Deliberation and Doubt, Chapter 7

“Miss Bennet, are you well?”

Elizabeth looked...lost. He had not expected her to be this dismayed to find out that Wickham was unworthy of her admiration.

“How could I have been so wrong?” Elizabeth said. She seemed on the point of tears. “I was wrong about everything.”

“Probably not everything,” he said, seeking to lighten the mood and to respond honestly at the same time. His reply seemed to make things worse. She blinked, and a few tears fell. If he had thought the force of her anger had been difficult to bear, her brittle sadness brought him to a new level of discomfort.

Darcy looked about him. Fields that must have been bustling with industry a few months ago were great, lonely patches now. He had spotted just a few people from a distance and encountered no one while riding, though admittedly he had kept off the main road. Still, there would be little to take a man far from his own grounds this time of morning so late in the year. They were unlikely to have an audience for whatever would happen here. He knew his own wishes, but he had to think of hers.

He picked her up and placed her on the wall. Then he sat down next to her. He removed his gloves and tentatively reached out to touch her face where the tears had fallen. “I am sorry if anything I wrote caused you distress,” he said. He felt the wetness of his fingertips and the softness of her skin, and he had to suppress a shiver of delight amidst his concern for her. He dropped his hand and balled it into a fist to get himself under regulation. “I am sorry for your disappointment. I would tell you he is not worth it, but I can hardly find fault with your compassionate nature.”

“My compassionate nature!” She laughed. Her tone was mocking, but she was mocking herself, not him. “Oh, I am disappointed in myself for being taken in so easily and giving ear to his complaints when I had just met him the day before, but that is not what distresses me most.”

“Then what?”

“I showed no compassion at all for you when I sat in my aunt's parlour and listened to that man attack your reputation and blame your supposed dishonourable conduct on jealousy! It is only right that I tell you that Mr. Wickham said very little before first asking my opinion of you. After that, he could not stop talking. To my shame, I did not want him to. I barely hesitated to believe the vilest things about you in that moment! I am not proud of my behaviour, and I thank you for showing me how wrong I was about Mr. Wickham, but what I truly regret is....” She stopped and swallowed, and then that fierce, brave, marvellous young woman looked straight at him with her beautiful eyes. “I regret being so wrong about you,” she said.

The shock he felt at her admission prevented speech. Her tears were not for Wickham but for him, for having misjudged him? He could scarcely believe it. The look on her face was one he had never seen her direct at him before. He opened and closed his mouth several times to no avail. He wanted to do something other than talk, and he could not stop thinking of it long enough to respond sensibly.

“I should not have thrown Mr. Wickham's assertions in your face last night as I did,” she went on to say, looking worried. “I should never have engaged in unseemly, baseless gossip about you in the first place. I will understand if you cannot forgive me.”

Darcy shook his head to clear it. This feeling of lightness and pleasure was all out of proportion to her words. Regret was not respect. An apology was not affection! Yet something was infusing him with a hope that would not be suppressed. It was almost tangible, this new thing between them. It was in her manner as well as her words. She had not flinched or drawn back when he had touched her. She was not repulsed by him. Not repulsed! He wanted so much more than that, and yet it was a comfort.

He needed to pace until he became reasonable again, but he was loath to leave Elizabeth's side, and she still waited for him to speak. “Miss Bennet,” he began, but she stopped him at once with a gesture and a pained look.

“If you are trying to tell me that I have forfeited your good opinion—”

“I am trying not to kiss you,” he said, interrupting her.

Oh....No. He had not meant to say it, just to do it. He squeezed his eyes shut after seeing the surprise in hers.

In the quiet, he felt her touching his clenched fingers, gently prying them apart. “Must you try so hard?” she whispered.

He opened his eyes. Her face was closer to him than it had been before. “I thought you did not like me,” he told her, hoping she would deny it, tease him about it, laugh it away—anything, so long as she kept holding his hand.

Instead, she looked almost shy. Almost. Elizabeth Bennet was not shy. “Did not you say that impressions change?” she asked him.

He stopped resisting.

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Next

Deliberation and Doubt, Chapter 6

Elizabeth was looking at Mr. Darcy, but she was thinking of her aunt Phillips.

Once, at Longbourn, her mother and aunt shared recollections of a ball many years past. A very handsome friend or relation of one of their neighbours had attended, and every girl there was wild to dance with him. The gentleman, however, only had eyes for the young Miss Gardiner that night. “He looked like he wanted to eat you up!” Aunt Phillips said to Mrs. Bennet. Elizabeth remembered wrinkling her nose in distaste, for the phrase sounded so vulgar coming from her aunt, but the sisters tittered and declared what a pity it was the man's reputation as a rake was so well known that their papa would never have countenanced a match between him and his remaining single daughter.

What Elizabeth wanted to know was whether that rake had looked at Mama like Mr. Darcy was looking at her now.

At last the man turned away and rode off. She ought to be accustomed to his scrutiny by this time, but that long stare and that light smile had her feeling oddly warm for a November morning.

He was too handsome for his own good—for her own good.

Elizabeth's fingers trembled a little as she held the pages of his letter. She forced her gaze down and began to read.

The look of indignation you wore as we danced is one I have seen many times in connection with Mr. Wickham, most often when his name is mentioned in the hearing of those who have suffered a prolonged acquaintance with him. Mr. Wickham himself has worn it while telling the collection of lies and half-truths he has repeated so long now that he may well believe them. On occasion I see traces of it on some unlucky fellow who has done business with him and hopes to recover his loss from me, as if Mr. Wickham were my ward rather than the son of my father's steward. Most painful, however, is observing that look on the face of an unsuspecting young lady who has not yet been exposed to Mr. Wickham's less redeeming qualities and who wonders how anyone can be so callous as to deny such a deserving gentleman his due. Though it was gracefully done—without missing a single step in the dance—and though the eyes that flashed their accusations were very fine indeed, to be charged with behaving unjustly and unkindly towards that man infuriated me. My anger soon took a proper direction, however, and I hope yours will as well after you have read this letter.

The elder Mr. Wickham was an exemplary man who had the management of the Pemberley estates for many years. My father served as godfather to his son and supported him at school and at Cambridge, support his own father could not afford because of his wife's extravagance. My father had the highest opinion of his godson, and though he did not live to provide for him in the church as he had intended, he particularly recommended to me in his will to assist young Wickham in his career and, should he take orders, grant him a valuable family living. In addition to this, he left him a legacy of one thousand pounds.

You may wonder how a man with such a fine example in his father and a wealthy and generous friend in mine, and such good prospects as a result, has ended in the militia far from his childhood home, with little to his name and few, if any, connections of worth—and no, I do not mean monetary worth.

My father's attachment to Mr. Wickham was steadfast, but it is many, many years since I have considered that man a friend. Being nearly the same age, I had opportunities to see him in unguarded moments that my father did not have, and I can testify to his general profligacy. The particulars may be too indelicate to share, but I will say it is fortunate that more than four years ago, soon after the death of my excellent father and then his, Mr. Wickham decided against taking orders. He knew as well as I that he ought not to be a clergyman. When he requested money in lieu of the preferment, I paid him three thousand pounds in exchange for his resigning all claim to assistance in the church. He said he wished to study law, but from the little I heard of him in the years following, that was a mere pretence, and he lived a life of idleness and dissipation in town.

Can you imagine my indignation last year when I began to hear directly and frequently from Mr. Wickham by letter once the living he had refused to wait for became vacant? His circumstances, he claimed, were very bad, and I had no trouble believing it. I knew the extent of the debts he had left behind him in Lambton and other villages near Pemberley. The first letter read thus: He had given up studying law as unprofitable and now meant to be ordained; therefore, I should present him with the living, as I had no one else to provide for and would not want to disregard my father's wishes. Subsequent letters heaped abuse upon me for holding him to his earlier agreement.

I wish my dealings with Mr. Wickham had ended there. Unfortunately, my father was not the only Darcy to retain a favourable impression of his godson. I had not intended ever to disclose this to any human being, but I have witnessed your affection for your own sister, and I know I can trust you with the reputation of mine. Mere months ago, in the summer, Mr. Wickham sought to repay my refusal to secure him several hundred pounds a year with a scheme to acquire thirty thousand pounds outright. I was unaware the woman I had recently hired to preside over my sister's London establishment had a previous acquaintance with him. When she accompanied Georgiana to Ramsgate to spend several weeks there, Mr. Wickham presented himself to their notice and, with Mrs. Younge's aid, quickly convinced Georgiana to believe herself in love. My sister, who is fifteen, had pleasant memories of Mr. Wickham's kindness to her as a child and no suspicion that he had not turned out well. I still shudder to think she would have married him in Scotland had I not visited her by chance a day or two before they were to leave. She confessed her plans to me, for she truly had not wished to disappoint me by taking such a step without my knowledge and approval, however much her companions had encouraged secrecy. How long would Mr. Wickham have taken to spend her fortune? How much sorrow would she have borne, tied for a lifetime to such a man while learning what many others before her have learnt: that he loves no one but himself?

I have too much appreciation for your liveliness of mind to desire your agreement on every subject, but if we should have occasion to dance again, I hope we shall improve in our ability to advance mutually pleasing topics of conversation.

I shall endeavour to place this letter in your hands as soon as may be.

Yours sincerely,

Fitzwilliam Darcy

Elizabeth read the letter through twice. The first time, she paid attention to everything pertaining to Mr. Wickham and compared it with what she had heard directly from the man himself. The ways in which the two accounts agreed and diverged were striking. The magnitude of the elder Mr. Darcy's kindness to his godson was certainly consistent with the fervent gratitude and lavish praise Mr. Wickham expressed. The circumstances regarding the living, however, appeared quite different with so many pertinent details misrepresented or left out of the telling. Refusing to take orders and resigning all claim might certainly be considered imprudence, but that was no fault of Mr. Darcy's, even more so if the very idea for the compromise had come from Mr. Wickham himself!

When she read of the plot against Miss Darcy, or rather against the girl's fortune, she wanted to weep. Even there, Mr. Wickham had ventured into deception—for deception she must call it—and had again, unfairly, spoken ill of a Darcy. Mr. Darcy's description of events gave the impression that his sister was tender-hearted and easily influenced rather than proud, and Mr. Wickham's poor opinion of her seemed nothing more than sour grapes.

Elizabeth had been so pleased when Mr. Wickham had singled her out! Now she wondered why he had done it. She remembered that he had not been forthcoming with his complaints until she had revealed her own dislike of Mr. Darcy. She felt every kind of fool for having encouraged him by her attentiveness. There may have been truth in his looks, as she had told Jane, but she had first realised several hours ago that truth did not always extend to his words.

When Elizabeth read through the letter a second time, she was caught by Mr. Darcy's words of approbation for herself. She glanced over the pages and re-examined the phrases that illuminated his interest.

He considered her a graceful dancer. He thought she had fine eyes—very fine eyes. He thought her an affectionate sister. He trusted her discretion. He appreciated her liveliness of mind. Even after their disaster of a dance last night, he believed she might prove to be a pleasing conversation partner were they to stand up again.

He cared enough about her welfare that he had missed much of the ball in order to devise an effective means of warning her away from an unscrupulous man. He had risked being seen to pay her peculiar attention in giving her a letter. He had somehow known he needed to make the extra effort with her, that it would require more than another heated conversation in a busy ballroom for her to agree to hear his side of the story. She looked at the adieu. He had not needed to add 'sincerely' because she had no reason to disbelieve him. His account fit in so well with Mr. Wickham's in places and yet explained and corrected that which had not made sense to her before.

Several minutes ago, Mr. Darcy had stared at her, apparently studying her face for the pleasure of it. And though he could be doing anything else right now, he still rode within view. He had not abandoned her. Instead, he seemed to be watching over her.

She could not ignore so much evidence, no matter how much her contrary heart wished to try. Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy liked her. He liked her a great deal. Impressions change, he had said, and he ought to know, for it was obvious he no longer found her merely tolerable.

She looked down at herself. She doubted she appeared more than tolerable today, with her hastily scrubbed face, simply arranged hair, and clothes chosen more for comfort than fashion. She thought of how carefully she had dressed for the ball in anticipation of capturing Mr. Wickham's heart. What a silly waste that all seemed now.

She was probably one in a long line of women who had convinced herself that Mr. Wickham's fine figure and winsome manners put him in possession of every virtue. She doubted she had nearly as much company among those who had cast aspersions upon the honour of Fitzwilliam Darcy. She hoped neither mistake would harm more than her pride, but how could she know? All she knew was that her judgement had failed her, and she owed Mr. Darcy an apology at the very least.

Did she owe him more than that? Did she want to give him more?

Elizabeth looked at Darcy until she saw that she had his attention, and then she stood watching him ride towards her, trying to make sense of her rapidly changing feelings and wondering what in the world she was going to say to him.

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Next

Deliberation and Doubt, Chapter 5

Elizabeth was opening his letter.

Elizabeth was reading his letter!

She had not torn it open immediately, but she had kept it and brought it outside to be alone while contemplating it.

She had not thrown it away. She had not let her feelings for him prevent her from giving the letter due consideration.

It was a promising notion. She would not be the dupe of Wickham if she believed even half of what he had written.

It was a terrifying notion. There were some things he had written that she might not tolerate well from someone she disliked, but he had not been thinking of that while he wrote.

Why did he even care? He was allowing her far too much power over him.

He would not look back. He would do as he had said and ride, giving her time to digest the words. That letter had not been easy to write, and she would not feel easy while reading it, not if she admired Wickham even a little.

She was at least open to admitting the man had faults. That seed of doubt Wickham himself had sown was enough to make her feel she ought to read the letter.

Or was it? Had it been his silent persuasion as well, and not just her conviction, that moved her just a moment ago? Had he some power over her?

He mounted his horse and turned. The pages were now unfolded in her lap, but she was not looking at them.

She was looking at him.

Why had he pretended to himself he would not look back? Elizabeth was worth looking at any day of the week.

He allowed his gaze to linger without further self-recrimination. He might have kept at it for a full minute had he not remembered he ought to leave her to her task. With a smile at himself for being silly and at her for being lovely enough to inspire such silliness, he rode away.

Already he was thinking of going back. He would have to return, to convey Bingley's regards if for no other reason. That point settled, he enjoyed a leisurely ride over the grounds, always endeavouring to keep Elizabeth in view or nearly so.

He noted her posture when he rode close enough to make it out. She looked up from the letter from time to time, staring across the landscape. Once he thought he saw her shake her head, but he probably fancied that. She mainly seemed to be looking down.

She appeared still for the most part, but he knew all her little movements that he could not see from this distance. There was the way her hands often hovered on the point of a gesture. There was the way her mouth would pull to one side a little when she was thinking of what to say, and sometimes of what not to say, he suspected. There was...

There was too much of Elizabeth in his brain.

How was he ever to marry someone else when she was all he could think of?

Why was he thinking of marriage at all?

For a short while he rode faster, though the thoughts kept up with him. A closer connection to trade than he cared to tolerate, the vulgarity and lack of propriety shown by some of her family, little to interest him in the society of her set...

He could not say there was much to interest him in any unfamiliar society. He did not take more pleasure in someone's company because that person was considered suitable; he simply felt more obligated to try to do so. Besides, there was nothing unsuitable about Elizabeth herself. She was perfectly admirable.

Mrs. Bennet, though!

It was unreasonable to want to be connected to Mrs. Bennet if you were not.

He recalled the day she visited Netherfield. How many times had she put her daughter to the blush during that brief conversation? It was odd that Mrs. Bennet did not seem to like him any more than Elizabeth. She had tried to antagonise him and had reserved her flattery for Bingley. Well, he supposed it was not odd if Mrs. Bennet cared how her daughters felt about Bingley and himself. Then it would be logical to praise the gentleman favoured by the one daughter and insult the gentleman decidedly out of favour with the other.

That was more than Lady Catherine would have done. Lady Catherine would not have bothered to consider Anne's feelings regarding marriage. Anne would feel what she was told to feel, as far as her mother was concerned. But what were Anne's feelings? Darcy's observations over years of brief obligatory visits told him that Anne cared for little beyond her own comfort. He doubted she had warmer feelings for him than for their Fitzwilliam cousins or for any of Lady Metcalf's eligible connections, for that matter. Yet Lady Catherine regularly hinted, if someone as frank as his aunt could be said to hint, that Anne particularly desired the match planned by their mothers when he and Anne were still in their cradles. The things his aunt had said in pursuit of that match! How many times had he blushed for her when in company with someone she saw as a rival for Anne's affections, or a rival for his? When they were just a family party, how many times had she exaggerated Anne's accomplishments or taste and his affections and interest—and both their consequence in the world, come to think of it?

No, Elizabeth was not the only one with relations for whom there was often cause to blush.

What would Elizabeth think of being connected to Lady Catherine?

He imagined that meeting. He envisioned Lady Catherine in all her state, Elizabeth with her outward cheerful civility and inward amusement as her host's pronouncements grew more and more ridiculous.... Oh, he could imagine Elizabeth's replies to his aunt's inevitable intrusive and impertinent questions! He reined in his horse and had a good laugh. She would rout the old cat and do it with charm.

If his aunt knew what he was thinking, she would never care to meet Elizabeth unless to warn her away from him.

It was providential that Rosings was a great many miles from Pemberley.

Longbourn was also far away from Pemberley, though, like Rosings, not so very far from his house in town.

Elizabeth liked the country. She would not wish to be always in town. He would keep that in mind.

He wondered what she thought of him now.

None of this might matter. It was nothing but an exercise in fantasy if Elizabeth's opinion of him did not improve. She would not jump from dislike to admiration to love by reading a single letter written about someone else, but he hoped her opinion would change in his favour.

Elizabeth was looking in his direction. Had she just glanced up for a moment? No, she was looking steadily towards him. Perhaps she had finished the letter.

He might as well join her and find out. He would rather be with her than alone with his thoughts in any case.

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Next

Deliberation and Doubt, Chapter 4

Elizabeth was wide awake.

Men.

Men!

Men had ruined her sleep, and not even in a good way.

She liked men. She really did.

But why did they have to be so difficult?

Last night, Mr. Collins kept hinting—warning—that he would propose today. She had tried to discourage him, but he was such a headstrong, foolish man that there was no telling him anything. If he persisted along this course, which she was certain he would, she would just have to bear up under it and hope Papa would support her.

And Papa! Why could he not have intervened before now? He knew a month ago that his cousin had invited himself here. He might have prevented the visit or sent his daughters away until he knew what sort of man Mr. Collins was. He could have pointed Mr. Collins in a different matrimonial direction or at least shared some of the burden of entertaining him rather than foisting his company on his daughters. And last night he might have dragged Mr. Collins off to play cards after supper so that she could have salvaged something of the ball. Surely someone had been off playing cards after supper. That was where she had assumed Mr. Darcy had gone before he returned with that letter.

Mr. Darcy! She really did not know what to make of him.

And Mr. Wickham! He had such an appearance of goodness! Yet....

Good gracious! She would never get out of here if she stopped to ponder that now.

She prepared quietly and hurriedly and left the house with Mr. Darcy's letter in her hand. She walked at a brisk pace and did not stop until she reached one of her favourite places near the border of Longbourn. She steadied herself on the low wall, tucked her garments around her against the chill, and stared at the envelope.

Miss Elizabeth Bennet

To be opened when she finds herself doubting the honour of a certain new acquaintance, which should occur no later than three months hence, but likely will happen much sooner

Had those who knew Elizabeth best—Charlotte, her aunt Gardiner, Papa (Jane would never deliberately discomfit her, so she was not to be counted for this purpose)—crafted a conundrum to madden and intrigue her almost past the point of bearing, she believed they could not have done better than Mr. Darcy, who had known her only a matter of weeks. He was a clever man!

To open the letter, she had to admit to having doubts about Mr. Wickham's character. She was not certain her little questions about the discrepancy between his words and behaviour qualified as doubts.

To discard the letter unread was to risk—what? A mind unprejudiced by Mr. Darcy's opinion? A curiosity permanently unsatisfied regarding this matter? Ignorance of some minor infraction committed by her new friend?

In actuality, Mr. Wickham was but an acquaintance, and a new one at that, as Mr. Darcy rightly referred to him.

Would she wish to call a man friend if another man, one who had known him since childhood, felt the need to warn her that such a friendship might be regretted?

When Mr. Wickham related his history, she had been so pleased with herself for having disliked Mr. Darcy before. But it was precisely because she and Mr. Darcy were not friends that she had had nothing to lose in hearing what Mr. Wickham had to say.

Would the tables be turned if she were to read this letter?

Would she, as she had entreated Charlotte not to wish upon her for the world, end by thinking better of a man she had determined to hate?

As if her thoughts had conjured him, Mr. Darcy appeared over the rise, reined in his horse upon seeing her, dismounted, and walked in her direction.

“Good morning, Miss Bennet,” he said, bowing as he reached her.

“Good morning.” As she started to rise, he gestured for her not to get up. She nodded and wondered what he might say to her. It was the height of awkwardness to have him find her here, holding his unopened letter.

As in their dance, she forwarded the conversation, this time not to create more awkwardness for him but to spare them both. “It will not surprise you, I think, to know that I am in a quandary,” she said, indicating the letter.

He appeared relieved at her beginning the subject. “While I have no doubt,” he said, “that you will have cause to open it—if you do not have cause already—I am honoured that you are considering it at all.” He looked away. “I realised last night that while I chose you as a dance partner, you would not have chosen me.” The small sound he made might have been a sigh. “I apologise. I am not usually such a slow top, I hope.”

Elizabeth hoped her shock was not obvious as she rallied to answer him. “Having overheard your initial impression of me, you must forgive me for not expecting I would ever be your choice.”

He turned and looked at her, his face as unreadable as a mask. “Impressions change, do they not?”

She blinked. She did not know what to reply to that until she looked down at the paper in her hand. “You hope to change a particular impression of mine with this.”

“And you hesitate to allow the attempt?” he asked quietly.

She raised her eyes to him and acknowledged his words with a tilt of her head. “I am uncertain if it is warranted by the two minor...inconsistencies I have noticed between Mr. Wickham's words and his subsequent actions.”

This admission elicited a raised eyebrow but no verbal comment.

She almost let out her breath in a puff but caught herself. “Very well,” she conceded. “You win. I shall open it.”

“It is not a matter of winning or losing.” This time the sigh was clear. “Good old George,” he murmured. “He is as he ever was.” There was bitterness in his tone, the bitterness of being right when you wished you were not. “I will leave you to it,” he said, “but I may return in case you have any questions.”

Elizabeth did not know why she found that knowledge reassuring despite not being able to imagine what questions she would have. In fact, as eager as she was to read the missive—she was already tearing at the seal—the biggest question she had at the moment was why she was not now experiencing that burst of relief she usually felt when parting company with Mr. Darcy.

Perhaps that was what made her look up at him as he mounted his horse.

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Next

Deliberation and Doubt, Chapter 3

Darcy had no idea what to do with himself.

It was half past eight o'clock on the morning after a ball. He ought to be in bed. He ought not to be pacing, fully dressed, listing in his mind the many places to which he could possibly flee.

He had done it now. All his circumspection had been for naught. He had handed that woman the means necessary to compel him to marry her.

He had handed her correspondence where others might see. He had addressed it to her and signed it.

Had Miss Bingley been the recipient, she would have ordered her wedding clothes. Miss Bingley, however, would never have dared to disagree with him about George Wickham—or about anything else, for that matter.

But Elizabeth had a letter from him in her possession, to use as she saw fit. She could show it to her father and hint at enough to have Mr. Bennet pounding on Netherfield's door at the earliest respectable hour, and he, being a man of honour....

No. He was overreacting. A letter and a hint or two would not be enough to force Mr. Bennet to act. His two youngest daughters were flirts, and his wife was an inveterate matchmaker. If something so slight as this would have done for the purpose, between the mother and the girls themselves, surely all five daughters would have been engaged or married by now.

Still, a girl like Elizabeth would be treasured by her father, and if she were to convince him there was cause...

This was Wickham's fault.

Yet it galled him to find himself beholden to Wickham for such a jewel as Elizabeth.

Still, to be fair, Wickham owed him for a lifetime of vexation and grief. Dropping Elizabeth into his lap could be construed as Wickham's making amends, however belatedly and unintentionally done. After all, it was hardly a perfect gesture, considering his future mother and father and sisters. He could not even swear Wickham would not be delighted to know Darcy had got himself into such a scrape as to align his ancient family with people so decidedly beneath him. The cur would probably laugh to hear it.

He would laugh even harder knowing Elizabeth was sympathetic to him, Darcy's enemy.

But if Elizabeth sided with his enemy, then why...

He stopped pacing.

Why would she marry him, unless it was for his money?

No. She might have taken Wickham's part, but she was not Wickham. She would never marry him for his fortune alone. She would not scheme. She had integrity. She had compassion. Surely compassion was behind her wrong-headed championing of Wickham's cause! She was nurturing and kind. She loved to laugh and would never condemn herself to a joyless union.

She had not laughed during their dances. She had not even smiled at him.

Any other single, young, sensible gentleman's daughter would marry him. He was a gentleman but also the nephew of an earl. He was wealthy and well connected. He was not ill favoured. He was in excellent health. He was companionable with those he knew well.

Elizabeth Bennet was aware of these things, but she would not marry him because she did not like him.

He felt relieved.

He felt miserable.

What if she refused to even read his letter?

This was madness. Staring at the walls of his room had not provided any helpful insights. He needed to be out of doors. He decided to go down to breakfast first.

Bingley was there before him.

“Darcy! I did not expect to see you!”

He frowned. “Good morning to you too, Bingley,” he said.

“I did not mean to be rude, old man” Bingley said, laughing. “I would not be up at this hour myself if I did not have to go to town.”

Darcy remembered hearing Bingley talk to Miss Bennet about having to be away for a few days. The lady sighed and said she would be glad to see him again as soon as he could call after his return, or some such thing. That seemed a little forward, but there was nothing objectionable in expressing her honest reaction to Bingley's news.

“What brings you down here so early?” Bingley asked him.

“I could not sleep. I think I shall go for a ride.”

“Going to jump a few fences, eh?” Bingley peered at him. “You are not planning anything too adventurous, are you? You don't look quite yourself.”

“Not likely. Too tired.” He was not terribly hungry. The restless energy he had felt in his room was suddenly gone. Conversing required effort.

Fortunately, Bingley was more than capable of carrying the conversation without any help from him. He spoke of a field just perfect for a good gallop, and another nearer Longbourn, and from there he began to sing the praises of Miss Bennet. His voice sounded so melodious and rhythmic that it really was almost like singing. “So if you happen to ride towards Longbourn,” Bingley concluded with that look he often wore when giving a broad hint, “and you happen upon any of the Bennets, do convey my deepest regards to them, particularly Miss Bennet.”

“Of course,” Darcy said. What else could he say?

He might as well ride towards Longbourn. Perhaps he would see one of the Bennets. Perhaps, as at Netherfield, despite its being the day after a ball, they would not all still be asleep. Maybe Elizabeth would be up earlier than the rest and out for a walk.

He felt his energy returning.

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