A pause in the writing showed where Richard had hesitated—only briefly.
The name of the region is wretchedly poetic. You would recognise it. I laughed when I heard it and was told, very politely, that I need not. I am bound again for Ciudad Rodrigo.I expect I shall be bored, cold, and irritated, but otherwise intact. Give my love to Georgiana. Do not allow her to read between the lines—I have taken pains to make themdull. Write when you can.
Your affectionate cousin,
R.F.
Darcy folded the letter once. Then again. He could picture Richard perfectly—smiling as he delivered the lines, shrugging as though the matter were of no consequence, already shouldering the burden so no one else need protest.
It was not right.
Not the posting. Not the timing. Not the way Richard had circled the truth without naming it.
Darcy crossed the room and set the letter down on the escritoire, his movements controlled only because he forced them to be. This was not how assignments were made. Not for officers of Richard’s experience and standing. Not without cause.
And yet, cause had been supplied. Supplies running short. Shipping lanes blocked, perhaps? Or was there something amiss with the acquisition and production of those supplies?
He thought of the steward’s earlier letter, folded and ignored too long. Of exposed roots where no rain had scoured them. Of markers turned up as though the land itself had shifted.
Of Miss Elizabeth Bennet, pale and insensible on the grass, her presence there inexplicable by any sensible measure.
The world had acquired an irritating habit of placing obstacles at his feet and demanding he step over them without explanation.
Darcy pressed his fingers briefly to the bridge of his nose. This was not superstition. He would not have it so. There were answers for everything—misjudgements, coincidences, human error.
Weather. Coincidence. Misfortune. He had been taught those answers before. He had learned young how often they were used to smooth over neglect.
Unbidden, an old cadence rose in his mind—something his grandfather had once recited with infuriating solemnity, about land held in trust and lines drawn not for ownership but for keeping. About vigilance. About what happened when watchfulness lapsed.
Utter superstition.
Elizabeth woke again tothe quiet creak of a chair and the soft brush of fabric.
Jane sat beside the bed, her bonnet laid carefully on the table, her gloves folded with exaggerated neatness in her lap. At the sight of Elizabeth’s open eyes, she smiled at once—then stopped herself, as though afraid of encouraging too much.
“You are awake again,” Jane said. “Properly awake, I think.”
Elizabeth shifted, discovering at once the truth Jane had not spoken. Her limbs felt distant, obedient only after consideration, as though they belonged to someone else who had to be consulted before movement was allowed. She managed a nod.
“I do not seem… very impressive,” she said, and was faintly startled by how dry her own voice sounded.
Jane’s smile wavered. “You need not be impressive. You only need to rest.”
Elizabeth studied her sister’s face, the careful composure, the way her hands had folded and refolded in her lap. “You have been saying that all day,” she said slowly. “I wonder if anyone believes it.”
Jane hesitated. “Of course. You only had a bit of a strain of some sort. Why even Papa was perfectly assured that another day or two would see you right.”
Elizabeth’s brows drew together. “Papa was here?”
Jane exhaled, the breath half a laugh and half something else. “Yes, quite the surprise. He sat in the chair by the window and pretended to read. He did not turn the page once.”
Elizabeth’s mouth curved despite herself. “That bad?”
“He told me—quite seriously—that you were not to be hurried for anyone’s convenience, including your own. And then he asked whether you preferred essays or histories when you were feeling unwell.”
Elizabeth blinked. “Papa? Asking after my preferences?”
Jane nodded.
