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“I fear I did.”

And then, Bingley began to laugh. He laughed so hard, in fact, that he fell off the sofa. “Oh, my friend,” he said from the floor, panting to catch his breath, immune to any glares with which Darcy tried to quell his friend’s amusement. “You need me so much more than I ever dreamt.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

URGENT BUSINESS CALLS

It was nearly eleven on the Tuesday following what Elizabeth had come to think of as ‘the unfortunate incident’ when the express arrived. Mr Collins was not at home to be astonished by it, but Charlotte nearly made up for his absence, after Elizabeth handed her the letter.

“Eliza, what can this mean! Lady Catherine’s vehicle is to be made available for you to leave today, as soon as you can be made ready for it, to take you immediately to your uncle’s home on Gracechurch Street. Your father says you are not to be alarmed, but…but what could be so very urgent?”

“I do not know,” Elizabeth replied, equal parts worried and curious, and wishing that just this once, her father had chosen to be a more diligent, enlightening correspondent. For one thing she could be thankful: since Lady Catherine’s carriage was to be involved, Charlotte wasted no time in putting all hands to packing Elizabeth’s trunk, lest the vehicle show before she was ready. When it did arrive, promptly, within half an hour, she was not only packed and dressed for travelling, but Mr Collins was still absent. She was able to say more serene farewells, and merely leave her regards and thanks with Charlotte.

It was not just any carriage which had pulled up to the Hunsford gate, but a coach-and-four complete with outriders, liveried footmen, and a coachman, with a maid to accompany her on the journey. It was comfortable, certainly, but why? Why the hurry? If no one was ill, what need was so pressing, and why had Lady Catherine cooperated with these plans so magnanimously?

The maid was a mercifully quiet girl, so Elizabeth was left to ponder, to doze, and to view the passing scenery in peace. The weather was perfect, another blessing—Elizabeth would not like to travel muddy roads in such a heavy vehicle. A few words spoken with the coachman at a change gave her the intelligence that he expected to be in Gracechurch Street by sunset. She counselled herself to forbearance, but by the time the areas outside her window began to look familiar, she was nearly beside herself with a combination of anxiety and impatience.

To her surprise, it was not simply her aunt, her uncle, and Jane waiting to greet her when the coach stopped before the Gardiners’ grand home. Her father, who hated travelling in general and London in particular with a passion expressed in few other areas of his life, stood at the gate, along with her other aunt, Mrs Philips, of all people—and as if they had long been waiting there to catch first sight of her.

What could it all mean?

Not since his father was on his deathbed had Darcy travelled so quickly—although he took his travelling carriage this time, at least. It was not that he was in a hurry to reach Pemberley for a specific purpose—who knew when Elizabeth might take up residence in Sheffield? Or even if? She was very young to be setting up a household so far away from her parents. But this time, rather than the sadness of endings, he was filled with a determination for a new beginning. It energised him, filled him with notions for the future which were probably hopeless. Yet, he could not give up, not now. Perhaps not ever.

Once home, he met with his land steward, Travers—asking specifically regarding the Sheffield property.

Darcy had visited the property infrequently; when he had business in Sheffield, it was related to the demands of his father’s charitable works associated with the place, and once the couple had been installed in the coach house as the property’s caretakers, he had seldom thought it necessary to visit. He was not worried too much, even though he had, by and large, neglected it, beyond approving needed repairs. His Pemberley steward was an excellent man, well-trained by Cyril Wickham before his death, and he and the caretakers would have paid all the attention necessary.

Elizabeth would be living under his care henceforth, perhaps not immediately, but someday soon, it seemed. It was a tantalising thought. It was not all that he wanted, certainly, but it was better than the alternative of nothing at all.

Of course, she might refuse it outright, but Barnes had told him that Mr Bennet had been strongly in favour of her acceptance of the inheritance. In all likelihood, however, her father had not known of Darcy’s blundering proposal of marriage when giving his agreement, nor, surely, of her disgust of all things Darcy. At this point, he could only hope.

“The caretakers, Mr and Mrs Hawthorne, seem to keep everything in good order,” Travers was saying. “I visit the property quarterly, as well as reviewing all expenses.”

“I have no doubt that you do. Still, I cannot recall much about the couple themselves; are they amiable?”

Travers could not hide his surprise. “I-I am not quite certain. Certainly, they behave respectably. I was more concerned with regard to the fulfilment of their duties.”

“Of course, of course. As you well know, the property is bequeathed elsewhere, to a female we have been, up to this point, unable to discover.”

The steward looked up sharply. “The enigmatic Elizabeth Bennet. Have we located her at long last?”

“Yes. With any luck, she will be taking up residence soon. On certain points, my father’s wishes were vague—for instance, in the ten years of residence before she can assume ownership, who is accountable for repairs to the property and its furnishings?”

“I would think the annual sum bestowed upon her ample for the purpose.”

“I do not find it quite fair that she be financially responsible for a property she does not yet own. I have made clear to Mr Barnes that Pemberley will continue to remain liable. The building is ours until it is hers. Should she vacate it before the ten years expire, I would not like to pay for repairs that simple maintenance ought to have prevented. The new mistress is young, inexperienced.”

“I would think Mr Hawthorne capable of informing her what ought to be done,” Travers contended.

Usually, Darcy liked that his steward had a reasoning, thinking brain, and did not simply acquiesce to Darcy’s ideas and orders, but offered his own opinions. Today, it was annoying.

“Nevertheless, you will continue to authorise payment for any repairs or refurbishment, and encourage Mr Hawthorne to carry on with his current schedule of repairs.”

Wisely, Travers offered no further objections.

Darcy was not even sure what would be possible for the future; while the home near Sheffield was a mere fifteen miles from Pemberley, and he did have a good deal of business in the area, he could hardly imagine upon what excuse he might call. ‘Greetings, Miss Bennet, do you remember me? The suitor who called your family a “parade of clowns and spongers”? Are you anxious for more abuse? I would like to see you again.’ Every time he thought of it, he wanted to hit his head against the wall.

It would be impossible for him to describe the chaotic state of his thoughts—how difficult it had been to put her in the past, to leave Netherfield behind and take Bingley with him. He had told himself it was a rescue; he did not know how she had learnt of it.