Bingley was pacing the length of the drawing room, turning sharply at each end as if he meant to wear a path into the carpet. He stopped short when he caught sight of Darcy.
“Well?” he asked at once. “Is she—did she wake again?”
“For a moment,” Darcy said. He took the chair nearest the window without quite meaning to. “She is clearer than before. Still weak.”
Bingley let out a breath and dragged a hand through his hair. “Thank heaven. I thought—when Jones shook his head like that—” He broke off, then resumed his circuit. “I cannot abide waiting. It feels heartless to sit when a friend and neighbour is upstairs—”
“It would not serve her for the house to turn itself inside out. She requires quiet.”
Miss Bingley, who had been seated at the escritoire with an air of injured patience, rose at once. “Of course she does,” she said. “Though I cannot imagine what possessed Miss Elizabeth Bennet to walk so far alone. It is scarcely prudent behaviour.”
Mrs Hurst nodded. “One hears so many cautionary tales. A young lady wandering without escort—”
Darcy did not look at either of them. His gaze fixed instead on the far wall, where the light fell evenly and refused to waver. “She did not wander,” he said. “She was walking, as many do for exercise. There is no impropriety in it.”
Miss Bingley’s brows lifted. “I meant no offense. Only that the household must now manage a delicate situation. Her mother will certainly wish for her to remain here, and for goodness knows how long.”
Bingley stopped pacing. “As long as she needs. Jane Bennet will stay with her. Nicholls is perfectly capable of managing the maids for her care. And if there is anything more to be done, it shall be done.”
Darcy’s attention shifted then—to the foot of the stairs, where Brutus lay stretched across the rug, head lifted, eyes trained upward. The dog had not moved since theyreturned. Not even at the sound of voices, which was strange enough, for he usually listened to conversations as if he could comprehend them.
Miss Bingley followed his look and frowned. “Must he lie there?”
“He will not stir unless called,” Darcy said. He did not add that Brutus rarely chose such a post without reason.
Mrs Hurst folded her hands. “It will look odd, you know. Two Bennets staying on, and for no cause Mr Jones could determine. People talk.”
“Let them,” Bingley said, already turning away again. “They talk whether invited or not.”
Darcy listened to the exchange with only half his mind. The other half remained upstairs, replaying a question Miss Elizabeth had asked—What did I say?—and the look she had fixed on him while waiting for an answer he had chosen not to give.
Then there were footsteps in the hall. A servant appeared at the door, holding out a small tray. “A letter for Mr Darcy, sir. Just arrived.”
Darcy rose at once. He took the letter from the servant with a brief “Thank you.” Richard’s seal caught the light.
Bingley halted mid-stride. “News from Pemberley? I hope your sister is well.”
“From Fitzwilliam. He was in London last week,” Darcy said, and turned away before the question could widen.
He broke the seal standing, unfolding the page with controlled movements while Miss Bingley resumed speaking—something about accommodation, about whether Mrs Bennet would insist on bringing the younger sisters, about how exhausting it must be for Miss Bennet to sit up so long and for so little cause. The words washed past him.
Richard’s hand was brisk, the lines tight.
Darcy,
You will be pleased to know that I have been deemed indispensable once again. Evidently, England cannot be defended without my presence in a place no one has thought worth occupying for the better part of thirty years.
Darcy snorted.Typical.
The post is temporary, they say. Everything is ‘temporary’ when one is being sent somewhere unpleasant. I am to leave within the week, and I am assured—very earnestly—that this is not a punishment, nor a test, nor a correction of any sort. You may imagine how reassuring that is.
Miss Bingley was speaking behind him—something about Mrs Bennet’s nervous tendencies, Bingley retorted with something about sending word to the apothecary that Miss Elizabeth was now alert—but Darcy did not turn. He read on.
The official explanation involves altered conditions, re-evaluated trade routes, and the need for a steady hand where men have begun to complain of dwindling supplies. You will be amused to hear that the complaints are not about the enemy, but candle wax. Candle wax! And ale, naturally. I daresay they have been overrunning their rations, for the matter was well in hand when I left. I told them soldiers have been sneaking into the troop stores since Agincourt, and that this hardly constitutes novelty.
Darcy’s jaw set.
Still, someone higher up has decided this discomfort requires a Fitzwilliam to observe it. I drew the short straw, apparently. Do not trouble yourself. I have endured worse than a few reluctant supply lines and an inconvenient posting.
