Page 113 of The Matchmaker’s Mistake

She touched her hair. “Until it is finished. However it finishes.” She considered him. “You are asking a woman who has matched half of London to sit upon her hands.”

“I am.”

His mother sighed. “Very well. You will seek me out if you need me. Unless you do, I will not act.” She patted his hand and swept out of the room.

Darcy considered what was to be done. His mother was correct that he could not write to Miss Elizabeth. She was a single woman, unengaged to him, and a letter would be an impropriety she would be within her rights to burn unread. He could not write to Mrs. Gardiner, either, for his invitation to her parlour had been one more sign to Miss Elizabeth that he was attempting to force her hand.

That left one person in Gracechurch Street to whom a gentleman might write without offence.

Mr. Gardiner had come home from his warehouse that first afternoon in December and sat down across from Darcy without a trace of awe. He had been easy in company all winter. He made alliances that served his family’s interests without ever imposing or attempting to make use of Darcy’s acquaintance. He had asked for no introductions, mentioned no investments, and brought forward no business that might profit from a connexion with the Darcy name. Men with far greater fortunes had been less restrained.

Mr. Gardiner had treated the connexion as exactly what it was, a family acquaintance formed through his wife and nieces. If anything, he had taken care not to presume upon it.

Darcy trusted him the more for that. A man who had asked nothing when there was something to be gained could be trusted when Darcy meant to offer him nothing but an uncomfortable truth.

He turned the idea over for every flaw. A man might correspond with another man upon any honest business, but this was a delicate matter. He could not ask Mr. Gardiner to speak for him, to arrange a meeting, or to moderate Miss Elizabeth’s opinion. He could ask for nothing at all.

Why write, then? Nothing might come of it. But Darcy thought her uncle ought to be told the truth in his own hand. He had offered for Miss Elizabeth. He had done it badly, at the worst possible moment, and she had refused him with perfect justice. The fault was his own. He would make no claim and request no reply. He wished only that Mr. Gardiner should hear it plainly from the man who had done it.

For the first time in a week he knew exactly what to say. Exactly what to do.

He opened the drawer for a fresh sheet, and there it lay. The Valentine’s letter he had never given Miss Elizabeth. He had not looked at it since the night his courage failed. He broke his own seal and read it through.

It was worse than he remembered. Not ill-written—every sentence was correct—but careful. A compliment to her wit that might have come from anybody. A hope for her happiness that claimed no share in it. A general wish to call, but without specifying upon whom.

He had spent a week blaming his mother’s meddling for his disappointment, but his mother had not written this. He had hidden himself, afraid he had already wrecked any happiness he sought, and the pain he felt from that was already enough. But if even in a Valentine’s letter he was unable to bare his heart fully to her, how could he expect her to risk showing hers to him?

He tossed the letter into the fire and although it took some time, he wrote a new one. Then, as the ink was drying, he took a clean sheet of paper from his drawer and dipped his pen.

Sir, he wrote. His hand was steady.

CHAPTER 28

Lady Wexcombe’s rooms could comfortably hold two hundred people, but by ten o’clock they held nearly twice that.

Elizabeth stood between a pillar and a dowager. The great Whig crush of the season, she reflected, was very like what the newspapers said of the House itself—hot, loud, and chiefly concerned with who was speaking to whom. Her uncle, for whom they had all been persuaded to attend, had been carried off towards the card room. Her aunt was six feet away, but she might as well have been in Derbyshire. Jane and Mr. Aldridge had gone to procure lemonade and were in no hurry to return—or perhaps they simply could not find their way back.

Elizabeth had come because she could not disappoint her uncle. This invitation had arrived for Uncle Gardiner from a connexion he had made apart from the Darcys, and even he had insisted that she attend.

There had been no further word from Mr. Darcy, though of course she had not expected it. Instead, news came through her aunt’s callers. Lady Anne Darcy meant to give no more parties this season. She was far too busy, for the families of those she had matched were even now planning weddings all across London. Two of the season’s young ladies would wed just after Easter, with more to follow through the month of June. The ton had begun calling this Lady Anne’s most successful year yet.

The room grew hotter. Elizabeth had never done well in close rooms, and she had neither slept nor eaten well of late. The dowager to whom she had been speaking withdrew, only to be replaced by a wall of gentlemen discussing the Orders in Council.

The air seemed to thicken around her. Each breath grew short, while the heat beneath her gown crept upwards from her stays to the back of her throat. She looked for her aunt but could see only shoulders, dark coats, and the shifting gleam of candlelight.

She closed her eyes.

“Miss Elizabeth?”

She knew the voice instantly. For two weeks she had practised how she would act, what she would say, how she would arrange her features should she ever see the man again. But she was so very warm that all she could do was open her eyes.

Mr. Darcy stood at her side.

“You are unwell,” he said.

“I am warm. Everyone is warm. It is tonight’s fashionable condition.” She attempted to offer a little laugh, but her knees trembled beneath her, and she had to catch herself.

Mr. Darcy placed his hand under her arm. “Are you able to walk?” he inquired.