It was a good day.
The tone was brisk, of course—Lady Catherine could not help being brisk—but it was not overbearing. She had received his last letter with pleasure, was glad to hear of Georgiana’s continued improvement, and hoped he would remember to speak with her music master about correcting her fingering technique in the Italian sonatas.
Then, inevitably, came the usual update on Anne.
Your step-cousin is in good health,she wrote,and has taken tea in the east drawing room twice this week, which is a marked improvement. I continue to encourage her to sit upon the terrace in the afternoons, for the air would benefit her, but she declines with unshakable obstinacy. She claims the gravel is too loud.
Darcy smiled faintly despite himself.
Poor Anne.
She had never possessed a robust constitution, even as a girl. He remembered her sitting quietly during his childhood visits to Rosings—always in the same low-backed chair near the window, wrapped in shawls and speaking rarely. She had grown little since then. At eight-and-twenty, she was still pale, still withdrawn, and still refused to step beyond the walls of the house.
Her stepmother called it delicacy. Others called it nerves. But Darcy had seen, in the few attempts made to coax her into the gardens or onto the carriage path, how violently her body resisted the change. Her hands would tremble. Her breathing would increase in speed until she was gasping for breath asthough drowning. The fear was real—and rooted, he knew, in tragedy.
Sir Lewis de Bourgh had died scarcely a year after his marriage to Lady Catherine, struck by lightning while inspecting drainage channels on the Rosings grounds. The story had the ring of some pagan warning—lightning from a clear sky, a man reduced to ash in moments. Lady Catherine rarely spoke of it, except to insist it had left them both with much to bear.
Ten-year-old Anne, left an orphan under the care of her stepmother who was virtually a stranger to her, had borne it inwards. She had been timid and fearful before, but after witnessing her father’s shocking death, she refused to step a foot out of doors since.
Darcy folded the letter slowly and set it aside. He did not blame his aunt for her stepdaughter’s struggles. Indeed, he had begun, in recent years, to admire her persistence. Catherine Fitzwilliam de Bourgh had been raised to command large households and rural parishes—not to nurture a fragile child. And yet she tried. Every spring, she spoke of fresh air and gentle hills, of hiring new companions or finding sturdier shoes. Anne never budged. But Lady Catherine never stopped trying.
And when she was not issuing declarations about proper management of estates or the deficiencies of other people's governesses, she had begun, in her way, to express something not unlike maternal care.
Your sister is fortunate to have you, she had written at the end of this letter.I do not know that I would have borne such trials with as steady a hand. I am glad George left you prepared. Tell her I have sent the lavender sachets, as promised.
Darcy stared at the line for a long time.
Yes. It was a good day. He folded the letter and tucked it into the inner pocket of his coat, just as the breakfast room door creaked open.
One of the footmen hovered in the doorway, looking slightly perplexed. “Begging your pardon, sir,” the young man said, “but there is a young lady at the door… asking for a Miss Bennet?”
Darcy looked up, confused. “MissBennet? Not Miss Bingley?”
“Yes, sir. Said she was inquiring after Miss Bennet. The master is still asleep, as is his sister…”
The footman’s voice trailed off. Darcy’s brow furrowed. “Could she be a visitor to the area and have arrived at the wrong estate?” he wondered aloud.
Noting the footman’s bemused expression, Darcy sighed internally. “Very well, send her in. I will deal with the matter.”
The footman nodded with relief and quickly left. Darcy slowly rose to his feet, awaiting the visitor. It made no sense for someone to call for Miss Bennet here. Either the name was wrong or the location.
He was not left waiting long; the door soon opened once more, and Elizabeth Bennet appeared. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold and bonnet was slightly askew. Her dark curls had been tugged loose by the breeze, and a faint sheen of moisture clung to her lashes and pelisse. She looked windblown and bright-eyed and far too striking for someone who ought to be anywhere but here.
Darcy frowned at her, now thoroughly confused. “Miss Elizabeth?”
She curtsied and gave him a warm smile. “Good morning, Mr. Darcy.”
He bowed automatically, then stared at her in open astonishment as he straightened. “Good morning… Forgive me—what… what brings you to Netherfield?”
Her brow furrowed. “I came to inquire after my sister.”
Darcy blinked. “Your sister?”
“Yes. Jane. She came to dine here yesterday evening, did she not?”
“I—” He paused, stunned. “I beg your pardon, Miss Bennet. I had no idea she was here.”
Elizabeth’s confusion now matched his. “She left Longbourn on horseback yesterday afternoon, invited by Miss Bingley. We received a note from her early this morning that she had taken ill. I came at once.”
