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Darcy stood at the window and considered his own feelings about this with the same methodical honesty he applied to everything. It would be easy to call it a disaster. It would also be imprecise. He pressed his head against the cold glass.

Elizabeth Bennet was nothing he ought to choose, or ought to want. He ought to marry a woman of esteemed family and significant fortune, whose connections and consequence might complement his own. A dowry of perhaps twenty thousand pounds was the least he might expect, and a noble title would not have been out of the question.

Yet there it was: the thought of fixing the problem by marrying her did not carry the dread that it ought to. Almost against his will, Elizabeth Bennet stirred his heart and his spirit. She was clever. She was a woman of such spirit that she would attempt a lock with a hairpin and laugh at her own failure, and he had stood beside her and felt something ease in him that had been drawn tight for a long time.

None of which was the point. The point was how he might save her reputation, which was currently undergoing considerable damage, and his honour, which Darcy valued still more than fortune, connections, or consequence.

Darcy let out a long breath. He knew what he had to do and had known it, if he was honest, since the corridor.

There were other things that he must resolve before taking action, first among them the question of what Miss Bingley had meant to tell him about Georgiana. In the confusion of becoming trapped with Miss Elizabeth, he had almost forgotten it for a moment — an unforgiveable lapse. Caroline Bingley had a considerable acquaintance in London. If she had heard something of what had transpired at Ramsgate, it could mean disaster.

But it would not do to theorise before he knew the facts. Darcy therefore sought Miss Bingley before breakfast.

He found her with little effort. She was in the small parlour, elegantly dressed despite the early hour, with a cup of tea steaming at her side. Miss Bingley looked up when he came in, a quirk of resignation and regret moving over her face as she looked at him.

“Mr Darcy,” she said. “You are up early this morning.”

He nodded. “I wanted to speak with you before the day begins.” Darcy remained standing across the room. This was not a conversation he intended to prolong. “Your note. Regarding certain things I ought to know.”

Miss Bingley’s hands stilled around her teacup. “How I regret that now, Mr Darcy! I owe you my most profound apologies. Had I not sent you that note, you would never have been in the study, would never have —”

“Let us not think of that now,” Darcy said, as gently as he could. “What has happened cannot be changed. But it is crucial that I know what you have heard of Georgiana.”

She shook her head. “I thought it important at the time, but it is nothing to what has happened now. I heard simply that there had been some scandal in London. Knowing what a care you have for your sister and your family’s name, I thought even so slight of gossip would be worth a warning. But now I wish I had never said anything. I am very sorry, Mr Darcy.”

“You need not apologise, Miss Bingley,” Darcy told her. “You were entirely correct. I do wish to hear about anything that might touch on Georgiana’s honour. That the rumour was slight and can be discarded without concern is no reason to apologise, but the deepest relief.”

“Yes,” Miss Bingley agreed, her voice breaking slightly. “You are generous, too generous. I only wish —”

“You must excuse me,” Darcy cut in. “I shall leave you now. But please, know that I would not have wished you to act differently, whatever has come of it. Georgiana is and always shall be my first concern, and no one could have predicted what has come of it.”

He left the parlour without saying anything further. There was nothing further that could usefully be said. Though all his reassurances to Miss Bingley had been entirely sincere, Darcy could not help feeling the weight of what had been lost. It was true; he would not have wanted to be spared anything that could help to protect Georgiana. He must regret the consequence, but it was better for all their sakes that Miss Bingley should not know how much.

He rode to Longbourn at eleven.

∞∞∞

Darcy did not revisit the decision once he had made it. It would have been easy to call it a sacrifice. That would have dressed it in the language of noble suffering, and it would have been a lie.

Darcy did not choose to tell that lie. The responsibility was his. What mattered now was that Elizabeth Bennet’s reputation was unravelling by the hour, and he was the only person in any position to stop it.

Longbourn received him with a flurry of activity. Mrs Bennet appeared in the hallway before he had been shown two steps into it, with an expression of such radiant vindication that he had to steady himself against the impulse to turn around. She pressed his hand, said something about ten thousand a year that he did not quite hear, and then he was being shown into a small parlour that contained a quantity of worn but comfortable-looking furniture and the father of the woman he had ruined.

Mr Bennet rose from his chair with an expression that had more in it of surprise and less of relief than Darcy would have expected. “Mr Darcy,” he said. “I was not expecting you.”

“I hope I do not intrude, sir.”

Mr Bennet invited him to sit.

Darcy did so, stiffly. “I have come to speak with Miss Elizabeth, if I may. With your permission first.”

Mr Bennet’s eyes were clever and assessing, reminding Darcy rather uncomfortably of Elizabeth herself. “My permission,” he repeated in a tone of cool, scholarly doubt. “You have come to speak to Lizzy?”

“I have, sir.”

“I see.” He closed his book. “And this is in connection with the recent —” He paused and selected his next words with visible care. “The recent talk?”

“It is. I have come to ask Miss Elizabeth if she will marry me. With your permission.”