“Well, we find ourselves in the same situation, then. For I do not wish to give up Longbourn. But if I am a not a Bennet, I cannot keep it.”
Darcy closed his eyes. He had forgotten. “Entailed?” he asked. How fitting.
“Precisely.”
Mr. Bennet sighed. “I need a bit of time to consider this—what it means for my family, for myself, and for you. Will you return tomorrow?”
Darcy rose, his posture composed though his emotions swirled within. “I shall return at whatever hour you request, Mr. Bennet.”
“I shall send you a note.” Mr. Bennet said. “We shall speak then.”
Darcy inclined his head. “I am grateful for your consideration and for the opportunity to speak honestly.”
Mr. Bennet said nothing, his gaze falling once more to the two blankets on his desk. Darcy stepped away. The house was still empty, and he saw that less than a half an hour had passed. Half an hour that had changed his life.
His carriage awaited. Mr. Hill handed him his gloves and hat with a quiet efficiency and stoic expression. Darcy paused, placing the hat on his head before turning to look once more at the house.
This meeting had been only the beginning. Tomorrow would bring its own challenges and, he hoped, its own resolutions. Drawing a steadying breath, he climbed into the carriage.
“Back to Netherfield, sir?” the driver inquired.
“Yes,” Darcy replied, his voice firm despite the turmoil within. “Back to Netherfield.”
As the carriage carried him away from Longbourn, Darcy rested his head against the seat. The path ahead was uncertain, but he knew one thing with absolute clarity: he had done what was right. Everything else was out of his hands.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Elizabeth sat near the window of the morning room, her embroidery idle in her lap. Her needle had not moved for some time, her thoughts too wild to focus on such delicate work. She missed Jane terribly—her calm presence, her ready smile. She had written several times to tell her sisters everything she was doing in London, and she was clearly blossoming under Mr. Bingley’s care. She had even deigned to write that she had been mistaken in Miss Bingley’s overtures of friendship.
Jane would be fine.
Notes from Miss Darcy had kept her abreast of her brother’s continuing recovery, and she was profoundly grateful for any bit of news. But she longed for the day he was well enough to visit again.
Elizabeth had known, as she stepped into Mr. Darcy’s carriage to answer the summons to Netherfield, that she was transgressing the boundaries of propriety. But she had not hesitated. How could she, when Mr. Darcy lay ill and calling for her? Yet now, back in the familiar confines of Longbourn fornearly a fortnight, doubt had seeped into the quiet spaces of her heart.
She had spent several nights in a gentleman’s chamber. No matter that she had ensured the presence of a married woman at all times, nor that her purpose had been solely to aid in Mr. Darcy’s recovery. The world was rarely so generous in its interpretations. Had anyone seen her arrive at Netherfield in the dead of night? Had the servants spoken of it? Were whispers already beginning to spread through Meryton? It was one thing to be thought headstrong, another entirely to be considered compromised.
Worse still was the fear that had settled in the pit of her stomach. What if Mr. Darcy himself thought her too bold, too heedless of decorum? When she had first arrived, when she had taken his fevered hand in hers, she had not cared for appearances. He had even mentioned proposing. But he had still been so ill—now that he was recovering, now that she had returned to her own home and must endure the long wait before she could see him again—her confidence wavered.
She knew, when she forced herself to be rational, that Mr. Darcy would understand. He would know that she had come for him, that her presence had been born of care and not of reckless disregard for his reputation or her own. He would still love her.
But the uncertainty gnawed at her, all the same. It infuriated her, this insecurity, this desperate need to know that he did not regret her presence. She had spoken words of love aloud in the quiet of his sickroom, poured all her heart into them as she had willed him to fight for his life. But he had been fevered, barely clinging to wakefulness. Did he remember? Did he know?
She had never been so affected by another’s opinion before, had never cared beyond what was reasonable. But then, she had never loved like this before.
Would he still wish to marry her now?
It was the giggling that pulled Elizabeth from her thoughts at last, and she straightened at once. She could not allow herself to wallow in doubt. Mr. Darcy would recover, and when he did, they would speak. Until then, she must bear the waiting with as much dignity as she could muster.
Mary sat quietly, reading yet another thick volume on moral philosophy, her serene expression unbothered by the chatter of Kitty and Lydia, who occupied the sofa with their sewing. The younger girls were less industrious with their needles than they were with their tongues, and now that Elizabeth was paying attention, she realized that she was their latest subject of interest.
“Lizzy is dreaming of someone,” Lydia teased, her voice lilting with mischief. “One might think she was in love.”
“Yes,” Kitty added. “She has been staring out the window for an age!”
“Jealous?” Mary asked flatly as she turned a page. She did not look up.
“Me?” Lydia cried. “Jealous of Lizzy? How droll.”
