“I need to speak with Anders and Johnson,” he said hoarsely.
Fitzwilliam tilted his head. “And what pressing matter do you have for them?”
He hesitated, his fingers twitching against the coverlet. “That is not your concern.”
Georgiana exchanged a glance with Fitzwilliam. “I shall fetch them,” she said.
Darcy nodded, relieved she did not press him for details. As Georgiana left the room, Fitzwilliam lowered himself into a chair by the fire, watching Darcy with a shrewd expression.
“You are restless,” his cousin observed, rather unnecessarily.
“Would you not be?” Darcy snapped, though he regretted the harshness immediately.
Fitzwilliam merely shrugged. “I would, but I would also trust that the woman I intended to marry would wait for me a good deal longer than is required for you to regain your health.”
That was not the reason for Darcy’s agitation, but losing his temper would only give Fitzwilliam the information he sought, and then he would do all he could to persuade Darcy away from his course. He did not yet possess the strength for that argument. Darcy took a deep breath and forced himself to calm. Had he not already paid the price for allowing his emotions to dictate his behaviour? He had neither eaten nor slept well from the beginning of December until the evening following Bingley’s wedding, and what good had it done him? It had left him weak, dangerously susceptible to what ought to have been a trifling malady.
When Georgiana returned, carrying a small bundle wrapped in fine linen, Darcy reached for it with more eagerness than he intended. He unwrapped it with deliberate precision, revealing a wooden box that fit in the palm of his hand.
Fitzwilliam leaned forward, curious. “What is this?”
Darcy ignored him, opening the box to reveal a simple but elegant gold ring etched with myrtle and ivy. His fingers brushed over the band before he held it out and addressed his cousin. “Are you satisfied?”
Georgiana perched on the edge of the bed, her expression softening as she watched him. “It is beautiful,” she said quietly.
Darcy glanced at her, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “It belonged to my grandmother. She would have liked Elizabeth.”
Fitzwilliam cleared his throat. “Well, now that you have ensured the ring’s safety, perhaps you can focus on regaining enough strength to deliver it properly.”
“You are right. I will wait before I go to Longbourn.”
Fitzwilliam grinned. “There is the reasonable man I know.”
Georgiana reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. “You will be ready soon. You are growing stronger every day.”
After his sister read to him for a time, both she and Fitzwilliam left Darcy alone to rest. The snow continued to fall outside, thegentle sweep of white flakes obscuring the view and reminding him of his isolation.
A quarter of an hour passed, marked by the steady ticking of the clock on the mantel. Finally, the servants’ door creaked open, and Anders and Johnson entered, their expressions composed, their footsteps muffled on the thick rug.
Johnson was the first to step forward. “Mr. Darcy,” he said, and extended the leather journal that had begun his search for the truth, its cover worn to a glossy sheen by time and use. Darcy accepted it.
Anders followed, presenting a square, neatly wrapped parcel. The fabric inside was soft beneath Darcy’s fingers, and he lifted back part of the paper to assure himself that his father’s swaddling blanket was inside.
“I thank you for these, and for the ring, Anders.”
“Mrs. Reynolds thought you would like to have it, sir. Miss Darcy wrote her about Miss Bennet. She apologises if it was not the right thing to do.”
Darcy smiled. “No apologies needed. Sending it in first, without the other items, was insightful on your part.”
Anders bowed. “I thought it might be of use. May I say, Mr. Darcy, that we are pleased to see you so well?”
Darcy nodded. “Thank you both.”
Neither man replied, merely inclining their heads before retreating as silently as they had come.
Darcy stared at the items in his lap for a moment. Gritting his teeth, he stood and walked to the end of his bed where, holding onto the bed post with one hand, he used the other to slide each item into the trunk that sat there, securing them beneath layers of his folded garments.
The effort left his limbs trembling as he eased himself back into bed. Forcing his body to stillness, he closed his eyes and allowed himself a moment to gather his strength. For the firsttime in weeks, he let himself admit that he was just a man struggling against forces larger than himself—and that it might be best to allow himself to be borne along with them.
