Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
One week later
The fire had burned low without his noticing it.
Darcy stood at the table where the Liber lay open among a disorderly ring of other volumes—chronicles, ballads, marginal compilations whose bindings had softened with use long before he had thought to value them.
He had been on his feet for hours, shifting between texts, comparing phrasing, marking concordances with slips of paper torn from a correspondence ledger he would regret later.
Candle wax had dripped onto the desk in long, careless lines. He was reading a passage again—one he had already read twice—when the knock came.
“Sir,” his man said, “a packet. Just arrived.”
Darcy took it without comment and set it aside unopened, his attention already pulling back to the page. It took him a moment to realise what he had done—to recognise the restlessness in his own hand, the way his fingers had closed over the folded paper as though it might escape.
Still, he did not open it at once. Instead, he read the line again.
Holden neyther by ryght ne by enheritaunce,
but by te aunswering tat is not withdrawen.
“Answering?” What the devil did that mean? He closed the book with an exhausted sort of reverence and turned at last to the packet.
Two letters.
The first bore his aunt’s hand: unmistakable, bold, every line pressed into place as though the paper itself had been obliged to submit. The second—lighter, hastier—was addressed beneath it, folded smaller, almost apologetic in its presence. Bingley.
Darcy separated them. He would save Bingley’s little note to cleanse his palate after whatever edict his aunt had decided to send today.
He broke Lady Catherine’s seal and unfolded the letter.
My dear Nephew,
I trust you will forgive the directness of my address, but circumstances no longer permit delay. Matters in Kent have progressed to a point that requires immediate and decisive attention—your attention, to be precise.
The season has turned ill. You will hear foolish talk of weather and chance, no doubt, but I assure you this is no ordinary inconvenience.
The grounds at Rosings, which have been managed with unimpeachable care, now show signs of upheaval that cannot be attributed to neglect.
The lake has receded without cause. The lower orchard has suffered losses that defy expectation.
Darcy paused and read that paragraph again.
Not because of the damage described, but because of what was absent from the account. No mention of remedy. No curiosity. Only certainty that the cause lay elsewhere—and that she had already identified it.
He read on.
I have consulted the appropriate records. I have spoken with those whose families have held this land for generations. I am not misled. There are moments in which duty must be assumed, not debated. You are at the edge of such a moment.
You need not fear for Pemberley, nor for your sister. All that concerns them will be secured once matters are properly aligned. Indeed, much that now appears uncertain will resolve itself the instant you cease to hesitate.
His back stiffened, and he frowned.
She was not reassuring him. She was excluding him—quietly, deliberately—from the list of those whose safety… whose future required consideration. Why the devil would she talk like that?
Darcy had a sinking feeling that he understood more than he wished, but he forced himself to continue.
Anne is prepared. She has always been prepared. The arrangements require only your concurrence to proceed as they ought. But do not delay, for every moment of your indecision causes suffering and blight. It is an historic fact, and entirely within your power to set right.
I would remind you that destiny is not a thing to be avoided, Darcy. It is fulfilled or it is resisted, to the detriment of all concerned. The cost of refusal is rarely borne by the one who refuses. Would you be so self-serving? I think not.
That last line, he could not read smoothly.
It sounded very much like what his father had once dismissed as fancy, half-remembered, and laughed away—that some duties ended not in service, but in loss, and that she had already chosen who should bear it.
Why, she could hardly… it truly sounded as if she believed all this rot! Not as a tool by which to make him act according to her bidding, but as part of some greater crisis, with herself as the benevolent tyrant orchestrating the demise of some sacrificial lamb.
I trust I may expect you at Rosings without delay.
Your affectionate aunt,
Lady Catherine de Bourgh
Darcy lowered the letter slowly. For a moment, he did nothing at all.
Then he folded it—slowly, deliberately—and set it aside on the table, not atop the books, but apart from them, as one sets aside a blade.
One thing, he could understand. She had observed the same irregularities as he had this season.
Not understood it—he refused to grant her that—but noticed enough to mistake recognition for mastery.
She reached at once for lineage and inevitability, for conclusions that required no examination, as though order were something that could be restored simply by placing the right person in the right position.
And she spoke of an end she believed acceptable. Someone or something else’s end, naturally. Certainly not something that might inconvenience her.
Darcy drew a quaking breath and reached at last for the second letter. Indeed, he had need of a bit of Bingley’s ease and cheer.
Bingley’s hand ran a little uphill across the page—a little crowded, a little uneven, as though written in haste and reconsidered twice before being sent.
My dear Darcy,
I must begin with an apology, for the enclosed letter from Lady Catherine de Bourgh arrived for you several days ago, and I ought to have forwarded it at once.
A brief but determined snowstorm intervened, however, and the roads were impassable for two days and a half.
I trust you will forgive the delay, as I assure you it was not occasioned by neglect.
I hope London agrees with you, though I cannot pretend not to wish you back in Hertfordshire.
Netherfield has felt rather empty of late, and I find myself missing our walks and discussions more than I should have expected.
My sisters send their regards, though Caroline insists she has already written to you herself.
Darcy’s mouth tightened faintly. Insists was precisely the word.
Before the snow fell, we had the pleasure of dining at Longbourn, which was—as always—lively in the extreme.
Mrs Bennet was in excellent spirits, and I need hardly say how very glad I was to see Miss Jane again.
She was all kindness and good cheer, and I continue to admire her exceedingly, though I fear I do not always do justice to my admiration when I attempt to express it.
Darcy paused there, letter lowering a fraction.
Admire her exceedingly.
Well. That, at least, was no surprise.
He read on.
You will scarcely believe it, but a most unexpected announcement was made during the evening—one which took us all quite by surprise. Mr Collins declared himself engaged to one of the Bennet girls, and not a soul present had suspected his intentions beforehand.
Darcy straightened sharply.
Engaged?
His eyes jumped ahead, skimming, hunting for the name that mattered—
Elizabeth
The words blurred for a moment before he forced himself to slow, to read.
Indeed, I was quite astonished to learn that he had not even consulted Mr Bennet prior to making his proposal, which struck me as irregular in the extreme. The bride-to-be, as I am sure you are eager to learn, is Miss Mary Bennet.
Darcy closed his eyes briefly. Relief—real, undeniable—passed through him, loosening something he had not known was clenched so tightly. Mary Bennet. Of course, it was the falsely modest one for Collins. It made a dreadful sort of sense.
He drew breath and continued.
I confess myself pleased for the happy couple, and yet slightly mortified on Mr Bennet’s behalf, as the announcement was made with great solemnity and very little warning.
Mrs Bennet required some moments to reconcile herself to the change in her expectations, but she recovered admirably, as I am sure you might expect.
Naturally. Darcy’s lips twitched despite himself.
I regret to say, however, that the evening did not conclude as agreeably as it began.
His eyes narrowed.
Miss Elizabeth was taken unwell shortly after the announcement and was obliged to leave the room.
The matter appeared suddenly, and though she attempted at first to make light of it, she could not be persuaded to remain.
Indeed, she collapsed before she had quite gained the threshold, and while still in our presence, she was taken violently ill, in the most indelicate sense.
I was greatly concerned for her, and Mr Bennet not less so.
Darcy’s gaze fixed on the page, unseeing.
Taken unwell.
Again?
I sent to Longbourn early the next morning, before the snows came, to inquire after her, and was told only that she had slept, was awake, and was keeping to her rooms. Mrs Bennet assured my messenger that there was no cause for alarm, though Caroline is of a different opinion and has hinted at explanations I refuse to entertain, as they would be unjust to the lady and unworthy of repetition.
Darcy’s fingers tightened on the paper. His mind supplied images he did not permit himself to examine too closely: Elizabeth pale, stubborn, insisting she was well enough…
…and failing.