This had happened so frequently of late that it could no longer be considered an accident. At first he had excused it as the natural consequence of proximity. Lyme was a small place, Mrs Makepeace’s house a smaller one, and Elizabeth had a way of being remembered by rooms long after she had left them. He could not sit in the front parlour without recalling the tilt of her head when she challenged him. He could not pass through the hall without being punished by the memory of a bonnet ribbon and his own unforgivable want of sense.
It was no use pretending the matter was slight. He loved her.
He had known her only a few weeks. That fact ought to have restored some proportion to the matter. It did not. Indeed, it made the whole business more alarming. Had he known her for years, he might at least have comforted himselfwith the respectability of duration; instead, he was obliged to acknowledge that a young woman previously unknown to him had entered his life by means of a seaside lodging house, an unfortunate collision of foreheads and several conversations in which she had disagreed with him almost as a matter of principle, and had somehow made herself as necessary to him as breathing.
He rose and attempted to dress with his usual care, but found his attention unequal even to the tying of his cravat. This was absurd. A man might lose his heart and still retain the ability to arrange linen. Eventually he achieved an appearance of respectability and sat down to write to his steward. The letter advanced tolerably for six lines before a sentence concerning a boundary wall somehow became entangled with the memory of Elizabeth’s expression when she had said that persistence was not always attractive. He read it back twice, discovered no possible way of rescuing it, and abandoned the attempt.
By breakfast he had resolved upon moderation. This, he thought, was essential. He had been too hurried in his proposal, too certain in his conclusions, too ungoverned in his conduct. He would not repeat the error. He would speak to Elizabeth calmly. If she would allow him to begin again, if she would permit him the smallest chance of improving his cause, he would be patient.
The resolution was admirable and lasted until he reached the hall.
Mrs Makepeace’s house, ordinarily ruled with a sense of rigid order, had been overtaken by the unmistakable disorder of departure. Trunks stood against the wall. Bandboxes occupied chairs. A travelling cloak lay folded across the banister. A maid hurried past with a bonnet box in each hand and a look of intense concentration. Mrs Makepeace herself stood at the centre of it all, directing the movement of luggage with the calmness and confidence of a general. If Napoleon had ever thought to employ her, the French might have taken Europe in half the time and with far better-packed linen.
Darcy stopped upon the last stair. For a moment he stood looking at the trunks without understanding them. The sight ought to have been plain enough, but his mind resisted it. Only the previous evening Elizabeth had been laughing in the drawing room. Nothing had seemed altered. Lyme itself had acquired an odd feeling of permanence in his imagination, as though a place that had changed his life so completely might be exempt from ordinary endings.
The illusion lasted no more than a moment. Mr Bennet's face rose immediately before him. Darcy thought of the older gentleman's watchful composure and of the curious way every private conversation had become impossible since his arrival.The departure suddenly made perfect sense. Mr Bennet had reached a conclusion and acted upon it. The matter was already decided.
Mrs Makepeace saw him and paused with a folded travelling rug in her hands. "Good morning, Mr Darcy. You had better go into breakfast."
"Why?"
"Because Mr Bingley is in there looking as though someone has informed him that Christmas has been abolished. He has heard the news."
"The news?"
She looked at him for a moment. "Ah."
It was a small syllable, but Darcy disliked it immediately.
"The Bennets are leaving this morning."
He heard the words quite clearly. It was their meaning that seemed to arrive slowly."This morning?"
"Yes. Mr Bennet gave the order last night. She wished to start early, which is sensible. Nothing good ever comes from travelling after noon. By that point people have generally spent the morning delaying their departure and the evening regretting it."
Darcy said nothing.
Mrs Makepeace’s expression softened. An expression that did not fall naturally on her face. "I thought you knew."
"No."
"I see. Then nobody thought to tell you." She folded the rug with unnecessary precision. "Mr Makepeace, God rest him, always maintained that unpleasant news grows no smaller for being hidden under a napkin. People persist in trying the experiment."
Darcy had no answer. The news had not yet arranged itself into anything he could sensibly respond to. He inclined his head and continued into the breakfast room, carrying with him the uncomfortable conviction that the world had altered while he was asleep.
Bingley was there already, staring into his coffee blankly. "They are leaving," he said as soon as Darcy entered.
"Yes."
"This morning."
"So I am told."
"But Miss Bennet said nothing of it yesterday." Bingley looked up with sudden anxiety. "Do you think she knew? No, she cannot have known. She would have said something. At least I think she would. She would not simply go without—" He stopped,evidently finding the sentence impossible to finish. "Darcy, I do not care for this at all."
Nor did Darcy. But Bingley’s distress, open and unguarded as it was, had the effect of forcing his own into some semblance of order.
"Have you seen her?"
