Jane chuckled. “Charlotte remembers everything.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “I maintain that a large dog is a far more compelling introduction than its owner.”
Charlotte laughed outright. “I shall be sure to remember that when next I see Mr Darcy.”
Elizabeth waved the notion away. “Pray do not. I should hate to be thought ridiculous.”
They returned to the lace then, measuring and folding, making small, sensible plans for its use. Elizabeth found that she had nothing further to ask that could not be made to sound deliberate, and so she asked nothing at all.
When they took their leave, she carried the extra trim carefully wrapped, exactly as intended.
It was the only thing she had come away with.
Darcy returned to Netherfieldwith the sense of having outridden nothing at all.
The horse was warm beneath him; the exercise should have done its work. Instead, the impressions of the morning clung—Wickham’s tone, the ease with which he had spoken, the casual confidence of a man who had never been required to prove that a thing was false in order to dismiss it. Darcy handed off the reins at the steps and mounted them with less deliberation than usual, as though momentum might carry him past the point where thought intruded.
The housekeeper appeared from the morning room. “Oh, welcome back, Mr Darcy. Shall I have luncheon brought in? Mr Bingley waited for you, sir, but when you did not return—”
“He rode out,” Darcy finished, removing his gloves. “Did he leave word?”
“He did, sir. He said you would forgive him, but he could not be still another quarter hour. Something about needing to see if the road toward Chesterton fares after the recent rain. He was in excellent spirits.”
Darcy inclined his head. Bingley’s spirits rarely failed him; it was one of the qualities that had first commended him. “Thank you. I shall take luncheon later.”
He crossed the hall toward the stairs and was intercepted halfway by a familiar rustle.
“Oh! Mr Darcy, there you are.” Miss Bingley swept out of the drawing room with a flush of triumph that suggested a morning very well spent. Mrs Hurst followed at a more stately pace, offering Darcy a brief nod before returning to the papers inside.
“Everything is arranged,” Miss Bingley said. “I have taken it upon myself to ensure that the guest list is… judicious. One must think not merely of numbers, but ofeffect. I have spoken personally to the Lucases, the Philipses, and Sir William has been quite obliging about the order of introductions.”
Darcy inclined his head, neither encouraging nor resisting.
“And I have made certain,” she continued, lowering her voice as though confiding something of real consequence, “that no one of questionable consequence will be given undue prominence. A ball reflects its hosts, after all—and its guests. One cannot be too careful.” She smiled at him, clearly expecting approval.
“I am very glad to hear it, Miss Bingley,” he said, stopping short enough that she nearly collided with him. “Forgive me. I am not fit company at present.”
She blinked. “Not fit?”
“I have letters to attend to,” he continued. “And a matter of business that will not improve by delay.”
Her expression sharpened at once, curiosity quickening. “Oh, but surely, that can wait!”
“It cannot. And…” He paused, then forced a smile. “I would not wish to offer you half congratulations where the full measure is warranted.”
That, at least, she seemed to appreciate. She drew back a pace, studying him with renewed interest. “Very well. But perhaps you will come down early before dinner?”
He nodded. “If I am able.”
Miss Bingley smiled, the sort of smile that promised she would hold him to it. “Of course.”
Darcy inclined his head and took the stairs two at a time, conscious of her gaze upon his back until the turn of the landing put it from him. Only then did his pace falter. Not stop—never that—but ease, as though his body had recalled something his mind had not yet named.
It was nothing more than a place on the stair. An ordinary turning. He had passed it a hundred times without thought. And yet, as his foot struck that tread, a chill went through him—quick, involuntary. A remembered moment, unbidden and clear as crystal.
Brutus, planted there like a small, immovable sentinel, forcing him to go around, take another path.
The next day, Elizabeth, standing at the top staring down as though the stair must be haunted—until she had looked further and found him instead.
