This time Fitzwilliam rang the bell for Godfrey. While they waited, Darcy, as if to exasperate himself as much as possible against his erstwhile friend, chose for his employment the examination of all the letters Bingley had written to him since his return to Hertfordshire. It was fortunate their horses were saddled as expeditiously as they were, for the endeavour achieved naught but the unchecked escalation of his dread.
“But you would have heard, Darcy. I say again, no news is good news.”
Much though Fitzwilliam comprehended Darcy’s concern, he remained unconvinced there was sufficient foundation for any of his worse suspicions and was reasonably confident that, if Jane were unable to allay their fears, Ashby’s reply to the express he had sent before they set out would clarify matters for them.
“Still you maintain that?” his cousin said darkly. “After all this, you are content to believe that a complete want of communication is not even a trifle concerning?”
“What do you propose? That Bingley has stolen every sheet of paper and pot of ink in the house that nobody could send for you?Has he also hobbled all the horses and bribed all the staff to prevent their going for help?”
“Bingley has the trust of my entire household. He could take Elizabeth away from Pemberley and tell everybody I had authorised it, and nobody would blink an eye.”
“I think Elizabeth might have something to say about it.”
He thought he saw Darcy flinch.
“She trusts him just as much. They have found an affinity in both being betrayed by Jane.”
“That does not mean she would agree to his bundling her onto a boat! And he does not have my grandmother’s trust. I assure you she would not sit by quietly and allow him to sail off into the sunset with your wife.”
“I do not know what has happened, Fitzwilliam! I do not know what he plans or what lies he has spun to achieve it. What I know is that I have received no letters from Elizabeth in two weeks, and that means something is wrong.”
They lapsed into a grim silence that lasted until Darcy directed them into a row of mews where they were divested of their mounts and escorted through a small passageway beneath the line of houses opposite and up the steps at the front to Hurst’s door.
“She will not be pleased to see you,” Fitzwilliam muttered as they were ushered towards the drawing room. “Not if your account of your last meeting was accurate.”
“That is not my concern,” Darcy replied.
It turned out not to be hers, either, for the only two occupants of the room were Hurst and his wife. They both expressed their surprise at receiving such guests at such an hour but nonetheless assured them they were welcome. Darcy refused their offers of refreshments, wasting no time in explaining his object of speaking with Jane.
“I am sorry to disappoint you, Darcy, but she is not here,” Hurst replied.
“There you are. You see, Darcy,” Fitzwilliam said, feeling inordinately relieved. “It is she who has gone off with Bingley after all.”
“Ah, no…forgive me, sir, but Jane has not gone anywhere with my brother,” Mrs Hurst said, dashing his reprieve. “She has gone back to Netherfield. Might I enquire where it is my brother is supposed to have gone?”
“Aye,” Hurst added. “We understood he was at Pemberley.”
“Where is Miss Bingley?” Darcy enquired abruptly.
“Why, she escorted Jane to Hertfordshire,” Mrs Hurst replied warily.
“Is there nobody here who can tell me what is going on?” he growled. Fitzwilliam rather thought the Hursts must be thinking the same, but his cousin gave neither of them any time to enquire before fixing Mrs Hurst with a steely glower and saying, “When I was here two weeks ago, your sister made a remark about Pemberley not being the best place for Bingley to be. I would know what she meant.”
The lady’s cheeks were instantly overspread with a most dreadful shade of guilt, and she looked to her husband in alarm.
“Best speak up,” he told her. “It seems serious. Tell them everything.”
That did not bode well. Not well at all.
“Well, I…I do not…the fact of the matter is…” She wrung her hands. Darcy looked as though he wished to wring her neck.
“Hurst?” Fitzwilliam prompted.
He took the hint and lay all before them with laudable brevity. “Bingley is in love with Mrs Darcy. Has been from the off.”
Fitzwilliam shifted to the balls of his feet, taut and alert as he watched Darcy close his eyes and become stock still but for the grinding muscle in his jaw.
“Has he done something stupid?” Hurst enquired.
