Page 40 of The Longbourn Bloodline

Hoofbeats sounded on the lane, that of a rider approaching at speed, drawing both men to look out the window.

“That is one of my mother’s men,” Richard said, already going to the door.

He opened the door as the courier dismounted, leading the horse as Darcy’s valet took the reins.

“Mr. Darcy.” The courier was breathing hard, his face reddened by cold and exertion. “Colonel Fitzwilliam. An express from Lady Matlock. She bid me find you with all haste.”

Darcy pressed a coin in the man’s hand and turned from the door. The letter bore the Matlock seal—his aunt’s heavy wax, pressed with the eagle crest Richard’s family had carried since the Conquest. Darcy broke it with his thumb and read, aware of Richard standing at his shoulder.

Lady Matlock’s hand was firm, her displeasure firmer.

Nephew, I write with considerable displeasure at you and Richard sojourning in the wilderness of a minor estate in Hertfordshire, the chief distinction of which appears to be its good fortune in possessing an entail to a Darcy.

Georgiana has been taken with a fever these three days. She asks for you, Fitzwilliam, and though the physician assures me the worst has passed, I do not consider his assurance sufficient grounds for your continued absence. She is still a child, and she wants her brother. We expect you both for the twelve nights, as was arranged before your unaccountable detour. I trust you will not require a second summons.

This backwater neither deserves your company nor, from what I am able to gather, has done anything to welcome it. I cannot think what detains you.

Come at once. Do not delay for courtesy or obligation. Your sister asks for you.

H. Fitzwilliam, Countess of Matlock

“Well,” Richard said, having read over Darcy’s shoulder. “My mother is not pleased, although I wonder if she would spare me as Miss Jane Bennet is now an heiress.”

“Georgiana is ill,” Darcy said. “We must go within the hour. Have the horses brought round, and Vernon can follow with the trunks.”

“Shall we not ride over to Longbourn and bid farewell to the Bennets?”

Darcy’s jaw tightened. He had been imagining life going on as before—Elizabeth and him visiting the tenants, inspecting the mill, planning the drainage improvements, but he was no longer the Longbourn heir. He had no business being here while Georgiana lay burning with fever.

“My sister needs me. I shall write Mr. Bennet a note while Vernon packs.” He spoke to his valet, who immediately began the diligent act of packing and clearing the tiny cottage.

Colonel Fitzwilliam retreated to the stables to see about the horses while Darcy settled at his writing desk. The note to Mr. Bennet was easy. Congenial and short, conveying his regret at the sudden departure, his gratitude for Mr. Bennet’s hospitality and generosity in the matter of the entail. It was a clean letter to a man he had considered his friend, and he was sorry he had to cut his visit short.

But he could not leave without a note to his Elizabeth, and this letter…

He reached for a fresh sheet, then hesitated.

What could he say? I did not wish to leave without telling you—telling her what? He had told her everything last night. Every truth he possessed, every feeling he had concealed, every fault he had committed. He had emptied himself on the floor of that parlor like a man turning his pockets inside out, and she had sat there with the firelight on her face and given him a nod and a silence and sent him away.

He could not write I will return because he did not know whether she wished him to return. He could not write I remain yours, because she had not agreed to receive him. He could not write anything that constituted speaking, because he had promised—sworn, in the most binding terms a gentleman could offer short of a vow before God—that he would not speak again unless she gave him leave.

And so, he wrote what he would say if she were never to read his words. Would she think of him? Miss him? Not think too ill of what he had confessed? He did not dare ask if she would want him or yearn to see him again.

Love him.

And he did not answer the questions because every statement of hope would violate the silence he had promised to keep.

If he never heard from her again, at least he had asked the right questions. He folded up the single sheet of paper, neatly and evenly, because that was how he was taught. He did not crumple the paper, could not burn it, because the words, although inadequate, half-formed and broken, were the truest words he had written. The answers he wished she conveyed from that single nod.

“Darcy.” Richard’s voice was sharp from the doorway. He had the good grace not to look at the desk, though Darcy suspected he had seen enough. “The horses are ready.”

“A moment.” Darcy folded the note to Mr. Bennet and handed it to Vernon. “See that this is delivered to the house before we reach the Meryton road.”

He stared at the remaining letter, the one carrying his heart. He could not leave it on the table for anyone to find. Vernon was already leaving, and Richard had stepped outside. Darcy looked at the desk and then at the gap below it, where two stones met. The plaster had pulled away, and the mortar had crumbled. The plasterer had missed it during the repairs, and so, without further thought, he pressed the folded letter into the gap, shoving it where it would not be seen—his unsent questions, his helpless love—left behind at Longbourn, as though he might leave some part of himself behind with them.

I came for you. I stayed for you. I surrendered everything for you.

And you gave me nothing. And I still love you.