Anne banged her hand on the side of the gig. “Do not be absurd! Simply by coming back to Longbourn you have led her on. I know not what possessed you!”
Darcy tugged sharply on the reins, and the gig clattered into motion once more, almost erratically enough to eclipse the burst of unease that had spurred him into action. “It is a very good thing that we are returning to London, then.”
Anne did not reply. She only pulled her shawl more tightly around her and turned her face away. Darcy made no attempt to draw her out, content to justify her original complaint by travelling the rest of the way in silence. He had never known his cousin to behave in such a way. It vexed him to such a degree that he left Mrs Jenkinson and a footman to assist her down when they arrived at Lucas Lodge.
He crossed the stables to speak to the driver of his own carriage but had time only to ask whether his cousin’s trunks had yet been loaded before they were interrupted by a pitiful wail and several shouts of alarm. Hastening back to the other side of the gig, the cause was soon discovered to be Anne, who had apparently swooned as she disembarked.
“Good Lord!” cried Sir William, approaching from the house. “Bring her indoors directly. Hodges, quickly, ride out and fetch Mr Jones.”
Darcy ignored him and knelt next to his cousin where she lay with her head in her companion’s lap. The conviction instantly settled upon him of Anne being no more unwell than the servant who had been ordered to scoop her up and carry her indoors. Manners, pride—nay straightforward decorum—made it impossible that she might have feigned a swoon, however, and he was forced to swallow his spleen.
“Forgive me, Anne. I did not comprehend how unwell you were.”
She gave him a wan smile. “I am sure it is nothing a good rest will not cure.”
“I fear she has over-exerted herself,” Mrs Jenkinson said in a nervous whisper. “It is precisely what the physician warned would happen.”
“Stop fussing, Penny,” Anne said, breathless either from asperity or infirmity, Darcy could not tell which.
“I am sure she will be well, madam,” he assured Mrs Jenkinson. Then he stood up and indicated with a curt gesture for the servant to convey Anne indoors as per Sir William’s instructions. With a sinking feeling, he allowed himself to be shown inside and given a cup of tea he did not want as they awaited the apothecary’s appearance. It was another hour before Mr Jones arrived, by which time Darcy had resigned himself to the inevitable verdict: Anne was not to be moved.
He felt all the awkwardness that Elizabeth must have suffered the previous autumn when she arrived at Netherfield to nurse Jane, for Lady Lucas and her daughters made little attempt to conceal their dissatisfaction. Sir William was everything that was gracious, but even he could not muster an entirely persuasive air of approval. Mr Collins appeared on the brink of a nervous collapse, and Darcy was obliged to give his word that he would smooth any difficulties with Lady Catherine that arose as a result of Anne’s misadventure. The man was sent on his way to resume his duties in Hunsford, and Darcy took his leave to return to the inn.
Several hours later, he sat alone before a dwindling fire, staring into a flagon of insipid mead. He ought to be livid. He had every right to be furious with Anne for having drawn him into her preposterous scheme, or the apothecary whose remedy for every ailment was apparently to confine the patient indefinitely to their bed. He would be perfectly justified in blaming Georgiana for inflicting her demonstrably terrible romantic instincts upon him. Any self-respecting gentleman would be disgusted by the unsavouriness of such lodgings. And he had no idea what to do to rectify any of it—a circumstance that would ordinarily have put him in the very worst of humours.
There could be only one explanation for the small grin that repeatedly accosted him, preventing any of his troubles from taking root. And he could not help but wonder, if five minutes in Elizabeth’s company could bring him such contentment, what a lifetime might be like.
8
Darcy had never met a person who would not, eventually, construe his complete silence as a cue to cease talking—until that day. He had been seated on Sir William’s intolerably hard sofa for the best part of an hour while the man himself spoke without pause, undeterred by the want of any response. He had listened as attentively as he was able, but with horsehair and springs jabbing him in the thighs and a succession of hysterical demands emanating from his cousin’s part of the house, he had been too distracted to summon much enthusiasm for discourse.
What Anne was about he could not suppose. One moment she was screeching for somebody to rub her calves, the next, she was protesting at being manhandled. She called for salts, then she complained they made her bilious. She begged for a drink, then declared it tasted foul.
Bring back Jane Bennet,was all he could think, as each of Anne’s laments put the former’s convalescence at Netherfield in a better light and further compounded his mortification.
“Pray, excuse me,” said a footman, silencing Sir William at last. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet is here, sir. I was unsure whether you meant to receive anymoreguests today.”
Darcy lurched to his feet, then cursed himself for it. Was he a green boy to be leaping about idiotically at the mention of a woman’s name? He clasped his hands behind his back and clenched his jaw shut, refusing to betray any discomposure. Even when Sir William exclaimed effusively that, of course, all callers were welcome, for it was Christmas and the more the merrier.
Elizabeth was shown in and received by Sir William with preposterous ebullience. She took it in her stride, returning his greeting with equal cheer if not equal fervour. She had evidently come on foot, for the walk had made her eyes gleam in a way Darcy recognised well. He could not decide how he liked them best, brightened by exercise or flashing with challenge. Her complexion was flushed, and one or two strands of her hair had been plastered to her cheeks by the damp winter air. The tip of one was caught in the crease at the corner of her mouth until she unconsciously looped a finger under it and tugged it free.
“Mr Darcy, you are still here!” Her exclamation startled him, though his heart was already thundering at such a pace that it scarcely signified.
He gave her a quick bow. “My cousin is unwell. The apothecary deemed her too ill to travel yesterday. We were due to leave this morning, but?—”
Anne helpfully chose that moment to groan loudly, and Darcy let it stand in lieu of finishing his explanation.
“I am very sorry to hear that,” Elizabeth replied, though she said it to Sir William, which Darcy suspected was deliberate. He wished he were not diverted, but he did so enjoy it when she was sly.
“Will she be well enough to travel today?” she asked.
“It is not certain.” The strained reply came from the lady of the house, who had appeared in another doorway. She did not come into the room but remained where she was, looking extremely weary. “Good day, Eliza. Husband, might I have a word?”
Sir William’s cheerfulness faltered as he excused himself to leave with his wife. When they were gone, Darcy let out a quiet sigh and rubbed the bridge of his nose with a knuckle. Blast Anne and her cosseted ways! He needed to return to Georgiana!
“You must be very worried about her.”
He dropped his hand. Elizabeth was regarding him with a searching look that made her remark seem to contain more question than concern. Part of him wished to confess his suspicion that there was nothing the matter with Anne other than contrariness, for there were few people who would enjoy such nonsense more than Elizabeth. He constrained himself to grimacing very slightly and inclining his head, leaving her to construe it as she chose.
