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“Thank you.” He practically tore it from her hands, waiting only for his housekeeper to retreat discreetly before he broke the seal and moved toward the flickering candelabra.
Cousin,
Georgiana is safe. Her carriage suffered a broken wheel outside Derby, near the Peacock Inn, leaving her stranded while the local blacksmith fumbled with an axle. She and Mrs. Annesley are currently resting there under my supervision. Mr. Ashworth and his sister, Miss Ashworth, saw them off, and they parted outside London. Send a carriage for us as soon as you are able; I shall escort them the remaining thirty miles to Pemberley, and we should reach your doors a day after either your carriage arrives or the Matlock one is repaired.
Your cousin,
Richard Fitzwilliam
Darcy let out a long, shuddering breath of profound relief, the heavy knot of dread in his chest finally loosening. Georgiana was accounted for, guarded by Richard, and on her way to Pemberley, just as Elizabeth had predicted.
But Elizabeth was talking with Charlotte, and he was too exhausted to wait, so he climbed the stairs to his bedchamber. His valet had left hot water in the basin and fresh linens on the chair. Darcy stripped off his muddy clothes, washed the road grime from his face and hands, and collapsed into bed, letting a dreamless sleep overcome him.
CHAPTER TWENTY
THROUGH THE DOORWAY
Although Charlotte kept her company all evening, Elizabeth could not stop worrying about Darcy. Mrs. Reynolds had delivered a disturbing message: Mr. Darcy had received urgent news concerning Miss Darcy and had ridden out to intercept her on the northern road. He did not know when he would return. Elizabeth nodded, thanked the housekeeper, and returned to her game of cribbage with Charlotte; what else could she do? She could not ride after him. She could not help him search. She could only sit in this magnificent house that was not yet hers, not truly, and wait for word that might not arrive until morning.
Thus she detained Charlotte in her sitting room, gossiping over Meryton’s latest follies and Hannah’s inexhaustible tea, the cribbage board between them, until midnight threatened and Charlotte’s eyelids drooped so low she nearly pegged a piece of seedcake.
“You are playing abominably tonight,” Charlotte observed at the sitting room door, her candle already lit. “You miscounted your hand twice and missed a flush that a child of seven would have spotted. Try not to worry. Your husband would have stopped at an inn by now.”
“But has he found Georgiana and her party? When Fitzwilliam received the letter, we expected Georgiana to arrive within a few days. What could have caused the delay?”
“Any number of reasons.” Charlotte yawned. “For which you can do nothing but pray. Get some sleep. Georgiana will arrive when she arrives, and Mr. Darcy will return when he returns, and neither event will be hastened by your staring at the wall and losing at cribbage.”
“Good night, Charlotte.”
“Good night. And Lizzy—if you cannot sleep, I recommend the Plutarch on the third shelf of the library. It is the most reliable soporific in the English language.”
The door closed, and the sitting room was suddenly too large and too quiet. Elizabeth sat with the cribbage board between her hands, the candles burning low, and the weight of the evening pressing against her like weather.
Darcy was somewhere out on a rutted road, riding in the dark, searching for a sister who might be anywhere between London and Scotland. He rode out alone because a person he loved was in danger. She was the same way, with three younger sisters, except instead of saddling a horse, she settled for sharp words and an occasional tug of an earlobe.
But more overwhelmingly than that worry, she gasped as she admitted it. She missed him, and she longed to hear from him—his dry observations and careful courtesies—and then there was the way he peeked at her from across the checkerboard or touched her hand when asking her opinion, as if for reassurance.
Hannah appeared at the door, carrying a small tray with a steaming mug. “Shall I prepare you for bed, ma’am?”
“Yes, I suppose you had better.” Elizabeth rose from her chair, anxious, and did not bother to hide it. “Has there been any word from Mr. Darcy?”
“None that I’ve heard, ma’am. Mrs. Reynolds would know better than me. Shall I fetch her?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “It is late. Let her rest. I did not hear hoofbeats, so I doubt disturbing her will bring news.”
Hannah helped her undress, removing pins and unbuttoning her gown. With each stay she loosened, Elizabeth breathed deeper, but her anxiety did not quell. The girl’s hands were gentle as she brushed Elizabeth’s hair in long, steady strokes that were meant to be soothing and were, in fact, anything but, because every stroke gave Elizabeth’s mind another interval in which to imagine Darcy on a dark road with a tired horse and no company except his own relentless sense of responsibility.
“A tisane to help you sleep, Madam.” She picked up the tea tray and set down the mug she brought. “Will you require anything else?”
“No, Hannah. Thank you. I suppose I shall be fine until the morning. Good night.”
“Good night, ma’am. I hope Mr. Darcy returns safely.”
Hannah picked up the tea tray with the teapot and leftover cakes, curtsied and withdrew.
Elizabeth drank the tisane, which tasted of earthy chamomile and bright, soothing lemon balm with a faint, woody undertone of valerian root, and climbed into Lady Anne’s bed. She pulled the covers up and closed her eyes, waiting for blessed sleep to arrive.
It stayed stubbornly away, sent its regrets, and suggested she try Plutarch or another equally boring book—perhaps an agricultural tract or one on wool grading.
