Darcy huffed a quiet laugh. “That may be an unkind assessment.”
“Perhaps,” Richard allowed. “But not an inaccurate one. I am glad he did not rise to accompany us this morning.”
They rode in companionable silence for a time. Darcy found his thoughts drifting not to Netherfield, nor even to the increasingly tangled concerns that waited for him there, butforward—to Longbourn, to Elizabeth, to the look she would give him when he arrived.
Longbourn appeared much as it ever had: solid, welcoming, unpretentious. Smoke curled gently from the chimneys, and the grounds—though modest—were well kept, bearing the marks of care rather than display. Darcy found the sight encouraging in a way he had not anticipated when first he came to Hertfordshire.
They were admitted at once. Mrs. Hill ushered them into the drawing room with a warm smile, and Darcy had scarcely crossed the threshold when Elizabeth entered from the adjoining room. She wore a simple morning gown, pale green, her hair loosely arranged with ringlets kissing her cheeks. She stopped short when she saw them—then smiled.
“Mr. Darcy. Colonel Fitzwilliam. You are early.”
“Earlier than our friend, at least,” Richard replied easily. “Bingley has yet to make his appearance this morning.”
Elizabeth’s brows knit. “Oh?”
Darcy felt her questioning expression land squarely upon him.
“Yes,” he said. “He has been…indisposed.”
Elizabeth studied him for a moment, and Darcy was acutely aware that she was weighing not merely his words, but what lay behind them.
Miss Bennet appeared then, her expression brightening at the sight of Richard. She greeted both gentlemen warmly, and Darcy could not help but observe the ease with which she accepted his cousin’s presence. Gone was the faint reserve she had worn at the treasure-hunting picnic; in its place was something lighter, freer.
They all seated themselves, conversation flowing easily at first—small talk, observations on the weather, a brief mention of Lydia and Kitty being absent with Mrs. Phillips. Yet Elizabeth’s attention returned, again and again, to Darcy.
At last, when Richard and Miss Bennet had drifted toward the window seat, speaking softly of some recent assembly, Elizabeth turned to him.
“You may think me impertinent,” she said softly, “but I must ask. Mr. Bingley’s behavior of late—it is…odd.”
Darcy inclined his head. “You are not impertinent.”
She waited.
He chose his words carefully. “Charles is under a great deal of strain. Matters of business—of responsibility—have weighed upon him more heavily than he anticipated.”
Elizabeth frowned. “And that accounts for his sudden tempers? His…fixations?”
“In part,” Darcy said. “He has always been generous to a fault. He is now discovering that generosity—and foolish decisions—unchecked, have consequences.”
She considered this. “And Miss Bingley?”
Darcy hesitated only a fraction of a second before answering. “Miss Bingley spoke with me frankly. She was asked to do something she found—rightly—unacceptable.”
Elizabeth’s eyes sharpened. “What sort of thing?”
“Something that would have compromised her dignity,” Darcy said evenly. “And mine.”
Elizabeth’s lips pressed together. “I see.”
“I believe,” Darcy continued, “that Miss Bingley acted with commendable clarity. She refused him.”
Elizabeth’s expression softened, just slightly. “That does her credit.”
Darcy felt a flicker of relief at her response.
There was a pause, filled only by the murmur of Miss Bennet and Richard’s conversation nearby. Darcy glanced toward them despite himself. The lady laughed softly at something Richard had said—an unguarded sound, free of anxiety. She leaned forward as she spoke, animated, engaged.
Elizabeth followed his gaze. “She is more herself with him,” she said quietly.
