Bingley looked out. “What is it?”
“It seems we are to be invaded by every Bennet in the county.”
Mrs. Hurst rose slightly to peer toward the lawn. “I see no one.”
“She has crossed past the shrubbery. Miss Elizabeth Bennet.” Miss Bingley’s tone made the name sound less like a guest and more like an affliction. “Walking, I suppose. Through the fields. How very rustic.”
Bingley’s face brightened at once. “She has come to see her sister. That is a very loving thing to do.”
Miss Bingley opened her mouth, likely to say something unwise, but Bingley continued before she could. “We will be polite, Caroline.”
There was nothing loud in the words, but the firmness of them was unmistakable. He looked directly at his sister as he spoke.
Miss Bingley stared at him, then gave a small, brittle smile. “Of course, Charles. I should never suggest otherwise.”
Mrs. Hurst, perhaps perceiving more danger than usual in her sister’s expression, added smoothly, “Certainly. A good hostess could do nothing less, particularly when Miss Bennet is unwell.”
Her glance toward Miss Bingley held warning enough to be understood.
Miss Bingley’s smile tightened. “Naturally.”
Darcy said nothing.
He could not have spoken easily if addressed. His entire attention had gone to the door, to the hall beyond it, to the knowledge that Elizabeth Bennet would soon be entering the house. It was extraordinary; she had walked three miles, perhaps more, through damp fields to see her sister.
Ofcourseshe had.
The same young woman who had climbed into a hidden cellar beneath Gracechurch Street—of course she would come.
Would she look at him as she had at Lucas Lodge, with caution softened by something he dared not yet name? Or had the intervening days cooled whatever little forgiveness she had granted him there? He had thought of her far too often since that evening—of her wit, her music, the arch look she had given him when she spoke of unattended headaches. More than once, he had caught himself wondering what she was doing at that very moment, whether she walked the fields, read in some sunny corner of Longbourn, teased her sisters, or thought of him at all.
That last possibility was the one he most wished to know the answer to.
The footsteps in the hall drew nearer.
Darcy sat very still, feeling an absurd tightness in his chest as the servant approached the breakfast room door.
∞∞∞
Mrs. Nicholls was in the entrance hall when Elizabeth was admitted to Netherfield, and she crossed the polished floor at once with the air of a woman intercepting disaster before it could be announced incorrectly.
“I will show Miss Elizabeth in,” she said to the footman.
The young man, who had only just opened his mouth to ask where Elizabeth wished to be taken, nodded and resumed his post by the door. Mrs. Nicholls gave him one satisfied glance, then turned down the passage, motioning Elizabeth to follow.
“How is my sister?” Elizabeth asked as soon as they were beyond the footman’s hearing.
“She passed a restless night, miss, but she is warm and properly attended. Miss Bingley did see that she had a good room, a clean nightgown, and a fire kept up, to give her her due.” Mrs. Nicholls’s mouth tightened. “Though I rather suspect she hoped Miss Bennet would wake well enough to be packed off before Mr. Bingley was troubled with knowing she had ever been ill.”
Elizabeth stopped short. “Mr. Bingley does not know?”
“Not until this morning. The servants were ordered not to bother the master with it.”
“Not bother him?” Elizabeth repeated, her voice low with disbelief.
“That was the phrase reported to me.” Mrs. Nicholls glanced toward the breakfast room door at the far end of the passage. “I sent word to him by Mr. Darcy’s valet, however. Bates seems to be a sensible man, and I thought if Mr. Darcy knew, Mr. Bingley would not long remain ignorant.”
Elizabeth released a breath through her nose, only half in patience. “And did he?”
