Page 47 of A Mismatched Compromise

Darcy would have paid a great deal more than he had to resolve the situation, but he could not deny, especially to himself, that securing the future of a man he loathed rankled more than a bit. He had even served as a witness at their wedding, watching Lydia Bennet become Lydia Wickham with none of the happiness a wedding guest should feel, only with a considerable grim relief that it was done.

“You are very quiet,” Fitzwilliam observed after a few moments, “for a man who has just rescued the girl and solved the entire problem.”

“I am tired.”

“I am certain that you are, as I am tired, but I also suspect you are thinking about something else entirely.”

Darcy didn’t respond.

“What will you do now that we’ve washed our hands of the Wickhams?” Fitzwilliam pressed after another few moments of silence.

“Return to Pemberley, I suppose,” Darcy said, though he could not seem to muster up the enthusiasm he typically felt for his home.

“Ah,” said Fitzwilliam. “Of course. Nowhere to go besides Pemberley.”

“It is my home,” Darcy pointed out. “Where else would I go?”

“Where else indeed,” said Fitzwilliam pleasantly. “By no means would you go to see the woman whose sister and family you just spent thousands of pounds saving from ruin. I can’t imagine why, especially since you seem to have tired of her. What?” he asked when Darcy made an instinctive movement of objection. “I only surmise this as you’ve not spoken her name at all in the last three very tedious weeks, though before that it seemed that all topics of conversation led eventually to her.”

“There is nothing to say,” Darcy said, setting his glass down rather more firmly than required.

“I am desolated to contradict you, cousin, but I am certain that there is a great deal to say,” Fitzwilliam said. “You told Bingley and me you loved her and wished to propose. The very next morning you asked to speak with her privately, and the next time I saw you, you looked as though you had walked directly into a wall. And since then, you’ve said nothing of her. It is curious, cousin, you must admit.”

Darcy said nothing for a long moment, considering if there was a way to avoid the topic. With a sigh, he determined there was not — Fitzwilliam had all his father’s perception and even patience, and was far less scrupulous in putting either to use. “I proposed to her,” he said finally.

Fitzwilliam regarded him for a long moment. “Did you,” he said.

“I did. And she refused me.” He heard the flatness in his own voice, but made no attempt to correct it. “Quite comprehensively,” he added.

“Darcy.” Fitzwilliam set his glass aside and leaned forward, looking at him intently. “What did you say to her?”

Incensed at his cousin’s tone, Darcy looked up. “I told her the truth. That I loved her despite every objection I or anyone else could bring against the match, and that I had considered those objections at very great length before concluding that I wished to marry her regardless.”

Fitzwilliam pressed his lips together. “You said that? All of it? In that order?”

Darcy hesitated. “That was the order in which I considered it.”

Fitzwilliam closed his eyes briefly, as if in pain. “Darcy. My dear, catastrophically foolish cousin. You told a woman — no, you told Elizabeth Bennet that you had evaluated her like a parcel of land and decided she was worth the purchase price despite drainage problems in the upper acres? Are you mad? Even though that is likely your actual thought process, and though you are idiot enough to imagine it is a compliment, how did you ever think that was anything but the worst idea you have ever conceived?”

“Thank you, Fitzwilliam. How kind of you to point all of these excellent considerations out to me,” Darcy said with some asperity. “I am aware now that it was not handled well, as I have had a great deal of time to consider it in the weeks since.”

“So she refused you,” Fitzwilliam said, ignoring Darcy’s clear displeasure.

“She refused me, and…” Darcy hesitated again, then decided he might as well make a full confession. “And I responded by telling her that she was selfish as well as stubborn, destroying her sister and Bingley’s chance at happiness because I had not given her a pretty enough speech.” Darcy pressed his fingers to his eyes as Fitzwilliam groaned. Repeating it all aloud did not make it sound any better than it did in his memory, though he had rather hoped that it might. “It did not go well, Richard,” he said finally.

To his credit, Fitzwilliam did not laugh or continue his criticisms, though Darcy saw that he wanted to. “No,” he agreed instead. “I cannot imagine that it did.” He was quiet for a moment, lifting his glass to take another drink. “Do you mean to make another attempt? And perhaps endeavour not to bungle it entirely this time?”

“No.” The answer came with more certainty than Darcy entirely felt, but he was resolved to be resolute in the decision. “She refused me once, in terms that left very little room for misunderstanding. I will not put her in a position where she is forced to do so again, particularly not now when her family is in a position to feel some obligation to me. That might lead her to accept out of a sense of indebtedness rather than genuine feeling. Better that she should never speak to me again rather than accept me because she believed she owed me.” Darcy said the words stoutly, but the thought of never speaking to Elizabeth again made his chest ache.

“That is very noble of you,” said Fitzwilliam slowly.

“It has nothing to do with nobility. It is merely sense.” Darcy was aware of how little comfort sense had brought him these less several weeks, compared to what he thought it ought to.

“Well,” said Fitzwilliam, leaning back in his chair, “for what it is worth, and I grant it is probably worth precious little at this moment, I do not think it likely that you are as thoroughly destroyed in her estimation as you seem convinced. But I learned long ago that one cannot argue a Darcy out of a position he has spent three weeks determining to be true, so I shall simply remark that you appear utterly wretched and thoroughly eaten up with melancholy, and leave it at that.”

“Thank you,” Darcy said dryly, “for your truly admirable restraint.”

“I am renowned for such,” Fitzwilliam said comfortably. He raised his glass in a small, mocking toast. “To Wickham, then, and the last we shall ever see or hear of him.”