Mama protested, of course. “But we were just—Lizzy, do not be dramatic! Not everything must be about you, and I daresay a little envy for your sister’s good fortune—”
Elizabeth did not hear the rest. She made it only as far as the door before the strength left her legs entirely, the pain cresting at last into something she could not master. The room dissolved into sound and shadow as she clutched the frame, her breath coming in shallow, broken pulls as her stomach violently betrayed her.
This was not a megrim. Her body knew it now.
And it would not be reasoned with.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
One week later
The fire had burnedlow without his noticing it.
Darcy stood at the table where theLiberlay open among a disorderly ring of other volumes—chronicles, ballads, marginal compilations whose bindings had softened with use long before he had thought to value them. He had been on his feet for hours, shifting between texts, comparing phrasing, marking concordances with slips of paper torn from a correspondence ledger he would regret later.
Candle wax had dripped onto the desk in long, careless lines. He was reading a passage again—one he had already read twice—when the knock came.
“Sir,” his man said, “a packet. Just arrived.”
Darcy took it without comment and set it aside unopened, his attention already pulling back to the page. It took him a moment to realise what he had done—to recognise the restlessness in his own hand, the way his fingers had closed over the folded paper as though it might escape.
Still, he did not open it at once. Instead, he read the line again.
Holden neyther by ryght ne by enheritaunce,
but by þe aunswering þat is not withdrawen.
“Answering?” What the devil did that mean? He closed the book with an exhausted sort of reverence and turned at last to the packet.
Two letters.
The first bore his aunt’s hand: unmistakable, bold, every line pressed into place as though the paper itself had been obliged to submit. The second—lighter, hastier—was addressed beneath it, folded smaller, almost apologetic in its presence. Bingley.
Darcy separated them. He would save Bingley’s little note to cleanse his palate after whatever edict his aunt had decided to send today.
He broke Lady Catherine’s seal and unfolded the letter.
My dear Nephew,
I trust you will forgive the directness of my address, but circumstances no longer permit delay. Matters in Kent have progressed to a point that requires immediate and decisive attention—your attention, to be precise.
The season has turned ill. You will hear foolish talk of weather and chance, no doubt, but I assure you this is no ordinary inconvenience. The grounds at Rosings, which have been managed with unimpeachable care, now show signs of upheaval that cannot be attributed to neglect. The lake has receded without cause. The lower orchard has suffered losses that defy expectation.
Darcy paused and read that paragraph again.
Not because of the damage described, but because of what was absent from the account. No mention of remedy. No curiosity. Only certainty that the cause layelsewhere—and that she had already identified it.
He read on.
I have consulted the appropriate records. I have spoken with those whose families have held this land for generations. I am not misled. There are moments in which duty must be assumed, not debated. You are at the edge of such a moment.
You need not fear for Pemberley, nor for your sister. All that concerns them will be secured once matters are properly aligned. Indeed, much that now appears uncertain will resolve itself the instant you cease tohesitate.
His back stiffened, and he frowned.
She was not reassuring him. She wasexcludinghim—quietly, deliberately—from the list of those whose safety… whosefuturerequired consideration. Why the devil would she talk like that?
Darcy had a sinking feeling that he understood more than he wished, but he forced himself to continue.
