Miss Bingley’s gaze slid from Elizabeth to Darcy and paused there. “It is quite extraordinary,” she observed lightly. “One would hardly believe she was nearly insensate two hours ago.”
Darcy felt the words strike and pass him in the same instant. “You are all most welcome,” he said, far too quickly. “Pray—come in. Miss Bennet, Miss Bingley—Bingley, of course. You must allow me to offer you rooms at once.”
“Oh, yes! Thank you—Darcy, I cannot tell you how relieved I am you are at home,” Bingley burst out, advancing as though the explanation itself might outrun him if he did not speak fast enough. “We should never have presumed, only there was truly no time, and Miss Elizabeth has been very unwell—very—for days now. Quite alarming, I assure you. Mr Jones could make nothing of it, and Mr Bennet was persuaded that she must be removed from Longbourn entirely, that the air—or the place, or something of the sort—was doing her harm.”
Elizabeth’s smile tightened, but she said nothing.
“There was, of course, the wedding,” Bingley went on, with a helpless gesture, “and every wish to spare the family further distress, so it was settled—rather hastily, I admit—that we should take her to Ramsgate. Just for a time. Until Mr Bennet might join us and decide what was best. And truly, Darcy, she seemed so much improved upon the road—remarkably so—that we thought the plan answered perfectly.”
Miss Bingley made a small sound of scepticism and examined the ceiling.
“But then—quite suddenly—she was not herself again,” Bingley finished, lowering his voice despite himself. “So pale, so faint—I feared we should lose her consciousness altogether. It was as far back to London as forward to our lodgings, and with physicians here, and no house secured—my solicitor could not possibly have been reached in time—there was nothing for it but to turn back and come to you. I beg you will forgive the intrusion, and the want of notice—only I knew nowhere else to turn in such immediate need.”
Elizabeth shifted slightly, as if to protest. The grimacing smile she offered Darcy was apologetic, almost rueful—see how much trouble I have caused.
Miss Bingley’s eyes flicked toward her again. They rolled—only a little—but not so little as to escape notice.
“I would have it no other way,” Darcy said, as though the assurance had been waiting for him. He turned sharply, already issuing instructions. “The south drawing room—see that the fire is built up at once. And prepare chambers for our guests. Draw baths, bring refreshments. Whatever is needed.”
The servants moved. The house responded, doors opening, voices answering, the familiar machinery of order set abruptly in motion.
Two footmen came forward to relieve coats and hats; Bingley twisted out of his woollen sleeves, Miss Bingley turned, already assessing the room as if she might one day call herself the mistress of it all. Elizabeth moved, too—drawn forward in what appeared simple curiosity, her gaze on the footmen, the maids beyond, and then wandering back to fix on Darcy as she moved out of the way of the crush.
Her foot caught.
That was all Darcy saw—movement wrong, weight shifting—and his blood turned. He was on her before the thought finished forming, his hand catching her shoulder to hold her upright, his body braced as if to take her weight.
The touch emptied him. Not pain—absence. The contact hit him like a sudden hollowing, a swift, sickening sense of being emptied from the inside out. His knees threatened, just for an instant, to forget their duty.
She rightedherself immediately, placing one hand on his shoulder as if to reassure him. “Mr Darcy? You need not look so alarmed. I was not faint. Just clumsy and distracted.”
The room rushed back into him then—the servants hovering, Bingley half-turned in concern, Miss Bingley watching with a dark sort of interest—but Darcy’s attention remained fixed where his hand still rested at her waist. Elizabeth stood perfectly at ease, her colour clear, her eyes bright, looking at him now as though she were the one steadyinghim.
He withdrew his hand. “Yes,” he managed at last, and felt the word ring hollow even as he spoke it.
Her gaze lingered on his face, curious now, intent—and in that look he knew, with a certainty that made retreat impossible, that whatever she had gained by coming here, he was already paying for it.
The crash came from the back of the house—metal against stone, a pan knocked loose—followed by a shout that cut off mid-word. Darcy knew the sound that followed.
“Brutus—no!”
The passage filled with the drum of claws, the sharp, echoing bark that had scattered grown men more than once. Servants recoiled instinctively; one dropped a cloak outright. Miss Bingley gave a startled cry and retreated a full step, her hand flying to her chest.
Darcy moved without thought. “Brutus! Down—heel!” His voice snapped through the hall, sharp with command, and for a breath he expected the dog to barrel through regardless.
But Brutus had already altered course.
He skidded across the stone floor and stopped short of Elizabeth, the hair at his scruff raised in alarm, body taut with momentum. He thrust his nose forward, once—again—then lowered himself with abrupt peace and sat squarely before her, back straight, tail stilled, gaze fixed on her face as if awaiting instruction.
Darcy stared. His hand hovered half-raised, the reprimand unfinished on his tongue. The dog did not look at him. Did not look anywhere but at Elizabeth Bennet.
“Well,” she said, after a moment—softly, not startled, more curious than anything else. “I appear to have passed inspection once more.” She extended her hand, and Brutus permitted her to rest it on his head. “Hello, my good fellow.”
Darcy found his voice at last. “Brutus.”
The dog did not move. Did not even glance athim.
Darcy crossed the remaining distance, one hand reaching again for Elizabeth as if she might vanish the moment he turned away, the other gesturing sharply to the servants crowding the hall. “Bring refreshments,” he said. “And clear this passage—at once.”
