Page 116 of A Debt Inherited

Fitzwilliam Darcy had spent the latter part of the afternoon refusing company.

Three cards had come before dinner, one note after it, and an invitation to a musical party had followed at an hour when no sensible host expected acceptance. Each had received the proper answer.

Regret.

Prior engagement.

Another evening.

The words had gone out in his name while he remained in the library, coat unbuttoned, cravat loosened, and the day’s business correspondence arranged in small, exact piles upon the desk.

Society called him proud because he did not chase its favour. His acquaintances called him severe because he let silence answer impertinence.

His cousin Richard laughed, calling Darcy reserved because he would not spend himself upon fools.

He had heard each judgement often enough to know its weight, and little enough to resent it. Society liked a rich man best when he courted its approval. Darcy had never seen the profit in obliging it.

London pressed at the windows with all its summer noise: wheels over stone, distant voices, a seller’s cry thinning into the dark. Within, Darcy House kept its discipline. Hudson moved belowstairs with quiet authority; Barty had brought fresh candles without asking; Georgiana’s room had gone silent above.

That silence held him more firmly than any engagement could have done.

Since Ramsgate, he had learnt to distrust quiet. It settled too neatly over what had been disturbed. Georgiana smiled, practised, dined, and answered him with sweetness; yet he saw how carefully she measured every word that might lead towards Wickham.

Darcy had removed the danger, but not its trace.

That failure sat with him long after the household withdrew.

He took up a letter from his steward, read the first sentence, and laid it down again. The business of land could wait until morning. The business of family never did.

The front door shook beneath a sudden, violent pounding. The knocker struck in uneven blows—urgent, ungoverned. Darcy looked up, listening. Footsteps crossed the hall below, and Hudson’s measured voice carried.

“You cannot call at this hour. Mr Darcy receives no visitors past—”

“I beg you, sir, I must see him. Mr Bennet said I was to lose no minute.”

Darcy rose. The urgency in the young man’s voice had cracked upon the last word.

“Admit him,” he called from the stair.

The bolts drew back. A youth stepped inside, dust-streaked, hat in hand, a canvas satchel held tight against his chest. His coat hung too large upon his shoulders, and his boots bore the road to the knee.

Hudson looked up. “Sir, he says he comes from Hertfordshire.”

Darcy descended the last stair. “Your name?”

“John Perkins, sir. Perkins of the lower fields is my father.” His breath came short, but he stood as straight as fatigue permitted. “Mr Bennet of Longbourn sent me. In his own hand.”

Darcy did not know any Mr Bennet of Longbourn.

“You have an express?”

“Yes, sir.” John held out the satchel. “Mr Bennet said I was to put it into no hand but Mr Darcy’s.”

Darcy took it. “You have done rightly.”

Barty appeared at the library door with a candle in one hand. His eyes moved over the messenger, then to Darcy.

“Barty,” Darcy said, “see that Mr Perkins has food and tea.”