Page 6 of The Servants’ Matchmaking

Darcy gave him a warning look, the kind that had, on occasion, silenced entire drawing rooms. McKeever received it with the serenity of a man who had survived considerably worse looks over considerably better provocation.

"The plain cravat," Darcy repeated, as though the matter were still in question.

"Certainly, sir."

At dinner, the chair opposite Darcy remained empty. Elizabeth had elected to dine with her sister, and the empty chair somehow took up more room than an occupied one ever had. Caroline lamented the decision so often, and with such elaborate sorrow, that her relief became audible beneath it.

"Miss Eliza is determined to exhaust herself. I admire devotion, but there are limits."

"Not all admirable qualities are improved by limits."

Caroline glanced at him. "Surely you do not approve of her arriving in such a state."

"I did not say that."

"Then we agree."

They did not agree. Not remotely. But Darcy saw no benefit in explaining the distinction to a woman who had already decided what he thought.

Bingley ate almost nothing and asked twice whether the apothecary had sent word. Mrs. Hurst advised him to stop worrying, in the tone of someone advising a dog to stop barking. Hurst advised him to finish the claret, which was, in fairness, the only advice Hurst ever gave anyone. Darcy watched his friend push food about his plate without eating a bite of it. "The apothecary comes at nine."

"Yes. Nicholls told me." Bingley glanced towards the door for perhaps the tenth time. "Miss Bennet seemed much worse this afternoon."

"Her sister is with her."

"That is a comfort."

Caroline set down her fork with a small, precise click. "Charles, you speak as though Miss Bennet had no proper care until her sister came tramping across the fields."

"I speak as though she wanted her sister."

The answer was simple. Almost embarrassingly so. Caroline found no use for it and returned, with some determination, to her fish.

After dinner, Darcy declined cards. He went to the library with a real intention to work. Two estate letters required answers, and Georgiana deserved a page not marred by a man's inability to keep his own thoughts in order. The south fire had been lit, crackling low and orange. Cowper's place on the shelf stood empty, a small gap in the row like a missing tooth.

He sat at the writing table. Rain struck the windows in irregular gusts, and somewhere above him a woman walked across a room, paused, and crossed again, the old house carrying the faint tread down through the ceiling. He had no earthly means of knowing whether the steps belonged to Elizabeth. He knew anyway. It is her. He did not examine why he was so certain.

At half past nine, Bingley entered without knocking, his face flushed with relief.

"The fever has turned. The apothecary is satisfied."

Darcy put down his pen. "I am glad."

"Miss Elizabeth has scarcely slept since she arrived."

"She has been here one day."

"That is still too long to go without sleep."

Bingley went to the fire and stood over it, warming hands that did not look cold. His easy, open face carried an apprehension Darcy had seen on it only once before, when a favourite tenant's child had gone missing near the river for the better part of an afternoon. "Jane is very good."

Darcy noticed the Christian name and chose not to notice it aloud. "Yes."

"You sound surprised."

"I am not."

"Caroline says the family is unsuitable."