STALLED BUT NOT DETERRED
The painin Darcy’s shoulder had subsided to a dull throb as he descended the stairs to breakfast. Though still weak, each day brought increased strength and clarity of mind. His fever had broken completely, and Mrs. Porter had reluctantly approved short carriage rides.
Even though the day was dreary with the threat of thunderstorms, he would visit Longbourn again—not to press Elizabeth for an immediate answer, but to assure himself of her well-being before his departure to Pemberley.
Netherfield’s morning room welcomed him with the scent of coffee and freshly baked bread. Charles and Caroline were already seated with Colonel Fitzwilliam and Georgiana.
“Darcy!” Bingley rose, genuine pleasure lighting his face. “You’re looking considerably improved.”
“The wonders of regular sleep without fever,” Darcy replied, easing himself into a chair next to Georgiana. The simple act of sitting still required careful negotiation with his injured shoulder.
“Brother, you should not overtax yourself,” Georgiana cautioned as she poured his coffee. “Mrs. Porter said you must take care with sudden movements.”
“I am perfectly capable of managing breakfast,” Darcy said, softening his words with a small smile. “And a short carriage ride afterward.”
Caroline Bingley’s eyebrows arched delicately. “A carriage ride? Surely you don’t intend to venture out so soon after your… ordeal.”
“I plan to call at Longbourn,” Darcy stated flatly, his tone discouraging further comment.
Colonel Fitzwilliam, ever attuned to tensions in conversation, intervened smoothly. “The weather may not cooperate, cousin. Storm clouds are gathering to the west.”
“A summer shower will not deter me,” Darcy replied, accepting a plate of eggs and toast.
Bingley glanced out the window, frowning at the darkening sky. “It looks rather more substantial than a shower, old man.”
“At least it won’t be as oppressively hot as the day before,” Darcy said, noting the ominous bank of clouds on the horizon. Still, he would not be dissuaded. Not when Elizabeth awaited his visit, perhaps even expecting it after their conversation in the garden. After all, she hadn’t said how long it would be before he could visit again and reapply his offer.
Not that he would pressure her, not at all, but should she change her mind…
The breakfast conversation drifted to Georgiana’s music practice, Colonel Fitzwilliam’s regiment, and Caroline’s plans for returning to London. Darcy contributed little; his mind was occupied with thoughts of Elizabeth and perhaps an interview with Mr. Bennet.
A commotion in the hall drew his attention. Raised voices, hurried footsteps, and the breakfast room door bursting open. Patterson, Bingley’s butler, stood in the doorway.
“Begging your pardon, Mr. Bingley,” he said. “There’s a boy from the village with an urgent letter for Mr. Darcy. Says a ladymight be in trouble, in a fancy-like carriage. Demanded an extra coin for his haste.”
Darcy’s pulse quickened, unease spreading through him like frost. “Bring him in.”
“I’ve taken the letter, sir,” Patterson replied, producing a folded paper from his pocket. “The boy is waiting for payment.”
“Very well.” Darcy withdrew a coin from his waistcoat pocket and placed it on Patterson’s silver salver. “Give him this for his trouble.”
The butler presented the letter with a slight bow. Darcy recognized Elizabeth’s handwriting immediately. Why would she write rather than await his visit? What urgency had prompted this unexpected communication?
He broke the seal with hands that suddenly felt clumsy. The first lines made his blood run cold.
Mr. Darcy,
I write to inform you that I have eloped with Mr. Wickham, the true object of my affection…
The words blurred before his eyes, impossible, inconceivable. This could not be Elizabeth’s voice, could not be her sentiment. Not after what had passed between them in the garden. Not after the intimacy of their conversations during his illness. Not after she had admitted to loving him.
“Darcy?” Bingley’s voice seemed to come from a great distance. “You’ve gone white as a sheet. What is it?”
Unable to form words, Darcy thrust the letter at his friend, rising from his chair with such violence that it toppled backward.
Bingley scanned the letter, his expression shifting from concern to shock. “This cannot be right,” he said, looking up at Darcy with bewilderment. “Miss Elizabeth would never?—”
“Read it,” Darcy commanded hoarsely. “Read it aloud.”
