He drew a breath and continued, more steadily now, as though the ordering of events allowed him firmer footing.
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet suffered her first collapse near a fissure in the land behind her family’s home—an old break, long dismissed as poor drainage. At the time, it appeared a coincidence: overexertion, cold, fatigue. But it did not resolve. Her health declined in ways no physician could explain.”
Matlock’s fingers tightened together as he laced them over his stomach. He did not interrupt.
“The closest house for her to recuperate was Netherfield,” Darcy went on, “where her condition became more mysterious. Headaches, faintness, disorientation—always near the main staircase, which I now know sits directly above the same fault line that has since split the house.”
“You are suggesting,” Matlock said carefully, “that the Lady’s illness preceded any conscious recognition.”
“Yes,” Darcy replied. “And that it tracked the land, not her blood. Which is why distance alone never cured her—only displaced the burden.”
Matlock leaned back slightly. “And where do you place yourself in this account?”
Darcy rolled his eyes faintly to Harrowe, but there was no help there. He could not evade the question. “I noticed that her condition altered in my presence.”
Matlock blinked politely. “I’m sorry?”
“At first, I told myself it was coincidence, or influence, or nerves. But the pattern held. Symptoms of headaches, discomfort with touch, dizziness and poor appetite. However, I learned that over time, my presence was what brought relief from those very same symptoms.”
“I do not follow, Darcy. You occasioned pain, and then you were the remedy for the same?”
Darcy heaved a sigh. “We never spoke of… that, and so it was some while before I understood the entire nature of the matter. But the end of it was that her strength improved when I was near. Mine diminished. I could hardly lift her to my horse the day I found her collapsed outside Netherfield. There were strange sensations, odd occurrences. The exchange was not symmetrical, but it was consistent… rather, I should say, it was consistently evolving to a more… enhanced state.”
Matlock was silent now, his scepticism recalibrating rather than resisting.
“I resisted drawing meaning from that,” Darcy continued. “I told myself it proved nothing. But the land did not allow me that indulgence.”
“And this is where conjecture ceased,” Matlock said.
“Yes,” Darcy replied. “Because there came a moment when acknowledgment could no longer be avoided. When the matter was put to the test—when the connection was recognised rather than merely endured—the response was immediate.”
“You are still speaking in abstractions, Darcy.”
Darcy inclined his head. “Then I will be plain. I kissed her. Or rather, she kissed me… I think it was both.”
Matlock half-rose from his chair. “Indeed?” he breathed. “And?”
Darcy bit the inside of his lip and stared at the floor. “And she nearly killed me. I thought I was having a heart seizure. She saw it and ended the contact immediately. And at that instant, the ground answered.”
Matlock was nearly falling out of his chair now. “You are not saying… the tremors?”
“There was no interval,” Darcy said quietly. “No delay in which chance might be placed. The earthquake followed recognition as breath follows exertion.”
Matlock was very still, blinking as his gaze grew unfocused. “And you survived.”
“Yes,” Darcy replied. “Though not without consequence.”
“And the Lady?”
Darcy did not answer immediately. In his mind rose the image of Elizabeth as she had stood in the library, colour high, breath unsteady, eyes alight with something that was not weakness and not peace.
“Perfectly well. At least while she remained under my roof. After that, I do not know.”
Matlock closed his eyes for a brief instant, then opened them again. “You have crossed further than you realise.”
“I know,” Darcy said.
“And yet you came to me,” Matlock replied. “Not to confess, but to ask what follows.”
