“I did not say that.”
“You never do. Which is why I have to guess.” Bingley sounded amused. “And since you are so very bad at lying, I must assume you think this a mistake.”
Darcy refused to reply.
Bingley let the silence hang for a few strides, then blew out a breath and shifted in his saddle.
“Well,” he said lightly, “even if it is a mistake, it is a lovely one.”
Darcy reined in at the top of the hill. The land unfolded below them in wide fields and muddy lanes, the hedgerows still clinging to their last color before winter stripped everything bare.
“It is not her,” he said finally.
“No?”
“It is the family.”
Bingley laughed. “Yes, they are rather… enthusiastic.”
“They are careless,” Darcy corrected. “No judgment, no restraint, no sense of—”
“Sense is overrated,” Bingley cut in. “She has it. That is what matters.”
Darcy looked away. He did not argue further. What would be the point? His objections were already hollow. If Bingley was going to stumble, he would do it smiling.
Darcy, on the other hand, was no longer stumbling. He had hit something closer to freefall.
They returned to the house with little more said. Bingley handed off his horse with a whistle and disappeared inside, calling something about punch and Caroline’s latest war with the florist.
Darcy handed his reins to the groom and followed more slowly.
The letters were waiting for him in his room.
He recognized the first immediately. Thick, linen-rag paper. Densely scrawled address. The dowager Countess of Matlock never wasted time with brevity.
He broke the seal and unfolded the page.
Fitzwilliam—
I will spare us both the pretenses of weather and sentiment. I want a report.
Is the countryside still as dull as advertised, or have you finally located a reason to stop brooding across every drawing room in England? I have heard whispers—amusing ones—of a certain localfamily with a surprising number of daughters and an even more surprising tendency toward literacy. If you are going to entangle yourself with a woman, do try to find one whose brain has not been replaced with ribbon samples.
Georgiana remains well. I have ordered more violets for her room, though she protests she does not need such things. She is still reading too much.
Your uncle has begun inviting a few younger gentlemen to our weekend shoots—purely social, of course. But I do wonder how long I can dissuade him from matchmaking if you persist in letting the calendar win.
Do not wait until February to act. February has no manners.
—M.
Darcy read it twice.
He pulled out a fresh sheet of paper, dipped his pen, and wrote:
Madam,
The country is quiet. The harvest was fair. Indeed, I have become reacquainted with Miss ElizabethBennet, but in addition to her, I have met several other local families. I trust Georgiana is well. I thank you for attending to her preferences.
