Page 41 of Honor Requires

Elizabeth. Her name alone was enough to ground him.

He recalled her as she had been upon the shore—the wind lifting the edges of her bonnet, the sunlight catching in her hair, the brightness of her eyes as she spoke. He recalled the sound of her laughter, the quickness of her wit, the warmth that had grown between them with a natural ease that had taken him entirely unawares. Unexpected, unsought, but it had come so rapidly.

Darcy held those memories carefully, revisiting them not as a man indulging in idle reminiscence, but as one preserving something essential. Each detail mattered. Each expression, each word, each moment of understanding that had passed between them.

He repeated them to himself, refining them, ensuring they did not fade.

“I shall return.”

He had meant it, and Fitzwilliam Darcy always kept his promises.

Georgiana was often in his thoughts. Her image came with equal clarity. Her trust, her gentleness, her tender joy in the small pleasures of life that he had worked so carefully to protect. He wondered what had become of her. Whether she had been told of his death—whether she mourned him, whether she was safe.

Richard. His cousin would not fail her. Colonel Fitzwilliam possessed both the strength and the loyalty required to safeguard what Darcy himself could not. It was a comfort, small though it was, to know that Georgiana would not be left entirely without protection.

Still, the thought of her grief—of the confusion and sorrow she must endure—struck at him with a force he could not easily set aside.

He closed his eyes against it. I must endure. I must return to them.

The marks upon the wall grew. One beside another, a testament to his persistence. Days turned to weeks and weeks to months. His resolve wavered, but did not falter completely. Whatever this place was, whatever purpose had brought him here, it had not succeeded in breaking him.

He stubbornly clung to his identity, to his hopes that all would be resolved. And in that, there was still something of the man he had been.

Chapter Nine

“Sir Walter, what a pleasure to see you!” Mr. Bennet greeted his friend warmly as he and his two eldest daughters were welcomed into the Barton home on Grosvenor Square. The journey through Town had been brisk, the winter air sharp enough to bite at cheeks and fingers alike, but the moment they crossed the threshold into the house, all chill seemed to vanish. A fire burned brightly in the grate, and the glow of lamplight reflected off polished surfaces and gilded frames, lending the room an immediate air of refinement and ease. Servants moved efficiently in the background, efficient and unobtrusive, while the faint scent of beeswax and something floral—perhaps lavender—lingered in the air.

“My dear Thomas. I am so pleased you accepted my invitation at last!” Sir Walter shook his old friend’s hand with genuine warmth. “And these are your daughters? Such lovely ladies.” His gaze moved over them with polite appreciation, his manner genial and entirely at ease, treating such introductions as a daily pleasure rather than a formality to be endured.

“This is my eldest, Miss Jane Bennet, and my second child, Elizabeth.” Mr. Bennet gestured to his girls in turn. “They are the best of the lot, in my opinion, and would benefit most from your patronage.” His tone was light, almost teasing, but the words themselves carried emphasis that Elizabeth could not ignore.

Elizabeth smothered a sigh at her father’s words. It did not speak well of him to voice his preference so openly, even in jest, and she felt a faint discomfort at the idea of being thus distinguished before strangers. Jane, ever gracious, appeared not to notice, or at least chose not to acknowledge it, her serene composure remaining intact.

“They are lovely.”

A lady came through the door, joining them in the parlor. Her entrance was unhurried, carrying an unmistakable authority, the sort possessed by a woman accustomed to being both observed and obeyed.

“Miss Bennet is a classical beauty, to be sure, but Miss Elizabeth is her equal in every way. I am certain we shall have them both married by the end of the season.”

Not I. The thought rose immediately, unbidden and resolute. Elizabeth had attempted to convince her father to take Mary in her stead, arguing with more earnestness than she had shown in many months. Mr. Bennet would have none of it, despite knowing how her heart ached. He had insisted she would find someone to replace ‘her young man,’ and she would soon forget all about him.

It was not likely. Elizabeth dreamed of Mr. Darcy every night. Those dreams came with a clarity that was both a comfort and a torment, his voice as vivid in memory as it had ever been in life. She had attempted to sketch his likeness, thinking perhaps that committing his features to paper might ease the restless turning of her thoughts, but alas, she had not a bit of artistic talent. The result had been a pale and unsatisfactory imitation, devoid of the strength and character she knew so well. Instead, she focused on her memories of him, sketching a portrait in her mind that she could examine whenever she liked, refining each detail until she feared she might alter it through the very act of preservation.

“We shall attend Lady Matlock’s Twelfth Night ball. The family has recently come out of mourning for a nephew who was killed. It is the event heralded to open the season this year. Only those in the first circles can secure an invitation.” Sir Walter spoke with a note of satisfaction, as though the exclusivity of the event reflected credit upon his own standing, and perhaps it did. The name itself struck Elizabeth with faint recognition, though she could not immediately place it, her thoughts too entangled in other matters to dwell upon society’s intricacies.

“Lady Matlock is also my sister.” Lady Margaret Barton swatted her husband’s arm with affectionate reproach. She turned to Jane and Elizabeth, her expression brightening as she regarded them more closely. “Since my husband neglects to introduce me, I shall have to take matters into my own hands. I am Lady Margaret Barton. How pleased I am to have you both here! I have no daughters, you see, and always wished to launch a young lady on society.”

Her tone carried warmth rather than condescension, and Elizabeth found herself unexpectedly grateful for it. There was no sharpness in Lady Margaret’s manner, no sense of superiority that might have made their position uncomfortable. Instead, she seemed genuinely pleased, her enthusiasm directed not toward display, but toward the opportunity itself.

“We are very pleased to be here, Lady Margaret.” Jane smiled her usual serene smile, her gratitude expressed with an elegance that never failed to charm.

“I hope your father came prepared to purchase new wardrobes for the pair of you. I have secured appointments with my modiste tomorrow. She promised to have a ball gown for each of you ready for my sister’s ball next week.” Lady Margaret spoke with the confidence of one accustomed to such arrangements being carried out without delay, her assurance leaving little room for doubt.

“Can she have something made so quickly?” Jane worried her lip. “That is scarcely more than a week.” Her concern was practical rather than anxious, but Elizabeth could not help but share it. The pace of Town life, it seemed, allowed for little hesitation.

“Madame Dubois is simply the best. Her team of seamstresses will have everything in order for us.” Lady Margaret beamed, clearly pleased with her own efficiency. “Now, shall I show the ladies to their chambers? Walter, show Mr. Bennet to his room.” With that, she beckoned, and they followed her from the room.

The corridors of the house were as elegantly appointed as the parlor, the walls adorned with tasteful artwork and the carpets thick enough to dampen the sound of their steps. Elizabeth observed it all with awareness, noting the care with which everything had been arranged, the subtle harmony of color and design that spoke of both wealth and discernment. It was not ostentatious, but assured, and she could not deny its appeal.