Darcy paused at the end of the line, the pen hovering while he considered how much authority he might reasonably claim without provoking resistance. The margin of the page had begun to fill with small, precise adjustments—practicalities, contingencies, the kind of measured response that calmed the mind by occupying it.
Beside the paper lay Richard’s letter, folded once, then again, as if its contents might be reduced by compression. Ciudad Rodrigo had lodged itself in his thoughts regardless, its name incongruously lyrical for a place that demanded men be sent where they were most easily lost.
He set the pen down, drew a breath, and returned to his work. Whatever his cousin had been ordered to do, fretting would not alter it. What could be altered—what must be—was everything else still within his reach.
Miss Bennet rose from her chair once more. “I am so sorry, but I still feel I ought to look in on my sister. She has been quiet a long while.”
Before Miss Bingley could agree with her, Bingley protested. “Nonsense, you must not vanish just yet. Let us give you a bit of enjoyment before you retire. Come—Caroline, will you not play something? A reel perhaps? It would do Miss Bennet good to be diverted.”
Miss Bingley looked down at her hands as though noticing them for the first time. “I would, if I could,” she said regretfully, “but I have quite ruined my nail. See? It caught during dinner. I doubt I could manage a proper touch.”
“I am sure no one would mind a slight imperfection,” Bingley said earnestly. “And Darcy does not require perfection to be entertained.”
Darcy did not look up from his writing. If he had, he would have deniedthe charge.
Miss Bingley’s voice tightened. “Even so, the room has grown very warm. Dancing would only make it worse. Miss Bennet ought to be resting as well—surely we have done enough to excite her spirits for one evening.”
Miss Bennet hesitated, her hands clasped loosely before her. “I should only be a moment—”
“After you have sat,” Bingley insisted, drawing out a chair with easy good nature. “Five minutes. I promise not to detain you longer.”
She yielded, though her gaze strayed again toward the door.
Darcy’s pen slowed, irritation stirring not at the exchange itself, but at the familiar pattern of it: good intentions pressed into service of delay, comfort offered where none was wanted, and all of it circling the very thing no one seemed inclined to address directly. Darcy’s pen paused.
Miss Bennet hesitated, caught between inclination and courtesy. “Very well,” she said at last, and allowed herself to be guided back toward her chair.
Darcy returned to his letter, though the line he had meant to complete dissolved beneath his eyes. Brutus should have been asleep by now, stretched before the hearth or stationed obediently at his heel. Instead, the dog had chosen to sit at the base of the stair and would not be moved. Darcy had called him twice. The second time, Brutus had looked at him deliberately, and remained where he was.
Ill-trained behaviour. Unacceptable.
Miss Bingley set down her embroidery with a sigh designed to be overheard. “It is quite admirable of you to keep such close watch over your sister, Miss Bennet. One would hardly expect it in a household with so…manysisters.”
Miss Bennet inclined her head. “Elizabeth has always been her own keeper,” she said. “I only assist when she allows it.”
“A charming arrangement,” Miss Bingley said. “Though I imagine it must be a relief to have herhere, where one may be certain she is properly attended.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened.Properly attended. As though Miss Elizabeth’s collapse were a consequence of mismanagement rather than… well, he did not know what. The blank space where an explanation ought to be troubled him more than any faulty one offered in its place.
Miss Bingley had resumed her embroidery, the soft pull of silk through linen marking time. Mrs Hurst lounged beside her, idly turning her bracelet so that the firelight caught each link in turn. Bingley, restless in his concern, crossed the room and back again, pausingnear the window before drifting toward the hearth, as though movement itself might resolve what conversation would not.
Mrs Hurst spoke first, her tone even and incurious. “If Miss Elizabeth wakes, she will hardly be alone. Mrs Nicholls is in the house, and the servants know where to find her.”
“Yes,” Miss Bingley added at once. “And Miss Bennet has already done everything that could reasonably be expected. One does not improve matters by hovering.”
Bingley’s chair creaked, and his voice sounded a little uncertain. “Quite right. Still, Miss Bennet’s instincts are laudable. I should not like her to feel as if she cannot go—”
“Miss Bennet is patience itself, but brother, you must not let her tire herself,” Miss Bingley said, lightly decisive. “It is far more sensible that Miss Bennet rest while she may. This has been quite an exerting day.”
Darcy’s pen slowed.
Hovering.Exertion.Words chosen not to comfort, but to conclude.
Miss Bennet made a small noise in her throat.
Bingley nodded, though without conviction. “I should hate to see you made uneasy, Miss Bennet. Truly, we enjoy your company, but if it will ease your mind to go upstairs—”
Miss Bennet had been listening with a politeness that grew more strained by the moment. She rose again, this time without apology.
