Darcy smiled tightly. “I do not know what will happen, Georgiana. But whatever happens, I want you to know that I am proud of you. You were right when I was wrong.”
Georgiana’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, I care nothing for that! You must see another doctor, Fitzwilliam. You must!”
Darcy took a deep breath, trying to push through the pain and the fear. “I mean to see a specialist in Cambridge about my condition. He is the best in the country, and certainly, he will know what is to be done. All… all will be well. And I will write to you soon, I promise.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Darcy stepped out ofhis carriage onto the gravel driveway of Netherfield, his limbs heavy with the fatigue of travel. The house loomed before him, its grand facade softened by the early afternoon light, yet something about it seemed slightly altered since his last visit. He could not place what it was—perhaps it was only his own state of mind, a mind fogged by pain and dulled by the effort to keep his thoughts in order.
As he stepped toward the house, his eye fell on a row of other carriages lined up in the stable yard. Only their tops were visible over the wall, but there were, indeed, at least seven other equipages all resting in the yard. Apparently, Wickham had company, and a great deal of it. His visit was rather poorly timed, after all.
Darcy paused, glancing back at his carriage. Ought he to go? Surely, he would learn nothing valuable of Wickham if the man was occupied in playing to the crowd. He had come here in hopes of securing a private conversation. But there was nothing else for it. He had already sent that letter, asking if he could break his journey on his way north, and he would lose face if he did not enter the house.
The butler, an older man with a severe countenance, greeted him at the door. “Good afternoon, Mr Darcy. We have been expecting you. Please, come in.”
Darcy handed over his hat and gloves, his eyes scanning the entrance hall as he stepped inside. The air was cool and faintly scented with the polish used on the wooden panelling. No one was about, save for two of Wickham’s unusually attractive “maids” bustling towards the drawing room at the far end of the hall with tea carts.
As the butler led him further into the hall, Darcy’s gaze was drawn once again to the portrait that had unnerved him on his previous visit. The boys in the painting were still locked in their eternal poses, one serious, the other almost mocking. Perhaps their imagecouldhave been a mere chance—a strange coincidence that someone had commissioned years ago, perfectly innocent of how it might appear to Darcy. The girl, though—her resemblance to Georgiana remained disturbingly clear. The rage that had simmered beneaththe surface on his last visit now flared again, prickling over the back of his neck. His head pounded with a familiar, piercing light, and for a moment, he wondered if he had made a mistake in coming here.
“Darcy,” a voice called out, jolting him from his thoughts. Wickham appeared at the far end of the hall, approaching quickly with a look of polite contrition on his face. “I must apologise for not being here to greet you immediately. We have a number of guests this afternoon, and I was momentarily detained.”
Darcy nodded stiffly, his mind still half-absorbed by the portrait. “No matter,” he replied, a touch too formally. “I thank you for your hospitality.”
“Could I do any less?” Wickham gestured with a smile. “Please, make yourself comfortable. If you wish to refresh yourself after your journey, your room has been prepared. I cannot tell you how pleased Bingley and I were to hear of your return so quickly. I imagine some urgent business at Pemberley calls you north?”
Darcy pulled his lips into a tight assent. “Business… yes. I see I have taken you from your guests, so I will—”
“Oh, no need to absent yourself, Darcy. These are all friends to you. Truly, I would be most honoured if you could join us in the drawing room as soon as you are refreshed after your journey.”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed faintly in the direction of the drawing room. “You have a rather large group of callers this afternoon. Something serious?”
“I should say so! The gentlemen of Meryton have gathered to formalize their choice of Sir Anthony Mortimer as their next MP. Mortimer himself is present, and we shall soon adjourn to a formal dinner. I have already ordered a place set for you at the table.”
Darcy blinked, trying to process the information. The combination of travel and his worsening headache made it difficult to focus. Still, he managed to nod. “Thank you. I shall join you shortly.”
Wickham’s smile widened. “Excellent. I shall tell everyone we can look forward to your company, and I know I will be able to count on you, Darcy, for your clever head if any questions of a legal nature should arise.”
With that, Wickham turned on his heel and departed, leaving Darcy alone with the footman, who waited patiently to escort him upstairs. Darcy followed him, each step sending a dull throb through his temples. The prospect of enduring a formal dinner in such company filled him with a sense of dread, yet he could not refuse the invitation without causing offence.
Once he was alone in his room, Darcy shut the door behind him and leaned heavily against it, his hand trembling slightly as he reached into his coat pocket for the small vial of laudanum he had brought with him. He uncorked it and measured a dose with practised efficiency, swallowing it down with the hope that it would ease the throbbing in his head.
He moved to the window, looking out over the grounds of Netherfield as he waited for the laudanum to take effect. A fresh snow was just beginning to fall over the formal gardens, coating the land in a pure, clean blanket. How could everything seem so serene when everything inside him felt so wrong? He closed his eyes, trying to focus on his breathing, on the rhythm of his heartbeat, anything to anchor himself in the present moment.
But the light behind his eyes still flickered, and the pain continued to gnaw at him, dulling his senses and clouding his thoughts. Somehow, he had to rally for the evening ahead, to maintain the appearance of composure and control. Wickham had been almost too eager to invite him to this gathering, to ensure his place at the table. The thought sent a shiver of suspicion through Darcy’s already troubled mind.
He pushed himself away from the window and began to prepare for dinner, his movements slow and deliberate as he fought to keep the pain at bay. There would be time enough to ponder Wickham’s intentions later—if his head allowed it. For now, all he could do was endure.
“Captain Carter is positivelythe most charming man in all of Meryton, do you not agree, Kitty?” Lydia’s words were punctuated by giggles as she flounced onto the settee, fanning herself.
“Oh, indeed!” Kitty chimed in, barely able to contain her laughter. “And did you see the way he looked at me when we passed by the milliner’s shop? I am certain he agrees about how fetching I looked in that new bonnet.”
Elizabeth twisted a piece of embroidery thread between her fingers, trying to block out the shrill laughter that filled the room. Lydia’s exaggerated tales of the officers grated on her nerves, jarring against the weightier thoughts that occupied her mind.
Mrs Bennet clapped her hands together. “My dear girls, how delightful it is to see you both so admired! But do remember to conduct yourselves with proper decorum—though, of course, a little charm never hurt anyone.”
Mary, seated primly in the corner with a book balanced on her lap, looked up. “Charm is of little consequence when it comes to matters of true importance. A solid mind and good principles are the foundation of a respectable life. I do hope you will not be led astray by frivolous pursuits.”
“Exactly so, my dear!” Mrs Bennet seconded. “After all, Lydia, you see how it came about for Mary. Perhaps it would do no harm to—”
