Darcy stepped down first, the damp air settling about him at once. The gravel beneath his boots had softened, though not so much as to hinder his footing. A servant moved forward, andDarcy surrendered his cloak without ceremony, passing into the warmth of the house with a measured breath.
Bingley followed, shaking the rain from his sleeves with little concern. “Come,” he said, already turning toward the drawing room. “We shall see what remains of the evening.”
Darcy expected little beyond the usual. He did not expect to find Mrs. Collins seated near the hearth.
He paused just within the doorway. For a moment, he simply observed. She sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, her posture upright though not rigid. The light from the fire softened the line of her cheek and caught faintly in her hair, lending warmth where the evening had likely offered little of it. There was a composure in her that did not entirely conceal her unease.
She looked, Darcy thought, as though she had placed herself within the room and meant to disturb as little as possible.
Miss Bingley stood nearby, her expression arranged into polite animation as she turned at their entrance. “Ah, you have returned at last,” she said.
Bingley crossed the room at once, his attention fixed upon the unexpected guest. “Mrs. Collins?” he said, his surprise unfeigned. “I did not know you were to be here this evening.” He grinned broadly, his approbation obvious to Darcy.
Mrs. Collins rose, inclining her head with modest grace. “Nor did I, sir,” she said. “An accident obliged me to return.”
Bingley’s concern was immediate. “An accident? I hope nothing serious—”
“The axle of the gig broke not far from the house,” she replied. “I was compelled to come back to Netherfield, and the rain has made the roads difficult.”
Darcy watched as she spoke. There was no complaint in her tone. No attempt to soften the inconvenience by apology, nor to exaggerate it into distress. She stated the facts plainly and allowed them to stand.
Bingley shook his head, his expression earnest. “I am most sorry, Mrs. Collins. Had I known you would be here for the evening meal, I would have given my excuses to the colonel at once.” He glanced at his sisters, displeasure marring his features for a brief moment.
Miss Bingley gave a soft laugh that did not quite reach her eyes. “My dear brother,” she said, “we could hardly have anticipated such an occurrence. Indeed, we had wished for the company of ladies only this evening.”
Darcy’s gaze shifted toward Miss Bingley. Her hands twisted in front of her, revealing her irritation. The statement was carefully constructed. Its surface offered nothing that could be directly challenged. Beneath it lay something less gracious. The lady moved away and took her seat. He said nothing.
Instead, he turned his attention again to Mrs. Collins. She had not moved. There was a faint tightening at the corner of her mouth, a small restraint that suggested she had understood the tone, if not the words themselves. Her perception was keen, and Darcy silently praised her for it.
“I must not impose further,” she said. “If the weather improves, I should be glad to return home at once. My son—” The word seemed to catch slightly, though she did not falter.
Bingley stepped nearer. “Mrs. Collins, you must not think of setting out again tonight. Our ride back from Meryton was sufficiently wet, and I would wager that no carriage could make the journey now with any comfort—or safety.” He spoke with such sincerity that Darcy found himself in agreement.
Mrs. Collins inclined her head. “I would not wish to cause inconvenience,” she said. Her gaze darted toward Miss Bingley before turning back to Charles.
“You cause none,” Bingley returned. “We are honored by your presence.”
Darcy shifted slightly, his attention drawn elsewhere.
Miss Bingley had taken a seat on the settee. Georgiana sat between her and Mrs. Hurst, her posture drawn inward, her hands clasped tightly together. She had arranged herself with care, but there was a tension in her that he recognized at once. Her shoulders had narrowed, her gaze lowered more often than not.
She was ill at ease.
Darcy crossed the room. “Georgiana,” he said, his tone gentler.
She looked up at once, relief evident though she sought to conceal it. “Brother.”
“You appear fatigued,” he said. “It has been a long day. Perhaps you would prefer to retire.”
She acted without delay. “Yes,” she said. “I believe I should.” She rose quickly, then steadied herself, smoothing her gown with a small, habitual gesture.
Miss Bingley glanced at her. “So soon?” Her voice was syrupy and false. It made Darcy cringe.
“My sister is tired,” Darcy said, refusing to give her any other reason.
Miss Bingley smiled. “Of course.”
Georgiana inclined her head and moved toward the door, her steps lightened by the prospect of escape.
