In Want of a Wife

By S. Faith, © 2011

Words: 82,705 (in 14 chapters + Epilogue) / This part: 6,509

Rating: T / PG-13
(some chapters a stronger T than others)

Summary: An unmarried man of means must be shopping for a wife; everyone knows this.

Disclaimer: I'm not sure if Helen Fielding would be horrified or amused at this concept; the characters and such are hers, but these words are mine, except for those that belong to Lord Byron.

Notes: When M. presented me with this plotbunny, the story concept "Bridget Jones set in Regency", I thought to myself, "Yes, it's been done; it's called Pride & Prejudice." However, largely in part to her input and plotting, it is anything but that, but rather, is something born new in the retelling. It's been interesting—so many authors these days are adapting the Regency tale to modern times, and this does the opposite—and I hope you think so too. It's not a perfect retelling of BJD, obviously; some adjustments have had to be made. However, it's offered in the spirit of the 20th century Mark and Bridget, who are themselves quite different from Austen's Darcy and Elizabeth. (This is sort of mostly book universe, but it hardly matters after a fashion.)

Anyway. I literally could not have done this without her.

I am of course limited by my 21st century existence, and as careful as I have been, I'm sure I've let a modern word or a common "won't" slip in inadvertently; there is, unfortunately, no setting for Language for "Early 19th Century English" in Word. A thousand pardons, I beg you.

Chapter 1: In which an invitation is accepted.

London
Wednesday, 1 June 1814

Lord Darcy knew what his duty was; he knew it, and he dreaded it. The importance of fulfilling that duty, the securing of a wife, had been starkly underscored upon the passing of his father nearly two years ago, when he had been thrust into prominence as the head of his family, the lord over his estate. The dread came not from the duty itself, but from the path it seemed he would inevitably need to take in order to get there, and it was a necessary duty, as he was nearing five and twenty and acutely felt the pressure to produce an heir. He had just concluded his second season in town in his father's place in the House of Lords and the parade of eligible young women presented to him thus far was not to be believed, the eyes of their mothers positively avaricious in anticipation of a possible match, to the point of his despair of ever meeting a lady suitable to the task.

He was pragmatic, was not a romantic by any means. He only wanted a woman with whom he could spend time in agreeable companionship, one who could bear him a child, an heir to the line. She must, of course, be socially refined, with a perfect sense of propriety in every occasion as befitting the wife of a man of his stature; an innate intelligence was required of her as was an education from the most prestigious of schools; agreeable and in tune with his opinions and thoughts; pleasant to look at, a bonus. Honesty, integrity and good character were naturally unspoken in enumerating his essentials for a wife. He did not think these prerequisites were too much upon which to insist, but to date it seemed impossible to find someone to fill them all, not to mention the way in which his attitude was soured by the obvious attempts to win his favour.

He thought he had found a suitable match last year in London, a lady of high bearing and possessing most of his mandatory qualities, and he had been seriously considering making an offer to her family for her hand in marriage despite their not being fully compatible in personality. That had all come apart when she had, very thankfully before they had secured formal bonds or agreements, fallen for the charms of a former Cambridge friend and serial seducer who had just as quickly abandoned her to social ruin, only to repeat the same pattern of behaviour with Lord Westchester's wife in mid-May, an event which had been made much more public, to the misfortune of the family. In his own, more private situation, he was not without a level of sympathy for the lady, but it had ultimately been a disaster of her own making and spoke of a weak will. The disappointment he felt in his own lapse in judgment was mitigated only by having avoided such a devastating tarnish to his name and reputation.

London would soon be far away, both in distance and from his thoughts. He would be glad for the break from his latest admirer, Miss Natasha Glenville, daughter of his late father's friend and very close to himself in age. She was very well-educated and excellently accomplished, pretty in her own way with her dark brown eyes and hair, but her eagerness to win both his eye and his offer was a little too blatant to be palatable to him. He knew she was so earnest because she was verging dangerously on being beyond a marriageable age, but for the most part he found it tiresome. He would much have preferred to spar legalities in Parliament than to have to lavish women with frivolous niceties.

"Lord Darcy, I wonder that my question regarding your return to London needs quite so much consideration."

He returned to his surroundings, looked to the woman with whom he had been engaged in conversation, the same woman he had just been considering. She was dressed in her finest, her hair coiffed in little curls against her cheek, and from a silken turban came a spray of feathers that would have made a peacock blush. He offered a pleasant, conciliatory smile to her, which he then shared with the others at the table. "My sincerest apologies, Miss Glenville," he said. "I am afraid my mind was rudely occupied with thoughts of my impending departure from London."

"You are a coy one tonight," she said with an air of over-familiarity he did not like. "Your return?"

"Is uncertain at present. I do not know if we intend on staying for a few weeks or for the whole of the summer."

She smiled and demurely lowered her eyes. "Of course you would tell me if you knew," she said. "Even the way you hold your glass of wine, the strength of your wrist and the gentle firmness of your grasp, shows the mark of a true gentleman."

He often wondered if she was not a little daft in the head. "You are too kind," he said, then nothing more, hoping she would accept it as the end of their conversation. She seemed to take the hint, but at the price of then engaging his mother's attention for the remainder of the dinner.

When the guests had left, he found his mother regarding a portrait that had been done of his father when the man had been hearty and hale, in the prime of youth. It pained him to see her in her widow's weeds. "He looked like that when we met," she said wistfully, not looking away. "Oh, but how I miss him, Mark."

He slipped his arm around her for a loving hug. "I know. I miss him as well," he said, and it was not an untruth. "I am glad you could come to spend your birthday here in London and not alone in the country."

"I am not alone in the country," she said, turning to him, revealing some of her usual good humour. "I have a wealth of friends in Northamptonshire to support me through my mourning period." He was glad to think it was nearing an end. "I miss your brother, of course, but he writes when he can and visits every time he is home. And you may be here in London, but I do not really think of it as too terribly far away."

"It helps to have a good carriage and fine horses at our disposal," he said. Hoping to cheer her even further, he said, "The visit has been good for you, though, and you are looking very well indeed." His hand brushed along her shoulder once more. He realised that draped over the black bombazine silk was a black shawl that she had not been wearing earlier. "I do not remember seeing this before," he said. "Is it new?"

"Yes," she said as she slipped it off for him to inspect. "A gift from my goddaughter."

He furrowed his brow as he held it up to inspect it. It was linen, if the soft feel of it on his fingers could be trusted, coupled with weaving black vines of embroidery. He had a vague recollection of hearing of a goddaughter before, but could not recall details at present. "Goddaughter?"

"You cannot have forgotten, Mark," she said as she turned to allow him to drape it upon her shoulders again. "Mrs Jones, my friend from childhood? Her daughter. Mr and Mrs Jones live close to Grafton Manor, as I am sure you remember, so I see them all with great frequency."

It was starting to come back to him. "And I recall Mr Jones is a respectable man."

"Oh, very," she replied. "A very fine gentleman indeed, though he does not prefer to leave the county if he can help it. Their daughter is such a sweet girl, though I am not sure you saw her very much, as young as she is. Surely you remember James, though."

James Jones, or Jamie as he was known to his friends at Eton then Cambridge, was quite easy for him to remember, although James was closer in age to his own brother Peter, two years his junior; talk of a daughter, a sister three years younger than Jamie, sparked a remembrance of a small blonde child when he, Peter and Jamie were Eton school mates. "Of course," he said.

"When we return to Grafton Manor," she said, "we shall have to pay a visit. It would be good of you to become reacquainted with James, and especially to get to know his sister." He had always respected his mother's opinions, judgment and overall good sense, and thus did not interpret this as anything other than a wish to renew or form connexions with respectable people, at least not until she added tenderly, "I know the pressure you are putting on yourself to find a wife, how difficult it has been for you, and how trying on your patience and nerves it is to wade through so much flattery, which I know you abhor. Miss Jones is unlikely to be anything but herself with you."

That made her motives a little clearer, but he still did not mind. Meeting this young lady to see if she was in fact of any interest to him was the least he could do for his mother, who already thought very highly of the girl. It mattered not to him that Miss Jones did not come from a family with wealth equal to his own; with ten-thousand a year he would have more than enough to provide for the woman he made his wife and the children they would have. What mattered was the scrupulousness of the lady, her grace and her wit… and whether or not he could bear to be in her company.

…

Two days following the birthday dinner, a letter from his brother Peter arrived informing Darcy that he was due back in England, and that he would be joining them at Grafton Manor. His mother, of course, was delighted. "His arrival will be very close to our own," she said as she read the letter. "Oh, but it will be good to have my sons together at home with me."

Darcy smiled and agreed. It had been too long since Peter had been back on terra firma, on English soil; his younger brother had obtained his captaincy shortly before his father's passing, and in fact Darcy did not think he had seen Peter since his return for the funeral.

The sojourn to the country was delayed a day due to unforeseen circumstances involving the rear carriage wheel, but they left as soon as possible the following morning. Upon their reaching Northamptonshire and disembarking from the carriage, Darcy stepped into his childhood home and swelled with feelings of warmth, an effect it always had on him; to be surrounded by people he loved, by objects he cherished for the memories they evoked, brought assurance and comfort to him. He wasted little time suiting up for a ride on his favourite horse, taking in the fresh country air, revelling in the verdant lushness of the grounds.

Upon returning from his ride he was advised that dinner was to be at six and that some papers had arrived which required his attention. After a change of clothing he retired to the study that he still thought of as his father's in order to attend to those papers. He read through them carefully, signing those that needed to be signed. He also perused an invitation that had arrived in his mother's absence advising of a ball in Norfolk County, given by family friends celebrating the marriage of their son. They were all invited to arrive early due to the travel involved and stay for a week. He noticed that the ball was less than a fortnight away.

"Oh, this must be for Guy," his mother said, perusing the invitation at the table. "I had wondered when he would make an offer. Oh, I do hope you will consider attending, Mark. I would really like to go, such a joy that should be rightly celebrated… and for you to escort me. I am sure the Joneses will be attending as well. What an excellent opportunity would have been presented to us."

He did not particularly wish to travel to Norfolk, especially if the ultimate goal was to attend a ball, but at the sight of his mother so excited at the prospect, he knew he could not refuse. "Of course," he said. "I shall send word by post."

"If you can await your brother's arrival," she said, "we shall see if he would like to accompany us."

With so little time until the ball and no firm idea as to when Peter would present himself, Darcy advised he would wait through the next day but no longer, as the courtesy of a reply could not be further delayed. He was therefore grateful to receive a letter after dinner advising of Peter's imminent arrival, which thrilled his mother beyond words. "We must have Cook have something ready for him to eat when he arrives," she said. "And Molly must at once air out his room!"

It was a joyous reunion indeed when Peter came into the house; Lady Darcy could be forgiven any perceived lack of decorum, Darcy thought, as it had been too long a time since they had last seen one another (under too unhappy a circumstance, at that), and young men at sea during wartime led a life of uncertainty.

"Are you hungry? You must be hungry," she said, taking him by the arm, scrutinising his face. "You are so browned."

Peter chuckled. "I could use something to eat," he admitted. "The stop at the pub seems a lifetime ago."

A hearty serving of cold meat pie and a glass of red wine seemed to be just what he needed, and upon cleaning the plate he sat back and sighed. "You will forgive me for wanting to retire early tonight," he said. "We can do all manner of catching up in the morning."

Lady Darcy nodded, then gave her eldest son a look, effectively quietening him before he could make mention of the trip to Norfolk and the ball. "Of course, my dear son. Your room awaits you."

"Thank you. Mark?" asked Peter. "Care to join me for a snifter of port?"

"Of course," said Darcy.

"Excellent," he said.

Their mother took the opportunity to then quit the room. On the way out she kissed each of them on the cheek as if they were boys again, and bade them goodnight.

"Nothing quite like being at home," Peter said once she had gone. Darcy rose to pour the port. Peter then yawned. "Once I hit the bed I am afraid I am going to be useless for the next ten hours at least."

Darcy grinned, then took his seat at the table once more.

As they lifted their port and drank in tandem, Peter said, "I know what I said about catching up tomorrow, but is there anything critical I should know before breakfast?"

"Only that you are likely to be travelling again before the week is out," Darcy said with a smile. "We are all of us invited to Norfolk for a wedding and a ball, and are likely to stay for a week there at least."

"Ah," he said. "Well, if that is the worst of it, I think I can bear it." He regarded his brother. "And you are well?"

Darcy nodded. "Frankly, I am glad to be out of London."

"I thought you liked it in town."

"I did. Do," he corrected. "Lately, however, it has all been a bit wearing, as I have told you."

Darcy had previously apprised his brother via correspondence, in regards to his fruitless search. Peter patted his shoulder with fraternal affection. "I am sorry to hear it has been such a difficulty," he said. "Who knew having too many ladies from which to choose was as much of a tribulation as too few?"

Darcy chuckled, knowing his brother was having a little fun with him at his own expense, as there were not many females to be encountered whilst at sea. "And now my mother is making her own contribution."

"Is that so?" Peter asked, surprised. "On whom does she have her sights set?"

"Do you remember James Jones?" Darcy said.

"Jamie, yes of course," said Peter, then added, obviously realising where this was going: "Oh! You must mean Miss Jones."

"You remember her as well?"

"Yes, of course," he said thoughtfully. "I recall her being quite adorable, but she was not yet a woman when last I saw her, so I cannot pass opinion one way or another on the matter. What is your opinion?"

"I think she was even younger than that when we last met," Darcy said, "so I cannot hope to form one until we meet again. I am told she is sweet and unpretentious."

Peter's eyes widened in almost comical surprise. "Well, that would be a breath of fresh air. I look forward to witnessing this meeting."

"So you will be accompanying us to Norfolk?"

Peter grinned and winked. "Would not miss it for the world."

…

Preparations and planning for the journey a mere three days after Captain Darcy's arrival meant the visit to the Jones' abode would have to be deferred. The sojourn to King's Lynn was pleasant and unmarred, and they arrived at their destination within a half-hour of their estimation. They were greeted warmly and effusively by their hosts, Sir Geoffrey and Lady Alconbury, who then had their servants show them to their rooms for the week.

The ball was to be held nearer to the end of the week's stay, and not all of the guests travelling from afar had arrived, so dinner that evening—or rather, late afternoon; Darcy had grown unaccustomed to dinner at half past four—was small and informal, just Lady Darcy, Lord Darcy and Captain Darcy, as well as the hosts, their son Guy Alconbury, and their daughters, Miss Alconbury and Miss Alison, and another family, the Enderbys of Bedfordshire: Lord Brian Enderby, Lady Enderby, and their daughter Miss Enderby. Introductions were made prior to being seated.

Conversation was light and superficial for the most part. It did not escape his attention that the ladies Alconbury and Miss Enderby did their level best to competitively engage him in conversation throughout the entire dinner. He caught his brother's eye once or twice; Peter looked a mixture of amused and sympathetic.

"My brother, Captain Darcy, has been at sea this past year," said Darcy, hoping to deflect attention from himself. The look Darcy received from his brother for this comment was now registering somewhere between mock vengefulness and gratitude. The ladies seemed duly interested in his sea stories and seemed charmed in their way.

"Lord Darcy," spoke up Lady Alconbury, "I understand you have been very popular in town this season." He wondered where this might be going, and if she would be so bold to pursue this conversation in mixed company; she had already tried (and had failed) to foist her daughters upon him in her turn. Instead, however, she smiled and concluded, perhaps in response to his dangerous look, "I hear you have been duly impressing all with your learnéd discourse and proposals in Parliament."

"I had hoped to achieve as much," he replied, "so I thank you, Ma'am."

She smiled politely and said nothing further on the matter.

At the conclusion of the meal the ladies departed for the drawing room while the men enjoyed after-dinner port, where Sir Geoffrey was a little bit more brusque about what his wife had only been hinting, asking after lighting and puffing upon his pipe, "Darcy, lad, when shall we see your marriage banns announced?"

"That would require a lady's involvement," he retorted with a little less patience than he had had with the women present, "and I have yet to secure one I find suitable."

Darcy heard the sound of a polite but stifled chuckle; he wondered if it was Guy or his brother, since the fathers of daughters who had been slighted (in their eyes) by Darcy would surely not have found it an amusing comment. Nonetheless, his words had had the intended effect and the subject was not broached again.

The other men engaged in small talk and banter about the state of hunting in the county—including mention of a special, off-season fox hunt the Tuesday after the wedding, of which all of the gentlemen were invited to partake—and matters relating to politics near and far—including the very recent exile of Napoleon to Elba—but Darcy did not involve himself. Instead, he rose to gaze out of the window, sipping at his port. As it was summer, he was able to enjoy a view of the sun-dappled foliage gracing the estate even at the hour of eight in the evening.

They joined the ladies again for a short while in the drawing room, and Miss Alison, the youngest of them, was at the pianoforte playing a pleasant tune passably well, stumbling over the more difficult of the passages as her brother turned the pages. Even given her need for practise, this initial performance of hers was the only thing Darcy enjoyed about the evening. Miss Enderby, Miss Alconbury and Miss Alison, while staying within the boundaries of politeness and tact towards him, were almost in a sort of contest for his attention, trying to outdo one another in attempting to flatter and even entertain him via singing and playing. He wished to be anywhere else, wished they would direct some attention towards the other eligible man in the room, his brother, but perhaps a captain with the Royal Navy was not sufficiently prestigious. Darcy often felt badly about the fact that his brother, an accomplished man in his own right, had to stand in the shadow of the eldest brother and heir.

At long last the night drew to a close, and they began to part for their individual rooms. When Darcy closed the door to his room behind him, after allowing a brief entrance to instruct his valet Gillies for the following morning, he let out a long sigh and felt relief for the quiet that enfolded him.

He slept soundly and woke when Gillies called for him at seven in the morning. The sun was already up and shining brightly. His breakfast was brought to him as he had requested, and as he accepted it he advised the servant he was afflicted with a headache and would remain in his quarters. He then dressed and contented himself with a book. The report of physical discomfiture was not entirely untrue; the thought of facing the legion of women did make him feel unwell.

How long he spent reading he was not sure, but when he heard a commotion under his window he rose to peer outside. He saw that he had a view of the drive, and drawing to a stop was a passenger carriage and a horse accompanying it.

Curious, he watched as an older gentleman emerged dressed in fine though slightly rumpled attire. After descending, he turned and, shooing away the footmen, helped whom Darcy could only assume was his wife from the carriage, also dressed in fine attire. Atop the horse was another man, and Darcy watched him sidle up along the carriage; Darcy realised as he dismounted and took off his hat that the man was his friend from school, Jamie Jones, and that he had been accompanying the carriage. As this realisation hit him, a third figure was beginning to emerge from the carriage, another woman, young, flaxen-haired, wearing a pale blue dress and a bonnet with a matching blue ribbon. He could only conclude that arriving were the estimable Joneses, and the young woman, twenty years of age if his arithmetic was correct, was Miss Jones. The older man, presumably her father, held out his hand to assist her, but she swiped it away, then rose to her full height and jumped down to the ground, revealing for the briefest moment her slender ankles and white shoes. Even from the second storey of the house Darcy could see the look of horror on her mother's face as she did so, could faintly hear the scolding words through the windowpane. Miss Jones, for her part, affected a contrite expression while her mother admonished her, an expression that was so exaggerated Darcy could not help but smile; that she meant no true disrespect was reinforced by the amusement on Mr Jones' face.

Their travel cases were unloaded from the coach and carried up into the house. He saw Miss Jones linger, her face turned to the sun as she stretched her arms over her head after the long ride, but she turned quickly at the sound of her given name—Bridget—being uttered impatiently by her mother. In response she dashed up and under the portico, out of Darcy's view. A few minutes later he heard sound in the hallway beyond his door, heard heavy footfalls pass (surely the servants bringing up their things), then lighter ones accompanied by an appreciative-sounding female voice; the mother, Mrs Jones, if he were to guess. He should have deduced that their rooms would be in the same part of the house.

Darcy took his place in a chair with the book again, and after a while finished it and set it aside. He then sighed. It was not yet luncheon and he was already bored; it felt a bit like the room was closing around him. Fortuitously a knock saved him from further dwelling on this state. He rose and tugged on his waistcoat.

"Come in," Darcy said. To his surprise it was not Gillies, but his brother, who came in and hastily closed the door behind him.

"Brother," said Peter with a smirk, "I thought you might like to know that your future wife has arrived."

Darcy narrowed his eyes.

"In all seriousness, that good family has arrived. I was able to spy my mother, Mrs Jones, and Miss Jones speaking together having a cool drink in the parlour after their journey. Miss Jones is lovelier and certainly more mature than when I saw her last."

"I am glad to hear it," he said. "Though I have a confession: I saw their arrival from the viewpoint of my room."

Peter's eyes lit with mischief. "Do you not agree she is lovely? She has really flowered well into womanhood."

"I would agree that the adorable child has indeed become a lovely young lady," he capitulated, "and especially is more mature since then, at least in appearance."

"What do you mean by that?"

Darcy felt a smile touch his lips. "There was still a bit of the spark of childhood impetuousness as she emerged from the coach."

Peter let out a laugh, lightly slapping his thigh. "Somehow I am not surprised," said Peter. "Oh, apparently despite splitting their trip over two days, they shall be resting from the ride through the afternoon. I expect we shall be introduced formally at dinner this evening."

Darcy could not help but wonder why the Jones' trip would have been split in that way when it was roughly the same journey as their own.

Peter added with a wink, "Young Miss Jones is probably wishing to look her well-rested best to impress you."

Darcy sighed and thought with resignation that he was probably right. "I think I shall return this book to the library and find another. Do you happen to know how the ladies are occupied today?"

"I do not know," replied his brother, "but I expect they too are resting in order to appear fresh as spring flowers for dinner tonight. Resting, or planning their respective strategies to conquer your heart. Heaven knows they would not collaborate on such an endeavour."

Darcy cringed inside at the thought of another evening spent in such a fashion. "It is my wish to avoid them as long as possible," he said.

"Surely they would not impinge upon your solitude, nor approach you without accompaniment."

"That is my sincerest hope," said Darcy, "though even if they were accompanied, in some ways their mothers are even worse."

Peter chuckled. "But you are, to my understanding, actively seeking a wife?"

"I am," he confirmed, "but I believe the one with whom I should ultimately settle should not make her top priority ensuring I know she wants to land me like a common trout."

"Poor, poor Lord Darcy," retorted Peter, residually amused.

Rather than walk timidly through the halls anticipating an ambush at any moment by one of the young women, he decided to maintain a chillier, distant demeanour in an effort to deflect them in the first place. Darcy made it to the library without encountering anyone but a servant, and once inside the sanctuary of books he replaced the volume he had been reading, then plucked another from the shelf. Sir Geoffrey's collection was thin when it came to books that interested him, but he figured he would avail himself of the ones that did pique his interest while he had the chance. He was all too aware that perhaps he should be making some effort with the women he met while there; like the books in the library, perhaps he should be grateful for the opportunity and focus some attention on the ladies present, for perhaps pressure from their own mothers was making them act out of character. All he truly wanted for the time being, however, was an afternoon of peace before still more guests arrived.

In the meanwhile, he took a seat in the corner, still hoping for that solitude with his book.

He was not but a few chapters in when a faint sound stirred his attention. He turned to peer around the edge of his chair in order to determine what the source of the noise was and saw a female form drifting along the bookcases, a bonnet hanging by its tied ribbons from her wrist. Her golden hair, so unlike the dark-haired women present at dinner the previous night, told him more than seeing her face would that it was Miss Jones perusing Sir Geoffrey's collection. She was wearing a different dress than the one she had arrived in, clad now a lightweight white cotton one in the prevalent empire line. She had not noticed him there, and he was not inclined to reveal his presence.

"I do not care a whit for General So-and-so's memoirs," she muttered to herself as she picked up a volume and started leafing through it. "I suppose British generals won battles simply by eliminating enemies with ennui." She closed the book with a loud clap then stuck it back into its place. He watched her continue to peruse the shelves, and she turned in such a way to reveal her profile to him; a pert nose, full lips, a soft line to her jaw and a graceful neck. He could see as her gaze darted around that her eyes were fringed with dark brown lashes, but the hue of her eyes was as yet unrevealed. "Is there nothing good to read?" she lamented. "I may die of boredom if I do not read something, and I may die of boredom if I do. Silly men and their wars."

Darcy's mirth stemmed mostly not from her commentary, but from his own choice for reading that day, one of those very biographies she was deriding. He continued to observe, noting that Peter's comments regarding her successful flowering into womanhood had been entirely correct.

She moved to another shelf, making a satisfied sound. "Now this is more like it. Though I'm not sure this is much of an improvement, gothic silliness and unbelievably daft heroines." At this comment he had to stifle a laugh, as he shared the sentiment wholly. She continued looking, humming to herself. "Oh, much better. Now, this is promising: Tom Jones by Henry Fielding. Or Shakespeare? Oh!" She pulled out a thin book with a look of great satisfaction on her face. "Lord Byron," she said in a playful tone. "How about if you and I have a private conversation in the garden?" Setting the book down for a moment to put her bonnet upon her head, she then clasped the book close to her and quit the room.

Darcy was seized with curiosity. He quietly closed the book he had been reading, set it on the table beside the chair, and followed her at a discreet distance. He watched as she encountered and greeted his own mother with great affection, stopping for a short conversation.

"Bridget, again we meet," said his mother with a smile as she drew back from their brief embrace. "What have you there?"

"Poetry," said Miss Jones. "Lord Byron. A nice way to spend a sunny afternoon."

"I understand your mother wished you to stay in your room and recuperate from your journey," she said in a too-maternal tone.

"I was feeling too restless," Miss Jones said, "and I hardly need to recuperate. I sat, and a horse pulled me."

His mother smiled. "I am very much looking forward to dinner this evening and to formally reintroducing you to my sons."

Miss Jones replied, "It will be a great honour, I am sure." She spoke with all due deference, but something in her tone was a little unconvincing, and he wondered why. "So how have you been enjoying our accommodations so far?"

"Very well, indeed," said Lady Darcy.

"I am glad to hear it. Do you know the lady Mr Alconbury is set to wed? She is a childhood friend of mine from when I attended school at Miss Bangor's and I am anxious to know her again."

"In fact I do not," his mother replied, shifting the shawl on her shoulders.

"Oh, that does look lovely on you," said Miss Jones, changing subject abruptly after clearly noticing for the first time that it was the shawl she had given to her godmother. "If one can say that about mourning dress," she added contritely.

"I will take a compliment regardless of what I am wearing," his mother responded. "And your needlework is very nice. Unfortunately black on black is difficult to see."

"Much more forgiving of my many mistakes, too," Miss Jones said. "Well, I shall not keep you from your walk any longer. For my part, I have a tête-à-tête with Lord Byron." She patted the book and smiled fondly.

"I will see you later, my dear."

They parted; his mother continued on through the garden, while Miss Jones meandered towards a broad tree, beneath which her brother was idly reclined. Darcy stayed under cover of the brush, wishing to be close enough to both observe and even hear their interaction, but not be spotted doing so; he circled around behind where they sat so as not to be seen. In all truth he felt a bit ridiculous eavesdropping in such a way, and vowed not to stay for very long.

"Ah, Bridget, escaped your bonds, I see," Jones quipped, barely moving. "I felt quite certain that my mother would lock you in your room."

"I felt certain she would, as well," Miss Jones said, sitting against the tree and spreading her dress around her before opening the book. "If I am with you I cannot be harangued or be accused of running off."

"What have you there?" asked Jones, lifting his head. She held up the cover for him to see. "Oh, Lord, not Byron again."

"What can I say? He is attuned to my thoughts these days, and it is a pleasure to read his words. Shall I perhaps read some aloud to you?"

"I would thank you not to, sister dear," he said. "Instead I shall think of the fair Becca."

"And you are mocking me for my love of poetry," she said teasingly, "when you are yourself steeped in romantic thoughts. Hypocrite!"

He laughed. "If I were closer I would tug a lock of that mad hair of yours."

"You are a hypocrite," she countered with mock haughtiness, "and lazy as well."

"Besides," said Jones unabated, "I would prefer to conjure my own romantic thoughts than listen to those of another."

As their conversation lulled—she turned her attention to the book; Jones, to his thoughts—Darcy thought it might be wise at this point to retreat into the house, gather up the book he had begun, and further retreat to his quarters.

Darcy exited the library and was crossing the foyer in order to ascend the stairs when he heard his name in his mother's voice. He turned and greeted her.

"Are you feeling better?" she asked.

"Moderately," he said, though was not sure it entirely true; his thoughts were restless regarding what he had just seen. "I just came down for another book. I had finished the other."

"I suppose the figure I saw in the garden was a ghostly apparition, then?" she asked, her tone lightly teasing.

"I am not sure I understand," Darcy replied.

"I saw you out in the garden," she said. "You looked quite rapt indeed."

"I was merely curious," he said stiffly, "to see what kind of relationship Miss Jones has with my old friend. I thought it would be very informative."

She merely pursed her lips as she smiled, as if she was thinking something she ought not to say. "Go on and rest with your book," she said. "I expect you have arranged to have something sent to your room for luncheon."

"Yes," he replied.

She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. "I will see you for dinner."

He returned to his room to find a plate of cold meat and bread with butter was already awaiting his arrival. He closed the door behind him then began to pick at the food, but neither the food or the book could take him from thoughts of what he had seen. For a lady who enjoyed the approval of his mother, she was not quite what he was expecting, and that baffled him more than he wanted to admit. She stood out even now, and not just because she possessed the same honey-coloured tresses she had as a child; from what he had seen so far, he was curious to make her acquaintance, even though she did not appear to possess neither the manners nor the self-control he would desire of his wife. In fact, he was more eager to speak with her than any of the other ladies there, and this revelation surprised him a little.