Darcy ate sparingly. He spoke when spoken to, but his attention wandered, his gaze straying now and again toward the sideboard, toward the door, toward nothing Elizabeth could identify with any clarity. And once or twice, she was sure she saw a muscle spasm ticking his cheek.
At last, as the servants withdrew with the first course, Bingley leaned back in his chair and said, with the mild curiosity of a man who had no notion he was touching upon anything of consequence, “Forgive my curiosity, Darcy, but I saw there was a messenger this afternoon. I caught the name of the sender, I think. Harrowe?”
The effect was immediate. Darcy did not cough. He did not speak. For the briefest instant, he did not move at all.
Then his eyes lifted—and found hers.
The look held no accusation, no appeal. Only a stark awareness, as though some private calculation had just been interrupted by the presence of an unanticipated variable.
Elizabeth’s fingers tightened slightly on her fork.
Harrowe?
The name stirred something half-buried. She saw, all at once, her father’s shelves, the slim, worn volume he had bought her when she lay delirious at Netherfield. She remembered the feel of that book in her hands. The lines she had quoted—lightly, carelessly—at the Netherfield ball.
And she remembered Darcy’s face then. The exact moment his manner toward her had altered. Not in anger. In something colder. More guarded—and that had been the last time they spoke at all before he left for London.
She dropped her gaze to her plate.
Darcy answered Bingley at last, his voice now mastered enough to pass for boredom. “A matter of research. Nothing of present concern.”
“Oh!” Bingley said, satisfied at once. “I wondered if it was something to do with that business you said called you back. Not that it’s any business of mine, of course. Iconfess, I had far too little to occupy my mind today. Perhaps we shall drive around Hyde Park tomorrow. What do you think of that, Miss Bennet? We might even try ice skating if you like. Caroline is an excellent skater, are you not, Caroline?”
Miss Bingley confirmed that last with a pride that seemed to seek Darcy’s attention. Jane answered the notion with pleasure. Elizabeth did not look up again. She ate, she listened, she smiled when required.
The footman entered between courses and bent to murmur at Darcy’s shoulder. A sealed letter lay upon the salver. Darcy glanced at it once—no more—and then, without comment, slid it to Elizabeth.
Miss Bingley’s fork paused midway to her lips. “I beg your pardon,” she said. “Was that not delivered toyou, Mr Darcy?”
“It was,” he answered evenly. “But it is not mine.”
Elizabeth hesitated before taking it. The superscription was unmistakable. “An express from my father? Why would he charge it to your account, sir?”
“Pay that no mind,” Darcy replied, already returning his attention to his plate. “No doubt a reply to the one Bingley sent this morning.”
Elizabeth broke the seal with fingers that trembled only a little and unfolded the page. Her father’s hand leapt out at once—firm, familiar, and oddly steady given all that had occurred.
She read quickly. Relief came first, sharp and undeniable. Then concern. Then something quieter, more complicated. She folded the letter again and laid it beside her plate.
“Well?” Jane asked gently.
“Papa is reassured,” Elizabeth said. “He thanks Mr Bingley for his care, and Mr Darcy for his hospitality. He will come when he is able, but he is content, for now, that I am better.”
“Indeed, ‘tis a wonder,” Miss Bingley said as she raised her glass to her lips.
A faint, involuntary sound escaped Darcy before he could suppress it—another short cough, quickly masked by the lift of his napkin.
Elizabeth’s gaze slipped up to him.
He had gone still. Too still. One hand rested on the table’s edge as though he had placed it there to keep from toppling over.
“Are you quite well?” she whispered, low enough that only he could hear.
“Perfectly,” Darcy said. The word came a shade too quickly. “The air has been unkind to me, nothing more.”
Elizabeth was not persuaded. She found herself watching him now without meaning to, aware of small things she would once have overlooked: the way he swallowed before speaking, the pause he took before lifting his glass, the careful economy of his movements.
She let her eyes fall again, but the letter lay folded beside her plate like a pall she could not ignore.
