part0028

As the party progressed towards the dining room, Elizabeth glanced around her, if not with great expectations of a delightful evening, at least without an impending sense of doom. The deeply reassuring and heart-warming interlude earlier in the afternoon had considerably raised her spirits. Her walk with Darcy had to be cut short regardless of their wishes, for Mrs Jennings’ witticisms did not require fuelling. Even so, the precious, soothing time together brought back the joy, and worked wonders for them both.

Thankfully, the conversation at dinner caused her no discomfort. Her mother was loud, Mrs Jennings was brash, but as long as Darcy was unaffected, she could be as indifferent to their antics as she had been in Devonshire. She smiled at the novel thought. She had been mortified earlier that day to hear Mrs Jennings teasing Mr Darcy about his call in Portman Square and its implications, yet the lady’s far heavier innuendos regarding Colonel Brandon had brought nothing but amusement – simply because the Colonel had not touched her heart.

As her musings reached the subject of her heart, Elizabeth filtered a glance across the table to where Darcy sat – for Jane was astute enough to see that tonight she would be happier to sit across from him and share a look now and again, rather than dine beside him and strive to feign disinterest.

She found him in pleasant conversation with Kitty and Marianne and was reassured as to his comfort, particularly as her mother and Mrs Jennings were conveniently distant, at the other end of the table – poor Charles – and were happy to chat to each other, rather than quiz and tease their dinner companions.

“Hertfordshire is a delightful country,” she heard Colonel Brandon observe at her right. “From what I have seen of it so far, I believe I should like it very well. ”

Elizabeth’s lips twitched. The good Colonel seemed apt to like any country very well as long as Marianne was visiting it with him. She could not say as much, of course, so instead she replied:

“I am happy to hear it, but presumably not for a great length of time.”

“You would miss the hills, Sir, and the sea,” Elizabeth clarified with a smile. “To anyone accustomed to the windswept beauty of the coast, Hertfordshire must seem a tame and very dull country.”

‘Tame perhaps, but not dull. Not by a fair margin,’ Darcy thought, taking in the glorious sight of her. She looked lovely – but then she always did – and it was reassuring to see her at ease. Too engrossed in anything about her, he did not catch what was said next, but it must have been diverting, for she laughed lightly, and her eyes sparkled. He glanced back to his plate, lest his open adoration become visible for all to see, thinking in passing how inconceivable it would have seemed, less than a month ago, to feel not anguish but calm satisfaction at the sight of her laughing light-heartedly with Brandon. Unable to resist the temptation, he raised his eyes to her again, this time his gaze drawing hers in a brief but heart-warming exchange, before he turned to engage Miss Marianne Dashwood in conversation.

“And how do you like Devonshire? I believe I heard your sister mention that you have not always lived there.”

“We have lived in Sussex till this spring, but now Devonshire feels very much like home,” Marianne was quick to answer.

“I am happy to hear it. I have visited the country only once as a very young boy, but I fear I do not have firm recollections of it.”

He could not have. He was barely seven at the time, travelling with his parents to visit his recently married Aunt Arabella. He remembered virtually nothing of the place, save for a memorable day out sailing with his father and Lord Farringdon – his very first and, for many years afterwards, his only experience of the kind.

“I believe I can see Elizabeth’s meaning,” Marianne replied. “Sussex, although a very happy place for us, is probably quite tame and dull by comparison. I longed for it when we moved away, but now I can hardly envisage living anywhere but in Devonshire,” she added, with a soft glance towards Brandon .

“A fine country indeed, with much to recommend it,” Mr Ferrars spoke up, and Marianne turned towards him with a smile.

“It is remarkable that we should both think so, although we do appear to admire polar opposites, do we not?”

“My admiration of it, Miss Marianne, I can freely give, but you must not inquire too far. Remember I have no knowledge of the picturesque and I shall offend you with my want of taste if we come to the particulars. I call it a very fine country. The hills are steep, the woods seem full of fine timber and the valley looks comfortable and snug. It perfectly answers my idea of a fine country, because it unites beauty with utility.”

“’Tis fortunate that it does appeal to you, then, seeing as it will become your home,” Marianne replied sweetly, then turned towards Elizabeth. “You do not know one of our greatest joys,” she added with another fond smile at her betrothed. “Elinor will be settled very close to us, as Mr Ferrars is to be the new rector of Delaford parish.”

While Elizabeth warmly offered her congratulations, Darcy digested the notion of Ferrars’ future connection to the Dashwoods, and Mrs Jennings hurried to finish chewing her sweetmeat, so that she could add:

“That was a very generous gesture, Colonel, and no less than I expected of you. And not because young people would do anything for love. For I am quite certain you would have offered Mr Ferrars the living of Delaford regardless, not just to please your future bride and her sister.”

Brandon civilly accepted the compliment without any comment, and Marianne turned to Mr Ferrars again:

“On the subject of picturesque though, it baffles me why you should boast of your disinterest of it.”

“I suspect,” said Elinor, “that to avoid one kind of affectation, Mr Ferrars falls into another. He believes too many people offer more praise of natural beauty than they feel, so he fancies he should do the opposite.”

Once more, Mr Ferrars laughed softly in response.

“You must allow me to feel no more than I profess. I like a fine prospect, but not on picturesque principles. I do not like crooked, twisted, blasted trees. I admire them much more if they are tall, straight and flourishing. I do not like ruined cottages. I am not fond of nettles, or thistles, or heath blossoms. I have more pleasure in a snug farmhouse than a watchtower, and a troop of tidy, happy villagers please me better than the finest banditti in the world.”

Marianne looked at him with amazement. Elinor only laughed.

“Spoken like a young man of good sense,” Mrs Bennet interjected, nodding vigorously. “You always know where you are with a troop of English villagers, which is more than I can say about others. Why, you only have to look at the mischief on the Continent, some years ago…”

Mr Ferrars gravely bowed his head in Mrs Bennet’s direction.

“I thank you, Ma’am. But knowing your taste for wild beauty, Miss Marianne, I am surprised you have not travelled to Exmoor, or the North coast.”

“There is still time,” she cheerfully replied. “I was not aware that you were familiar with Devonshire, though. Have you seen much of North Devon?”

“Not as such. It was but a short visit, on a whim, on one of my annual return journeys from Plymouth.”

“Aye,” Mr Ferrars confirmed succinctly, with a frown.

“Pray, why would you travel annually from Plymouth, if you do not mind my asking?” Mrs Jennings interjected. “’Tis hardly on the way to anywhere.”

As it happened, Mr Ferrars very much minded her asking, but he could not think of a way of avoiding such a direct question so, cursing his earlier slip of the tongue, he replied:

“My tutor resided near Plymouth, Ma’am.”

“Indeed? And who was your tutor?”

“Not Mr Aloysius Pratt from Longstaple, surely!”

“The very same…” Mr Ferrars confirmed, with a sinking feeling.

“Goodness gracious me, but it is a small world. Who would have thought that my cousin should have been your tutor?” Mrs Jennings exclaimed, and Mr Ferrars turned an interesting shade of grey – only to veer towards a ghostly pallor when Mrs Jennings added: “Then you must know my younger cousins, too. They lived with Mr Pratt for many a year. The Miss Steeles? Or at least you must have known them both as Miss Steeles. ”

“Why, yes, your cousins,” Mrs Bennet spoke up, preventing him from answering and thus unknowingly earning Mr Ferrars’ premature gratitude. “Have you any further tidings of the youngest and her predicament?”

Elizabeth privately thought that anyone’s predicament was hardly a fitting subject for the dining table and cast a vaguely apologetic look at Darcy, only to see him quite unperturbed by the exchange. To her extreme surprise, it was Mr Ferrars who looked positively ill.

“Nay, none at all. I have not heard from Mrs Wickham since August, when she wrote to thank me for my assistance.”

The faint gasp came from Georgiana and, had she not been sitting so close, Elizabeth would have missed it altogether. Yet she could not miss the look of deep concern on Darcy’s countenance, nor the distinct impression that he was sorely tempted to leave the dinner table to come to his sister’s side.

What could be the meaning of this? It was impossible to fathom; it was impossible not to long to know what had the power to utterly discompose two people so wholly unconnected to each other as Georgiana and Mr Ferrars.

“I shall write back when we return to town,” Mrs Jennings added. “As you can imagine, I would dearly like to know if she succeeded in getting her annulment.”

“What do you think of Hertfordshire, Colonel?” Bingley suddenly asked, a trifle too loudly. He had but a vague notion as to the cause of the disquiet, but he had sensed it in at least three of his guests, so clearly a change of topic was in order.

“I was just telling Miss Elizabeth that I find it delightful,” Brandon said in a matching tone, a willing participant in the scheme.

“Perhaps you would care to go riding with me one day. There are many pleasant prospects and places to explore. My stables can cater for anyone who would care for a ride. Perhaps Mr Ferrars would like to join us too. And the ladies. I fear we might not be able to persuade Darcy, seeing as—”

Bingley swallowed his words with a gulp and a creditable bout of contrived cough. He brought his other hand up, then his napkin, to better conceal his unholy mirth as his grandfather’s gruff words suddenly sprang to mind. ‘From the fryin’ pan into the soddin’ fire,’ the old man used to mutter – the earthy, plain-speaking ancestor whom his sisters never mentioned. It was indeed ironic that, having set out to smooth awkward tensions at the table, he very nearly went and caused a downright commotion with the blithe remark that they would not be able to persuade Darcy to join them on their ride, seeing as Elizabeth was no horsewoman.

The look of laughing panic in his eyes amused his dear wife, who fortunately had it in her power to rescue him by standing and inviting the ladies to join her in the drawing room for coffee, and leave the gentlemen to their brandy, claret and port.

The gentlemen stood and bowed as the ladies rose to depart. Having cast another glance at her betrothed, Elizabeth could note that, looking very earnest, he was attempting to catch Georgiana’s eye. She could not see what message her future sister had conveyed, but it must have been acceptable, for Darcy’s countenance seemed to lighten. Elizabeth resigned herself to not knowing what it was all about – it was hardly her business, in any case – and sought to alleviate the discomfort of both the sister and the brother by gently taking Georgiana’s arm and openly showing her desire to put her friend at ease. Georgiana’s smile was a reward in itself, had she sought any. She did not, but was amply rewarded by the look of gratitude that Darcy cast her way, before the dining room door slowly closed behind her.

That blasted name! Would they ever be free of its curse?

He sparingly sipped his drink and acknowledged that he might have jumped to the wrong conclusion. He had merely heard a name, in passing. What reason had he to believe that it had any connection to the blackguard, particularly as it referred to a Mrs Wickham, and heaven only knows that marriage to the niece of a lowly tutor was not part of the fiend’s schemes. In any case, the name did not disturb him half as much as Georgiana’s painful reaction to it, still strong after all this time. It was a great relief to know her in Elizabeth’s capable hands. Otherwise, despite his sister’s attempts to reassure him before leaving the dining room, he would not have been able to remain in his seat with any semblance of composure .

The dining room had grown very quiet and suddenly too large, uncomfortably so, once their number had decreased to four, and Darcy was certain that Bingley was the only one who did not feel distinctly out of place. Still, he was an excellent host, not even his few enemies could dispute that, and despite his own ability to feel at ease in most circumstances, Bingley was quick to ascertain when others did not.

“Would you care to join me in my study for drinks, gentlemen? Unless of course you would prefer to remain here?” he asked, although he already knew the answer.

The study was by far the better choice. The smaller room, the subdued light, the masculine paraphernalia went a long way in putting them at ease and, although none were prone to excessive imbibing, the brandy also helped.

Darcy looked around him and almost laughed at the thought that Bingley would have his hands full in entertaining this party. More often than not, the society his friend attracted was very much like himself – expansive, voluble, convivial. Yet there he was now, caught between three reserved men, two of whom he barely knew and with whom he had very little in common.

Of the two, Ferrars seemed most withdrawn. Having been placed on the same side as him at the dinner table, Darcy had not been able to ascertain the precise turning point of his humour, but there was no doubt that the man was vastly plagued by something.

“Will you come riding on the morrow, Mr Ferrars?” Bingley asked and, finding himself thus addressed, the other started.

“I… I thank you, but no. There is a pressing matter I should attend to. Perhaps another day?”

“But of course.”

“I would be happy to join you, Mr Bingley,” Brandon said. “There is always something to be learned from touring a different estate.”

“I would be happy to tell you everything I know about my crops and pastures, Colonel,” Bingley laughed, “but Netherfield is not very large, nor am I too proficient in its husbandry, I fear. You are more likely to have an enlightening discussion with my friend Darcy.”

And, quite surprisingly, they did. About their estates at first, then gradually drifting towards all manner of unrelated topics such as France, the West Indies, the failings of the present government and coarse fishing, of all things. With great relief, Bingley occasionally joined in their conversation, leaving only Ferrars to be silent .

Darcy had to concede that the interlude in his friend’s study turned out to be more agreeable than he would have thought. Brandon was a well-travelled and well-spoken man, with a great deal of common sense and no mean understanding. The Colonel had commanded his grudging good opinion from the beginning of their acquaintance, although for much of that time Darcy’s appreciation of his fine qualities had been painfully tinged with envy. There was no cause for envy now, of course, and a better acquaintance only served to show similarities of taste and disposition, which might even lead them towards forming a lasting friendship – little as he would have credited it a few months ago.

By the time Bingley suggested they should return to the ladies, Darcy came to think it would be quite pleasant to invite Brandon and his future wife to join them at Pemberley sometime – and, to his surprise, he discovered he was looking forward to it.

Elizabeth took her mother and Mrs Jennings their second cups of tea, then returned to her seat, next to Marianne and Georgiana. The young girls were discussing music, which was a subject apt to draw Georgiana out and, of all the people present, she could not have found a more interested or knowledgeable conversation partner. On the other sofas, Kitty, Elinor and Jane were having their own companionable chat, as were Mrs Jennings and Mrs Bennet – just substantially louder.

“You have not met my middle daughter yet,” Mrs Bennet observed to her friend. “I was so proud of her when she managed to secure Mr Collins! She was my first daughter to become engaged, though she has not a tenth of Jane’s beauty, the dear soul. But then Jane and my dear Lydia soon followed suit, and did so much better.”

Elizabeth cringed at the reference to Lydia’s marriage, unsure whether to wish for the subject to be aired before the gentlemen returned, so that Elinor could be spared the mortification of hearing it in Mr Ferrars’ presence – or hope for a temporary reprieve, for she knew full well that the subject could not be avoided altogether.

“I am delighted for you,” Mrs Jennings replied, endearing herself even further to her friend by adding, “And now of course Lizzy and Kitty will also benefit from the connections, for they will be thrown into the path of other rich men. ”

Elizabeth swallowed uncomfortably when she heard Georgiana faltering in her conversation with Marianne, but then dear Jane mercifully intervened:

“You will meet my sister Mary on the morrow, Ma’am. She and her husband will join us for dinner,” she added with an apologetic look towards Elizabeth, aiming to convey that it could not be helped.

It was true. It could not. Nevertheless, Elizabeth’s eyes widened. But Mrs Bennet was beside herself with joy.

“How thoughtful of you, dear Jane! I declare no one equals you in thoughtfulness and sweetness. To have our family reunited round the dinner table! Such a great shame that dear Lydia and her husband cannot be with us as well at a time like this.”

Elizabeth’s colour deepened and she looked away, thus missing Elinor’s reassuring glance. Yet she could not miss Marianne’s comment, for she said clearly and with feeling:

“We were all delighted to hear of Lydia’s marriage – not least because now we are related to our dearest friends,” she added with a warm smile towards Elizabeth as she reached to clasp her hand, leaving her quite mystified as to the meaning of all this.

Mr Ferrars, Elinor, and by extension Marianne, could not possibly be pleased with the loss of income and its unjust redistribution – and yet Marianne was showing no signs of displeasure. Baffled as she was by her friend’s assurances, Elizabeth could not doubt them. Their increasing intimacy in Devonshire had taught her that Marianne was nothing if not honest, sometimes to the point of giving offence, and in all probability she had never been able to utter a civil falsehood in her life. Diverted as much as reassured, Elizabeth glanced up, only to be further buoyed by the return of the gentlemen. To her surprise and pleasure, she saw Darcy advance into the room with an air of unreserved good-humour, still talking to Colonel Brandon. She smiled at that and, after exchanging a glance with her betrothed, she turned back to Marianne to thank her for the sentiment.

“We should talk later,” her friend whispered.

Elizabeth nodded her agreement and almost giggled in return, remembering the night spent in conversation when Elinor’s engagement was revealed. Indeed, they should talk later. They needed to clear the air regarding Lydia and her new husband, but also this time she had her own momentous intelligence to impart .

As though on cue, Mr Darcy approached her and his sister to inquire about their comfort. To his relief, a glance at Georgiana persuaded him that her earlier disquiet in the dining-room was quite forgotten – but the sight of Elizabeth’s smiling countenance brought his own disquiet, of a wholly different kind.

“Would you care for some coffee, Mr Darcy?” Elizabeth asked and stood, uncannily accurate in reading his mind and perceiving his need for a moment of illusory privacy.

He followed her to the coffee table and stood by her side, screening her from the rest of the company as he bent towards her and quietly asked:

“Are you well? I trust the evening has not been too uncomfortable – has it?”

“Not at all,” she replied truthfully, and could not refrain from impishly adding, “I am perfectly satisfied with it, I thank you. Particularly now.”

Elizabeth looked up towards him and their eyes met briefly, his countenance warming at her words, then she turned her attention back to pouring his coffee.

“How much longer, Elizabeth?” he whispered suddenly, with barely concealed impatience. For the longest time, he had been exceedingly adept at disguising his interest; but after the intervening weeks of happiness taking up the act again was neither easy nor desirable. He longed to be open in his attentions once more, and the sooner their understanding was disclosed, the better. “This pretence,” he added. “It will be seen through soon enough, you know.”

She handed him his cup, lightly stroking his fingers as he reached for the saucer.

“You will be pleased to learn there is an end in sight,” she soothingly replied, then looked up and smiled mischievously. “Brace yourself, Sir. The communications will be made tonight.”

“Communications?” he asked in some surprise, and Elizabeth blushed at the slip of the tongue.

She gave a little conscious shrug. It could not be helped now, and besides, he deserved at least as much honesty as her mother, who would be informed before the night was out. With the excuse that once her mother knew, everybody would, Elizabeth whispered, paying undue attention to pouring more coffee into a fresh cup:

“Aye… Jane has an announcement of her own… ”

He did know, of course. One evening, a few weeks ago, when they were alone in the library, his friend had informed him of it quite unexpectedly, in obvious need to share his joy. Then, not much later, Bingley had excused himself and returned to his wife, leaving him alone with his brandy, and with all manner of ungovernable thoughts. As soon as the door had been carelessly slammed shut, Darcy had leaned his head against the backrest and closed his eyes with a long sigh. It was enough of a trial to nightly contemplate the notion of Elizabeth above-stairs, her bedchamber mere yards from his own, without being so bluntly compelled to consider the difference between his and Bingley’s situation. His loneliness and longing intensified by his friend’s disclosures and eagerness to retire, Darcy had toyed with his brandy, in turn exhilarated and tormented by thoughts of Elizabeth and their upcoming, yet all too distant marriage. He was glad to see his friend so clearly overjoyed, and was cautiously pleased for them both, yet Bingley’s propensity to float through life in a constant whirl of rose-tinted clouds never ceased to astound – nay, annoy him. Darcy had huffed in some impatience at the thought of the younger man bounding about the room as he had shared the intelligence, unable to contain his elation at the prospect of becoming a father and completely oblivious, apparently, to the frightful risk to his wife’s health – her life, even.

Darcy had suddenly drained his glass at the thought, knowing full well that elation would not be his first sentiment – far from it. He wanted an heir, of course, and the mere thought of becoming one in body as well as spirit was enough to rob him of every last shred of peace and patience, yet the prospect of Elizabeth with child bordered on the terrifying. It was a reflection of his mother’s premature passing shortly after being brought to bed, he understood that well enough and saw it for the irrational fear that it was, yet dispassionate logic was as far from his grasp as it was futile.

“Would the ladies be so kind as to indulge us with some music? Miss Marianne, can we persuade you? We have heard a great deal of your proficiency,” Bingley suddenly called, disrupting his thoughts and the general murmur of conversation.

Privately conceding their tête-à-tête had to end for now, lest they attracted premature attention, Elizabeth glanced up at her betrothed with a warm smile of amused resignation, before returning to her seat to add her entreaties to Bingley’s. After an attempt to convince Elizabeth or Georgiana to precede her, which they civilly but earnestly declined, the younger Miss Dashwood graciously agreed to play and walked over to the instrument, while Darcy leisurely made his way to the chair she had just vacated. From the adjacent sofa, his betrothed and his sister looked up to welcome him, before their attention was drawn to Miss Marianne’s exquisite performance.

It was not surprising that Georgiana could not be induced to play, and thankfully no one had discomfited her with undue insistence. Darcy cast another glance towards his sister, only to see her clearly drawn by the enjoyment of music, her sweet countenance free of the diffidence she habitually displayed in large company.

It was a joy to see her thus, and even more so to witness the ease with which she turned to Elizabeth at a pause in the performance, to express her delight with it. The picture they presented warmed his heart. Heads bent together in earnest conversation, Georgiana’s animated expression and Elizabeth’s affectionate response – it was just as he had hoped, and more. His chest swelled and a smile brightened his countenance at the thought that he would see them thus at Pemberley, in Berkeley Square, or wherever they might choose to go, and that Elizabeth would enrich his sister’s life as surely as she was to redeem his.

He needed her more than he had ever needed anyone, with an intensity he found both novel and unnerving. As time goes by, they say, this longing, this aching emptiness at each inevitable separation eventually matures into the calmer joys of companionship, into the security of a shared life. Perhaps. But in his case, he doubted that it would. He might just come to trust in his good fortune and conquer the wild fear of losing her, somehow; but he could not see his sentiments becoming tame and placid any more than he could envisage no longer loving her.

Music filled the room again, fast-paced and sparkling, soothing other spirits. Marianne’s performance was flawless and she sang very well, her rich timbre complementing the fine Italian aria, but the excellence of her skill had no power to deflect Darcy’s attention from his thoughts and the arresting sight before him.

Unexpectedly, Elizabeth turned towards him, the sudden jolt engendered by her gaze meeting his a stirring reminder of her power over him. Their eyes held for a long, exquisite moment – and then she looked away with a smile and a charming blush, while Darcy exhaled sharply, straightened in his seat and, staring into space, he willed the time to fly.

Much later, as he was finally repairing to his chambers after a stretch in the billiards room with Bingley and Brandon, Darcy was temporarily arrested in his tracks by a loud exclamation – in all fairness, it was more like a shriek – coming from the end of the corridor, where Mrs Bennet’s quarters were. He could not distinguish what was said of course, but the voice was unmistakable, as was the fact that it was a rather violent explosion of joy.

Darcy raised a brow, in equal measure embarrassed and relieved. Elizabeth had apparently made her communication. All that remained now was to see how fast the news would spread, he thought wryly and, despite the overwhelming tiredness, he went directly to his writing desk. He had neglected to fulfil his promise to his uncle and had not written to Rosings yet – and by all accounts, he would be well advised to write that very night.

He was partially correct in his estimation. Mrs Bennet had been informed, but it was Jane’s news that had prompted the audible reaction. The intelligence Elizabeth had to impart came a few minutes later. And not a living soul, himself included, could have anticipated that Mrs Bennet’s response would be nothing but a long, stunned silence. She did recover in a while – got up, sat down again, wondered and blessed herself – but thankfully by that time Darcy was sequestered behind closed doors, intent on his difficult piece of correspondence, and Mrs Bennet’s effusions were for her daughters’ ears alone.

Even later still, when Darcy finished the letter to his aunt and emerged from his chambers to place it below-stairs, on the cabinet in the hallway whence all post was sent out, the sliver of light underneath Elizabeth’s door gave him pause. He stopped just outside, for long enough to distinguish a merry mix of subdued voices coming in eager whispers, accompanied by the occasional bout of girlish giggles. His countenance grew softer at the thought of Elizabeth excitedly discussing their engagement with her friends .

He smiled, the look in his eyes softer still. He forgot sometimes how much younger than him she really was; her obvious maturity and wisdom belied the difference in their ages.

The thought of her childishly enjoying the late-night gathering of friends warmed his heart as he walked away. He made his way downstairs, found the cabinet and dropped his letter on the silver tray alongside others, and was pondering what to do with himself next, when the sound of footsteps made him look up, only to see Bingley leisurely descending, a solitary candle in his hand.

“Care to join me for another drink?” his friend asked with feigned unconcern and, despite himself, Darcy burst out laughing.

He had not expected Mrs Bingley to be part of the girlish scheme as well, but it suddenly seemed fitting. There must have been many nights like this in the Bennet household, and he was happy for Elizabeth – and for her sisters too, for that matter – to know that they could recreate the past, at least for one more evening.

Wickedly diverted by the thought that he was not to be the only one nursing his loneliness and brandy in the library that night, Darcy followed his bemused friend along the darkened hallway, not even seeking to contain his amusement at finding Bingley thoroughly at sea in the face of the unprecedented abandonment.

“Rather unnerving – is it not? – to know that we are spoken of behind closed doors,” Darcy quipped in a sudden and atypical display of wry humour. “I am sorely tempted to send for Brandon and Ferrars, you know. For mutual support. Or safety in numbers. Or just to unnerve them too, for I fail to see why they should be allowed to rest in blissful ignorance of the tricky business.”