“Not at all.” Wickham shook his head at once. “I should say the opposite. Those who feel keenly are often the strongest, until they are forced to bear more than is properly theirs.”
Papa uncrossed his knees and shifted forward in interest. “And you believe this… burden you speak of… might manifest physically?”
Wickham inclined his head. “How could it not do so? Headaches. Weakness. A sense of being overwhelmed without any clear cause. Especially when one is young, or conscientious, or unwilling to disregard the comfort of others.”
Elizabeth felt something unspool in her chest at that. Not relief exactly, but recognition.
Jane reached for her hand. “Then you do not think it dangerous?”
“I think it would be dangerous to dismiss it,” Wickham replied gently. “But I do not think Miss Elizabeth is in peril from her own constitution. Quite the contrary. She has likely been exerting herself—emotionally, perhaps—without realizing the cost.”
Elizabeth lowered her eyes. “I did not feel exerted.”
“Few do,” Wickham said softly. “Until the body insists on being heard.”
Papa cleared his throat. “You speak with a great deal of confidence, sir.”
Wickham smiled, modest and composed. “Only with concern. I would never presume to instruct where I have no right. But if Miss Elizabeth should wish to talk further—about anything that troubles her—I should be honoured to listen.”
Jane looked visibly comforted.
“Thatis very kind of you,” Elizabeth said. “I do find your conversation rather more soothing than overbearing. In fact… why, yes, Jane—Papa, my head is quite clear. You see? I expect I shall be quite well by supper.”
Wickham bowed his head slightly, as though accepting nothing more than common courtesy. “Then I hope you will permit me to speak with you again. Not as an officer, nor as a hero of unfortunate necessity—but as a friend of this house.”
Papa’s gaze found Elizabeth, and he pursed his lips in thought. “You will be welcome, sir.”
Wickham rose a moment later, taking his leave with careful respect. As the door closed behind him, Elizabeth leaned back against the cushions. How lovely, at last, to be in the company of a friend who seemed to understand.
The stable yard layhalf-buried beneath last night’s fresh fall, the snow unbroken except where Darcy’s boots cut through it. The air bit hard and clean, stinging his face as he crossed to the nearest stall and slid the bolt back himself.
The groom looked up in visible surprise. Darcy did not pause to explain.
He took the tack down with stiff fingers and worked quickly, buckling and tightening with more haste than care, as though delay itself were intolerable. The horse shifted beneath his hands, unsettled by the cold and by the unfamiliar urgency of its master. Darcy mounted without assistance and turned out through the gates before the stable had fully woken, the iron shoes slipping just a little where the ground had frozen unevenly beneath the snow.
The ride was sharp and punishing. The wind cut through his coat, worked its way into his gloves, burned at his eyes until they watered. He welcomed the pain. The cold gave him something immediate to answer—pressure that yielded when met, resistance that made sense. He urged the horse harder than the footing warranted, then pulled him back again. He would not injure his horse just for his own restlessness.
By the time he returned, his limbs ached, and his hands had gone numb, the cold biting deep enough to leave his fingers clumsy on the reins. The exertion had stripped the edge from nothing. It had driven nothing out. Whatever waited for him in stillness had merely withdrawn, patient, certain he would have to stop eventually.
Darcy dismounted and stood for a moment in the yard, one hand still at the horse’s neck, the animal’s breath rising in steady clouds between them. The morning was thin and colourless, the sort that followed a night too long to be measured properly. He had not slept so much as surrendered to brief intervals of unconsciousness, each broken before permitted it to take shape, each leaving him more alert, more shaken, than before. The house behind him had grown intolerable hours ago. This—cold, motion, resistance—had been the only answer he could think to give it.
It was still too early for the archives. He cast an eye over the London skyline in irritation. He had outridden the dark only to find himself waiting still. Darcy turned toward the house, but not before ordering his carriage to be made ready.
Inside, he refused the ceremony of breakfast. He took an egg from the tray set before him, ignored the rest, and ate it standing, already reaching for his coat while the cook hovered in affronted silence. The plate had scarcely been removed before the carriage was brought round.
The streets were only half-awake when he set out. Doors he knew well stood shut without their usual signals, brass knockers removed or left untended, as though the houses themselves had withdrawn from notice. Shops that should have been opening for the morning showed no sign of life—their windows dark, handbills pasted crookedly against the glass—Delayed,No delivery expected,Inconvenience regretted. Darcy marked each one, his gaze lingering longer than habit required.
The carriage rolled on, turning where he directed, tracing familiar routes that offered no reassurance. London felt as if it were crumbling beneath its surface order, its routines interrupted in small, accumulating ways that made no single explanation sufficient. He shifted in his seat, aware that he was circling rather than traveling, passing time he could not afford to waste.
At last, he leaned forward and rapped once against the roof. “To the archives,” he said.
Aclerk rose frombehind the desk as he approached. The man’s manner was a part of his job title—civil without warmth, attentive without invitation.
“Your name, sir?”
“Darcy,” he said. “Of Pemberley.”
The pause that followed was brief but not negligible. The clerk inclined his head and reached for a ledger. “And the nature of your inquiry?”
