Elizabeth glanced at Jane, who leaned forward, eyes wide and attentive. She was too polite to do otherwise. Mary, on the other hand, stared blankly at the wall, clearly retreating into her own thoughts.
Mr Bennet continued to prod. “And I must know, what is Lady Catherine’s stance on the correct arrangement of garden beds?”
“Oh, Lady Catherine is most particular about garden beds. She prefers geometric patterns for their sense of order and beauty, insisting that flowers be grouped by colour and height to create a harmonious display.”
Elizabeth’s feet were itching with impatience, and she squirmed in her seat. If only she could find a way to redirect the conversation, but Mr Collins seemed unstoppable, his words flowing like an unending river. She shot a look at her father, silently reproaching him for goading the man so, but he was enjoying himself far too much.
And, Elizabeth realised, he was keeping Collins from exploring Longbourn like it was his own. But it was only a matter of delay and amusement for her father. The humiliating inspection would take place eventually, so what was the point of listening to the man while they awaited the inevitable?
Just as Elizabeth thought she could bear no more of Mr Collins’ inanities, there came a sudden, urgent knock on the front door. Everyone turned as Mr Hill entered the room, looking slightly flustered.
“Mr Bennet, sir,” Mr Hill said, his voice steady despite the urgency in his eyes. “A tenant, Mr Harris, requests an audience. It appears to be quite urgent.”
Mr Bennet rose from his seat, his amusement giving way to concern. “Show him in, Mr Hill.”
A moment later, Mr Harris entered, his face flushed with worry. He bowed quickly to the assembled company before turning to Mr Bennet. “Mr Bennet, sir! Forgive the intrusion, but I need help. The river’s rising fast, and my house is nearly washed away!”
Mr Bennet immediately stood, his expression turning serious. “Calm yourself, Mr Harris. We shall see what can be done. Come, let us go at once.”
Turning to Mr Collins, Mr Bennet offered a quick, apologetic nod. “Mr Collins, I must attend to this matter immediately. I trust you will excuse me.”
Mr Collins, his words run aground by the sudden interruption, managed a stiff nod. “Of… of course, Mr Bennet. Duty calls, as it must. Lady Catherine would see to the matter with utmost dispatch.”
Mr Bennet stopped, looking back at his guest with a quizzical glance, then shook his head with a sigh. “My hat, please, Hill.”
Chapter Eighteen
Not… Again.
Darcy woke to a pounding in his skull, the megrim gripping his head with merciless intensity. Pain shot through his temples, each throb taunting him whenever he tried to blink. He groaned as waves of nausea rolled over him. Clenching his fists, he forced himself to sit up, the room spinning wildly around him.
The morning light filtered through the heavy drapes—too bright, too harsh. Darcy squeezed his eyes shut, willing the pain to subside. But it only deepened, relentlessly drilling into his brain. He pressed his palms against his temples as if he could physically push the agony away.
It had been ten days since Westing had uttered those hideous words.A tumour. The words haunted him, a grim reality he had tried to ignore or disprove. He could not be dying! He had too much left to do!
There was the new planting system he meant to implement at Pemberley and the east wing repairs he had ordered for spring after the weather improved. There was that shipping company he had just invested in and Georgiana’s come-out to prepare for… not thathewould be much material help there, but Georgie needed him, and he meant to frighten off any unworthy suitors with a firm glare. And there was still Bingley, with all the ventures for which he had sought Darcy’s advice, and Richard… what if something happened to Richard? What if they werebothjust… gone? Who would there be to pick up the pieces?
Darcy curled himself into a ball, piling the pillows over his head to block out the light and muffle the sounds of his sobs. He, a grown man, reduced to tears over a headache!
But now, the unrelenting pain shattered his fragile illusions. He could no longer deny or claim that it was merely a passing pain. The agony was a living thing, a growing thing, that occasionally gave him glimpses of doubt, then roared back with all the certainty of promise.
He was dying.
The idea devoured him, a dark spectre he could neither escape nor fully confront. This thing, whatever it was inside his head, was stealing his future—moments snatched away in agony and moments never to be lived. How much was to be taken from him? All the things he would leave unfinished… and the one thing he had yet to even begin.
There would be no more Darcys at Pemberley after him.
That notion ought to have struck a chord of grief in him. The despair of knowing he could have, should have, if he had only not frittered away the time that was given him. His father had not led a long life, but his impact was still felt. How hadhethe right to do any less?
As it was, even if Darcy found a woman to marry this very day—and therewasone he could not cease thinking of—there was no guarantee he would be able to produce an heir. In fact, the notion was laughable. The odds that he could get a wife with child, and that that child could be a son, and that the wife he would leave behind might have the wisdom and integrity to raise the next Darcy on her own…
No. There would be no last-minute wedding, no urgent attempts to get a child or desperate hope that all would carry on jolly well without him. There was just… not enough time. And frankly, not enough hope even to provoke sorrow. There was only this prevailing sense of numbness.
Darcy’s breath hitched, and he rolled toward the edge of the bed. There was a smear of drool on the pillow, under where his cheek had been—and he had never even felt it. He groaned and staggered to his feet, clutching the bedpost for support.
His reflection in the mirror was a ghostly visage, pale and drawn, eyes shadowed with sleepless nights and ceaseless worry. The man staring back at him seemed a stranger, so far removed from the assured, commanding figure he had always known himself to be.
There were dark circles under his eyes every morning lately. Surely, someone would start to notice them and realise something was very much amiss. Heavens, Elizabeth Bennet alreadyhad, and she barely knew him! And when was the last time his valet had cut his hair? He scraped a hand through the unruly tangle, tugging at the unfamiliar length of it. Had Giles not recently suggested a bit of grooming? He usually did, for he kept a rather tight routine… but for the life of him, Darcy could not remember the last time the subject had come up.
