Coward.
Monday had offered no improvement. Bingley, taking seriously Elizabeth’s observations about Netherfield’s lower fields and the drainage near the mill road, had insisted they spend much of the day with the steward examining ditches, culverts, and the sorry consequences of years of ornamental indifference. Darcy ought to have been grateful for useful occupation. Instead, every blocked channel and neglected bank reminded him of Elizabeth’s intelligence, her care, and the fact that she had known the estate better than the man leasing it.
By Tuesday morning, he was restless enough to welcome almost any exertion, even one proposed by Bingley before breakfast had fully settled.
“I thought we might ride out,” Bingley said, looking more innocent than he generally did when innocence was genuine. “There are still a few matters I wish to understand about the eastern boundary, and Mr. Hargreaves said the lower ground toward the copse ought to be inspected before more rain.”
Miss Bingley looked up from her plate and wrinkled her nose. “More tenant matters?”
“Estate matters,” Bingley corrected cheerfully.
“I cannot imagine anything less inviting than a long ride to look at wet fields.” She turned a page of the newspaper without reading it. “I shall remain here and work upon tenant things.”
Bingley blinked. “Tenant things?”
“Yes. Surely there must be lists, or baskets, or some other improving occupation by which one proves benevolence without ruining one’s shoes.”
Mrs. Hurst laughed softly. Darcy did not. He had learned, since coming to Netherfield, that Miss Bingley’s attempts at benevolence generally ended with someone else doing the work and Miss Bingley receiving the credit.
Bingley accepted this declaration with a gravity that did him credit and only betrayed himself by glancing once toward Darcy. “Then we shall not impose upon you, Caroline.”
Half an hour later, they rode from the stables into a morning bright with weak November sun. The roads were still damp, the hedges mostly bare, and the air carried that sharp scent of wet earth and fallen leaves which made Derbyshire seem nearer than it was. Darcy drew in a long breath and felt, for the first time in several days, that he might be able to think clearly.
Then Bingley turned his horse toward Meryton.
Darcy reined in slightly. “You have mistaken east for west.”
“No, I have not.”
“The lower ground lies the other way.”
“Yes, I know.”
Darcy looked at him.
Bingley’s grin appeared all at once, sheepish and irrepressible. “That was only an excuse to be rid of Caroline. I am going to Longbourn.”
“I see.”
“To inquire after Miss Bennet’s health,” Bingley added quickly, as though propriety could be strengthened by urgency. “It would be unpardonable not to do so, after she was so lately ill beneath my roof.”
“Unpardonable,” Darcy repeated.
“You need not come.” Bingley’s tone shifted, becoming kinder. “I know matters have been… awkward.”
Darcy looked down the road. Longbourn lay beyond Meryton, and Elizabeth with it. To go was dangerous. To remain behind would be safer, wiser, and very likely unbearable.
“I shall accompany you,” he said.
Bingley’s pleasure returned at once, though he wisely made no comment.
They rode toward Meryton at an easy pace, Bingley speaking of Jane, then stopping himself, then beginning again on Netherfield, then somehow returning to Jane within three sentences. Darcy answered when required and let the rhythm of the horse beneath him steady what little portion of himself remained governable. He had not decided what he would say if he saw Elizabeth. He had not decided whether he had any right to say anything at all.
The decision was taken from him when they entered Meryton.
The five Bennet sisters stood near the shops with a tall, heavyset man in clerical black, speaking to several officers. Lydia’s laughter rang clear across the street. Kitty hovered close beside her. Mary looked grave. Jane, fair and gentle, stood a little apart from the livelier group. And Elizabeth—
Darcy’s breath caught before he could prevent it.
