Indeed, I was quite astonished to learn that he had not even consulted Mr Bennet prior to making his proposal, which struck me as irregular in the extreme. The bride-to-be, as I am sure you are eager to learn, is Miss Mary Bennet.
Darcy closed his eyes briefly. Relief—real, undeniable—passed through him, loosening something he had not known was clenched so tightly. Mary Bennet. Of course, it was the falsely modest one for Collins. It made a dreadful sort of sense.
He drew breath and continued.
I confess myself pleased for the happy couple, and yet slightly mortified on Mr Bennet’s behalf, as the announcement was made with great solemnity and very little warning. Mrs Bennet required some moments to reconcileherself to the change in her expectations, but she recovered admirably, as I am sure you might expect.
Naturally. Darcy’s lips twitched despite himself.
I regret to say, however, that the evening did not conclude as agreeably as it began.
His eyes narrowed.
Miss Elizabeth was taken unwell shortly after the announcement and was obliged to leave the room. The matter appeared suddenly, and though she attempted at first to make light of it, she could not be persuaded to remain. Indeed, she collapsed before she had quite gained the threshold, and while still in our presence, she was taken violently ill, in the most indelicate sense. I was greatly concerned for her, and Mr Bennet not less so.
Darcy’s gaze fixed on the page, unseeing.
Taken unwell.
Again?
I sent to Longbourn early the next morning, before the snows came, to inquire after her, and was told only that she had slept, was awake, and was keeping to her rooms. Mrs Bennet assured my messenger that there was no cause for alarm, though Caroline is of a different opinion and has hinted at explanations I refuse to entertain, as they would be unjust to the lady and unworthy of repetition.
Darcy’s fingers tightened on the paper. His mind supplied images he did not permit himself to examine too closely: Elizabeth pale, stubborn, insisting she was well enough…
…and failing.
We have not had liberty to be in company with the family since then, owing to the weather. Indeed, today was the first day of any clearing whatever, and so you see, I wrote immediately. I intend to call on the family soon, if I may. I hope sincerely that this was nothing more than fatigue or a passing malaise, though I confess the recurrence after last month troubles me. Louisa believes Miss Elizabeth to possess a delicate constitution, but still, I am not persuaded. She has always seemed to me spirited rather than fragile.
Darcy swallowed.
Spirited.Yes. That was the word.
Matters of the estate weigh on my mind as well, though I hesitate to burden you with them. The harvest, as you know, was excellent—better than any my steward has ever recorded—but there have been odd reports of spoilage in certain bins, and my steward cannot account for it. I have begun selling modest quantities of grain to those who have applied, thinking it wiser to move it while it is sound, though I cannot help wishing for your counsel in this.
Darcy barely saw the words. What cared he for grain stores against the more urgent news? He even turned the letter over, seeking some sort of update, more information, but there was only a single paragraph remaining, and a signature.
Pray forgive the length and disorder of this letter. I write as things occur to me, and fear I have made a muddle of it. I hope you will write soon and tell me how you fare, and whether you mean to return to Hertfordshire before the year is out. We should all be very glad to see you, particularly myself.
C. Bingley
Darcy lowered the letter slowly to the desk. For a long moment, he did not move. Then he reached for the edge of the table, as though the room itself required anchoring.
Elizabeth Bennet had collapsed.
Again.
And this time, he had not been there to help her.
The house had notquieted since Mr Collins’s departure.
Elizabeth learned this by degrees. By the way doors were opened and shut with purpose. By the sound of Mama’s voice—never raised in panic these days, but commanding, as though the air itself must be kept moving lest it encourage doubt. By Mary’s movements through the house that never carried her to her beloved piano. No, she was fitting gowns and trying bonnets and already packing a trunk to take with her to Kent.
Elizabeth lay awake and listened.
She had meant only to rest. To give herself an hour. The worst snowstorm Hertfordshire had experienced in memory had dulled to a low howl two days before, leaving behind a sky of thin winter blue and drifts of ice-hardened snow that piled against the windows as though testing their resolve.
The house, however, seemed determined to behave as if nothing had been interrupted. Breakfast had been taken later than usual, but with uncommon cheer. Wedding plans were spoken aloud—lists named, letters dictated, small domestic triumphs anticipated with confidence.
