So, what did any of that matter? It seemed a trivial thing to bring to his uncle’s notice. Lord Matlock was grasping at straws, and it was likely foolish to give him more meaningless notes to fret over.
He considered striking it through, but decided to add a clarification instead.
I am inclined to wonder whether some irregularity beneath the surface—an old shift or settling of the ground, long since stilled—may account for both observations.
Better.
Safer.
He continued for several lines—about hedgerows, about drainage, about a warmth in the soil that had no business being there so late in the season, with no proper frost yet. He kept his tone dry, professional, almost bored.
Only then did he hesitate.
There was one more matter.
Darcy sat back in his chair, the pen balanced loosely between his fingers, the page before him no longer quite in focus.
He had not intended to write of it. He had been perfectly resolved not to. And yet the room refused to supply him with anything else to consider.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet had come downstairs under her own power.
The thought arrived without invitation and lingered, resistant to dismissal. Not carried. Not urged. Not pale in the manner of one determined to prove fortitude at the expense of sense. She had been tired, yes—but present, alert, with that quick turn of expression that suggested she was already measuring the company she found herself in and finding it wanting in small, amusing ways.
She had spoken lightly. Too lightly, perhaps. As though careful words were an inconvenience rather than a necessity.
The house has been very obliging.
It was an odd phrase. He had noticed that at once. Too precise to be accidental, too casual to be deliberate. The sort of remark one made without fully examining why it had chosen itself.
He turned the pen between his fingers, gaze dropping to the desk, then lifting again without his quite noticing the movement. There had been colour in her face. Not the flush of fever, nor the brittle rosiness of false cheer, but something brighter. Awake.
Her eyes had been…
Darcy stopped.
This was pointless.
He drew a sharp line beneath the half-written paragraph and leaned forward again, forcing his attention back to the page. Elizabeth Bennet’s eyes were of no consequence to county surveys, nor to weather patterns, nor to dogs behaving badly at staircases. Whatever he had thought he observed was merely the aftereffect of a day too long and a mind insufficiently occupied.
He resumed writing at once, his hand firmer, his letters more compact.
There was also an incident here involving a young lady taken ill without evident cause while walking the grounds. No injury was discovered, nor could any clear explanation be supplied at the time. I mention it only because the location coincides with a portion of the park where the dry watercourses were noted.
I have heard of certain individuals who seem particularly sensitive to terrestrial fissures. Perhaps Hertfordshire is to expect convulsions of the ground soon? Or perhaps that is merely folk fancy, I cannot be sure.
Darcy read it once.
That was factual. Temperate. Entirely reasonable.
He hesitated, then added a line beneath the last.
I do not infer cause from this, nor do I ascribe any particular significance to it. I note it only because you once advised me that repeated coincidence deserves at least the courtesy of attention, particularly where that coincidence concerns the instincts of beasts who seek no conclusions of their own.
He set the pen down.
For a moment, he did nothing at all.
The letter lay before him, incomplete and imperfect, saying more than he wished and less than he knew. He folded it once, then again, and placed it beside his uncle’s letter, aligning the edges with deliberate care.
