But she would. For Jane's sake, if nothing else.
She would smile. She would be civil. She would betray no hint of what she knew.
And when they leave Bath, she would forget Mr. Darcy had ever mattered to her at all.
If she repeated the thought often enough, perhaps she might even believe it.
ELEVEN
Bath, September 1812
Darcy
Darcy did not find Mr. Hewitt at their usual location on the morning following his last visit to the Gardiners.
He waited on the stone bench overlooking the Royal Crescent for the better part of an hour, watching the sun climb higher and the street below fill with the morning traffic of Bath. But the elderly gentleman did not appear.
Darcy told himself there were any number of reasonable explanations. Perhaps Hewitt had simply chosen a different location today. Perhaps the weather did not suit him. Perhaps he had other business to attend to.
But unease settled in Darcy's chest all the same.
He returned the following morning, arriving even earlier than before. The bench was empty. The path remained undisturbed save for the occasional passerby who nodded politely and moved on.
By the time another hour had passed, Darcy's unease had transformed into genuine concern.
He knew where Hewitt lived—had learned it weeks ago in casual conversation when the older man had written the address on a slip of paper and shown it to him. A modest house on Henrietta Street, respectable but not grand.
Darcy had never visited before. It had seemed an intrusion, somehow, to seek out the man beyond their morning meetings. But now—now he had little choice.
He found the house easily enough. It was narrow and well-kept, with window boxes full of late-blooming flowers. He knocked, and after a moment, a housekeeper answered. She was a stout woman with shrewd eyes and capable hands, but clearly as elderly as Mr. Hewitt himself.
"Yes, sir?"
"I am looking for Mr. Thomas Hewitt. I understand he resides here?"
"He does, sir, but he's unwell at present. Not receiving visitors."
Darcy's concern deepened. "I am a friend of his. We meet most mornings in the park. I have not seen him for two days and—I was worried."
The housekeeper's expression softened slightly. "You're the gentleman who brings him books, aren't you?"
"I am."
"He's mentioned you." She gestured vaguely. "Wait here, please."
She disappeared into the house, leaving Darcy standing in the narrow entryway. He could hear movement above—slow footsteps, the creak of floorboards.
After several minutes, the housekeeper returned. "He'll see you, sir. But only for a moment. He's quite weak."
Darcy followed her up a steep staircase to a room on the first floor. It was simply furnished but comfortable—a bed by the window, a desk in the corner piled with papers and books, a chair drawn close to the hearth where a small fire burned despite the mildness of the day.
Mr. Hewitt lay in the bed, propped up on pillows. His face was pale, his breathing labored. But when he saw Darcy, his eyes brightened with recognition.
"What is wrong with him?" Darcy asked the housekeeper quietly.
"His heart, sir. It's been weak for some time, but these past few days it's taken a turn. The doctor was here yesterday. Said there's not much to be done but keep him comfortable."
"Will he—" Darcy could not finish the question.
