The butler’s fingers worked the knot as Darcy turned away. “Sir?”
“My coat—yes.” Darcy drew a steadying breath. “Important morning ahead.”
Jackson paused. “Engagement call to the Ashfords, sir?”
Darcy looked at his own reflection in the hallway mirror—sharp suit, gloved hands pressed flat at his sides. He nodded. “It is time.”
Jackson ceased tying. “Very good, sir.” He straightened and stepped back.
Darcy slid his arm into the sleeve, then paused, hand against the lapel.
Why am I doing this?
He visualized Elizabeth’s eyes—clear, wounded, unsparing—still after every insinuation. His proposal to Miss Ashford had been made from caution and duty. Now it had come to feel like exile.
He tugged the front closed and picked up his gloves from the hall table. Jackson took them, circling to place them on Darcy’s hands.
“You look… resolved, sir.”
He drew his hands free. “Resolved.” The word tasted like parched parchment.
Jackson inclined his head. “Shall I see you to your carriage?”
“Yes.”
Each step away from the mirror was a step further from the future he had once hoped for. By the door, he paused again.
“Jackson.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Let the coachman wait in the front courtyard. No haste, please.”
Jackson bowed again. “As you wish, sir.”
Darcy closed the door and descended the stairs. Foot by measured foot, he carried his decision with him—an unspoken oath heavier than any coat. He swayed slightly on the last stair, hand braced against the wall. It passed. Or it did not. He straightened anyway.
“Mr. Darcy.”
She rose when the butler announced him, as dictated by etiquette, and remained standing while he approached. Her gown was pale lavender, her posture a portrait of modest composure—though her hand, resting lightly on the chair back, gave her away. She did not reach for him or even light up as he entered the room. She never did.
He bowed. “Miss Ashford.”
She curtseyed with practiced grace. “You are come early, sir.”
“I thought it best.”
“Indeed.” She turned toward the hearth. “My father is expecting you.”
Darcy followed her glance. Mr. Ashford remained seated, one leg crossed over the other, the Morning Chronicle open across his lap as if to remind all present of what had been printed and what could not be unsaid. He did not rise.
“Mr. Darcy,” Ashford said with a nod.
“Mr. Ashford.”
“Take a chair, if you please. Let us speak with candor.”
Darcy obliged. He did not remove his gloves.
