Chapter Ten #2
The post is temporary, they say. Everything is ‘temporary’ when one is being sent somewhere unpleasant. I am to leave within the week, and I am assured—very earnestly—that this is not a punishment, nor a test, nor a correction of any sort. You may imagine how reassuring that is.
Miss Bingley was speaking behind him—something about Mrs Bennet’s nervous tendencies, Bingley retorted with something about sending word to the apothecary that Miss Elizabeth was now alert—but Darcy did not turn. He read on.
The official explanation involves altered conditions, re-evaluated trade routes, and the need for a steady hand where men have begun to complain of dwindling supplies.
You will be amused to hear that the complaints are not about the enemy, but candle wax.
Candle wax! And ale, naturally. I daresay they have been overrunning their rations, for the matter was well in hand when I left.
I told them soldiers have been sneaking into the troop stores since Agincourt, and that this hardly constitutes novelty.
Darcy’s jaw set.
Still, someone higher up has decided this discomfort requires a Fitzwilliam to observe it. I drew the short straw, apparently. Do not trouble yourself. I have endured worse than a few reluctant supply lines and an inconvenient posting.
A pause in the writing showed where Richard had hesitated—only briefly.
The name of the region is wretchedly poetic.
You would recognise it. I laughed when I heard it and was told, very politely, that I need not.
I am bound again for Ciudad Rodrigo. I expect I shall be bored, cold, and irritated, but otherwise intact.
Give my love to Georgiana. Do not allow her to read between the lines—I have taken pains to make them dull. Write when you can.
Your affectionate cousin,
R.F.
Darcy folded the letter once. Then again. He could picture Richard perfectly—smiling as he delivered the lines, shrugging as though the matter were of no consequence, already shouldering the burden so no one else need protest.
It was not right.
Not the posting. Not the timing. Not the way Richard had circled the truth without naming it.
Darcy crossed the room and set the letter down on the escritoire, his movements controlled only because he forced them to be. This was not how assignments were made. Not for officers of Richard’s experience and standing. Not without cause.
And yet, cause had been supplied. Supplies running short. Shipping lanes blocked, perhaps? Or was there something amiss with the acquisition and production of those supplies?
He thought of the steward’s earlier letter, folded and ignored too long. Of exposed roots where no rain had scoured them. Of markers turned up as though the land itself had shifted.
Of Miss Elizabeth Bennet, pale and insensible on the grass, her presence there inexplicable by any sensible measure.
The world had acquired an irritating habit of placing obstacles at his feet and demanding he step over them without explanation.
Darcy pressed his fingers briefly to the bridge of his nose. This was not superstition. He would not have it so. There were answers for everything—misjudgements, coincidences, human error.
Weather. Coincidence. Misfortune. He had been taught those answers before. He had learned young how often they were used to smooth over neglect.
Unbidden, an old cadence rose in his mind—something his grandfather had once recited with infuriating solemnity, about land held in trust and lines drawn not for ownership but for keeping. About vigilance. About what happened when watchfulness lapsed.
Utter superstition.
Elizabeth woke again to the quiet creak of a chair and the soft brush of fabric.
Jane sat beside the bed, her bonnet laid carefully on the table, her gloves folded with exaggerated neatness in her lap. At the sight of Elizabeth’s open eyes, she smiled at once—then stopped herself, as though afraid of encouraging too much.
“You are awake again,” Jane said. “Properly awake, I think.”
Elizabeth shifted, discovering at once the truth Jane had not spoken. Her limbs felt distant, obedient only after consideration, as though they belonged to someone else who had to be consulted before movement was allowed. She managed a nod.
“I do not seem… very impressive,” she said, and was faintly startled by how dry her own voice sounded.
Jane’s smile wavered. “You need not be impressive. You only need to rest.”
Elizabeth studied her sister’s face, the careful composure, the way her hands had folded and refolded in her lap. “You have been saying that all day,” she said slowly. “I wonder if anyone believes it.”
Jane hesitated. “Of course. You only had a bit of a strain of some sort. Why even Papa was perfectly assured that another day or two would see you right.”
Elizabeth’s brows drew together. “Papa was here?”
Jane exhaled, the breath half a laugh and half something else. “Yes, quite the surprise. He sat in the chair by the window and pretended to read. He did not turn the page once.”
Elizabeth’s mouth curved despite herself. “That bad?”
“He told me—quite seriously—that you were not to be hurried for anyone’s convenience, including your own. And then he asked whether you preferred essays or histories when you were feeling unwell.”
Elizabeth blinked. “Papa? Asking after my preferences?”
Jane nodded.
Elizabeth lay back against the pillows. “That sounds suspiciously like him attempting to look cheerful and failing.”
Jane laughed. “He sent these.” She reached for the small stack of books arranged at the edge of the table and brought them nearer.
Elizabeth recognised her father’s taste at once: the selection was unmistakable. Humorous essays. A history she had once remarked upon and never found in the house. Two volumes still stiff at the spine, their pages uncut. And at least two books that had certainly not come from Longbourn.
“He went into Meryton himself,” Jane said. “This morning. He said the shopkeeper was very obliging, though he did not approve of being forbidden to recommend anything ‘improving.’”
Elizabeth stared at the books. For a moment, she could not think what to say.
“Papa?” she said at last. “Went into Meryton? And he purchased these just for me?”
Jane nodded. “He would not hear of sending anyone else.”
That did not fit. Her father was many things—observant, indulgent, quietly fond—but he was not given to displays or expenditures. Elizabeth had expected concern, yes, and perhaps a wry remark delivered afterward to reassure himself that the world remained sensible. She had not expected effort.
“He was… upset, then,” she said, more question than assertion.
Jane’s expression softened. “Very.”
Elizabeth looked away, unsettled by the word. It sat oddly beside her image of him, as though someone had spoken of a familiar landscape under an unfamiliar light.
“And Mama?” she asked, bracing herself.
Jane hesitated.
“Jane?”
“She was delighted.” Jane cleared her throat. “Quite delighted, in fact. She said it was the best possible arrangement, that Netherfield was far superior to Longbourn for recovery, and that she had always maintained you would benefit from a change of air.”
Elizabeth shut her eyes briefly. “Of course she did. I shouldn’t wonder that she will be here herself to oversee my ‘recovery’ as soon as I can stir from the bed.”
“Not at all, for Papa forbade her to come,” Jane added quickly. “Very firmly. He said—” She paused, then smiled despite herself. “He said that you wanted quiet, not fresh lace.”
Elizabeth’s lips curved, despite her fatigue.
Surprise flickered beneath it—her father setting his foot down so decisively—but relief followed close behind.
The thought of her mother sweeping into the room, voice raised with concern and satisfaction in equal measure, was more exhausting than the faint ache still lingering behind her eyes.
“I am grateful,” she said. “For once, I believe Papa and I are of precisely the same mind.”
Jane reached out and touched her hand. “Indeed. And if you did not hear me before, I shall repeat it—Papa asked me to tell you that you are not to hurry yourself on his account. Or Mama’s. Or anyone’s.”
Elizabeth absorbed that in silence.
“I should like to go home as soon as I may,” she said finally. “Not because I am uncomfortable here. Everyone has been exceedingly kind. But I would rather be ill at Longbourn than well anywhere else.”
Jane’s eyes shone with understanding. “I know.”
Elizabeth’s gaze drifted back to the books. The thought of reading—of losing herself in familiar argument and voice—was tempting. Comforting, even. But as soon as she imagined opening one, the weight behind her eyes deepened, heavy and insistent.
“I should like to read,” she admitted. “But I do not think I should make it past the first page.”
“Then do not attempt it.”
“You need not stay and watch me stare at the walls,” Elizabeth added gently. “Go downstairs. Mr Bingley is beside himself with the desire to be useful, and Miss Bingley will no doubt be relieved to have someone sensible to impress.”
Jane hesitated. “Are you certain?”
Elizabeth nodded. “I am. I shall sleep better knowing you are not hovering.”
Jane laughed softly at that, rose, and bent to press a kiss to her sister’s temple. “Very well. But I shall not be far.”
“I know,” Elizabeth said.
When Jane had gone, the room settled again into quiet.
Elizabeth closed her eyes, the weight of sleep already pulling at her, and wondered—distantly, uneasily—how much worse she must have been, to inspire such effort from her father, such restraint from her mother, and such careful kindness from everyone else.
The thought did not trouble her long, for sleep claimed her first.