“Are you certain this is wise?” Bingley asked from the seat across from him. “Mrs. Porter was quite clear that you should not exert yourself, especially in this weather.”
“Mrs. Porter permitted short carriage rides,” Darcy replied, his voice steadier than he felt. “Longbourn is hardly a significant journey.”
The carriage jolted on a rough patch of road, sending a shard of pain through his injured shoulder.
Bingley studied him with undisguised concern. “Your color suggests otherwise.”
Two weeks had passed since the duel, and while the fever had broken, Darcy’s strength remained frustratingly depleted. That morning, the act of dressing had left him light-headed and trembling, requiring Georgiana’s assistance with his cravat and coat. Yet he could not delay this journey, not when each passing day brought the possibility of being whisked away to Rosingsfor “proper convalescence” as his aunt had suggested before her departure.
“I am well enough for what must be done,” he had insisted.
Georgiana had counseled patience that morning, her gentle eyes troubled as she straightened his coat. “Miss Elizabeth promised to return when you were better,” she had reminded him. “Perhaps wait until you can at least stand without assistance?”
But Elizabeth had not responded to his note. No word had come from Longbourn. The silence gnawed at him, undermining the certainty he had felt when dictating those carefully chosen words.
My heart won’t ever leave you,she had promised before departing his sickroom.Rest, Mr. Darcy. I shall return when you are better.
Had those words been merely kindness to a fevered patient? Had she spoken them only to soothe him, with no intention of fulfilling such a promise? He could not believe it. Not after all they had shared during those long nights of illness—the reading of poetry, the quiet conversations, and the unmistakable tenderness in her touch as she tended his wound.
The carriage slowed as they approached Longbourn’s modest drive. Darcy saw a garden wilting in the summer heat—roses past their prime, lilies drooping in the afternoon sun.
“We have arrived,” Bingley announced. “Shall I accompany you inside?”
“That will not be necessary,” Darcy replied, though the prospect of walking unassisted suddenly seemed daunting. “Though I would appreciate your arm to the door.”
“Of course.” Bingley nodded, understanding both the spoken request and the unspoken desire for privacy.
As the carriage halted, Darcy took a deep, steadying breath. The footman opened the door, and Darcy descended slowly,leaning more heavily on Bingley’s arm than he would have wished.
The short walk to Longbourn’s entrance stretched like a country mile. Yet the thought of Elizabeth—her fine eyes, quick wit, and gentle hands during his fever—pulled him forward despite his body’s protest.
Mrs. Hill answered their knock. “Mr. Darcy! Mr. Bingley! We had not expected—” She broke off, recovering her composure. “The family is at home, but…”
“We apologize for calling without notice,” Bingley said. “Is Miss Bennet receiving visitors?”
“Yes, sir. The family is in the drawing room, except for Mr. Bennet, who is in his library as usual.”
“Please inform them that Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy have called.”
Darcy adjusted his sling, straightening his posture despite the pain it caused. He wiped his brow with his handkerchief, willing the weakness in his limbs to subside. He would not appear before Elizabeth as an invalid or have her decision influenced by pity.
The murmur of feminine voices drifted from the drawing room, followed by a sudden silence as Mrs. Hill announced their arrival.
Mrs. Bennet sat by the window with her youngest daughters, wielding a fan against the summer heat, while Jane and Elizabeth were engaged with needlework near the garden doors, where a slight breeze offered relief. All eyes turned to them, but Darcy saw only Elizabeth. She had paled slightly at their entrance, her hands stilling on her embroidery.
“Mr. Bingley! Mr. Darcy!” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed, rising with a flutter of handkerchief and lace. “This is most unexpected. We had heard you were still confined to your bed, Mr. Darcy.”
“I am much improved, madam,” Darcy replied with a formal bow that sent a wave of dizziness through him. He maintained his dignity through sheer force of will, though he suspected his pallor and the perspiration on his brow betrayed the effort.
“Please, gentlemen, do be seated,” Mrs. Bennet continued, gesturing to the available chairs. “Jane, ring for lemonade. Kitty, stop fidgeting. Lydia, sit up straight. We are honored by your visit, Mr. Darcy, especially given your condition.”
Darcy took the offered seat, relief washing through him as the room steadied. His gaze sought Elizabeth, who had risen alongside her sister. The sight of her—composed in a simple muslin dress the color of summer sky, her cheeks flushed slightly in the July heat—stirred an intense longing in him. But there was a wariness in her expression that had not been present during his illness, a guardedness that troubled him.
“We had not expected to see you in company so soon, sir,” said Jane. “Your recovery must be proceeding well.”
“Mrs. Porter has declared me fit for short journeys,” Darcy replied, his eyes still on Elizabeth, who had yet to speak. “Though not yet for the return to Pemberley.”
“And how is dear Miss Darcy?” Mrs. Bennet asked. “Such a sweet girl, to travel all this way for her brother’s care.”
