“‘Dot has fallen out with the Termagant again and tried to run away to me here in Ilfracombe. Her father caught up with her in the village and took her home. She is refusing to eat in protest.’”
“Refusing to eat! I said no to one meal, then cried and cried until Jane snuck down to the kitchen to get me some bread.”
“And how old were you?”
“I do not know. I think I tried to run away at least once every year from the age of about two.” Darcy looked less amused by this than she was expecting. She sat up and rested her hands and chin on his bent knee. “I have stopped running now.”
He did not respond except to smile her favourite, enigmatic smile, and stroke her cheek.
“Come. One more letter each, and then we must find Georgiana and give her the good news about the house. We are cruel to have made her wait this long.” She picked one at random and gave it to Darcy, then crawled away, collecting the letters back into a pile as she searched for one that looked interesting. She dropped them all in fright when Darcy cried, loudly, “Collins proposed to you?”
That set her off laughing again. “He did. The day after Bingley’s ball.”
Darcy tossed his letter aside and lunged across the floor to kiss her possessively. She submitted to it willingly, utterly light of heart to be enjoying such an unguarded, playful half an hour with him, lounging on the floor, exchanging memories as readily as kisses. It was an intimacy she cherished profoundly. No one else ever saw him thus; this washerDarcy. And Elizabeth loved him completely.
“You are right of course,” he said abruptly.
“About what?”
“We must ask her to come home. I am not sure why I said no.”
She smiled broadly and cupped his face with both her hands. “Because you are Starchy.”
He gave a wry chuckle. “I am not as good at this as you. I am still learning.”
“So, you admit you do need me to fixsomething.”
“I need every bit of you, all the time.”
And since they had all the time in the world, they took some more of it for themselves, and made Georgiana wait a little longer to hear that her house was not going to be demolished and her former housekeeper would soon be coming home.
CHAPTERFORTY-EIGHT
THE HAND THAT FATE DEALT
At the end of November, Darcy took Elizabeth and Georgiana to Hertfordshire for Jane and Bingley’s wedding. His letter to Mrs Reynolds had been sent, along with instructions to reply to London. Elizabeth had yet to see Astroite House, and with things more settled at Pemberley and the weather maintaining a mild turn, they had decided a visit was in order before they returned north.
For two days and three nights prior to the wedding, they stayed at Netherfield, and during that time, Darcy scarcely saw Elizabeth at all. She had said, after their own wedding, that she would be too happy to notice if she missed Jane. As it turned out, she had merely been too busy, but he had easily perceived, the closer they travelled to Hertfordshire, how dearly she anticipated the reunion. Upon arrival at Longbourn, she had disappeared entirely, sucked back into her old world of petticoats and gossip.
His reprieve came at night-time when Elizabeth became his, and only his, once again. On the first night, she was bubbling over with excitement and news. On the second, she was complaining of an aching head and expressing wonder that she had ever tolerated the noise of so many people talking at once. On the third, she was troublingly quiet.
Such she had been since she returned from Longbourn that afternoon, though he had given up attempting to discover what was wrong, for every enquiry resulted in an airy assurance that naught was amiss and an anxious glance at whomever else was in the room. Anticipating, therefore, that she was waiting for privacy, Darcy felt a frisson of alarm when Garrett and Vaughan both departed for the night, and instead of coming to bed, Elizabeth asked him to sit with her by the fire.
“I received a letter today,” she told him gently. “From my aunt Wallis.” She said no more—only handed it to him.
With no expectation of pleasure, Darcy opened it and began to read.
To my precious Dot,
I trust you are well and that you have arrived safely at Bedlam. I hope this letter reaches you there before you leave for London. It is not an easy letter to write—indeed, it breaks my heart, for I am about to betray the confidence of my oldest friend—but it must be written.
Agnes has received Mr Darcy’s letter, promising to refund all her expenses for Peacock and Peabrain’s wedding, and inviting her to return to Pemberley to live in a cottage on the estate. I know full well this was your idea, but I do commend him for consenting to it. I know from Agnes what mortification such a condescension will have cost him.
She has sent her reply to his London house—he will get it when you arrive there. She has refused both offers. The reason she has given is the deepest shame. That part is not a lie. I have witnessed the depths of her regret and can easily believe that she would find it inexpressibly difficult to face Mr Darcy, his sister, you, or any of the servants she left behind. I also believe, however, that her devotion to Pemberley would eventually have outweighed the ignominy of her disgrace, were it not for another impediment, which she has not mentioned in her letter.
Agnes is too unwell to make the journey to Pemberley. She does not think it is an illness from which she will recover, and I am reluctantly inclined to agree. I was shocked by many things when she arrived at my door last month, but none so much as her appearance. She has been unwell since long before you arrived at Pemberley, though she has confessed that knowing how ill she was added force to the other inducements which led her on in attempting to separate you from Mr Darcy. She wished to do all that was in her power to secure his happiness before her time ran out. You can imagine her despair when she discovered that she had done the opposite and was unlikely to see the matter rectified before she departed this world.
She kept her illness well hidden, revealing nothing of it in her letters to me nor telling anybody at Pemberley. It must have been more easily concealed at that time, but the events of the past months have hastened matters cruelly. There is no longer any mistaking that she is gravely ill. Her reasons for keeping it a secret are as irrational as they are obstinate, but I can summarise them for you: she is too ashamed to come home, and her illness is denying her both the time required to overcome her shame, and the strength to make the journey.
