He broke the seal.
My dear Nephew,
It has come to my attention, through channels I need not name, that you are presently established at Netherfield in Hertfordshire, and yet have not thought it necessary to apprise your family of this circumstance. I find this omission remarkable, given the proximity of events which have, for some time now, required attentiveness rather than absence.
Darcy rubbed the bridge of his nose and read on.
Mr Collins has written to me with an account of his recent introduction to the neighbourhood, and of the conversations which have naturally arisen therefrom. I am pleased to learn that he has comported himself with the propriety I have always encouraged, and that he has taken it upon himself to speak with appropriate seriousness on matters of inheritance and responsibility. Such subjects ought not to be treated lightly, particularly at a moment when long-standing arrangements are due for consideration.
He stared at the words harder as his thumb pressed more firmly into the edge of the paper.
I cannot suppose that your presence in Hertfordshire is accidental. If you imagine that silence will delay what has long been in preparation, you mistake both the nature of obligation and the patience of those who have preserved it. Certain arrangements do not lapse simply because one chooses not to attend to them. There are places, Darcy, where duties must be acknowledged, whether or not one finds the subjectagreeable.
The pen nib had pressed harder here; the strokes grew darker, less ornamental.
You are, of course, aware that your own position presents a convergence of duty and heritage such as not been seen in a dozen generations. Mismanaged though it was, it shall not now be squandered through inattention or misdirection. I had hoped that the advantages of your birth, so carefully aligned, and at no small cost, would have produced a more immediate understanding of what is now required.
Darcy’s teeth met hard enough to ache. He read the line again, then a third time, as though repetition might render it less offensive.
It did not.
Anne’s constitution has improved sufficiently that there can be no further excuse for delay, and it would be folly to pretend otherwise. The suitability of her situation has never been in question; indeed, it was precisely this suitability that was once expected to answer a deficiency elsewhere. That it has not done so as fully as one might have wished does not render the design void, only incomplete.
I had expected you at Rosings by now, that we might speak plainly and determine the proper course while discretion could still be maintained. Your continued absence obliges me to be explicit. There is work to be done, Darcy, and it is work that admits of neither delegation nor evasion. The moment does not belong to the idle, nor to those content to be acted upon rather than to act.
If you have allowed yourself to be diverted by provincial concerns, I trust you will correct the error without delay. Matters of this gravity must not be subjected to casual interpretation—or, worse, to the curiosity of those not equipped to understand their significance. I expect to hear from you at once, and to receive your assurance that you comprehend both the necessity and the propriety of what is required.
Your affectionate aunt,
Lady C. de Bourgh
Darcy lowered the letter.
Work to be done,she had written.
He folded the paper and set it aside on the bedside table. The presumption of it set his teeth on edge; the confidence with which she spoke of nonsense as though it were account-keeping made his blood run quietly hot.
And yet—he stood at the window a moment, staring out at ground that ought to have been ordinary, and was no longer entirely certain she was mistaken.
Elizabeth did not godown to the sitting room.
She made the excuse before anyone could press her for one: a headache, one branching behind her eyes and over her brow, detailing her discomfort without emphasis or apology. It was not untrue.
Mama protested, of course—as if Elizabeth was somehow in the habit of claiming discomfort when there was company to be entertained—but Jane met Elizabeth’s eyes across the room, and it seemed that she, at least, understood.
Elizabeth climbed the stairs with one hand on the banister, pacing herself as though she had learned a new method of navigation. Each step away from the sound of voices loosened something behind her ears—not relief, not yet, but space. By the time she reached her chamber, the pressure had retreated to a dull awareness, present enough to be watched, distant enough to endure.
She sat on the edge of the bed and closed her eyes.
This was ridiculous. She had never been delicate. She had walked miles in poor shoes with soggy petticoats and laughed at it afterwards. She had endured sermons, lectures, her mother’s anxieties, and her aunt Philips’s inexhaustible commentary without once needing to flee a room like a startled animal.
She opened her eyes again and looked at the door, as though she might still hear him through it.
Thank Heaven for Jane.
Elizabeth crossed to the small escritoire by the window and stopped there, one hand resting on its edge. She did not sit. Sitting suggested waiting, and she had no patience for that just now. She remained standing, listening—not for voices, but for the absence of them—measuring the quiet with the same care she had learned to apply to sound.
Jane knew what to ask. Elizabeth had been very clear about that.
