Fitzwilliam made a considering sound. “I suppose it is possible. Though she seemed entirely healthy otherwise. No signs of continued fever or weakness. If anything, she appeared more energetic than I have seen her before.”
They had reached the house now, the imposing façade of Rosings rising before them. Darcy paused before ascending the steps, turning to look back along the path they had travelled. Somewhere beyond his sight, Elizabeth was walking with Collins, listening to his no doubt continued lecture. And she was allowing it without protest, this woman who had possessed the courage to refuse his marriage proposal.
Darcy could not shake the conviction that something was wrong. Very wrong.
He just could not begin to imagine what it might be.
The entrance hall of Rosings received them with its usual oppressive grandeur, all marble floors and heavy furnishings arranged to impress rather than comfort. A servant appeared to take their coats, moving with the silent efficiency Lady Catherine demanded. Fitzwilliam made some observation about the warmth of the morning, but Darcy barely registered thewords. Something nagged at him, a detail from their earlier conversation that he had not had opportunity to pursue.
They moved toward the drawing room, their footsteps echoing on the polished marble. The house was quiet at this hour, Lady Catherine likely still occupied with her morning correspondence, Anne presumably resting as she always did. Darcy was grateful for the temporary solitude. He needed to think, needed to understand what was happening before he encountered his aunt’s penetrating gaze and inevitable questions.
But first, he needed answers to questions that had been building even before their encounter with Elizabeth and Collins.
“Fitzwilliam,” Darcy said, stopping before they reached the drawing room door. “This morning, before Collins interrupted us, you mentioned something. You said you hoped Miss Bennet would be looking more kindly upon me after the information she received yesterday.”
His cousin turned, eyebrows rising. “Did I? Yes, I suppose I did mention that.”
“What information did you share with her?” Darcy kept his voice carefully neutral, though tension had begun building in his chest. “When did you speak with Miss Bennet privately?”
Fitzwilliam’s smile widened into something that looked distinctly pleased with itself. “Yesterday afternoon, while you were occupied with that interminable letter to your steward. I encountered Miss Bennet walking in the grove, and we fell into conversation. The lady is excellent company when one can engage her attention.”
Darcy waited, his jaw tightening with the effort of maintaining patience. Fitzwilliam tended toward lengthy explanations when he thought himself clever.
“I thought I might help your cause along a bit,” Fitzwilliam continued, clearly enjoying himself. “I thought perhaps if sheunderstood the depth of your character, the strength of your devotion to those you care about, she might view you more favourably.”
The tension in Darcy’s chest tightened further. “What exactly did you tell her?”
“I spoke of your loyalty to your friends, your willingness to go to considerable lengths to protect those you value.” Fitzwilliam was warming to his subject now. “I wanted her to understand that beneath your rather forbidding exterior lies a man of genuine feeling and principle. Someone who acts decisively when he believes a friend to be in danger of making a serious mistake.”
Darcy’s hands had begun to curl into fists at his sides without his conscious awareness. He forced them to relax, forced his breathing to remain steady. “And did you provide specific examples of this loyalty?”
“Of course. Generalities carry no weight, do they? I told her about how you saved Bingley from an imprudent connection last autumn in London.” Fitzwilliam’s smile remained firmly in place, oblivious to Darcy’s building alarm. “How you recognised that he had formed an attachment to a young woman whose feelings were not sufficiently engaged, whose family connections were disadvantageous, and how you took decisive action to separate them before he could make an offer that would have compromised his happiness and standing.”
The world seemed to slow around Darcy. The words reached him as though travelling through water, distorted and terrible.Bingley. Last autumn. A young woman whose feelings were not engaged. Disadvantageous family connections.
Darcy’s hand moved to his forehead, pressing against his brow as though he could somehow push back the understanding that was crashing over him. Bingley’s attachment last autumn. A young woman in London. But Bingley had not met any womanin London last autumn. Fitzwilliam must have misunderstood exactly when and where the events had taken place. Bingley had met Jane Bennet in Hertfordshire, had formed an attachment to Jane Bennet, and Darcy had aided and abetted Bingley’s sisters in separating them.
Jane Bennet. Elizabeth’s beloved elder sister.
If Elizabeth knew, if Fitzwilliam had told her that Darcy had deliberately separated Bingley from an attachment formed last autumn, she would have understood immediately. Would have recognised her own sister in that description. Would have known with absolute certainty that Darcy was responsible for Jane’s heartbreak.
And she would have been furious. Should have been furious. Should have confronted him, challenged him, demanded explanations with all the fire and spirit he had come to expect from her. She should have looked at him this morning with anger and betrayal in her eyes, should have refused his company, should have cut him with words sharp enough to flay skin from bone.
Instead, she had been warm. Pleasant. Almost affectionate. Had smiled at him with apparent genuine pleasure, had accepted his arm without hesitation, had described his conversation as agreeable.
The wrongness of it crashed over Darcy with renewed force, compounded now by this revelation. Elizabeth should have been enraged by what Fitzwilliam told her. Yet her behaviour this morning had suggested the opposite, had implied she viewed him more favourably than ever before.
It made no sense. None of it made sense.
Darcy lowered his hand slowly, forcing himself to meet Fitzwilliam’s increasingly concerned gaze. His cousin had taken a step closer, clearly alarmed by Darcy’s reaction but not yet understanding its source.
“Darcy?” Fitzwilliam said, his voice stripped of its earlier amusement. “What is it? What have I done?”
But Darcy could not answer, could barely think beyond the certainty pounding through his consciousness. Elizabeth should be angry. Should hate him. Should never wish to speak to him again after learning what he had done to her sister. Yet this morning she had been pleasant, compliant, nearly affectionate.
“Darcy, for God’s sake, what is wrong? You look as though you have seen a ghost.”
Darcy straightened slowly, releasing his grip on the wall and forcing his breathing to steady. Fitzwilliam stood before him with deep concern, one hand still extended. They were alone in the corridor, but servants could appear at any moment, and Darcy could not afford to appear as shaken as he felt. He needed to explain, needed to tell Fitzwilliam what he had done, though the confession would only compound his cousin’s alarm.
