Chapter Twenty-Three
Darcy had not expected the morning to feel so unburdened.
The air was crisp as he and Richard rode out from Netherfield, the sun already well above the horizon, though Bingley’s windows remained stubbornly shuttered.
No summons had come from his friend, no sleepy greeting or late apology.
Bingley had not yet risen, and Darcy found—somewhat to his own surprise—that he did not regret the omission.
Richard, for his part, seemed in excellent spirits. “I begin to think,” his cousin remarked lightly, adjusting his reins as the hedgerows gave way to open fields, “that Hertfordshire improves considerably in Bingley’s absence.”
Darcy huffed a quiet laugh. “That may be an unkind assessment.”
“Perhaps,” Richard allowed. “But not an inaccurate one. I am glad he did not rise to accompany us this morning.”
They rode in companionable silence for a time. Darcy found his thoughts drifting not to Netherfield, nor even to the increasingly tangled concerns that waited for him there, but forward—to Longbourn, to Elizabeth, to the look she would give him when he arrived.
Longbourn appeared much as it ever had: solid, welcoming, unpretentious.
Smoke curled gently from the chimneys, and the grounds—though modest—were well kept, bearing the marks of care rather than display.
Darcy found the sight encouraging in a way he had not anticipated when first he came to Hertfordshire.
They were admitted at once. Mrs. Hill ushered them into the drawing room with a warm smile, and Darcy had scarcely crossed the threshold when Elizabeth entered from the adjoining room.
She wore a simple morning gown, pale green, her hair loosely arranged with ringlets kissing her cheeks.
She stopped short when she saw them—then smiled.
“Mr. Darcy. Colonel Fitzwilliam. You are early.”
“Earlier than our friend, at least,” Richard replied easily. “Bingley has yet to make his appearance this morning.”
Elizabeth’s brows knit. “Oh?”
Darcy felt her questioning expression land squarely upon him.
“Yes,” he said. “He has been…indisposed.”
Elizabeth studied him for a moment, and Darcy was acutely aware that she was weighing not merely his words, but what lay behind them.
Miss Bennet appeared then, her expression brightening at the sight of Richard.
She greeted both gentlemen warmly, and Darcy could not help but observe the ease with which she accepted his cousin’s presence.
Gone was the faint reserve she had worn at the treasure-hunting picnic; in its place was something lighter, freer.
They all seated themselves, conversation flowing easily at first—small talk, observations on the weather, a brief mention of Lydia and Kitty being absent with Mrs. Phillips. Yet Elizabeth’s attention returned, again and again, to Darcy.
At last, when Richard and Miss Bennet had drifted toward the window seat, speaking softly of some recent assembly, Elizabeth turned to him.
“You may think me impertinent,” she said softly, “but I must ask. Mr. Bingley’s behavior of late—it is…odd.”
Darcy inclined his head. “You are not impertinent.”
She waited.
He chose his words carefully. “Charles is under a great deal of strain. Matters of business—of responsibility—have weighed upon him more heavily than he anticipated.”
Elizabeth frowned. “And that accounts for his sudden tempers? His…fixations?”
“In part,” Darcy said. “He has always been generous to a fault. He is now discovering that generosity—and foolish decisions—unchecked, have consequences.”
She considered this. “And Miss Bingley?”
Darcy hesitated only a fraction of a second before answering. “Miss Bingley spoke with me frankly. She was asked to do something she found—rightly—unacceptable.”
Elizabeth’s eyes sharpened. “What sort of thing?”
“Something that would have compromised her dignity,” Darcy said evenly. “And mine.”
Elizabeth’s lips pressed together. “I see.”
“I believe,” Darcy continued, “that Miss Bingley acted with commendable clarity. She refused him.”
Elizabeth’s expression softened, just slightly. “That does her credit.”
Darcy felt a flicker of relief at her response.
There was a pause, filled only by the murmur of Miss Bennet and Richard’s conversation nearby. Darcy glanced toward them despite himself. The lady laughed softly at something Richard had said—an unguarded sound, free of anxiety. She leaned forward as she spoke, animated, engaged.
Elizabeth followed his gaze. “She is more herself with him,” she said quietly.
“I have never seen her so…at ease, though our acquaintance is not of long duration.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “Nor I, and I have known her all my life. Mr. Bingley always admired her, but he never genuinely understood her—not as your cousin does.”
Darcy felt an unexpected warmth at the observation.
Elizabeth turned back to him. “You seem troubled still, Mr. Darcy, even after having spoken.”
“I am,” he admitted. “Because I do not yet see a clean resolution. Bingley resists assistance, yet his behavior grows more erratic. I begin to think it may be best for Richard and me to remove ourselves from Netherfield—at least for a time.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened slightly. “You would leave?”
“Not Hertfordshire,” Darcy said quickly. “Only the house.”
She considered this, then nodded slowly. “There is Purvis Lodge.”
Darcy blinked. “Purvis Lodge?”
“My uncle, Mr. Phillips, has the account and is searching for a tenant,” she explained. “It is not large—smaller than Longbourn—but quite suitable for a modest household. Well-suited. Private.”
He looked at her with renewed interest. “You believe it would be acceptable?”
“I do,” she said. “And it is close enough that you would not be cut off from…anything you wished to attend to. My mother would complain of the attics and their draftiness, but you would not be required to spend much time there.”
Darcy chuckled and took her hand.
“I shall speak to Mr. Phillips this afternoon,” he said, the decision settling into place. “If he is agreeable.”
Elizabeth’s smile was swift and genuine. “I think he will be. He enjoys being useful.”
Darcy felt an odd sense of gratitude—toward her, toward the quiet competence with which she offered solutions rather than sympathy.
Across the room, Miss Bennet and Richard had fallen into a companionable silence, close but not touching, their heads inclined toward one another as they looked out over the lawn.
Darcy watched them for a moment, thoughtful. “Do you think,” he asked Elizabeth quietly, “that your sister understands her own feelings?”
Elizabeth considered. “Jane understands her principles very well. Her feelings… she is still learning to trust.” Her gaze lingered on him. “And you, Mr. Darcy? Are you learning as well?”
He matched her gaze, unflinching. “Every day.”
The room felt suddenly smaller, more intimate, as though the world beyond Longbourn had receded. A sound from the hall broke the moment—Mrs. Bennet’s voice, cheerful and approaching. Darcy rose at once, instinctively, and Elizabeth stood with him.
“We should take our leave,” he said quietly. “Before we are pressed into staying for supper.” He winked at his jest. They had arrived just after breakfast and stayed longer than strictly proper.
Elizabeth laughed softly. “A wise retreat.”
As they gathered their gloves and hats, Darcy allowed himself one last glance toward Miss Bennet and Richard.
The former looked content. Richard looked—uncharacteristically—thoughtful.
Perhaps, Darcy reflected as they stepped out into the sunlight, not all of this upheaval would end in disappointment.
Maybe some good might yet come of it. As his horse turned once more toward the road, Darcy felt for the first time in days that the path ahead, though uncertain, was no longer obscured.
Elizabeth did not bother knocking when she entered her father’s library in search of a new book.
Mr. Bennet was out on the estate, looking over the fields of winter wheat.
The room was quiet in the way only a well-lived-in library could be—books lining the walls in orderly chaos, the faint smell of leather and ink lingering in the air, sunlight filtering through the tall windows and falling across the desk where her father spent so many hours.
She crossed the room without thought, already reaching for the shelf that held her favorite volumes.Habit turned her eyes toward the corner where the crate usually stood and sucked in a breath. It was gone, as were the other crates put there to hide its presence.
For a moment, she simply stood, her heart pounding so loudly she was certain the walls must hear it. The absence felt like a physical wound, a hollow where certainty had once been. Her pulse quickened, and heat flooded her cheeks—not fear this time, but fury.
In a frenzy, she went to her father’s desk and rifled through the papers strewn across the top.
She knew she ought not—this was not her domain—but restraint deserted her.
Letters, ledgers, loose sheets covered in her father’s familiar hand slid beneath her fingers as she searched with mounting desperation.
There, she found a partially written letter to one of her father’s friends from university. There were questions about antiquities sprinkled throughout, placed there nonchalantly so as not to raise suspicion.
Her breath caught.
The phrasing was casual, almost careless—queries about recent finds, about collectors, about the proper handling of objects of historical interest. It was precisely the sort of inquiry one might make out of idle curiosity.
Except it was not idle. Not at all.
Has my father already disposed of the treasure? she wondered. How could he do it without telling me?
A rush of betrayal followed hard on the thought. She had found it. She had unearthed it with her own hands, felt the weight of centuries resting against her palms. How could he act without her? How could he decide alone?
“Elizabeth?”