Darcy left the housewith a list folded neatly into his pocket and every intention of crossing each item off before dusk.
The air had turned sharp overnight. Snow lingered in the seams of the street—pressed into corners, dulled by soot—while the paving stones held a thin, treacherous glaze. His boots found purchase by habit rather than care. London moved around him with its usual insistence: carts rattling, porters calling, the early bells still echoing faintly between buildings.
He reviewed the list as he stepped into his carriage. For Georgiana, something chosen, not merely bought. For Richard, something useful enough to survive campaigning. For Mrs Reynolds, Mrs Hodges, and the senior staff, the customary acknowledgments that marked the season without extravagance. Practical kindness, properly ordered.
Nothing on the list required urgency. Nothing ought to be difficult. That, he reflected as his carriage turned onto a familiar street, was the advantage of preparation.
The bell above theshop door jingled as he opened it.
Darcy paused just inside, letting his eyes adjust, expecting—without thinking of it—a particular arrangement of light and colour: bolts of cloth stacked in their accustomed places, the long counter polished to a soft sheen, the small display near the window reserved for finer pieces set aside for established patrons.
The counter was there. The shelves were there. They were simply… rather bare.
“Mr Darcy,” the proprietor said at once, emerging from behind the counter with more haste than courtesy. “A pleasure, sir. What can I do for you today?”
Darcy inclined his head. “I require very little. Something suitable for a young lady—my sister. And something for my housekeepers, possibly.”
“Of course. Of course.” The man gestured toward the shelves, then hesitated. “You may find our selection somewhat… reduced.”
Darcy stepped closer. He did not need the explanation. Where there should have been stacks upon stacks of samples, bolts, ribbons, there was bare wood. Where a certain shade had once been plentiful, there were only two lengths left, both set aside with paper tags tied to their corners.
“Delayed shipments?” Darcy asked.
“Yes. Well—partly.” The man’s hand moved, then stopped. “Some diverted. Some promised and not delivered. It is all most irregular.”
Darcy examined a bolt of fabric, running its edge lightly between his fingers. Serviceable. Not what he had intended. This was to be a gift, not a necessity.
“And this?” he asked, indicating a bolt of pale silk.
“Already spoken for, I’m afraid. A standing request, my best customer, sir. I cannot possibly—”
“No, no. I would not ask it,” Darcy interrupted. He selected the first bolt instead. This might not do for Georgiana, but his housekeepers would think it very fine, indeed. When the shopkeeper named the price, Darcy had to cough to smother his shock. Nevertheless, he signalled his approval and waited as it was measured and wrapped.
As he turned to leave, the proprietor added, almost apologetically, “One hopes matters will settle after the season, sir.”
Darcy did not answer at once. He took the parcel and adjusted it under his arm. “One hopes,” he said, and stepped back into the street.
The market lay only a few streets on, and Darcy altered his course without deliberation. If one shop had been thinned, another might compensate. That was the advantage of London: redundancy, abundance, alternatives.
The noise reached him first. Voices overlapped in argument rather than commerce. A cart stood half-unloaded in the street, its driver shouting back at two men who had seized the same sack by opposite ends. Someone laughed, but it carried an edge that did not belong to amusement.
Darcy slowed.
At the nearest stall, baskets that should have been heaped were filled barely to their rims. Apples with bruises set carefully outward. Roots still clotted with frozen soil. A chalkboard leaned against the counter with prices written twice—one crossed through, another added beneath in a darker hand.
“Is this all?” a woman demanded.
“For today,” the vendor replied, not looking at her. “I told you—come earlier.”
“And tomorrow?”
The man shrugged. “Ask me tomorrow.”
Darcy moved on. He heard the same exchange repeated with minor variations: assurances hedged, tempers shortened, promises made with the air of men who expected not to keep them.
He stopped at a butcher’s stall that he recognised. “Mr Darcy,” the butcher said, wiping his hands. “You have chosen a lively morning.”
“So I see,” Darcy replied. “Is the supply delayed?”
