Mr. Bennet welcomed his guest with good humour, inquiring whether he had returned with his entire household, as on the former occasion. Mr. Bingley laughed and assured him that he came alone this time, for his sisters were engaged elsewhere—Mrs. Hurst having gone to visit her husband’s family, and Miss Bingley accompanying her.
Elizabeth could not help suspecting that their absence owed less to family affection than to Mr. Bingley’s determination that they should not intrude upon his return. Judging by the mannerin which they had once endeavoured to separate him from Jane, she found this new independence very telling indeed.
“You must tell us everything!” cried Mrs. Bennet eagerly. “How did you enjoy your time in Bath? And Mr. Darcy—did he return with you?”
Elizabeth’s breath caught.
“Darcy is not with me at present,” Mr. Bingley said, taking the offered seat—as close to Jane as propriety allowed. “He sent word that he is still in Bristol attending to his friend. I expect him to join me at Netherfield as soon as he can, though he could not say precisely when.”
“I hope his friend recovers,” Jane said softly.
“As do I. Darcy was quite concerned about him.” Mr. Bingley’s expression grew more cheerful. “But he did mention he had some business in the neighbourhood he wished to attend to once he returns.”
Elizabeth’s heart gave a treacherous leap.
“How lovely!” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed. “We shall be delighted to see Mr. Darcy again. Jane and Elizabeth spoke of his many kindnesses in Bath. Such a respectable gentleman!”
Elizabeth noted with some amusement that her mother’s opinion of Mr. Darcy had improved considerably now that his friend was paying Jane attentions of evident seriousness. She did not suppose that the account she had given of Mr. Darcy’s kindnesses in Bath was what effected so great a change.
The visit proceeded most pleasantly. Mr. Bingley was all that was attentive and cheerful, and his partiality could no longer be doubted by anyone who observed him. Though he spoke with the whole family, his eyes seldom strayed from Jane’s countenance.
In the course of conversation he mentioned that he had quitted Bath but three days after the departure of the Gardiners and the Bennet sisters. Mr. Darcy, he explained, had written to say that he would not return until he was certain his friend wasquite recovered; and as there seemed little purpose in remaining longer himself, he had gone first to London, before coming to Hertfordshire.
After an hour’s lively and agreeable discourse, Mr. Bingley at last took his leave, not without securing permission to wait upon them again on the following day.
Permission was enthusiastically granted.
As Elizabeth watched him depart, she felt happiness for Jane warring with her own anxious anticipation.
Mr. Darcy was not yet arrived. No one knew precisely when he might come, though Mr. Bingley assured them his friend had promised to follow as soon as he was able.
Elizabeth sighed. She would wait, she decided. And hopefully… hopefully, when he came, she might at last have the opportunity to speak all that had been gathering in her heart since Bath.
If only she could find the words.
If only he would listen.
EIGHTEEN
Bristol, September 1812
Darcy
The lodgings Darcy had taken in Bristol were modest but clean—a far cry from what he was accustomed to, but proximity to the hospital mattered more than comfort. He had been there nearly a fortnight now, and he knew his continued presence was unusual. Mr. Hewitt's son had arrived from London days ago, a kind-faced man in his forties who had thanked Darcy profusely for his care of his father.
"You need not stay, sir," Thomas Hewitt the younger had said more than once. "I can sit with him now. You have already done so much."
But Darcy could not leave. He told himself it was obligation—that he owed the old man this vigil after all those mornings of patient listening. But it was more than that. In the past weeks, Mr. Hewitt had become something Darcy had not expected to find: a friend. Perhaps the truest friend he had ever had, save Bingley.
The physician had been blunt: Mr. Hewitt’s heart was failing, and it was only a matter of time. After hearing the verdict, Darcy arranged for him to be moved from the crowded general ward to a private room. It was a small, spare space with whitewashed walls and a single narrow window that let in the gray Bristollight. There, Mr. Hewitt lay in the bed, his breathing labored and uneven.
Darcy sat in the chair beside the bed, as he had for hours each day. Sometimes he spoke—about nothing in particular, just to fill the silence. Sometimes he simply sat. Mr. Hewitt's son came and went, attending to arrangements, speaking with physicians, managing the practical matters that Darcy was quietly helping to fund.
On the fifth day of Darcy's vigil, as afternoon light slanted through the window, Mr. Hewitt's eyes opened. They were clearer than they had been in days, though his face remained deathly pale.
His hand moved weakly, making a gesture Darcy had learned to recognize—come closer.
Darcy leaned forward, taking the old man's hand in his own.
