Chapter Nineteen
Darcy’s valet had only just finished tying his cravat when a knock sounded at his chamber door—sharp, confident, and entirely familiar.
“Enter,” he called, though he already knew who it would be.
Richard Fitzwilliam strode in without ceremony, already half-dressed for riding, his dark hair still faintly damp as if he had not long left his own washing. He looked pleased with himself, which immediately put Darcy on guard.
“You are leaving early,” Richard observed, folding his arms. “And judging by the care you have taken with your coat, I should say this is not a ride undertaken merely for the sake of fresh air.”
Darcy did not look up as he adjusted his gloves. “I have secured an invitation to breakfast at Longbourn.”
Richard’s brows shot upward. “Have you indeed?”
“It seemed…appropriate,” Darcy replied, a touch too evenly.
Richard grinned. “Ah. Then I shall join you.”
Darcy finally looked at him. “You were not invited.”
“True,” Richard said lightly, reaching for his riding whip, “but I find myself possessed of a horse, a coat, and an appetite. Besides, it will afford me an opportunity to converse with Miss Bennet without your friend Bingley hovering like a jealous sentry.”
Darcy huffed a quiet laugh despite himself. “You do not lack confidence.”
“I did not survive the Peninsula by shrinking from opportunity,” Richard replied. Then, more soberly, “You do not object.”
Darcy hesitated only a moment. “No,” he admitted. “I do not.”
They mounted shortly thereafter and set off together, the morning crisp and bright, the hedgerows silvered with dew. For a time they rode in companionable silence, the rhythm of hooves steady beneath them.
At last Richard spoke. “Miss Bennet is a remarkable young woman.”
Darcy’s grip tightened on the reins, though his tone remained neutral. “She is.”
“Not merely pretty,” Richard continued. “Though she is that as well. But intelligent, thoughtful, and possessed of a kindness that does not diminish her judgment. She listens—truly listens.”
Darcy inclined his head. “Jane Bennet has always struck me as gentle and sincere.”
“And yet,” Richard said, glancing sideways, “I detect a reservation.”
Darcy exhaled. “As you know, I prefer her sister.”
Richard laughed outright. “There it is. I wondered how long you would go without saying it.”
Elizabeth, Darcy thought. Elizabeth with her sharp wit, her moral seriousness, her refusal to accept the world as it was merely because it had always been so. And now we are courting.
“She challenges me,” Darcy said quietly. “And I find I am better for it.”
Richard regarded him with affectionate scrutiny. “Then you are already lost.”
Darcy did not deny it. “It would seem a courtship is rather an unnecessary step.” Perhaps I ought to propose to her and have done with it.
They arrived at Longbourn to find the house ready for them, sunlight spilling across the drive. Mrs. Bennet received the gentlemen with effusive warmth, scarcely pausing to wonder at Fitzwilliam’s presence before ushering them in with delighted hospitality.
Breakfast was laid in cheerful abundance.
Mr. Bennet presided with amused indulgence, while Mrs. Bennet fluttered between pouring tea and directing conversation.
Miss Bennet sat composed and radiant, her smile polite but reserved.
Elizabeth entered shortly thereafter, and Darcy experienced, rather illogically, a sense that the room had transformed upon her entrance.
During the meal, Darcy found himself seated beside Elizabeth, their conversation quieter than the general table talk.
“You seem enthusiastic about the day,” she observed softly.
“I was eager,” he replied, meaning more than the words conveyed.
She smiled faintly. “I suspected as much.”
Her gaze flicked, briefly, toward Miss Bennet and Fitzwilliam, who were engaged in an animated discussion at the far end of the table. The lady’s laughter—soft, unguarded—was a sound Darcy had not often heard.
“They seem at ease,” Elizabeth murmured.
“They do,” Darcy agreed. Then, after a pause, “Do you know your sister’s feelings on the matter?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Jane has been…circumspect of late. She has not confided in me as she once did. I believe she wishes to sort her feelings before confessing them aloud.”
Darcy considered that. Jane Bennet did not seem like a woman inclined to haste. If she hesitated, it was worth noting.
Breakfast drew to a close all too soon. The gentlemen took their leave with proper expressions of gratitude, Mrs. Bennet already speaking of future invitations.
As Darcy mounted once more, he cast a final glance toward the house. Elizabeth stood at the window, sunlight catching in her hair. She lifted her hand in a small, private farewell.
Darcy rode away with the unshakable sense that something had begun—something delicate, promising, and entirely capable of changing everything.
The ride back to Netherfield ought to have been restorative.
The morning had been bright; the air crisp without being biting, and the road between Longbourn and Netherfield was familiar enough now that Darcy could have ridden it with his eyes shut.
Richard’s company had been, as ever, an easy counterpoint to the constant agitation of the Bingley household—good humor without frivolity, wit without cruelty, and a steadiness that Darcy valued far more than he often said aloud.
Though as Netherfield came into view—its pale stone facade rising beyond the sweep of lawn, the windows catching a weak sun—Darcy felt the faint prickle of foreboding he had come to associate with every return.
Richard seemed to sense it too, for he sobered a little, his gaze shifting toward the house with the mild resignation of a man walking back into a room where an argument had been left unfinished.
“Well,” he said at last, adjusting his reins, “let us see whether Charles greets us with affection or accusations.”
Darcy’s mouth tightened. “If he greets us at all.”
Richard gave him a sideways look. “You believe it will be that bad?”
Darcy did not reply. He did not need to. The last few days had provided ample evidence that Bingley’s usual agreeable disposition was no longer to be trusted as a constant.
They turned into the drive at a measured pace. The gravel crunched beneath their horses’ hooves. A composed stable hand emerged, descending the stairs with haste as if summoned by their presence, and took the reins with practiced respect.
Darcy slid from the saddle and handed the lad a coin. Richard did the same, then stretched his shoulders as if shaking off the lingering stiffness of the ride.
“You are smiling,” Darcy observed as they crossed the threshold.
“I am preparing myself,” Richard returned, and the glint in his eye suggested he was not entirely displeased by whatever confrontation awaited.
They had barely entered the entrance hall when a sharp voice—raised well above the level of respectable conversation—cut through the house.
“So that is it, is it? You leave without so much as a word, treating me like I am a schoolboy to be avoided!”
Bingley appeared at the far end of the corridor, advancing toward them with rapid strides.
His coat was rumpled, his cravat slightly loosened, and the color in his cheeks was not the healthy flush of exercise but the blotched red of anger ill-managed.
He looked, Darcy thought with a jolt of disbelief, nearly wild.
Behind him, Miss Bingley hovered near the drawing-room doorway, her expression alight with the particular satisfaction of a woman who witnessed discord and considered it confirmation of her own superior judgment.
Mrs. Hurst lingered on the staircase, one hand resting lazily on the banister, her face composed in the manner of someone who had long perfected the art of observing without being drawn into consequence.
“Bingley,” Darcy said evenly, stopping in the center of the hall.
“Do not ‘Bingley’ me,” Charles snapped, and then seemed startled by the harshness of his own tone, for he drew a quick breath and tried—unsuccessfully—to smooth it away. “You went to Longbourn.”
Richard lifted his brows. “Indeed, we did.”
Bingley’s gaze swung to him. “And you,” he added, as if the very presence of Darcy’s cousin was an affront. “You have been here less than a week, Fitzwilliam, and already you think yourself at liberty to…to—”
“To breakfast where we are welcome?” Richard supplied pleasantly.
Bingley’s nostrils flared. “I was not informed.”
“I did not ask your permission,” Darcy said, and heard the steel in his own voice. He had not intended it, but perhaps intention was irrelevant now. “Nor did I believe I required it.”
Miss Bingley made a soft, derisive sound. “Of course, you did not. It is Darcy’s habit to take command wherever he goes.”
Darcy ignored her.
Bingley did not. “Caroline, be quiet.”
It was an order, and it surprised them all. Miss Bingley’s mouth fell open slightly before she collected herself, drawing herself up with offended dignity.
Darcy saw Richard’s mouth twitch, as though he were enjoying the spectacle far more than was charitable.
Bingley stepped closer, lowering his voice—though not enough to make it private. “You could have told me. I am the master of this house.”
Darcy held his gaze steadily. “Then behave like it.”
Bingley blinked, as if the words had struck him more keenly than any accusation. For a moment, his anger wavered—uncertain whether to sharpen or retreat. Pride won.
“I do behave like it,” he insisted, too quickly. “I have obligations and burdens you do not trouble yourself to understand.”
Darcy’s patience frayed at the edges. “Do not mistake my concern for meddling.”
“Concern,” Bingley repeated, and the word came out bitter. “Is that what you call it? You and your cousin disappear to Longbourn without me, leaving me to endure Caroline’s complaints and Hurst’s jests alone, and you call it concern.”