Elizabeth knew they would not.
Darcy caught himself bythe doorframe and waited for the breath to finish misbehaving.
It did, eventually. The surge of strength that had carried him through the last inspection—chimney sound, hearths banked, windows shuttered—drained away as abruptly as it had come, leaving behind a dull pressure beneath his breastbone that made the world feel fractionally too near.
He straightened anyway.
The kitchen was serviceable. Fires reduced and contained, kettles shifted to the side hearth. The cook had been brisk, unflustered, affronted by the suggestion that her domain might fail under stress.
The stables were quiet; the horses uninjured, ears pricked in curiosity as they chewed their hay, stamping only at the unfamiliar hour.
Locks held. Doors answered properly. No cracks along the south wall. No fallen stone.
All of it ordinary. Reassuringly so.
Bingley hovered at his shoulder through most of it, offering assistance that was more presence than help, asking questions Darcy answered shortly, keeping his own observations to himself in a way that was meant to be considerate and was instead intolerable.
“You ought to sit,” Bingley said for the third time, as they turned back toward the main hall.
Darcy shook his head. The motion sent a brief flare of dizziness through him—nothing alarming, he told himself, merely the residue of exertion. “There is nothing to be gained by it.”
“You look quite ghastly.”
Darcy spared him a glance. “You exaggerate.”
“I assure you, I do not. You are pale, you are breathing as though you have run a mile, and you have refused wine, water, and food in equal measure. If this is not the beginning of a fever, I should like to know what is.”
Darcy opened his mouth to dismiss it—and found, for an instant, that the words would not come. His chest tightened sharply, breath catching halfway in. He slowed his pace without remark until the sensation eased, then continued as though nothing had occurred.
“It will pass,” he said at last. “I am merely fatigued.”
Bingley watched him with a frown that had deepened steadily over the past quarter hour. “You said that earlier.”
“And it was true then.”
They reached the foot of the stairs. The house was quieting at last, the urgent motion giving way to cautious order. Servants moved with dignity rather than alarm now. Someone laughed softly near the scullery, and most were returning to bed. The familiar sounds settled around him like a garment he had worn all his life.
Darcy drew a careful breath. The air felt thinner than it ought.
There would be no more tremors. Of that he was certain—certain in a way that did not admit argument. The last shock had not been random. It had not been stone or fault or weather. It had been the wrench of separation, the land’s answer to a question he had not finished asking.
If he did not approach her again, it would hold. At what cost, he did not yet know.
And if he did…
The thought did not complete itself. His chest answered it instead, a sudden, punishing throb that forced him to pause outright and grip the banister until the floor steadied beneath his feet.
Bingley caught his arm. “Darcy!”
“I am well,” Darcy said at once, though his voice had come out rather garbled. He eased his arm free and continued upward, setting his pace by will rather than comfort.
At the landing, he stopped.
“The ladies may return to their rooms,” he said. “The west withdrawing room has served its purpose. You might see to them.”
Bingley blinked. “I—Darcy, that is your place.”
“There is no need,” Darcy replied. He kept his gaze fixed on the corridor ahead, on the closed doors that marked the upper rooms. “They are safe. Maids can be sent if they require any assistance. It would be better if I allowed them to settle themselves.”
