my household.” His eyes twinkled with amusement as they took their seats, though Darcy noted his gaze sharpened with interest. “Tell me, how do you find Hertfordshire? Not so dreary a place as you expected, I trust?”

“Not at all, sir,” Fitzwilliam replied. “It is a lovely place.”

“Hmm. Yes, we are quite fortunate to live in such a paradise,” Mr. Bennet replied. “And to think, I might have been raised somewhere far less picturesque, if not for my father’s good fortune in inheriting Longbourn.” He settled back, watching them with an expression Darcy could only describe as playful.

“Indeed, sir,” Darcy said, seizing the opportunity, “Longbourn is a fine estate.” He leaned back in his chair. “How long has your family been in possession of it?”

Mr. Bennet tilted his head, amusement flickering in his gaze. “Two centuries, more or less. My father inherited when his brother died. I was just a babe in arms then.”

He and Fitzwilliam exchanged glances, and when they looked back at Mr. Bennet, he was eyeing them shrewdly. “What prompts this curiosity?”

Darcy hesitated, but Fitzwilliam interjected smoothly, “Merely a matter of interest, Mr. Bennet. Darcy here has always held an appreciation for the history of estates and the families that inhabit them. It is part of his nature as a landowner and a far more palatable subject to him than fashion plates and painted screens.”

Mr. Bennet’s gaze shifted between the two. “I cannot say I blame you, Mr. Darcy. I am to become an object of study, then, am I? Well, as often as I have done the same to others, I suppose I cannot complain.”

“I suspected as much,” Fitzwilliam said, making himself comfortable. “You appear to be an erudite man.”

Mr. Bennet now seemed amused. “From our brief introduction?”

Fitzwilliam indicated the book Mr. Bennet held in his hand. Darcy saw that it was in Greek. “I am a soldier, sir—it does not take me long.”

“You gentlemen must forgive me if my knowledge of the estate’s finer details is somewhat lacking. As for my lineage,” he continued with a shrug, “I confess I have never been one to pore over family records. I leave that to historians and those better suited to caring about the matter, such as my daughter Elizabeth. My father came to Longbourn when he inherited, and as my parents’ only child it has been my lot to carry on the family line since.”

But was it the correct family line? The correct estate? Darcy nodded. “I find myself in much the same position, sir, as Pemberley’s responsibilities often require my attention. It has been difficult to be away during the harvest, knowing that matters continue in my absence and not being able to make quick decisions. There is always the concern of whether things are proceeding as they should.” His land steward was excellent, but still, many letters had been passed between them, and Darcy had not liked being away at that time of year.

Mr. Bennet chuckled, more bemused than concerned. “I imagine Pemberley’s harvest runs itself as well as mine does, thanks to competent stewards.” His gaze grew momentarily distant.

“Then your harvest this year was successful?” Fitzwilliam inquired.

The older man waved a dismissive hand, his lips quirking in amusement. “As good as most, not as good as some,” he replied with a tone that suggested he gave the matter little thought. “I leave the intricacies of crop yields and market prices largely to my steward. I am sure he keeps a far more diligent account than I ever could. I manage the ledgers to calculate the profit and make myself visible enough to make certain I am not being cheated. That is enough for me.”

Darcy glanced at Fitzwilliam, who almost imperceptibly raised one brow. It was clear to both that Mr. Bennet’s primary concern was in maintaining its income, not in increasing it or seeking out other lines of revenue for the lean years that would inevitably come. Fitzwilliam leaned back in his chair, his tone deceptively teasing. “And do you find yourself content here, sir? I only mean that a man with such a library in his private study might have wished to remain at university.”

Mr. Bennet let out a dry chuckle. “Content enough, Colonel, though I would be lying if I claimed to possess a great passion for the role. I daresay I am as diligent a master as is necessary to avoid debt, not a simple task with five daughters out at once.” His flinty gaze softened as it wandered to a spot behind Darcy, who turned his head to see three small stools, only large enough for children, sitting in one corner. Mr. Bennet cleared his throat and finished his thought. “I leave the daily management and real labour to those who possess more acumen for it.”

Darcy sat forward again and offered a small, respectful nod. “Indeed, it is no small feat to balance the demands of a family and an estate, even with such capable stewards as you describe. It is a practical approach, sir.”

Fitzwilliam’s smile was wry. “One can hardly fault a man for knowing his own priorities,” he added. “And with such a library at hand, one can see why Longbourn’s fields might hold less appeal.”

“Ah, you flatter me,” Mr. Bennet replied. “And I will say, it is a relief to meet gentlemen so considerate. One encounters all sorts in the country, you understand.”

“Of course, sir,” Darcy replied, inclining his head. “I suppose you have seen many characters come and go in Hertfordshire over the years?”

“A procession, I assure you,” Mr. Bennet said with a sigh, though his eyes held a hint of mischief. “Though none, I will admit, as inquisitive as yourselves.”

Fitzwilliam laughed, leaning back. “We appreciate your indulgence, sir.”

“Indulgence?” Mr. Bennet’s mouth twitched with a fleeting smirk. “I am an open book, gentlemen, but I fear you will find little of interest here. Longbourn is my home, but I am aware it is thoroughly unremarkable, and I assure you, the Bennet family is just as dull. I rather prefer it that way.”

Darcy’s eyes remained on Mr. Bennet. There was a simplicity to his acceptance of his role as master, a detachment even, that Darcy could hardly reconcile with the responsibilities of Pemberley. Yet there was something compelling in the sharp intelligence lurking behind the man’s self-effacing smile.

Fitzwilliam nodded, offering a good-natured smile. “We soldiers do tend to grow restless when not on duty.”

“Ah, restless soldiers. Now that I can understand.” Mr. Bennet gave them each a serious look. “My advice, gentlemen? Do not become as complacent as I have in my little corner of the world. It is a far better use of a young man’s talents to be restless than idle.”

They exchanged a few more pleasantries, and before taking their leave they had each promised Mr. Bennet a game of chess when they next came to visit, but as they exited the study, Fitzwilliam leaned close to Darcy, his voice low and contemplative. “Not exactly a diligent master, is he?”

“No,” Darcy murmured, his thoughts churning as he glanced back down the corridor. “And yet there is more to him than one might immediately glean.”

“Perhaps,” Fitzwilliam agreed, though his voice held a hint of caution. “But that does not mean he is the sort who would do well with the responsibility of a place like Pemberley. He seems more than content to remain here, without a care for anything beyond his library—but we both know he would accept it if for no other reason than to keep his daughters in finery and assure them excellent fortunes.”

As they walked away from the study, Darcy was besieged by doubt. Mr. Bennet was not the sort of master Pemberley needed, that much was clear. Yet there was a keen intelligence behind his sardonic humour that Fitzwilliam chose not to see, a sharpness Darcy could not ignore. The thought troubled him; a man so at ease with complacency, so detached from the role of master, could hardly be expected to preserve Pemberley’s legacy. And yet, if ever he decided to apply himself, he had the natural intelligence to do it well.