“William! You are home.”
“What, no kiss on the cheek?” he asked. “I thought you might have missed me.”
“Oh, of course.” She hastened from the stool, a nervous smile pasted on a face suddenly grown pale. She stood on her toes to greet him, then stepped back with her hands laced. “How was your journey? Did you learn anything?”
All the relief at finally coming home fell from his expression. “Yes.”
Georgiana’s mouth opened in a soft, “Oh,” as Darcy glanced about the room, searching for evidence of her companions.
“I need to speak with Mrs Fitzwilliam at once. Is she here?”
Georgiana wetted her lips. “If you mean, has she gone to Matlock, not yet. Lady Matlock invited her, but I… asked her to stay. Until you came back.”
He tilted his head, one brow arched. “I confess, I did not expect to hear that. I am pleased, Georgiana. You were rather inhospitable before.”
Her teeth flashed in another nervous smile. “Indeed. But come, sit—may I play you something, William? You look weary, and the music always relaxes you.”
“No, but thank you,” he declined, holding up his hand in a steadying gesture.
“Then I shall have something brought to your room while you refresh yourself. Sherry, perhaps? Or, if you have much to discuss this evening, you might prefer coffee?”
“Georgiana, please. I have scarcely set foot in the door! What has come over you?”
She closed her mouth, and her eyes seemed to grow luminous. “Nothing. I will call for Elizabeth.”
Darcy turned and watched his sister nearly scurry from the room in amazement. “Elizabeth?” he repeated out loud.
Therewasnoneedfor him to speak a word.
The moment Elizabeth entered his study—probably before that, in fact—her face reflected understanding. She met his eyes once, then her countenance fell, and she swallowed. “It is certain, then?” she asked in a fragile voice.
He sighed and gestured to the chair opposite his desk. “Please, make yourself comfortable. I am afraid we have much to discuss.”
Gingerly, she pulled out the chair and sat on the front edge of the seat, her back rigid and her jaw tight, in much the same manner as that first interview back in London. “Yes,” she agreed softly, “we do.”
Darcy could not settle himself so easily. He paced round the back of his own chair, then eventually braced his hands on it and leaned heavily forward. “I was able to speak to Lieutenant-General Kenny-Kelly in Johannesburg. He gave me the report in person.”
She stared at the top of his desk. “Did he suffer?” Liquid eyes raised to him when he was slow to answer. “Was he captured? Tortured?”
“It… appears he was taken prisoner, along with over four hundred others. Most of them were freed just recently at Johannesburg, but some eighty men were not accounted for.”
She drew her lower lip between her teeth, and her eyes sparkled as she blinked rapidly. “There is nothing more?”
“No.” He slowly drew out his chair and sank into it. “The Afrikaners are not savages. I do not think they would torture their prisoners for no reason, but sleeping sickness has decimated the corps. I could not speak to any of the men who had been captured with him, but the time has come for us to be rational.”
Her throat trembled as she sniffed. “Yes.” She tried to set her mouth, but it quivered uncontrollably, and a whimper rose, unbidden, from her breast. After a few failed attempts at self-restraint, her body buckled, and she clapped a hand over her mouth with a halting, “I-I’m s-so-sorry!”
Darcy allowed her space to weep, but watched her gravely, seeking—now more than ever—assurances of her sincerity. She did not fling herself across his desk in a melodramatic display. Rather, she seemed to turn inward, to fight her own battle of grief.
“Elizabeth,” he murmured.
She tipped her chin away, as if denying him entry to her sorrow, her hand shielding her face.
It was a silly and pompous thing to do, perhaps, but he found himself walking around to stand behind her, then turning her chair and tenderly taking one of her hands between his own. Her grip was immediate and fierce, and she rocked her head against his forearm. In that odd embrace, he cradled her, feeling the damp of tears through his sleeve and the heat of her breath close to his chest. She heaved sporadic gasps against his arm, her hair becoming tousled in the thread of his jacket.
After a long while, she forcefully regulated her breathing but did not pull away. She clung to his arm, her eyes clenched and, Heaven help him, he held her just as tightly. Her body softened, her fingers more gentle than desperate on his sleeve, and she felt so natural in his arms that he nearly forgot how she had come to be there. When he found his cheek resting on her head, the urge to nuzzle her hair nearly overpowering his senses, he drew back.
It was a moment before they had both composed themselves once more. Darcy reclaimed his seat, with the desk safely between them, as he fumbled for what to say.
