Page 18 of Unwillingly Mrs. Darcy

Darcy

29th July 1812

D arcy briskly descended the stairs the following morning, the sun already high in the sky.

He had shared the good news with Miss Kitty and Miss Mary the previous morning and had been in attendance when the pianoforte teacher had begun to instruct Mary. He had seen how delighted she was. Likewise, he understood that Kitty genuinely appreciated his efforts to secure her position at the orphanage. He was more than happy with what he had been able to accomplish for the two young ladies, and he genuinely hoped that it would help them find their place.

However, the truth was that what he really wanted to know was how Elizabeth would react to these deeds. Yes, it was true—he had wanted to help her sisters. But at the same time, he had also wanted to show Elizabeth that he could genuinely be counted upon and trusted. That he truly meant to help her and her family. By now, he had hoped this was evident, but one could never be certain.

Anticipation filled him as he poked his head into the breakfast room, but he found only her sisters and Georgiana sitting around the table, deep in conversation. The trio didn’t even notice him. The footman opened his mouth, ready to welcome him, but Darcy quickly shook his head. He didn’t want to be seen, not now. He didn’t want to interrupt the sisters and be drawn into a conversation.

Not when he desired to see Elizabeth.

Turning towards the drawing room, he checked to see if she might be there, aware that at times she took breakfast in that quieter space. It too was empty. He sighed, hands sliding into his pockets as his shoulders slumped. She must still be asleep. He considered asking Mrs Reynolds but decided against ringing for her just for this. Instead, he opted to take a walk. She’d surely be awake by the time he returned.

Stepping outside, he breathed in the fresh scent of blooming flowers. It was a peaceful day. The sky was a brilliant blue with only a few white clouds here and there. The air was alive with the chirping of sparrows and the occasional warble of blackbirds—a concerto of Derbyshire in summer and Darcy smiled. He always loved the sound of birdsong.

He clasped his hands behind his back, a habit picked up from his grandfather, who often walked the estate in the same fashion. Georgiana frequently teased him for this resemblance, saying it made him look far older than he was. Of course, she had never met their grandfather, who had died before she was born. But his portraits—along with his other illustrious forebears—still hung in Pemberley, capturing the same thoughtful stance.

At the lake, Darcy paused to watch the ducks and swans circle lazily. He wished he’d brought some kitchen scraps for them to enjoy. Just as he pondered returning with some, a commotion drew his attention. A flurry of birds—ducks and swans—took flight towards the far end of the lake, all seeming to congregate in one spot.

Darcy tilted his head in curiosity, peering in that direction. There, standing among the flock, was Elizabeth.

A smile tugged at his lips. She stood tossing greens to the eager birds, dressed in a pastel peach gown with a pelisse lightly draped at the front. Her hair was styled in a half-up, half-down fashion, her bonnet resting beside her, along with her gloves.

Steeling his resolve, Darcy started towards her, though a pang of hesitation lingered.

As he neared, she turned and greeted him with an open smile. “Mr Darcy,” she said lightly, though there was something warmer about her today.

“Elizabeth,” he replied, dipping his head. Then, after a brief pause, he added, “Please—if I am to call you Elizabeth, perhaps you should call me Fitzwilliam. Or William.”

Elizabeth hesitated, biting her lip. “I do not know if that would be proper.”

“Certainly, it must be if I am to call you Elizabeth,” he countered. “Or, if you prefer, simply Darcy. Many of my relations do.”

Her lips curved upwards. “Darcy, then. That would suit me.”

“Good. We agree,” he said, nodding. “I had in mind to feed the birds as well, but I forgot to bring anything for them.”

Immediately, she extended a small bowl filled with spinach, lettuce, and other greens.

“May I assist?” he asked, his hand brushing against hers as he reached into the bowl. The contact was fleeting but absorbing. Darcy froze momentarily, dismayed when he noticed her eyes widen and her posture stiffen. He quickly turned away, tossing the greenery towards the hungry birds to diffuse the awkward moment.

“Maxwell! Josephine!” he called to the two swans fighting off smaller ducks for the greens.

Beside him, Elizabeth chuckled. “You have named them?”

“Of course. These two, and some of the geese as well. They’re not here now, but they often are in the afternoons.”

“And their names?” she prompted, tilting her head in curiosity.

He smiled, his earlier discomfort forgotten. “The swans are Maurice, Jacques, Jacqueline, and Celeste. The ducks visit less frequently and are harder to tell apart. I’ve decided they haven’t earned names yet.”

Elizabeth laughed, and the sound warmed him.

“I had not taken you for someone who names his birds,” she teased.

Darcy shrugged. “It’s a habit I picked up from my mother.” He paused, his voice softening. “I suppose, it is a way of honouring her.”

Elizabeth’s smile faded into something more thoughtful. “I would have liked to have known her. I’ve heard so many kind things said about her from the locals.”

“She deserved every word,” he replied, watching as the birds finished the last of the greens.

They stood in companionable silence for a few moments before Elizabeth spoke, “I must thank you,” she said glancing up at him. “For helping Mary and Kitty find meaningful occupations. They both seem so much more at ease already, and Mary’s delight in her lessons is plain.”

Darcy inclined his head modestly. “I am gratified to hear that they are settling in. It is Georgiana I must credit for the inspiration, however. She found similar solace in new pursuits after…” He hesitated, the shadow of old grief flickering across his face. “…after our parents died. She was so young then, scarcely aware of how her life had changed when our mother died but she was very aware when our father left us. Music became her solace.”

“Your parents’ loss must have been devastating for you both,” Elizabeth said softly.

“It was,” Darcy admitted. “But I also found distraction. Although not in music, I am afraid but rather in labour. As a lad of twelve, after my mother died, I began visiting the tenants on the estate. I even helped with their chores, or at least tried to.”

Elizabeth’s brow arched as a playful smile spread across her lips. “You hardly seem the sort of man to milk a cow, Mr Darcy.”

At that, Darcy laughed—a rich sound that seemed to carry the last of his tension away. “Quite right. My attempts at milking were a failure of notable proportions. My skills were far better suited to repairing fences, which is where I spent much of my time.”

Elizabeth grinned, her amusement twinkling in her eyes. “Did your father not mind such endeavours?”

Darcy’s expression softened at the mention of his father. “He was aware. If he disapproved, he never said so. I believe he rather liked the idea. He always believed that a good landowner understood his tenants and the hard work that they did. And there is no better way to understand a man than to work beside him. But my aunt…” Darcy’s jaw tightened slightly. “She came to call unannounced one day. She saw me covered in dirt, my shirt untucked, and my hair in such disarray it was evidently alarming to her. To say it set her bristles up to see me in such a state is an understatement.”

Elizabeth clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle her giggle, but Darcy’s voice took on an edge.

“She stopped my activities at once,” Darcy continued, his eyes darkening. “Summoned me into the drawing room and delivered a lecture on decorum. She said that it was not a suitable manner in which the heir to Pemberley should act. I suspect she was more incensed by the fact that I ignored her instructions, than by my dishevelled appearance. She has always sought to control my life, even then. And no one—no one—dares to stand up to her.”

Elizabeth’s expression softened into something closer to admiration. “But you did,” she said gently. “You didn’t marry Miss Anne.”

A wry smile tugged at Darcy’s lips. “And how did I manage that?” he scoffed, though without malice. “Not with words or courage. I concocted a ruse to keep from her match.”

“That ruse helped my family immensely,” Elizabeth said, her tone steady.

Darcy inclined his head, acknowledging the truth of her statement. “It did. But it doesn’t change the fact of my cowardice. I should have told her plainly that I would not be so dictated.”

“Perhaps you should tell her now how you truly feel?” Elizabeth suggested. “What more can she do?”

Darcy gave a short laugh that lacked humour. “More than you might think. In fact, I need Lady Catherine’s aid in another matter—one of some delicacy. The matter that we discussed the other evening.”

Elizabeth’s brow raised, curiosity flickering in her gaze. “To break the entailment?”

Darcy nodded stiffly. “Yes. Should I succeed, it will provide the stability and protection your family requires.”

“But if it causes you more hardship, perhaps now is not the time.”

“It is precisely the time. While your father’s health is stable, I do know that your mother continues to worry and I believe it will alleviate her concerns to know that whatever the future may bring, Longbourn shall remain with the Bennets. He caught the expression on Elizabeth’s face and quickly added, “It is no trouble. It is part of our agreement, after all.”

“I understand,” Elizabeth said with quiet sincerity. “Though I assure you, if it proves too great a burden, my family can explore other avenues.”

“Nonsense.” Darcy’s voice held a firm finality. “It is a task I am entirely capable of handling, and I shall see to it directly.” He bowed his head, preparing to leave. “I will bid you good day, Elizabeth. There are matters I must address.”

He turned and strode towards the manor, his long strides carrying him purposefully. Yet, beneath his polished exterior, frustration churned. Even in absence, Lady Catherine’s shadow loomed over his life, meddling in his plans. The realisation only sharpened his resolve to face the matter and deal with her interference once and for all.

***

Darcy entered his chambers with an uncharacteristic heaviness in his step, his jaw set in a firm line. Though his resolve was steadfast, an inner tumult churned in his chest. Lady Catherine. Of all people, why did it have to be her he needed to convince? He moved to the writing desk near the window and stared out briefly.

Seated, he uncapped his ink bottle and set quill to paper. His first words came swiftly, his displeasure lending force to the movement of the quill.

Pemberley

29 th July 1812

Dearest Lady Catherine,

It is with the deepest respect that I take up my pen to address you after a regrettable gap in our correspondence. First, allow me to extend my apologies for the hasty nature of my recent marriage. I fear that circumstances at the time necessitated swift action, preventing a thorough explanation to you, my esteemed aunt, to whom I owe so much.

Darcy stopped, staring at the neatly inscribed words. Respect. Esteemed. How false they rang in his own ears! His fingers tightened slightly around the quill, and he stood abruptly, pacing the room to steady himself. He reminded himself of his aim, this was not for Lady Catherine—it was for Elizabeth and her family. Their security mattered above all.

Seated once more, he continued.

Had we the opportunity to speak more openly before the matter was resolved, I would have informed you of what has long been true. My affections for Miss Elizabeth Bennet grew naturally, and in such depth that I was compelled by both love and duty to act decisively. Though I understand your hopes rested on a union between myself and your daughter, my dear cousin Anne, I trust you will recognise that such a connection was never desired by either party .

Darcy sat back, running a hand through his hair. He sighed sharply, the sound low and controlled, before leaning forward again to focus on the point that most concerned him.

Nevertheless, I do not write to rekindle quarrels of the past but instead to address an urgent and practical matter. Dear aunt, you have always acted in the best interests of our family. Indeed, your tireless advocacy for family unity and respectability has benefited us all. It is in that spirit I now humbly seek your assistance to correct a matter that threatens those very virtues.

The entailment tied to Longbourn has placed Mrs Bennet’s family in an uncertain position. With the death of Mr Bennet looming a possible reality, I cannot, in good conscience, allow his widow and daughters to be turned out of their home, nor do I think it would reflect well on our broader connections if such a tragedy were left unresolved. This circumstance touches not only on their stability but, as Mrs Bennet’s family is connected to the Darcys through me, on ours as well.

Darcy paused to ensure he maintained his tone, politely imploring but leaving no room for denial of responsibility.

To mitigate this risk, I believe it is in the shared best interests of our families—Darcy, Fitzwilliam, and Bennet alike—to seek a resolution by breaking the entailment. Mr Collins will no doubt resist this action, but I am certain he will defer to your guidance on the matter. It is my hope, then, that you will kindly exert your influence on him to achieve a satisfactory outcome. Surely you will agree that such a path best preserves our family’s reputation and standing .

Darcy ended the letter with customary but measured pleasantries.

Yours with utmost regard,

Fitzwilliam Darcy

He read over his work, ensuring no hint of derision, no raw emotion, bled through his composed script. Yet within him, a fire simmered, a resentment that only swelled as he saw his aunt’s face in his mind, imagining her indignation at his marriage and her indignation to be asked for assistance.

Standing abruptly, he folded the letter, sealing it with wax before handing it to a footman. “Have this posted immediately.”

As the footman departed, Darcy sank into an armchair, one hand over his face. He had done what needed to be done. But the bitter taste of it lingered. Once more, Lady Catherine loomed over his affairs, her reach as insufferable as ever.

“She will not win,” he muttered under his breath. Then, thinking of Elizabeth—her confidence, her wit, her unwavering kindness to even the most vexing of her relations—his jaw relaxed.

“She has changed everything,” he thought quietly. His lips quirked into a fleeting smile. For her sake, he could endure this indignity. For her sake, and for her family’s future, he would.