Page 56 of Near Pemberley

Indeed, the longer he remained there without intelligence from Hertfordshire, the more oppressive every day became. No answer had arrived from Mr. Bennet. No second communication followed the abrupt departure from Lambton. He attempted patience; afterwards, reason; finally, deliberate occupation. None succeeded for long.

Something serious had happened. He could no longer persuade himself otherwise.

Not knowing became increasingly difficult to endure.

Several times, indeed, he came very near abandoning all restraint entirely and riding to Longbourn himself.

The impulse would seize him – most often late at night after hours spent unsuccessfully attempting occupation, or in the early mornings when another unanswered day lay before him. He imagined arriving without ceremony, enquiring directly after the Bennets, seeing with his own eyes whether Elizabeth was safe, whether her distress had lessened or increased, whether the abruptness of her departure from Lambton had arisen from grief, illness, or some calamity still unknown to him.

More than once, he nearly yielded to the impulse. Yet reason always returned before action. What right had he to present himself there? None.

Their renewed understanding at Lambton, however precious it had become to him, afforded no claim upon her family. He was not her relation, nor even properly her friend. To arrive uninvited at Longbourn under present circumstances would expose both Elizabeth and himself to observation and conjecture he could not justify.

For against it stood the recollection of her countenance at Lambton – her openness at parting, the sincerity with which she had met his attentions, the visible agitation of her departure. No, something had happened. Something sufficiently serious to interrupt every other consideration.

Pride restrained him sometimes; delicacy more often. There were hours when he believed his appearance at Longbourn would only deepen Elizabeth’s embarrassment, forcing her to endure compassion she might prefer spared her. At others, he feared something still more painful: that his presence would be received merely with civility – tolerated, perhaps even welcomed politely, but no longer wished for personally.

That fear alone kept him in London.

***

Colonel Fitzwilliam arrived in London towards the end of September with all his usual spirits and very little patience for melancholy.

“You look infernally ill, Darcy,” were among the first words with which he greeted his cousin after dinner. “If this continues much longer, Georgiana will have you prescribed broth and scripture.”

Darcy, who had hardly touched either wine or food despite Richard’s encouragement, merely replied that the London air disagreed with him.

“Nonsense. It is solitude that disagrees with you.”

Darcy made no answer.

The colonel leant back in his chair and regarded him more attentively. “You think too much.”

“That fault is hardly a recent one.”

“No, but formerly you contrived to do it without appearing condemned to execution.”

Darcy gave the faintest indication of impatience. “I assure you I am perfectly well.”

“Yes,” returned Richard dryly. “And I am a bishop.”

Beyond the windows of Darcy’s lodgings, London murmured ceaselessly through the evening darkness – wheels over stone, distant voices, the restless movement of a city which never seemed entirely to sleep.

Richard filled his glass again. “Are you going to tell me?”

Darcy’s expression altered slightly, though he did not immediately answer.

His silence was answer enough.

The colonel sighed. “God help me, then you are serious indeed.”

Darcy rose and crossed towards the fireplace. “It no longer signifies.”

“That,” said Richard, “is precisely how a man speaks when it signifies too much.”

Darcy made no reply. He rose and moved towards the window.

The streets below lay dim beneath early-autumn mist, restless with the ceaseless movement peculiar to London: wheels upon stone, distant voices, lamps glimmering through the damp evening air. Ordinarily, he found the city useful precisely because it demanded nothing personal from him. One might disappear into it completely.