Page 18 of Fitzwilliam Darcy, Exile

She clasped her hands together, wishing he would stay but knowing she would do better to let him go. “You would be hard-pressed to find another lady here who agrees with Miss Bingley.”

He smiled. He had an inviting smile and perfect teeth. She imagined a dimple in his cheek under his beard and was surprised to realize she wished to reach up to touch it.

“I am pleased to have met you, Miss Bennet. I have a busy morning planned on the morrow and must rest.”

“Shall we see you again?” She bit her tongue, hoping he did not think her too forward.

He tipped his head at her. “Until we next meet.”

She watched him walk past the lanterns into the darkness. Something about Mr. Robinson had awakened feelings she had no right to entertain—particularly now, with her future so inexorably determined.

Yet as she returned to the assembly, Elizabeth found herself hoping their paths might cross again, even as reason warned her that such a meeting could only lead to heartache.

CHAPTER 8

“If the hill will not come to Mahomet, Mahomet must go to the hill.” Mr. Philips’s carriage jolted into motion toward its destination, Longbourn. “I am grateful Bennet was so shaken by the arrival of the King’s Messenger that he troubled himself to seek out my counsel. Given sufficient time for the fear to pass, I am convinced he would have ignored even that!”

Darcy had assumed Mr. Bennet’s hesitancy to take immediate action stemmed from pride. The gentleman had not met with him and Philips the day before, nor had he appeared at the assembly.

“Is Mr. Bennet expecting us?”

“He will be grateful to receive us.”

So they were not expected.

Mr. Philips removed his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose. “The more time I allow to pass, the more firmly my brother-in-law will convince himself that this matter is nothing of concern and that it will disappear if he buries his head in the sand long enough.”

Darcy almost wished Mr. Bennet proud. At least then he would know how to proceed. He had little experience with indolence.

“For Bennet’s sake and that of my nieces, I am determined not to depart from Longbourn until we understand the whole of the matter and develop a plan to assist him. I am grateful to have your expertise, Mr. Robinson. This matter is beyond my knowledge.”

“Think nothing of it. I am content to be of service, especially when the gentleman has a family to protect.”

Mr. Philips scoffed. “Protect. Yes, that is what we must see to.”

While Darcy applauded Mr. Philips’s sense of duty, this reaction reflected poorly on Mr. Bennet. Darcy massaged his temples. To what kind of family had his father attached him? Into what tangled mess was he entering?

Mentally he prepared himself to meet the master of an estate which was certain to be in various stages of neglect. His mind conjured images of muddy ruts lining a gravel path spotted with holes and overgrown with grass, uncontrolled ivy cracking stained walls and pushing off a leaking roof. Perhaps dingy windows overlooked a sad garden.

Mr. Philips gestured at the scene through the glass pane. “We are coming up on Longbourn.”

Steeling himself, Darcy looked. He leaned closer, wiping the fog from the window. Mature trees lined the drive in welcome. A marked line between gravel and grass trailed as far as he could see. The path was smooth. Encouraged, he observed his surroundings with a little less skepticism. The grounds were neat, with practical kitchen gardens visible alongside the colorful remains of the warmer month’s flowers. The house appeared solid and respectable, with fresh paint and clean windows. It bore the settled look of a home that had housed the same family for generations, but in no way did it appear neglected. To the contrary. Mr. Bennet’s estate reflected the devoted care and meticulous attention of a dedicated landowner. Perhaps Mr. Philips had been too harsh in his description of his brother-in-law’s character. Family members often exaggerated flaws.

The doorman, clean and combed, showed them inside. The smells of beeswax polish, lavender sachets, and that morning’s baked bread greeted Darcy like old friends. With one whiff, he was transported to Mrs. Reynolds’s cottage at Pemberley. Worn rugs softened their steps into the drawing room where the ladies of the house were gathered, enjoying the warmth of the fire. Black crepe covered the tables, and ribbons were strewn over chairs.

A whisper of unease stirred through Darcy. Bowing his head, he clasped his hands together. “My condolences for your loss.”

The two youngest pouted and whimpered. Mrs. Bennet shot them a marked frown and then turned to him, gesturing that he and Mr. Philips should have a seat. “Thank you, Mr. Robinson. I am afraid we awoke to distressing news.” Surely she did not refer to his father. They would have heard of that a week ago.

Mr. Philips inquired after Mr. Bennet, who was certain to join them soon, as Mrs. Bennet assured them.

Miss Lydia mumbled under her breath. Darcy did not hear her, but her mother did.

“Lydia!” she snapped.

Miss Lydia’s nostrils flared. “I do not see why we are covering everything in the parlor with black crepe for a man we are not even related to! For a man we have not even met!” Darcy’s stomach sank. A large fruit basket sat like a shrine on top of the only table not covered in dark fabric.

A woman he had not met at the assembly leveled a stern look at the youngest Bennet. “A lady need not shout to make herself heard.” Ah, the governess. Miss Kitty regarded her needle and black thread with aversion. “In his letter, Mr. Wrayburn said we did not need to mourn.”