Page 40 of A November to Remember

“You walked fifty feet, Richard,” Robert said, shaking his head.

“It is brisk out! I require sustenance.” Richard swallowed and grinned at Miss Elizabeth. “How is the patient? Has Cook been following my exact specifications regarding the beef tea?”

“She has, Colonel. Jane was able to keep a few spoonfuls down last night, thanks to your culinary command.”

Richard puffed out his chest, pleased with himself.

“We are delighted to hear it,” Robert said seriously. “If the patient needs something, anything that falls in my power, do not hesitate to alert me, ma’am. Day or night.”

After Miss Elizabeth thanked him quietly, his expression changed, his eyes dancing as he looked from her to Darcy, taking in Darcy’s dishevelled state with unholy amusement. “And you, Cousin? Have you decided to embrace a life of ruggedness? Have you been in the chicken house with barley seeds in your hair? You should have politely requested that the hens spare you.”

Darcy crossed his arms over his chest, fully aware of how he looked while his cousins were the embodiment of gentlemen of the ton. “I was in a hurry.”

“Clearly,” Robert murmured. He stepped forward and offered his arm to the lady. “Miss Elizabeth, you look chilled. And while I appreciate the bracing qualities of the air, I cannot allow you to freeze to death in a paddock. You must come and have breakfast.”

Miss Elizabeth hesitated, glancing at the house. “I confess, my lord, I am not adequately armoured for Miss Bingley this morning.”

“Fear not!” Richard declared, moving to her other side and offering his massive arm. “You are now escorted by the British Army and the House of Commons. If Miss Bingley attempts a frontal assault, I shall distract her with a plate of sausages, and Robert shall confuse her with a compliment about her ribbons. You shall eat your toast in peace.”

She laughed heartily and slipped her hands into the crooks of their arms. “Very well. I surrender to your superior tactics.”

“Forward march,” Richard ordered.

They turned and walked to the house, Miss Elizabeth sandwiched between the two tall men, chatting and laughing with an effortless banter that Darcy could not replicate if his life depended on it.

He trailed a few paces behind them, feeling as superfluous as an extra wheel on a coach. He watched his cousins charm her, jealousy twisting in his gut. They were unburdened by the crushing weight of pride and consequence that paralysed him every time he tried to speak to her. They did not overthink every syllable; they simply enjoyed her company. He followed them, knowing that he was the brooding storm cloud trailing behind their sunshine. He excused himself briefly to his chambers to put on a waistcoat and coat, enduring Dawson’s silent, judgmental eyebrow, before making his way downstairs to the breakfast room.

Caroline Bingley sat at the table, wrapped in a morning gown of orange silk that belonged in a London ballroom, not a country breakfast. Louisa Hurst was staring blankly at a piece of toast as if hoping it might transform into beetroot juice. Mr Hurst was slumped in his chair, his head propped on one hand, snoring softly into a plate of untouched smoked herring.

Charles Bingley was pacing once again. The moment Miss Elizabeth entered, escorted by the Fitzwilliam brothers, Bingley launched himself across the room.

“Miss Elizabeth!” he gasped, halting just shy of colliding with her. “How is she? Is the fever worse? Does she require more blankets? I can have the entire linen closet brought up. I can have a second fireplace built. I swear it!”

“Mr Bingley, please, breathe.” She moved away from her companions to offer him a reassuring smile. “Jane is holding her own. The fever has not worsened, though it has not yet broken. She is resting comfortably.”

Bingley sagged with relief, a hand going to his chest. “Thank God. Thank God. Oh, do sit down, Miss Elizabeth. Please. Eat everything. Hughes! Bring fresh tea! Bring ham!”

When Darcy entered fully, Miss Bingley’s eyes snapped to him, her predatory smile instantly plastered on her face.

“Mr Darcy!” she cooed, patting the empty chair to her right. “You are late! I was just telling Louisa how I feared you had been overcome by the rustic atmosphere. Do come sit by me; I have secured the finest marmalade.”

Darcy ignored the empty chair by her side. Instead, he walked to the other end of the table and took the seat opposite Miss Elizabeth.

Miss Bingley’s smile fractured for a second before she rapidly reassembled it. She turned her sights on Miss Elizabeth.

“Oh, Miss Eliza.” Miss Bingley’s voice was dripping with artificial sweetness. “I had not expected you to leave your sister’s side at all. How... robust of you to require sustenance so soon. I imagine all that tramping yesterday has left you quite ravenous. Mud must be so uniquely invigorating.”

Miss Elizabeth paused, her teacup halfway to her lips. Her exhaustion gave way to a familiar spark, but before she could formulate a polite evisceration, Darcy found his voice.

“Robustness, Miss Bingley,” Darcy said, his deep baritone cutting across the table with the subtle force of a falling boulder, “is the foundation of the Empire. I commend it. A constitution capable of braving the elements out of devotion to a sibling is infinitely superior to one that wilts at the sight of a raincloud.”

Mr Hurst snorted, shifted his weight, and resumed snoring. Richard paused with a sausage halfway to his mouth, his eyes wide. Robert leaned back in his chair, his expression one of pure ecstasy.

Caroline Bingley’s mouth opened and closed silently, resembling an orange, confused trout.

“I—well—yes. Quite,” she stammered, shrinking back into her chair and finding her teacup fascinating.

Darcy glanced at Miss Elizabeth.