Darcy’s breath quickened as Miss Bennet’s words echoed in his mind.
He stood and moved to the window, his hands clenched behind his back, his fingers digging into his palms as he fought to steady his breathing. Could it be possible? Could Mr. Bennet—no, it was unthinkable. Mr. Compton had confirmed it.
And yet, the pieces began to align in a pattern he did not wish to see.
Miss Bennet’s voice broke through his reverie. “Mr. Darcy, are you quite well?”
He started, realising that the room had grown quiet. All eyes were on him, including Miss Bennet’s.
“I say, Darcy,” Fitzwilliam said in a low voice as he sidled over, “you are very pale. Are you unwell?”
He forced himself to nod, though he could feel how stiffly he moved. “Forgive me. Perhaps I ought to return to Netherfield.”
Fitzwilliam looked at him sharply but said nothing. Darcy’s throat was dry, and his stomach was now roiling. He had to remove himself from the drawing room with haste for fear of shaming himself.
Outside, the night air was crisp and biting, a welcome contrast to the stifling warmth of Longbourn. Darcy saw that his carriage was just being brought around and was grateful for the fortuitous timing. The instant the steps were lowered, he nearly pitched himself headlong into it.
He leaned back against the squabs with his head tipped up towards the ceiling, his breath visible in the cold and his hands trembling. The memories swirled too vividly to ignore: his father’s sombre recounting of the embroidered blanket, the words spoken so casually in the Longbourn drawing room.
It could not be true. Itmustnot be true.
The sound of hurried footsteps in the gravel broke through his misery. The carriage door opened, and Fitzwilliam climbed in, his brows knit with concern.
“Darcy,” Fitzwilliam began, his voice low but firm. “This is not like you. What has happened?”
Before he could respond, Georgiana appeared at the door, pale and wide-eyed. “Brother, are you unwell?” she asked softly. Without waiting for his answer, she awkwardly took Fitzwilliam’s hand from inside the carriage, clambering in and settling beside Darcy, her gloved hand resting lightly on his arm.
Darcy closed his eyes. He could not burden them with this. Not again. They had suffered enough uncertainty before Mr. Compton’s assurance that Reverend Bennet’s son had lived. He would not force them to endure this again until he was entirely sure.
“I am quite well,” Darcy said at last, though his voice was badly strained. “The heat of the drawing room, combined with an excess of conversation, has left me fatigued. That is all.”
Fitzwilliam scoffed. “You are not the fainting type, cousin, and I cannot recall the last time you excused yourself so abruptly. Shall I send for a physician?”
“No,” Darcy said quickly, his tone harsher than he intended. He softened it immediately. “No, there is no need. It is only a cold. A night’s rest will suffice.”
Georgiana exchanged a glance with Fitzwilliam, her worry plain. “Shall I have Mrs. Nicholls prepare a tonic for you upon our return?”
Darcy forced a small smile, though it did not reach his eyes. “That will not be necessary, Georgiana. Truly, I am well.”
The carriage began to move, its wheels crunching against the frosty ground. Darcy could sense their concern, and guilt burned hot in his chest. How could he now confess that their security, so recently confirmed, was again at risk?
He could not. Would not.
The remainder of the journey passed in strained silence. He righted himself but focused on breathing carefully the entire way to Netherfield. Fitzwilliam stole glances at him, clearly unconvinced by Darcy’s protestations, while Georgiana sat with her hands folded tightly in her lap, her worry palpable.
Fitzwilliam exited the carriage first and handed Georgiana down. He did not, thank goodness, offer to perform the same office for Darcy, but it was clear he was observing Darcy’s every step on the chance his assistance might be required. When they reached the entry, Darcy allowed himself to be divested of his coat, hat, and gloves before turning to his sister and cousin and offering a small bow.
“Good night,” he said. “I shall see you both in the morning.”
Before he could make his escape, Georgiana’s fingers tightened briefly on his arm before she withdrew her hand. “Brother,” she said quietly, her voice almost pleading, “you are not well. If this is more than a cold . . . You have always been so strong for me, for us. If there is something amiss, please, do not attempt to bear it alone.”
Her words cut through him like a blade. If only hecouldunburden himself, share the turmoil raging within. But until he knew the truth—the full truth, this time—he would remain silent.
“I will be much improved in the morning, Georgiana,” he told her. “Do not fret.”
His room was dark and still when he entered, the fire having burned low in his absence as the servants no doubt had not been expecting their return for another few hours. He did not bother to summon anyone, not even Harris. Instead, he removed his coat, stirred the fire himself, and then sat heavily on the settee by the hearth. His thoughts returned, unbidden, to the blanket. Blue with yellow, green, and silver embroidery.
Were those the colours? His head swam as he tried to recall the design. So many things had happened since he had last laid eyes on it.
