7. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

D arcy stood before the mirror in his dressing room, his gaze fixed but unfocused. Thompson, his valet, adjusted his cravat with practised precision. The doctor's words echoed in his thoughts, the possibility of a tumour gnawing at him with a dread he could not dispel.

Thompson's deft movements blurred in the background as Darcy's mind wandered to the implications of such an ailment. A tumour . It explained so much—his headaches, the nausea, the spasms. The fear it instilled in him was unlike anything he had ever faced.

The thought of leaving Georgiana alone, unprotected, filled him with a paralyzing dread. She depended on him! He had so much to teach her, so much to shield her from. And Pemberley! Who would manage the estate? Who would carry on the Darcy legacy if he succumbed to this affliction?

His heart was galloping, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead all over again. The thought of something growing inside his head, slowly taking away his faculties, was a nightmare he could scarcely bear. How bad would it get? Would he forget who he was? Become unable to care for himself?

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the faces of his ancestors, each one a steward of Pemberley, each one trusting him to uphold their legacy. What if he failed them? What if he left everything unfinished?

"Is the knot to your liking, sir?" Thompson's inquiry broke through his reverie.

Darcy's eyes refocused on the reflection, noting the flawlessly tied cravat. "Yes, Thompson. Well done."

Thompson stepped back, and Darcy took in his appearance. Immaculate as ever, yet far from composed. He felt like a hollow shell, maintaining an exterior of strength while inside, fear and doubt churned incessantly.

This shooting party could not be more poorly timed. Initially, it seemed like a good idea—an escape. But even above whatever was happening with him, he wondered if the trip might be counterproductive for Georgiana. Returning to Pemberley, where she had previously known George Wickham as a child, might reignite fond memories better left to rot. In London, at least she had Lady Matlock's pragmatic influence to anchor her to reality and her duties as the daughter of George Darcy.

And yet, the prospect of spending time at Pemberley, his sanctuary, brought him no comfort. Every familiar room, every corner of the estate would be tainted by the shadow of his mortality. He had always envisioned growing old there, watching over the estate and guiding Georgiana until she married. The thought of leaving it all behind, unfinished and uncertain, was unbearable.

But… if his time was to be limited, then he had little of it to waste. He had things to finish at Pemberley, and the truth was, travelling by himself, in this condition, might not be wise. Going north with Richard and Bingley might be his best chance.

"That will be all, Thompson," he said, his voice steadier than he felt.

Thompson bowed and exited, leaving Darcy alone with his thoughts. He straightened his posture and, with a final glance in the mirror, turned and strode out of the room. Each step felt heavier than the last, his mind awash with the enormity of what he faced. He had to keep this hidden from everyone—especially Georgiana. The last thing she needed was more uncertainty and fear.

He tried to focus on the practicalities, on the tasks that awaited him, but his thoughts kept circling back to the same dreadful conclusion. A tumour . It was as if voicing it had suddenly made it grow, become more ominous. He could feel it, a dark cloud hanging over his mind, sapping his strength and will.

He could not let anyone see his fear. Not yet. Not until he knew for certain. But the doubt gnawed at him, a relentless, insidious presence that threatened to unravel him from within.

D arcy entered the drawing room at Matlock House, his eyes immediately seeking out Georgiana. She sat by the window, her embroidery hoop in her lap, though her hands were idle.

"Georgiana," he greeted her warmly, though his heart pounded with an anxious thrum that made his voice sound strained.

She looked up, offering a smile that was surprisingly bright. "Fitzwilliam. Good morning."

Darcy took a seat beside her, his head already beginning to pound. Good heavens, not again. "You are looking better today."

Her eyes lit up with pleasure. "Thank you, Brother. So are you. Do you like the new style for my hair? Lady Matlock's maid suggested it."

"Very fetching," he agreed, then added with a ghost of a smile, "Very ladylike."

She touched a tendril that the maid had left to curl down her cheekbone. "Do you think? I was hoping she could teach Catherine before we go to Pemberley. What day are we to leave? I am so looking forward to it."

Darcy held his breath as he studied her eager expression, his mind reeling with the fear and uncertainty that had plagued him since his conversation with Dr Westing. The possibilities gnawed at him incessantly, making it hard to focus. Stalling would do no good, so he might as well out with it.

"That is what I came to speak to you of today. I am concerned that revisiting Pemberley might stir up old memories of Wickham."

Georgiana frowned slightly. "But Fitzwilliam, I want to see Pemberley again. I have missed it terribly. And I am looking forward to spending time with Cousin Richard. And I like Mr Bingley very well, too. Is that it? You do not want me spending time with your friend?"

Darcy shook his head, and he could swear it felt like his brain was jangling around inside. "Not at all. Bingley is a fine enough fellow, but he and Richard and I will be occupied with the shooting party. We will not be good company for you."

Her enthusiasm wavered, replaced by confusion. "But I enjoy watching you all shoot. And I can spend time with you in the evenings."

Darcy leaned forward, his tone more insistent as the pain behind his eyes grew sharper. "Georgiana, I think it would be best if you remained here in London with Aunt and Uncle. There is more for you to look forward to here. Moreover, Lady Matlock's guidance will be beneficial for you as you prepare for your come out. "

Her expression turned to one of frustration. "But why? I do not come out for another year. Surely!" She gave a short laugh. "A month or two at Pemberley could do no harm to my prospects. I want to be with you and Richard."

"You need to focus on your duties here," Darcy asserted, struggling to keep his voice steady. "You cannot let yourself get lost in the past."

Georgiana bolted to her feet, her fists clenched. "I am not lost in the past, Fitzwilliam. I just want to go home."

Darcy's voice hardened, more from the pain and frustration he felt than any real anger. "You are not going to Pemberley. I am making this decision for your own good."

Her jaw tightened. "Why are you treating me like a child? I am perfectly capable of deciding where I want to be!"

Darcy stood as well, his patience thinning and his head pounding. "Because you do not see the danger in indulging those memories. I think it is better for old attachments to weaken and new ones to grow in their place. Here in London—"

Georgiana's eyes flashed. "I have no friends in London! How am I supposed to create an attachment to anything?"

Darcy snorted, wincing at the sudden sharpness of his headache. "You have not been listening, either to our aunt or to me. I am sorry, Georgiana, but I do not think it best for you to come to Pemberley with us."

Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but she held his gaze as her lip trembled with a melodramatic promise. "You cannot keep me away from Pemberley forever. I will go back someday."

Darcy placed a hand on her shoulder, feeling the weakness in his arm and hating the new terror of wondering when his body was going to fail him next. "Of course you will, but not now. Please hear me, sweetling. It is not that I do not want you near. I simply think this will be the best choice for you right now."

She looked away, her voice cracking. "Very well, Brother. I will stay in London."

Darcy nodded and sighed. "Thank you, Georgiana. I will not be away for long, and I trust you will find vastly more amusements here than there."

Georgiana scowled, still staring at the floor. "I doubt that."

Darcy's head throbbed mercilessly, and he knew he had to leave before his sister saw just how unwell he was. "I... I should go now, Georgiana. Rest assured, we will discuss this further upon my return. "

Her gaze softened slightly, worry replacing her frustration. "Are you well, Fitzwilliam? You look well enough, but you do not quite seem yourself and after the other day..."

Darcy hesitated. He wanted to reassure her, to tell her he was perfectly well, but the words stuck in his throat. "I... I am just a bit fatigued, Georgiana. The journey and recent exertions have taken their toll. It is nothing to worry about."

She frowned, her concern evident. "You must take care of yourself, Brother. Promise me you will rest."

Darcy managed a faint smile. "I promise. Now, you focus on your lessons with Aunt. I will be back before you know it."

S everal hours later, Darcy was at his desk, poring over the intricate details of his father's will. He could have sworn there was a note in there about Wickh… well, no matter, for it seemed he was remembering it incorrectly, or it was never there at all. The afternoon sun cast a warm glow across the study, making him feel groggy and sluggish. His eyelids were beginning to sink, and his senses slowing so much that he barely registered the knock at the door.

"Mr Bingley to see you, sir," his butler announced.

That snapped him to. Darcy glanced up and gave his head a quick shake. "Bingley? Show him in, Jenkins."

Charles Bingley burst into the room, his face alight with excitement. "Darcy! The most extraordinary thing has happened!"

Darcy set down his quill, then blinked heavily when he looked up a little too quickly. The headache, which had dulled somewhat, was now roaring back to life. "What is it, Bingley?"

"I've received an invitation from the fellow who leased Netherfield. Can you believe it?" Bingley's words tumbled out in a rush. "A conciliatory gesture, I suppose. He said he heard my name from the neighbours—Mr Philips, I expect—and felt so terrible on my account that he wished to make amends. He has extended an invitation for a shooting party!"

"But we are to leave for Pemberley in two days," Darcy protested, trying to keep his voice steady despite the throbbing in his temples. "If I recall, the idea was largely yours."

"I know, I know. Darcy, would you despise me very much if I begged off? I did fancy the coveys in Hertfordshire over any I had ever seen, and… well, to be truthful, you did not seem terribly enthralled with the idea."

Darcy sighed and leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers over his stomach. "Not entirely, but I just spent the afternoon arguing with Miss Darcy about… conflicting plans thereto, and everything is arranged now."

"Oh." Bingley's face fell. "Oh, dear. She will be terribly disappointed, then." His expression hardened reluctantly. "Very well. I shall write this fellow and beg off."

"No, no, that will not be necessary. Fitzwilliam will still wish to accompany me. So, tell me, who is this fellow?"

Bingley opened his mouth, then closed it again, his face ashen. "Do you know? I am ashamed to say I've forgot the man's name. I had his letter, and I was going to show you, but then I had to change my coat before I went out and dash it if the letter was not in the other pocket."

Darcy sighed again, his patience fraying under the strain of his mounting headache. "How could you forget the name of a man who invited you to his home for… a month? What exactly does this invitation entail?"

"As I said, it is for a shooting party, about the first of the month. He said he meant to invite a few other friends; mostly names I did not recognize. I quite fancy he is new money, given the sound of his connections."

"Undoubtedly," Darcy murmured drily.

"But what does that matter to me? Am I any different? My father's money came from the woollen mills."

"But you received a gentleman's education from your infancy, and you have friends among the peerage. You are well-established socially. You can bring nothing to yourself by this connection."

"Oh, bother that. It is only a shooting party, Darcy, perfectly respectable. And besides, my host wrote in his letter about his desire to deepen his connections with the local gentry by inviting them to accompany us in our sport. There, you see? Everything proper. "

"Hmm," Darcy mused, tapping his thumbs together. The pain behind his eyes was becoming unbearable. "And you have no qualms about accepting?"

"None at all, old chap. I mean to write back to him at once if it… well, of course, I would not wish to offend you , Darcy."

"We already dispensed with that. I am not in the least offended that I shall not be put out for a shooting party that was not originally in my plans. But why are you so eager to go?"

"Well, it would be an excellent opportunity to revisit Netherfield. I might discover what it was about the property that appealed so much to me so that I might learn to find another like it. Or perhaps I will even persuade myself that it never truly was the property for me. Better yet, I might just meet with some new face who can put me in the way of finding my own house."

Darcy's fingers tightened together, his headache now a relentless pounding. "Those all sound like excuses. Confess it—you had already made up your mind to go, and you are trying to justify yourself to me."

Bingley's face fell slightly, but his enthusiasm remained undimmed. "Perhaps, but surely it could do no harm to maintain the connection with this man? Who knows what opportunities might arise? And besides, it would be a chance to see the neighbourhood again. You remember how charming I found it."

"I remember. But this fixation on Netherfield..."

"It is not a fixation," Bingley protested. "It's... it's cultivating connections! Expanding my social circle. Is that not what you are always telling me I should do?"

Darcy sighed, recognizing the stubborn glint in his friend's eye. "There are other ways to go about it. Ways that do not involve revisiting a disappointment."

"But that is just it, Darcy," Bingley leaned forward, his voice earnest. "This could turn that disappointment into an opportunity. And if nothing else, it would be a pleasant diversion. You must admit, we could both use one of those. Perhaps I could secure an invitation for you, as well."

Darcy pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the headache intensify. His mind kept drifting back to Dr Westing's words, the possibility of time running out. He had decided he needed to go back to Pemberley to begin the process of… things he did not relish… but how could he manage it when, even now, the room seemed to spin? "Bingley..."

"Just think about it, will you?" Bingley pressed. "In fact, the more I think on it, the surer I am that you would be welcome. "

Darcy arched a brow. That was precisely the problem, the one that Bingley was failing to acknowledge. Darcy's name had been "welcomed" by many and exploited by several. And from the sound of this circumstance, Bingley was letting himself into a position where he also might be used for his money or his connections.

"I will politely decline."

"Oh. Well, suit yourself. You will still go to Pemberley, I suppose? It would do you good to get out of town for a while."

Darcy opened his mouth to redirect the conversation back to this peculiar invitation. Bingley was a blind fool just to accept it when he could not even remember the name of the host. But his friend's mind was made up—that much was evident in the brightness of his eyes and the set of his chin. Bingley could be indecisive at times, but when he did make his mind up, he could be remarkably mulish about it.

"I will speak to Fitzwilliam on the matter," was all Darcy would commit to saying. "And I still urge caution for you. You know nothing of this man."

"All the more reason for you to consider coming with me!" Bingley shot back with a grin.

Darcy scoffed and shook his head as he pushed out of his chair. "Some other time, perhaps."

E lizabeth set out along the path to Lucas Lodge, savouring the crisp morning air. The sky was a bright blue, and the sun cast a golden glow over the dew-kissed fields, making the world seem fresh and full of promise. She hummed a little tune, her spirits lifted by the thought of the upcoming Assembly ball—music, dancing, and the lively hum of conversation. Ordinarily, she looked forward to the public Assemblies for the chance to sparkle over the dance floor and laugh with her friends, but this time… this time, she had new cause for excitement .

Mr George Wickham, the intriguing new neighbour at Netherfield Park, had certainly stirred excitement in Meryton. His charming smile, the easy way he spoke, and his light-hearted manner were refreshing compared to the more solemn dispositions she was accustomed to. She laughed as she recalled how he had teased her about her muddy hem and confessed his own struggle with unruly dogs at Netherfield. Would he be as graceful on the dance floor as he was in conversation? The thought made her smile even wider.

Picturing Mr Wickham navigating his new home, dealing with the quirks of the estate with his affable demeanour, amused her. His graciousness, even with her silliest sisters, had not gone unnoticed. How would he react to her mother's incessant matchmaking and Mary's ponderousness at the ball? She winced as she pictured the scene, but that cringing sensation was replaced almost immediately by the surety that Mr Wickham would overlook such trifles. After all, he had been nothing but polite so far, and there was a growing awareness that his interest seemed particularly focused on her , not the foibles of her family.

As she walked, the weather began to change. The sun slipped behind a thickening bank of clouds, and the breeze turned sharp and chill. Elizabeth wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, quickening her pace as the first raindrops began to fall. She glanced back toward Longbourn, contemplating whether to turn back, but she dismissed the idea almost as soon as it came. She was too stubborn to abandon her visit for something as trivial as a little rain, and she would not consider riding a horse again after the last incident, even if it would have got her there sooner. At least, she reflected, her ankle was no longer sore.

The drizzle soon turned to a steady downpour, soaking through her shawl and dampening her skirts, but Elizabeth pressed on, determined to keep her mood bright. The weather might have soured, but she would not let it dampen her spirits. After all, she was on her way to see Charlotte, and she had a firm resolve to bring some cheer to her friend.

As she approached the house, a movement caught her eye near the edge of the property. Turning her head, she was surprised to see Charlotte outside, standing in the mud by the garden, cutting away at the turnip patch with a hoe. Elizabeth frowned; this was no work for the daughter of the house, and certainly not in such unpleasant weather.

"Charlotte?" Elizabeth called out, her voice tinged with concern. She quickened her pace, her shoes sinking slightly into the wet ground .

Charlotte barely looked up, her hands occupied with pulling weeds that had no business being dealt with in such a manner. Her hair, usually neat, was damp and clinging to her face, while her skirts were streaked with mud.

"Charlotte, what on earth are you doing out here?" Elizabeth asked, hurrying to her side. She gently took the half-filled basket from Charlotte's hands. "This is not work you should be doing, and certainly not in this weather."

Charlotte's shoulders slumped, and she wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist, smudging her skin with dirt. "What does it matter, Lizzy?" she replied with a weary sigh. "No one else seems to notice or care what I do or do not do. I might as well be useful."

Elizabeth's heart clenched at the bitterness in her friend's tone. "But this is not like you, Charlotte. You have always been practical, sensible. Why are you out here? Your mother will have a fit if she sees you like this, especially during calling hours."

Charlotte shrugged, her gaze dropping to the muddy ground. "Mama shan't even notice. I simply grew tired of pretending, Lizzy. Tired of smiling and acting as if everything is well when it is not."

Elizabeth placed a hand on her friend's arm, trying to draw her attention. "Pretending to whom, Charlotte? To your family? To yourself?"

Charlotte looked up at Elizabeth, her eyes reflecting a deep weariness. "To everyone. I have spent so long pretending that I am content with my lot, that I have no objections to being overlooked, but it wears on a person after a time. And then Maria gets new gowns when there is no money for me, and I… I just feel as though I am sinking, Lizzy."

Elizabeth's heart ached for Charlotte. "Oh, Charlotte, you are not overlooked. You have a family who cares for you—"

"They did, when they thought I might marry well," Charlotte interrupted, her voice trembling. "But no one thinks that now, do they? I am the eldest daughter, and yet I am treated as though I am already past my prime and of no use to anyone. I do not know how to change it, and I… I just stopped trying."

Elizabeth shook her head firmly. "This is not the Charlotte Lucas I know. You are strong, and you have always faced the world with grace and resilience. Do not let yourself be defeated by these feelings."

Charlotte managed a weak smile, though it was tinged with sorrow. "Perhaps you are right, Lizzy. Perhaps I am not myself lately. But it is difficult when every day feels like a reminder of what I have not accomplished, of what I will never have. "

Elizabeth squeezed Charlotte's arm. "You are too hard on yourself. You have so much to offer, and there are still opportunities for you. But this—" she gestured to the basket and the mud-splattered hem of Charlotte's dress "—this is not the way to cope with your feelings."

Charlotte glanced down at her gown as if only just realising how bedraggled she had become. "I suppose I look a sight," she admitted, a small laugh escaping her.

"A sight, indeed," Elizabeth agreed, her tone lightening in an effort to raise Charlotte's spirits. "Come, let us go inside and get you cleaned up. We can have a proper talk and perhaps a cup of tea."

Charlotte nodded, allowing Elizabeth to guide her back toward the house. "I am sorry, Lizzy. I did not mean to alarm you."

"Do not apologise," Elizabeth replied softly. "I am glad I found you when I did. Now, let us get you out of this cold."

As they entered the house, Elizabeth could see that the warmth and comfort of Lucas Lodge had little effect on Charlotte's mood. They were just reaching the hallway when Maria appeared, her eyes widening at the sight of her sister. "Lizzy, whatever happened? Charlotte, what did you do?"

"She just needs to get warm and dry," Elizabeth said, trying to keep her voice calm and steady. "Where is your mother, Maria? I think she ought to—"

"Mama is in the parlour," Maria replied quickly. "Shall I fetch her?"

"Yes, please do," Elizabeth urged. As Maria hurried away, Elizabeth turned back to Charlotte, gently helping her out of her damp shawl and guiding her to a chair. "Sit here for a moment while I fetch you a dry blanket."

But before she could move, Lady Lucas entered the hallway, her expression more annoyed than concerned. "Maria says you have brought Charlotte in from the rain. Charlotte, whatever were you doing outside in this weather?"

"She was feeling unwell, Lady Lucas," Elizabeth answered, trying to keep her tone respectful but firm. "She needs to be looked after, and perhaps it would be wise to call for Mr Jones."

Lady Lucas waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, Charlotte is just in one of her moods again. This is not the first time she has done something like this. There is no need for a doctor, Lizzy dear."

Elizabeth frowned, incredulous at the nonchalance in Lady Lucas's voice. "But this is not normal, madam. Charlotte should not be out in the cold, doing menial tasks that—"

"Nonsense, Lizzy," Lady Lucas interrupted, her tone growing more curt. "She just needs a bit of rest. Charlotte has been like this ever since Maria began attracting more notice. It will pass, as it always does."

Elizabeth could hardly believe what she was hearing. "Lady Lucas, I really must insist—"

But Lady Lucas was already turning away, directing Maria to help Charlotte upstairs. "Take her to her room, Maria. A warm bath will do her good."

Elizabeth stood rooted to the spot; her mouth dropped open in shock. Was Lady Lucas truly so blasé about her own daughter?

Something was terribly wrong with Charlotte, and it seemed Elizabeth was the only one who truly saw it. How could she get Charlotte the help she so clearly needed if her own mother refused to see the truth?