The Tolling Bells #2
Darcy set down his spoon, his gaze steady upon her. “There was victory, but dearly bought.”
Her breath caught, her eyes widening. “Richard…”
He reached across the table and took her hand. “Georgiana, you must be brave. Richard is fallen. He led his men with honour to the last, but he will not return.”
For a moment she stared at him as though uncomprehending. Then her hand trembled in his, her lips parted in a soundless gasp, and the colour drained from her face. Tears welled, spilling silently over her cheeks.
Darcy rose and went to her side. She turned to him as she had in childhood, hiding her face against his shoulder, her sobs breaking free at last. He held her, his cheek resting upon her hair, his hand steady upon her back.
“Hush, dearest,” he murmured. “We must mourn him, but we must also endure. He would have wished it so.”
Her tears fell until she had no more, only shivers. He guided her to sit once more, drew the shawl about her shoulders, and poured a glass of water for her trembling hands.
“Rest tonight,” he said gently. “I will see to all else. You are safe, and I am here.”
Georgiana gave a small nod, her eyes swollen but her trust unbroken.
Darcy remained beside her until her breathing calmed. Yet even as he spoke words of comfort, his thoughts turned elsewhere. Elizabeth. The warning in her eyes, the fire in her spirit.
Only when Mrs Annesley had taken her place beside Georgiana, her hand resting steady upon the girl’s shoulder, did Darcy rise. He bent to press a kiss to his sister’s brow.
“Good night, dearest. I shall be near.”
Georgiana managed a faint nod, her trust unbroken though her heart was sorely tried.
Darcy left them thus, the hush of his own house closing around him once more. The marble floor gleamed in the lamplight; the portraits of his forebears gazed down in silence. He drew a long breath, his hand closing upon the bannister to steady himself.
His thoughts turned again, as if drawn by a compass needle, to Elizabeth.
If all had gone as he arranged, Miss Bennet would have reached the inn by noon, and the other ladies from the camp would already be in London.
He would have news of Miss Bennet through them.
Whether she would choose to go to Longbourn or remain here, he could not know.
He could only hope she was safe. If she had returned home, he would be forced to find some pretext to travel to Meryton and meet her properly.
Williams was waiting for him in the hall. “Will you be staying here tonight, sir?”
“No, not tonight, Williams.”
“Shall I have the carriage brought round?”
Darcy inclined his head. “At once.”
The butler bowed and withdrew, his voice carrying into the night as he gave the order.
Darcy lingered in the marble hall. The air was chill, a faint draught creeping through the great doors despite the heavy curtains.
Lamplight gleamed upon the veined floor and caught the gilt of the cornices, casting long shadows across the panelling.
The scent of beeswax and woodsmoke hung in the stillness, familiar yet oppressive.
His gaze travelled the mouldings and polished surfaces, and a pang struck him.
The hall had last been altered when his mother yet lived, just before Georgiana’s birth.
He remembered her pleasure in its brightness, her hand upon his shoulder as she led him proudly through the finished rooms. Now the same hush pressed close, emptied of her presence, as though the silence itself mourned her still.
He drew on his gloves slowly, the leather creaking in the quiet. The bells of the city tolled beyond the stone walls, their clamour subdued but unrelenting.
Then, from the street outside, the sharp ring of hoof beats broke the stillness. Darcy’s head turned. An express rider, perhaps, bringing news from the lines. Such sounds were common enough in the city now, yet each brought with it a tightening in his chest.
He stepped through the open doors, the cold air biting. Servants waited upon the steps with lanterns, ready for the carriage to draw round. One of them gasped, but Darcy did not at once heed it.
The hoof beats grew louder, nearer, until at last the stallion came into view. Proud-necked, breath steaming, hooves striking sparks upon the cobbles, familiar even in shadow.
Darcy’s stride faltered. The arch of the neck, the sheen of the dark coat, the white star upon the brow—unmistakable.
“Wicked,” he breathed.
The stallion whickered at the sound and trotted closer, foam flecking his bit, sweat streaking his coat despite the frost. His mane hung tangled, his hooves rang hot against the stones.
This was no horse walked gently from a stable. He had been ridden hard, and ridden very recently.
Darcy reached into his coat and drew out a small paper twist. He opened his palm. “Here, old friend.”
Wicked’s ears flicked, and with a low nicker he stepped close, lips questing until the sugar cube was gone. His great head pressed against Darcy’s shoulder, warm breath stirring his hair.
Fletcher would never have pressed him so. No hired groom could have managed him at such a pace. Few men alive could. And fewer still among ladies.
The thought was folly, yet no other answer presented itself.
Wicked tossed his head toward the eastern street and stamped, impatient.
Darcy’s jaw set. He could not be certain, he dared not be, but all his heart told him the truth stood here before him.
The rattle of wheels sounded at last; the carriage turning into the square. Darcy straightened.
“Have the carriage follow. I ride with him.”