Chapter Thirty-Five
London
Darcy
“You really should have told her earlier, Darcy.” Colonel Fitzwilliam shook his head and lowered his feet from the empty chair upon which he had rested them sometime during Darcy’s account.
Darcy looked across the breakfast table at his cousin.
He had spent the better part of twenty minutes since his arrival relating everything that had occurred at Netherfield, from Caroline Bingley’s discovery of Elizabeth’s letter to the confrontation which followed, and Richard had listened without interrupting him.
Darcy had almost preferred the silence. “I am aware of that.”
“Are you?” Richard asked, though there was little accusation in his voice. “Because from everything you have just told me, Miss Bennet’s greatest objection was not merely that you read the letters. It was that you continued to know what was in them while allowing her to believe otherwise.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. He hardly required the distinction explained to him when Elizabeth’s own words had repeated it often enough in his mind these past four days. “I intended to tell her that evening.”
“After nearly two months.”
“Yes, Richard. After nearly two months.” Darcy pushed his untouched coffee aside and rose from the table. “If you mean to tell me that I behaved badly, you may spare yourself the effort. Elizabeth accomplished it rather more effectively on Saturday.”
Richard watched him cross towards the window. “I am not trying to quarrel with you.”
“No. You are merely succeeding without trying.”
That drew the faintest smile from his cousin, though it disappeared almost at once. Darcy looked through the window at the grey London morning, conscious of the fatigue behind his eyes and the dull ache in his head which had been his companion since leaving Netherfield.
“What kept you so long? You said you left Hertfordshire on Sunday,” Richard said after a moment. “Yet you arrived in London only this morning. Where have you been?”
“At an inn.”
Richard’s brows rose. “For three days?”
“Two nights. I had intended to come directly to London when I left Netherfield, but by the time I had travelled some distance, I no longer trusted myself to do anything sensible upon arriving.” Darcy rested one hand against the window frame.
Even now he could remember how often he had looked back along the road during those first hours.
“I considered turning back. More than once.”
“To Longbourn?”
“Where else?”
“And do what?”
Darcy turned from the window. “I had no notion. That was precisely the difficulty.”
Richard’s expression sobered.
“At one moment I thought I ought to speak to her father. At another, I convinced myself that if Elizabeth would only allow me ten uninterrupted minutes, I could make her understand why the whole miserable business had begun. By the time I stopped for the evening, I had nearly persuaded myself that her demand never to see me again had been spoken in anger and therefore need not be taken literally.”
“I am glad you stopped.”
“So am I.” Darcy returned to the table and sat.
“By the following morning, I could see what I had been attempting to do. Elizabeth asked me to leave her alone, and I was searching for some interpretation of her words which would permit me to do exactly as I wished. I realised I could not do that. I remained at the inn because I needed to decide what I could still properly do without imposing myself upon her again.”
“And what did you conclude?”
Darcy’s gaze moved towards the travelling case he had brought with him. “What I had thought from the beginning. The letters belong to Miss Harding. They always did. Whatever happens between Elizabeth and me, that much can still be put right.”
Richard followed his gaze. “You brought all of them?”
“Every one.”
“And you mean to give them to Miss Harding?”
“Yes. And I will prefer to do it today.”
Richard nodded, then reached for his coffee. “And Georgiana? Have you seen her yet?”
Darcy shook his head. “No. I came directly here upon reaching London. I have not been home.”
That appeared to surprise Richard more than the two nights at the inn. “You came to me before seeing your sister?”
“I wanted to know Miss Harding’s present condition before I did anything else, and I knew you would be here this morning.” Darcy paused, his thoughts moving unwillingly towards Georgiana. “Besides, I do not yet know what I shall say to Georgiana yet.”
“About Miss Bennet?”
“About any of it. Aside from what I told her of Elizabeth in my reply to her last letter, Georgiana knows nothing. When I wrote, I was courting Elizabeth and had every expectation that...” Darcy stopped, his fingers tightening briefly around the handle of his cup before he released it. “Matters were rather different then.”
Richard’s expression softened. “You need not tell her everything immediately.”
“No, but neither will I deceive her. She knows how I feel about Elizabeth. I made that sufficiently plain in my letter.”
“And now?”
“Now I shall have to tell her that the courtship has ended.”
Richard watched him. “Ended?”
“For the present.”
“For the present,” Richard repeated.
Darcy frowned at him. “Do not.”
“I said nothing.”
“You were about to.”
Richard’s mouth twitched. “I was merely going to observe that a man who has spent two days convincing himself that he must respect a lady’s wish never to see him again remains curiously unwilling to call the separation permanent.”
“I do not know it to be permanent.” Darcy held his cousin’s gaze. “Nor do I know it to be otherwise. Elizabeth was very angry when she said it, and perhaps, with time, she may think differently. Whether she does or not must be her decision, not mine.”
Richard inclined his head, conceding the point.
“There is something else Georgiana does not know,” Darcy continued. “I have not told her about Wickham.”
“Yes, Wickham.” Richard’s expression changed at once. “When you wrote that you had encountered him in Hertfordshire, I confess I was worried.”
“So was I.”
“I knew the militia was quartered there, but I had not expected that scoundrel to remain anywhere near you once he discovered your presence. I am glad the matter ended as it did.”
Darcy’s mouth hardened. “I would have preferred that it ended two years ago.”
“As would I. Forster wrote to me after the arrest. He said the information you gave him concerning Wickham’s character caused him to make enquiries he might otherwise have neglected. It seems the fraud in London was already waiting to catch up with him.”
“As always, Wickham accomplished his own ruin without requiring anyone’s assistance.” Darcy’s mouth twisted faintly. “A pity his considerable charm could not extricate him from this particular difficulty.”
“And I am exceedingly grateful for it.” Richard set down his cup. “Georgiana should hear of his arrest from you before someone else mentions it.”
“I know. I shall see her after we have been to the infirmary.” Darcy could at least give his sister that piece of news without dreading the expression it would produce. “Perhaps knowing he can no longer appear unexpectedly will give her some peace.”
“I believe it will.”
The subject settled between them for a moment before Darcy’s attention returned to the reason he had come. “Tell me about Miss Harding. Your letter could hardly contain everything.”
Richard’s expression grew more serious. “There is not much more that is encouraging. She has recovered physically from the fever, though Harding says it was doubtful for some time whether she would. Her memory remains the greater difficulty.”
“She remembers nothing of Hertfordshire?”
“Not nothing, but very little with any certainty. Harding says there are fragments. A name occasionally troubles her, or some object appears familiar, but when she attempts to pursue the recollection it disappears again. The physicians have advised him not to press her.”
“And her aunt?”
“She has been buried. Harding believes the loss contributed to his daughter’s confusion. Miss Harding remembers that her aunt is dead, but apparently not everything surrounding it.”
Darcy frowned. Elizabeth had spent months imagining abandonment, accident, illness and every other calamity which might account for Julia’s silence. All the while, her friend had been alive and unable even to remember that somewhere in Hertfordshire a woman continued writing to her.
“She truly does not remember Elizabeth?”
“Her father does not believe so.”
Darcy’s gaze returned to the case. “Perhaps the letters will help.”
“Perhaps. But I would not depend upon it.”
“I do not.” Darcy leaned back in his chair. “If she wishes to read them, she may. If she does not, I shall leave them with her father. I have interfered with those letters enough.”
Richard nodded. “That is probably best.”
“What of Harding himself?”
“His health has improved somewhat since I wrote, though not enough for the physicians to discharge him. He remains at the infirmary, and his daughter spends as much time there as they permit. Their circumstances are considerably reduced.”
“And the debts?”
“Still considerable for a man in Harding’s position.”
“I will settle them.”
Richard gave him a long look. “You might first ask whether he will permit you to settle them.”
Darcy frowned. “The man is ill. His daughter nearly died, and he exhausted what remained of his money keeping her alive. I hardly intend to stand upon ceremony while creditors trouble him.”
“I did not suggest ceremony. I suggested asking him.”
Darcy opened his mouth to dismiss the distinction, but the words never came. Elizabeth’s voice returned with uncomfortable clarity, along with the anger in her eyes when she accused him of deciding what she ought to know and when she ought to know it.
Richard noticed his silence. “What?”
“Nothing.” Darcy looked down at the table. “You are right. I shall ask him.”
His cousin stared.
“Must you look so astonished?”
“I was merely wondering whether I ought to send for a physician. Fitzwilliam Darcy has been contradicted and survived the experience.”
“I have had considerable practice of late.”
Richard’s amusement faded, but Darcy had no wish to return to Elizabeth when he could do nothing about her from London. He rose again and crossed towards the travelling case.
“If Harding accepts my assistance, I shall settle whatever is owing. If he requires somewhere to recover afterwards, that may also be arranged.”
“And Miss Harding?”
“If her memory returns and she wishes to go to Hertfordshire, I shall provide whatever is necessary.”
Richard studied him. “You mean to take her to Longbourn? I should have thought Miss Elizabeth would come to London herself. She has written to Miss Harding diligently enough these many months. Surely sparing a day to see her friend would not be asking a great deal.”
Darcy said nothing, and something in his expression made Richard lower his cup. “You did tell her that Miss Harding is alive?”
“No.” Darcy looked away. “I meant to tell her that evening, along with everything else, but Caroline reached her first. By the time Elizabeth confronted me, she would scarcely hear an explanation and left before I could tell her.”
Richard stared at him. “Darcy, she does not know her friend is alive?”
“That is what I said, Richard.” Darcy’s hand settled upon the travelling case. “We shall see Miss Harding first. Afterwards, Elizabeth must be informed, whether by you, Bingley, or some other means which does not require me to disregard her wishes.”
Richard considered this before nodding. “And if Miss Harding remembers her?”
“Then Elizabeth will have more than a message.”
Richard regarded him for another moment before glancing towards the clock upon the mantel. “We ought to leave. Visiting time at the infirmary is generally awake at this hour, and if we arrive after the physician begins his rounds, we may be obliged to wait.”
Darcy took up the case. “Your carriage is ready, I suppose.”
“Of course it is.”
They left the room together and crossed the hall, where their coats and hats were waiting.
When a servant stepped forward to relieve Darcy of the case, he retained his hold upon it and shook his head.
The letters had followed him from Somerset to Hertfordshire when they ought never to have followed him anywhere, and he would carry them himself for the final part of their journey.
Within minutes, he and Richard were descending the steps towards the waiting carriage. Darcy climbed inside and placed the case beside him, keeping one hand upon it as the horses moved off.
Whatever became of Elizabeth and himself was no longer his to determine. For now, there was only Julia Harding, her father, and a collection of letters which had at last begun their journey to the woman for whom they had always been intended.