Chapter 28
Darcy bent low over her mare’s neck as she and Jane raced across the eastern lawn, their laughter flung behind them upon the wind.
They rode astride, skirts divided for freedom of movement, their loosened hair streaming in dark ribbons at their backs.
Only a couple of weeks earlier, Jane had approached a saddle with equal measures of yearning and apprehension.
Now she rode with confidence and delight, urging her chestnut mare onward as though she had been born to the exhilaration of speed.
“You shall not overtake me!” Jane called, glancing over her shoulder with a grin.
“Then you had best ride faster,” Darcy returned, laughing as she drew alongside her.
They thundered toward the long avenue leading to Raine Manor, the horses’ hooves striking a swift rhythm against the earth.
Darcy had just begun to edge ahead when the flash of polished lacquer caught her eye.
A grand traveling carriage had turned through the distant gates and was making its stately progress up the lane.
Her heart gave one violent leap.
Sebastian.
Relief rushed through her. He had departed with scarcely an hour’s warning a little more than a week ago, and since then, Darcy had filled her days with her sisters, long rides, and countless hours before her easel.
Yet nothing had quieted how dreadfully she missed him.
Perhaps he had returned at last. Perhaps his silence had meant nothing more than duty and haste, and whatever had called him so urgently to London was finally resolved.
Darcy drew sharply upon the reins. “Jane, we must return to the house.”
Jane followed her gaze and brightened. “Is it Sebastian?”
“I do not know.” Darcy’s voice emerged far less steadily than she intended. “Come. We cannot receive whoever it is with our hair flying about us like a pair of highwaymen.”
“I think we look magnificent,” Jane declared, though she wheeled her mare toward the stables at once.
They reached the forecourt only moments before the carriage. Darcy dismounted quickly, her riding boots striking the gravel, and a stable lad hastened forward to take both sets of reins. She scarcely paused to thank him before gathering her skirts and urging Jane toward the house.
“Inside,” Darcy murmured. “Quickly.”
They had only just crossed the entrance hall when the carriage rolled to a halt outside.
The front doors opened again, admitting a gust of wind and an elegantly dressed lady who was assisted up the steps by a footman.
She entered the manor with measured dignity, one gloved hand resting upon a slender walking stick.
Darcy looked beyond her toward the carriage, searching for the tall, familiar figure she had imagined descending behind her. No one followed.
Darcy stared in mute astonishment at the elegantly dressed lady standing before her.
There was something achingly familiar in the line of the woman’s features and in the quiet composure with which she carried herself, despite the slender walking stick supporting one hand.
The resemblance struck with unsettling force.
She looked remarkably like Jane. There could be no doubt that she was a relation.
Beside Darcy, Jane had gone very still. The hope that had carried Darcy breathlessly inside faded as she looked once more toward the open doors. Sebastian had not returned.
More than a week of silence had followed his abrupt departure.
Concern had taken root in Darcy and deepened with each passing day until she finally set aside pride and wrote to him.
That letter, too, had gone unanswered. Several times she had considered sending another letter to London, only to stay her hand and suppress the worry that had grown with each passing day of silence.
And now a stranger had arrived bearing all the consequences of an answer.
“Miss Whitley?”
Darcy blinked, drawing her attention back to the present as the lady extended a letter toward her. Her heart began to pound.
“Lord Raine requested that I place this directly into your hands,” the lady said, her tone measured and composed. “There was little sense entrusting it to the post when I was certain to arrive first.”
Darcy forced her fingers to steady as she accepted the letter. “Thank you.”
“I am Lady Sutton,” the woman added with a slight inclination of her head. “I am Lord Raine’s great-aunt. I shall meet your other sisters shortly. First, I should like to provide you with a full account of the arrangements made for their household and instruction.”
Darcy attempted a smile, though it trembled at the edges. “Yes, of course.”
She curtsied, listening with only partial attention as the viscountess continued, her words careful, efficient, entirely practical.
“Let us withdraw to the drawing room while my valises are unpacked.”
“Yes,” Darcy said, summoning a polite smile.
Darcy listened as they crossed to the drawing room and took seats upon opposing sofas.
Lady Sutton explained that she was a respected matron, well received in society, and had agreed to take the girls under her protection.
Lord Raine had already engaged a governess and several tutors so that their education might continue without interruption and their manners be refined to the standard expected of young ladies of fortune.
Emelia, she explained, would be prepared for a formal introduction in two years’ time. Not within the full glare of the London ton, but among the local gentry and the wealthier families of the region, where advantageous connections might still be secured.
“With proper guidance,” Lady Sutton said, “Emelia may make an excellent match. A younger son of good family, perhaps, or a respectable baronet whose estate would benefit from her portion.”
Darcy inclined her head as though she absorbed each carefully laid plan and measured word, but her attention remained fixed upon the letter in her hands. His seal pressed against her palm. Cold uncertainty unfurled within her chest.
She scarcely registered when Lady Sutton rose to oversee the unpacking of her rooms, her measured steps carrying her from the drawing room with quiet authority. The door closed softly behind her, leaving Darcy alone in a silence that seemed to press inward from all sides.
For a moment, she did not move. Then, with a breath that trembled despite her effort to steady it, she broke the seal. Her eyes moved quickly over the page, her pulse loud in her ears.
Whatever explanation, assurance, or farewell he had chosen to send in place of himself would change everything. Darcy knew it before she read the first line. With unsteady hands, she unfolded the letter and gasped softly when a bank draft slipped free.
One thousand pounds.
She set it aside with care, though her fingers lingered upon it for a moment before forcing herself to read.
Miss Whitley,
I trust this letter finds you in good health.
Circumstances have arisen which require my full attention and oblige me to reconsider certain associations that were, upon reflection, ill-advised in their continuation. It is therefore necessary that I bring our acquaintance to a close.
You have my sincere thanks for the friendship you extended during your stay at my estate. I wish you every success in your future endeavors and trust that your talents will secure for you the independence you so clearly value.
Enclosed, you will find a bank draft in the amount of one thousand pounds, in settlement of the wager made between us. I trust this will be accepted in the spirit in which it is given.
I shall write separately to the young ladies to inform them that, for the foreseeable future, I will not be in a position to receive them or to visit. They may, however, correspond with me by letter, and I shall ensure their continued provision as previously arranged.
My great-aunt, Lady Sutton, will oversee the transition from Derbyshire to the estate in Hertfordshire, which is well situated and suitably appointed for their needs. She will have a full complement of servants at her disposal, and I anticipate that all arrangements will proceed without difficulty.
Raine
Darcy remained motionless, though something within her quietly came apart.
She had never believed Sebastian would want her beyond a fleeting attachment, yet the cold indifference of the letter followed a connection once marked by such tenderness.
It struck with the force of betrayal, not because he had broken a promise, but because he had written as though nothing of consequence had ever passed between them.
It felt as though something fragile within her had been carelessly broken, leaving behind a hollow, aching sense of loss she could not contain.
Darcy rose and schooled her features before leaving the drawing room.
Her sisters had always read one another too easily, and she could not allow them to see her while every emotion strained against the thin wall of her composure.
She climbed the grand staircase without haste until her chamber door closed behind her.
Only then did she cross to the writing desk, set Sebastian’s letter down with exquisite care, and draw out a fresh sheet of paper. She would answer at once.
As she reached for the quill, a drop struck the polished surface before her. Darcy paused, looking down in confusion, then felt the dampness on her cheek. The realization came slowly, almost reluctantly, that tears had begun without her noticing.
“Oh, stop it,” she whispered. Her throat felt raw, not from weeping, but from the painful effort required to hold back everything pressing against her reserve.
There had been no promises between them and no declarations that might justify such grief.
She had never believed he would offer more than a connection both intense and fleeting, and she had accepted its limits with open eyes.
Though she had come to love him, she had done so without expectation. Or so she had believed.