Darcy returned his attention to Mr Bennet. “I will have a tray brought in for you. You will excuse me, please.”
Mr Bennet nodded. “Of course, sir, and thank you.”
Chapter Forty-Five
The house had takenon the unsettled air of a place preparing to divide against itself.
Trunks stood open in corners where they had no business being. Cloaks were folded and refolded to better fit into overstuffed cases. Voices rose and fell along the corridor outside the morning room, their purpose clear even when their words were not: departure, separation, removal.
Elizabeth stood near the window with her gloves in her hands, watching the carriage being brought round for Mr Bingley. Jane was with him in the hall outside. Elizabeth could not hear what was said—only the cadence of it, softened, careful, and prolonged beyond what politeness required.
When at last Jane appeared at the door, her face composed and her eyes a shade too bright, Elizabeth felt a certainty settle in her that had nothing to do with conjecture. Whatever understanding existed between her sister and Mr Bingley, it was real—and, for the moment, unspoken by mutual consent. There were things, perhaps, that did not wish to be placed in the midst of upheaval.
Mr Bingley’s voice sounded again, cheerful in tone if not in truth, as he took his leave of the household. He spoke of Netherfield, of damage to be assessed and repairs undertaken, of his intention to see matters settled in person. The words were those of a man returning to an empty house with no notion of how he might be welcomed back.
Jane stood very still as he went.
Elizabeth turned from the window as her father entered. “The carriage shall be brought round in a moment,” Papa said, as though announcing nothing more consequential than a change of plans for dinner. “We should make Dartford tonight. With any luck, we ought to reach Ramsgate on Tuesday.”
“Papa, I still do not understand. Why are we leaving London? And if you are so determined on Ramsgate, why not wait until tomorrow, when we could have a full day of travel?”
“Your aunt and uncle Gardiner will follow us,” he replied, as if she had not spoken at all. “The air is bracing. The distance sufficient.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Papa, if you insist upon escorting me so far, we shall all miss Mary’s wedding. You will not be able to give your own daughter away!”
Papa paused, the faintest crease appearing between his brows. “Your uncle Philips will perform the office.”
“The office,” Elizabeth repeated. “Papa—”
“Mr Philips is perfectly capable of giving his niece away,” he said, with a weariness that admitted no debate. “The ceremony will proceed whether I stand beside her or not.”
“But that is… why it is unjust. It is her wedding! Mary will wish—”
“Mary,” her father interrupted gently, “will wish many things. This cannot be one of them.”
Around them, the house continued its quiet preparations. A servant passed with a stack of folded linen. Someone called for a carriage rug. The sound of wheels on cobblestones carried up through the open window as Mr Bingley’s carriage was drawn away at last.
Elizabeth turned back to her father. “This is about Mr Darcy.”
Papa did not look at her at once. When he did, his expression held neither anger nor reproach—only a settled resolve that frightened her more than either. “It is about your health.”
“And you believe,” she said, keeping her voice steady, “that removing me from him will restore it.”
“I believe,” he replied, “that whatever ease you have found in his vicinity has come at a cost I am no longer willing to ignore.” He shrugged into his coat and fumbled around for the gloves poking out of the pockets. “I wonder thatheis.”
Elizabeth felt the familiar protest rise—to argue, to insist, to explain—but found herself checked by the simple fact that her father was already turning away, issuing instructions with quiet efficiency, the decision made and set in motion.
Ramsgate.
Away from Hertfordshire. Away from Darcy. Away from the land that had begun, at last, to speak plainly.
Elizabeth looked once more toward the window, where the street had already returned to its ordinary traffic, and felt the strange certainty settle in her bones that distance, this time, would not bring the relief her father so earnestly intended.
Then something drew her back. Darcy stepped into the hall just far enough to be seen.
He did not speak. He did not beckon. He paused there, one hand resting against the doorframe as though he had gone no farther than necessity required.
Nothing passed between them that could be named. And yet she knew, with the same quiet certainty that had been guiding her all day, that he wished to speak with her—alone—and that the moment, once lost, would not be recovered.
