That was the trouble. The place had returned to itself. He had not.
Earlier this evening, Mrs. Gardiner had given him an opening as plainly as a woman could do without appearing to give one.
And he had stood there and failed to say anything in response.
He had come to the very edge of saying he would come, butno farther. He, who had spent the whole day priding himself upon doing the necessary thing the moment it wanted doing, had bowed and said it had been a great pleasure to have them at Pemberley, as he would have to any ordinary guest after an ordinary visit.
He had had a great deal of practice that day in usefulness. Somehow it seemed to have taken the place of his courage.
For that was the truth of it. There was no more time—she departed on Monday. Just two days more, and the Gardiners’ carriage would turn south, and he might never see Elizabeth Bennet again.
When that happened, any chance he might have had would be over.
Her appearance at Pemberley had offered him the second chance he had no right to expect. She had known the worst of him, and yet she was here, her look saying she might still be persuaded to think better.
Darcy had proposed once and been refused. A proper gentleman did not press a lady twice. But if he let her leave Derbyshire without acting, propriety would do what it always did. It would close the door gently, correctly, and for good.
He tore himself from the window to seek his chambers, but as he passed the half-open door of the drawing room, he heard muffled voices within. He meant to ignore them and continue upstairs. But Richard was sitting on the floor beside the door, arms folded, boots stretched before him, as comfortable as if seated in one of the library chairs.
His cousin laid a finger to his lips and tipped his head towards the gap.
“Richard,” Darcy whispered. “What are you about?”
“Reconnaissance.”
“This is not Spain; this is my house.”
“All the more reason to know what passes in it.” Richard patted the floor beside him.
“I am not sitting on the floor outside my own drawing room.”
“Then stand. Only mind you don’t give us away by eclipsing the moon.”
Darcy opened his mouth to order his cousin off the floor and out of the passage when Miss Bingley’s voice wafted out to the hall.
“—after all we endured today, Charles, I cannot comprehend how you continue to take their part. To sit down with Miss Eliza Bennet was trial enough, but to have her aunt and uncle imposed upon us?—”
The words remained unspoken as he turned one ear to the gap. The impropriety of listening was grave. But leaving, he found, was impossible.
“You will not speak so of the Gardiners or Miss Bennet,” Bingley said. “They are all three of them estimable people.”
“My dear Charles,” Mrs. Hurst put in faintly, “Caroline only means the visit was unexpected.”
“I know precisely what Caroline means, Lou. Do not attempt to improve it.” Bingley’s voice remained even. “And I should be careful with the word imposed, Caroline. You and Louisa have been very willing to consider yourselves included wherever Darcy invites me.”
The gasps from the ladies were audible. Darcy, who had endured that very arrangement for several years, found the plainness of the remark both regrettable and deeply satisfying. He had the satisfaction under command almost at once. Not, however, before Richard saw it. His cousin gave one strangled wheeze, bent double, and struck his shoulder against the leg of the hall table. The little porcelain vase upon it gave onealarming click, rocked, and tipped into a slow slide towards the edge.
Darcy moved—not a lunge, for a lunge would have been undignified—but one swift, silent step across the floor. He bent his knee, his arm shot out, and the vase settled into his hand barely an inch from disaster. For a moment there was nothing but the tick of the hall clock and the creak of the boards under Richard’s weight. Darcy set the vase back in its place without a sound and glared at his cousin.
Richard smiled up at him, unrepentant. Meanwhile, Miss Bingley had recovered.
“—I speak from concern,” Miss Bingley was saying. “For you, for Mr. Darcy, and for the consequence of this house.”
“Good heavens, Caroline. You are at once offended for me, anxious for Darcy, and concerned about the consequence of Pemberley, a house that has stood two centuries without your assistance. It must be exhausting.”
“You mean to slight Miss Bennet,” Bingley said. “To accuse her of setting herself at Darcy.”
“I mean only that certain young ladies are not indifferent to a gentleman of Mr. Darcy’s rank and fortune.”