“Sir! Mr Darcy,” the footman said, recovering himself. “We were not apprised—”
“Has a parcel arrived from Pemberley?” Darcy asked.
The man hesitated, caught between duty and recollection. “Yes, sir. Yesterday afternoon. Miss Darcy’s hand was upon it.”
Darcy inclined his head once. “Where is it?”
“In your study, sir. I thought—”
“That will do. Will you see Brutus walked and settled, please?”
The footman’s eyes dropped to the massive dog standing at Darcy’s side. “Yes, sir.”
“Thank you.” Darcy went toward the study without further explanation. The house lay quiet in the manner of a place only partially occupied, its rooms kept in order rather than use. The sound of his passage echoed like a whisper of empty spaces.
The study was as he had left it. The desk stood cleared. The chair was drawn in. No fire had been laid. Upon the table, precisely centred, rested a brown-paper parcel tied with twine.
Darcy closed the door behind him. He set aside his gloves, drew out his knife, and cut the string. The paper fell back to reveal the book beneath—always smaller than memory suggested, but heavier in the hand, its leather darkened and worn smooth at the edges, the spine bearing the marks of frequent consultation.
Rev. Josias Harrowe.
1605. Revised in 1769.
The pages were thick and irregular, the margins crowded with a careful, persistent hand. Lines had been corrected, words altered, phrases reconsidered and set down anew. This was not a fair copy. It was a working one.
He read standing, the book resting against the desk.
The bell rang somewhere in the house—a summons from the kitchen no doubt. Darcy’s stomach rumbled in reply, but he scarcely looked up.
The ballad—the book contained many, but there was only one that interested him—did not announce itself. It began without flourish, as though assuming the reader’s patience. The beginning, he knew like his own heart, but this time, he heard it inhervoice.
When Avalon in mist was bound,
And noble steel undone,
The thorn abid upon that ground
Till reckoning were begun.
Darcy read more slowly after that, his attention drawn not only to the verse but to the notes that flanked it. Corrections had been made with care, not to beautify the language but to attempt to explain it.
His eyes lingered there. This…thiswas the one that came directly after Elizabeth Bennet’s recitation.
The knight who swore to keep her safe
He paused. The word “swore” was underlined in the margin, once, firmly. A later hand had added a notation beside it, smaller, more cramped, but it was too smudged to be legible.
Darcy turned the page.
Came late upon the fen.
Late.
Not absent. Not faithless.Late.
His fingers rested against the paper as though it might answer him if he only stared long enough.
In his stead, the silencefell.
