“Do not!” he snapped. “Do not pretend this is anything but what it is. You are leaving because I am inconvenient. Because I am no longer amusing.”
Darcy stepped forward. “Bingley, no one is abandoning you. This arrangement is meant to ease tensions—for everyone.”
“Oh, spare me your benevolence,” Bingley sneered. “You and your cousin have already taken everything else. My household. My neighbors…even my—” His voice faltered, then hardened again. “Even my family now prefers your company.”
“That is not fair,” Miss Bingley said quietly. “And you know it.”
Bingley rounded on her. “And you, Caroline? You stand there and smile while they plan to decamp? Have you no loyalty?”
“I have loyalty,” she replied steadily. “But I will not sacrifice my dignity—or theirs—to indulge your temper.”
Hurst moved closer to Darcy, muttering under his breath, “Heaven help him. He is unraveling.”
Bingley laughed, harsh and humorless. “Very well. Go. All of you. Leave me to manage my affairs alone, as I apparently always have.”
Darcy held his gaze. “You are not alone, Bingley. But you cannot expect others to remain if you refuse counsel, reject support, and lash out at those who care for you.”
Silence fell, thick and uncomfortable. For a moment—just a moment—Darcy thought Bingley might relent.
Instead, Bingley turned abruptly and strode from the room, slamming the door behind him with enough force to rattle the windows.
No one spoke. At last, Mrs. Hurst let out a long breath. “That…could have gone better.”
Darcy closed his eyes briefly. “Yes,” he said softly. “It could have.”
Arrangements were made for the Hursts and Miss Bingley to remove to Purvis Lodge on the morrow. Even as concern for his friend weighed heavily upon him, Darcy knew the decision was the correct one. Whatever storms still gathered around Netherfield Park, he and Richard—and those who chose peace—would weather them elsewhere.
Bingley’s desperation had begun to curdle into something dangerous.
And Darcy feared that unless checked soon, it would cost them all far more than he wished.
Chapter Twenty-Six
An evening at Haye Park proved a welcome balm after days of unsettled spirits and whispered anxieties. Elizabeth found herself grateful for the simplicity of it: a modest gathering, a handful of familiar faces, and no expectation beyond civility and good cheer. The Lucases were there, of course—Sir William in fine form, expansive yet restrained, and Charlotte quietly attentive to her mother’s every comfort. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam arrived together, their presence lending the evening an air of consequence without stiffness. It was not a grand assembly, merely a circle of acquaintances gathered for cards, light refreshments, and conversation, but it felt precisely suited to the moment.
Elizabeth enjoyed a cautious hand of whist beside Darcy, amused by his seriousness at the table and by the subtle glances he sent her when fortune favored them. Colonel Fitzwilliam proved a lively companion to Jane, drawing her into conversation even between hands, and Elizabeth noted—once again—how her sister’s reserve softened in his presence. Jane laughed more freely that evening than she had in days.Mrs. Bennet, pleased by the company of her friends and the attentions paid to her daughters, contented herself with praising the spread and declaring the night a triumph. Mary contributed a well-thought observation or two before being coaxed into conversation by Charlotte’s amiable discourse.
There was no mention of treasure, no hint of dispute or jealousy. For a few hours, Hertfordshire’s troubles seemed distant, reduced to nothing more than the crackle of the fire and the clink of glasses. When the evening ended, Elizabeth felt a peaceful contentment settle over her; a sense that, whatever storms brewed beyond their circle, there remained places of safety and kindness.
They returned to Longbourn beneath a sky clear and sharp with stars. The household moved quickly toward rest; the servants were dismissed for the night, candles extinguished one by one. Elizabeth retired with a mind still warm from conversation and laughter, and she fell asleep thinking that perhaps peace might yet be restored to their lives.
She did not know how little time would pass before that illusion shattered.
A sharp crash wrenched Elizabeth from sleep—glass breaking, unmistakable and violent. She sat bolt upright, heart pounding, straining to hear. Another sound followed: the scrape of furniture, the dull thud of something overturned. Wrapping a shawl about her shoulders, she hurried into the corridor and went straight to her father’s chamber, knocking once, then again.
The door opened almost at once. Mr. Bennet stood there, fully awake, his expression grim.
“I heard it,” he said in low tones, before she could speak. “Go back to your room, Elizabeth.”
She hesitated, fear and defiance warring within her. “Papa—”
“Go,” he repeated more firmly.
Elizabeth obeyed, though she did not return to bed. She waited, pacing, every nerve drawn tight. Minutes stretched intolerably. At last, footsteps sounded in the hall, and her father appeared at her door.
“Come,” he said. “You should see.”
He led her to the library. The sight struck her like a blow. Drawers had been pulled out and overturned, papers strewn across the floor, a chair toppled on its side. The room looked violated, its familiar order reduced to chaos.
