Mrs Randall slumped heavily back against the door as though she had straightened to her full height while their backs were turned. She held Elizabeth’s gaze as she coughed once, twice, thrice, then wheezed, “She went to take some air.”
Elizabeth frowned. She could not recall her mother ever willingly walking anywhere, for any purpose, least of allair. She thanked Mrs Randall and joined her sister and aunt in the carriage. “Well, that was odd!”
“In what way?” Jane replied.
“In every way! Did you not see how Mrs Randall seemed to grow sicker when she found out who we were?”
Jane only frowned. “I thought she grew sicker the longer we kept her from her bed.”
“You must have noticed she only started coughing when I told her my name. You saw it, Aunt, I am sure.”
Mrs Gardiner considered briefly before conceding. “She may have exaggerated it a little, but you must remember that she is responsible for keeping your mother away from home over Christmas. Perhaps she was concerned we would be angry to discover her up and about.”
“I hope not,” said Jane. “I should not like to add to her discomfort the pain of thinking we resent her. There can be no limit on how ill one must be to deserve the company of one’s friends.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to reply that she did not believe Mrs Randall was ill at all—but closed it again for her father’s sake. He did not wish for his concerns to be widely known, and accusing her mother of having come to London under false pretences was hardly the best way to keep them secret. Besides, she supposed Mrs Randall’s symptoms might not have been feigned—and there was nothing to say that she had not been sicker two weeks ago.
“It was a shame we were not able to see Mama, though,” Jane added.
“Yes—Mrs Randall said she had gone out to take some air,” Elizabeth informed her. Then, because she could not help herself, she added, “Which was another thing that struck me as unusual. Have you ever known Mama to walk out for her own pleasure? She is more likely to take to her bed and complain when her head is ill.”
“Mrs Randall is unwell,” Mrs Gardiner said. “She probably just forgot where your mother said she was going.”
That sounded completely reasonable; Elizabeth attempted to disregard the voice in her head urging alarm. She hadanticipated writing to her father with the news that there was nothing untoward afoot. With no idea where her mother was, she felt unable to give him any such assurance.
“We shall have to call on her another day,” Mrs Gardiner said.
“Yes!” Elizabeth replied. “I think that would be a very good idea.”
3
A COMMISSION FOR DARCY
Darcy arrived at Hurst’s house ten minutes early and chose to continue to the end of the street and stroll around Grosvenor Square before coming back to knock at the door. Anything to avoid prolonging his visit.
Hurst had asked him to call. Mrs Hurst and Miss Bingley wished to speak to him about their brother, apparently. It had surprised Darcy to learn that Bingley was not staying with them as he usually did, but since there was no topic he was less inclined to discuss than his errant friend, he had disregarded the anomaly. He might have disregarded the summons, too, except that, inexplicably, despite knowing he would never see her again, he was still deeply concerned for Elizabeth’s reputation. If there was any chance that Bingley’s sisters suspected something that might expose the Bennets to scandal, he should like to know.
He knew not what he would be able to tell them; he had not seen his friend since they left Netherfield. The day after the ball, he had informed Bingley of his ill-timed obtrusion into the library. Bingley had made a feeble attempt to justify himself: hehadadmired Jane Bennet but had not believed she returnedthe sentiment; Mrs Bennet had been uncommonly encouraging and was, he was adamant, as handsome as any of her daughters; he had drunk too much and regretted it profoundly. The only point on which they had agreed was that Bingley must leave Hertfordshire without delay. He had since gone to ground, and Darcy had avoided any place he thought he might be. He did not like to think of their friendship as permanently at an end, for Bingley was an old and valued acquaintance whose usually impeccable character ought not to be wholly eclipsed by a single error of judgment—but it was one hell of an error!
“It is a pleasure to see you again after so long,” Mrs Hurst began when he was shown into the drawing room. “One can scarcely believe it is six weeks since we were at Netherfield together. Would you like some tea? A slice of cake?”
“No, thank you. I cannot stay long.”
His refusal seemed to fluster her; her smile faltered, and she looked anxiously at her sister, who took up the conversation.
“If you are in a hurry, I shall come directly to the point. Have you seen my brother lately?”
“I am afraid not.”
“I feared as much. Neither have we. As you have no doubt gathered, he has declined Louisa’s kind hospitality in favour of hotels or other friends’ houses. And he has been avoiding us.”
“He has repeatedly cancelled or outright refused our dinner arrangements, though his excuses are always vague,” Mrs Hurst put in. “He is never where he says he will be—he keeps moving about between lodgings, so our letters are returned unread. We have no idea where he is presently staying.”
Miss Bingley shook her head sorrowfully. “It is not in Charles’s nature to be secretive, and we cannot help but wonder at the reason for it.”
Guilt, Darcy had to assume. “I comprehend your disquiet, but I am not sure what can be done. Bingley is his own man.”
“That is just the thing,” Miss Bingley replied. “Charles is so often not his own man where stronger convictions prevail. He is used to conceding to the advice and example of his friends.” She paused and regarded him meaningfully. “He has certainly always had a stronger dependence on your judgment than his own. Without your guidance these past weeks, he seems to have…lost his way.”
