Darcy followed them to the threshold, the floorboards creaking faintly beneath his tread.
Dyer paused long enough to slide a folded bundle of documents into his case. “I shall investigate the possibilities of adding the dowager Countess to the guardianship clause once more,” he said. “But I cannot promise a miracle.”
“You never do. But write them anyway,” Darcy replied. They exchanged a curt nod, and the solicitor took his leave, disappearing down the corridor with brisk, economical steps.
Bingley lingered.
His hand hovered near the doorframe, as if unsure whether to grasp it or lean upon it. “If I had known sooner—”
“You could not have,” Darcy said quietly.
Bingley studied him. “Still. It feels like I ought to have—done something.”
Darcy’s jaw worked, but no words came. The silence between them stretched just long enough to scrape.
Finally, Bingley shifted back a step. “If you learn where she’s gone…”
Darcy looked up, his eyes hard. “You will be the first to know.”
A pause, then Bingley offered a wry, uncertain smile—the kind that never quite touched the eyes—and slipped into the hall.
Darcy stood at the door a moment longer, listening to the receding steps. Then the latch fell into place with a hollow click.
He stood, listening to the house settle. A cart in the street beyond. A servant’s muffled tread on the stair. But nothing that offered clarity. Nothing that told him where she had gone.
He crossed to the desk, opened the drawer with care, and withdrew the old county map. Not because it could answer him—but because his hands required purpose. It unfolded stiffly, like a thing too long forgotten. He spread it wide, weighing the corners with whatever was close to hand.
Derbyshire. Sussex. Hertfordshire.
He stared at the printed names until they blurred. Hertfordshire made no sense—it sounded as if Miss Bennet hadreturned alone, which meant Elizabeth had not gone with her. Eastbourne? Marlowe had mentioned the coast once, though not with conviction. And if she had gone there, would she not have left word? Or was that precisely the point?
He shifted his weight. The room felt smaller than before.
She could be anywhere. Some nameless village with no coach stop and no curiosity. A place where no one knew her name. A place to vanish.
His mind chased itself in circles. She was gone.
And he had no way to follow.
He crossed the threshold into the adjoining drawing room, more from habit than intent, and stopped short at the sight of his grandmother. The dowager sat comfortably by the fire, half-buried in a small mountain of correspondence. Her spectacles perched halfway down her nose; her cane leaned idly against her chair.
“I am not attending Lady Braymore’s musicale,” she said without looking up. “Her daughter plays the harp as if punishing it for a slight.”
Darcy made no reply. He stood in the middle of the room like a man recently struck.
She shifted another letter. “There is to be a ball in Matlock, I see. Week after next. The assembly sort. Punch that would make a sailor topple, immodest necklines, dreadful lighting. I shall go anyway, if I can abide the drive at this time of year. It pleases the locals to remember that I am not yet dead.”
He stilled.
“Matlock?”
Her eyes flicked up. “Yes. Do not look so surprised. Derbyshire has not relocated.”
He stepped forward slowly, his thoughts catching pace. “Mrs. Gardiner has family near there. Near Lambton...” He trailed off.
The dowager folded her letter with maddening slowness, creasing each edge before setting it beside her untouched tea. Her gaze remained lowered. “You are pacing again.”
Darcy stopped. He had not noticed he was moving.
