Page 60 of Dear Friend

Why had speaking to Mr. Darcy felt so easy when, every now and then, listening to him felt strangely like being remembered?

~

Netherfield

Darcy

Darcy found Bingley alone in the breakfast room when he returned, the remains of an early breakfast still spread before him and a newspaper folded, unread, at his elbow.

“There you are.” Bingley looked up. “I had begun to think you lost. Where have you been all morning?”

“Walking. I wished to see something more of the country before the weather turns.” Darcy poured himself coffee from the pot upon the sideboard, conscious of how carefully incomplete the answer was.

“You have been walking a remarkably long time for a man who has scarcely left Netherfield since arriving, and you were gone before any of us were properly awake.” Bingley regarded him with mild curiosity. “Caroline will be disappointed. She has been asking whether you mean to accompany her into Meryton this afternoon. She says you mentioned wanting to see something of the neighbourhood.”

“I had not intended to accompany your sister.” Darcy took a measured sip of his coffee. “And I have begun to see something of the neighbourhood on my own.”

“No, I did not suppose you had.” Bingley returned to his newspaper, though not before giving Darcy another glance. “Whatever you have been about, you look considerably more cheerful than you did when you arrived in Hertfordshire. I begin to think town agrees with you.”

Darcy made no answer beyond drinking his coffee. The observation was unfortunately accurate. He had spent close to an hour in Elizabeth's company and returned to Netherfield with the uncomfortable knowledge that he would willingly have spent more.

Yet it was not their conversation about books or Derbyshire which remained most strongly with him as he climbed the stairs to his room. It was Julia.

Until I know otherwise, I would rather believe there is some explanation I have not yet been given

Darcy’s thoughts returned to Elizabeth’s words, which had followed him all the way back to Netherfield. Somehow, he had found himself in the middle of her dilemma, possessing part of the explanation she wanted while lacking the one answer that mattered most. After telling Bingley he would take breakfast later, Darcy went directly to his room and sat at the writing desk.

Though Mr. Humphrey had previously reported finding nothing of consequence, Darcy wrote again, requesting every particular he could discover concerning Mr. Harding, however insignificant. If Harding could not be found through Somerset, another means would have to be attempted, even if Darcy had only the slightest information with which to begin.

Darcy paused, his pen hovering above the page.

Richard.

His cousin possessed acquaintances Darcy did not, particularly amongst military men and those whose connections carried them continually between counties. More importantly, Richard could make enquiries without exciting the sort of attention Darcy's own name might attract. If Mr. Harding remained somewhere in England, there was a reasonable chance that a man with sufficient connections might discover some trace of him.

Darcy finished his instructions to Humphrey and sanded the sheet. Once he received an answer, he would write to Richard with something more useful than a surname and an uncertain history.

The decision brought an unexpected sense of relief.

He could not undo what had already happened. He could not return Elizabeth's letters unread, nor pretend he had not stood beside her that morning asking questions whose answers he already knew. But perhaps he could accomplish something beyond merely regretting it.

He could find Harding.

And through Harding, perhaps Julia.

Darcy leaned back in his chair, remembering the change in Elizabeth's face when she had spoken of her friend. He had wanted several times that morning to offer comfort and had known that anything he said must either be inadequate or reveal too much. He was growing tired of possessing information he could not honourably explain and offering words where she needed certainty.

If he spoke to her of Julia again, he wanted to have something to give her.

A direction. News. Proof that her friend was safe. Anything more substantial than another assurance that silence need not mean affection had died.

Whether Elizabeth ever knew what part he had played in discovering it seemed, at that moment, surprisingly unimportant.

Darcy sealed the letter to Mr. Humphrey and rang for it to be sent with the day's post.

For the first time since arriving in Hertfordshire, he felt he had done something concerning Julia Harding that he need not be ashamed of.

Chapter Twenty-Two