“Of course,” Wickham said readily. “I shall see to it.” He moved at once toward the door, already speaking lightly of travel and appetite as he went.
Darcy waited until the door closed behind him. Then he turned back to Mr Bennet. “The broadsheets all report that the quake was felt—indeed, was stronger in Hertfordshire,” he said, pacing around to stand near the mantel. “How do matters stand there?”
Mr Bennet’s brows rose slightly, as though he had expected the question sooner. “Longbourn stands. Mostly undamaged.”
“I am relieved to hear it.”
“There was damage elsewhere,” Mr Bennet continued. “Not ruin, but enough to unsettle people already inclined to fear it. The tremor was felt more sharply to the north. And Netherfield has sustained significant damage. I do not know the extent, or if it can be repaired. But sufficient that Mr and Mrs Hurst were preparing to remove to London this morning. They would have been here already, had they travelled as swiftly as I.”
Darcy turned toward the door without thinking. “Bingley must be informed at once.”
“No.”
The word was quiet. It stopped him as surely as a hand at his sleeve.
Darcy turned back. Mr Bennet was watching him with a look no longer mild. “I did not come to speak of walls and roofs. And I do not give a fig for London authorities and what they can or cannot do to protect Hertfordshire at present. I came to speak of something more important.”
Darcy held his ground. “You just told me Longbourn still stands. Miss Elizabeth is well, and I have already suggested that you see her yourself, but you would speak of other matters. Sir, I do not understand. She should be your first concern.”
“She is,” Mr Bennet replied. “Which is precisely why we must be plain with one another now.” He stepped nearer, not aggressively, but with purpose. “You have known my Elizabeth some time.”
“I have.”
“You have observed her illness.”
“Many have, yes.”
“And you have observed,” Mr Bennet went on, “that it retreated—quite suddenly—upon her arrival in your company.”
Darcy did not answer.
Mr Bennet’s eyes flicked over him, quick and unflinching. “You will forgive me if I remark that you do not look well yourself.”
Darcy’s jaw set. “Appearances can mislead.”
“So can denials,” Mr Bennet said mildly. “I have watched this for some time, Mr Darcy. I intended to ask you of it before, when there was leisure for speculation. Last night removed that leisure.”
Darcy felt the question forming before it was spoken.
“Why,” Mr Bennet asked, “is my daughter suddenly lucid in London? And why do you look as though you are standing only by stubbornness?”
Darcy drew a careful breath. “I cannot explain every circumstance that touches Miss Elizabeth’s health.”
“Then explain what you can.”
“I can say,” Darcy replied, choosing each word like foundation stones of a building, “that her improvement is real. And that I would not deceive you on a matter of such consequence.”
Mr Bennet studied him. “And what of you?”
“You ask questions that suggest knowledge, sir. What is it that you know?”
Mr Bennet’s mouth tightened. For a moment, he looked older than Darcy had ever seen him. “I know only this. My daughter was failing. Quietly. Persistently. No physician could name it. No remedy touched it. And then, a militia officer understood something no one else did. He advised distance. Removal. Separation from the land upon which she was raised.” He paused. “Perhaps that advice saved her.”
Darcy’s breath caught. “That is not—”
Mr Bennet lifted a hand. “You asked what I know. That is all. I require an answer, Mr Darcy.”
“What answer do you require, sir?”
