Into Hertfordshire by Stanley Michael Hurd Page A

could rely, with whom he might confer on this subject; he wanted help to navigate these waters, for they were dangerous. But that was his burden to bear; he brought his thoughts back to Georgiana, and the reassurances he owed her.
     
    So, given time, you must heal. Not to the degree that you will ever be exactly the same…
     
    When this part was finished he felt it perhaps a bit excessive, that he had expressed himself too openly; but he could not say less and still say what was in his heart. He would trust to her good will to excuse him for writing so feelingly. The rest was easy.
     
    Now, let me tell you the news from here…
     
    The final draft took him a great deal of time to complete, and there was just enough time to change before dinner. He entrusted his letter to Perkins to be posted, then went down to the drawing-room.
    “Darcy…is all well?” Bingley enquired as he entered.
    “Quite well, yes, I thank you,” he replied. “A letter from my sister, that is all, and I wished to answer it while it was fresh in my mind.”
    “‘Fresh in your mind’? When would it cease to be ‘fresh in your mind’? You have taxed me with minutia from my letters a month and more later,” his friend berated him with good humour.
    “Perhaps that is because your follies are more striking than most,” Darcy returned. After nearly two hours of sombre effort, he was ready to find pleasure and release in some affable contention with his friend. They continued their banter while they waited on the ladies to appear. The Bingley sisters and Mr. Hurst came down shortly, and Miss Elizabeth Bennet followed soon after; every one moved towards the dining-room on her entrance.
    Elizabeth, Darcy noted, wore a gown of a becoming colour, favouring her eyes and her figure, and he could approve her taste in its simple elegance, even though her attire would never pass for fashionable. He spoke his compliments to her and hoped for some part of her attention, but his greeting was mingled with those from the rest of the party and she did not distinguish him in any way. Bingley, of course, wanted to hear immediately how Miss Bennet fared. “Is your sister at all better?” he asked hopefully, before she had even taken her seat. The ladies echoed his concerns and Darcy gave Elizabeth his polite attention, but she had no very favourable reply to offer. She reported that her sister remained in a very feverish condition, and her head ached so badly that she, Elizabeth, had been forced to keep the curtains drawn most of the afternoon to spare her sister’s eyes.
    “Oh, I know, the poor dear,” cried Miss Bingley. “I despise a cold, and to have a headache and a fever as well!”
    “Oh, yes!” echoed her sister. “A headache is a most distressing affliction. I cannot abide it, can I, Mr. Hurst?” Hurst glanced up for a moment without comment before returning to his soup. His lady did not seem to mind, or indeed, even to notice, his lack of reply: she went ahead without hesitation: “I become quite a baby. I won’t leave my bed until it is gone.”
    “It grieves me more than I can say that she should have fallen ill after braving that storm on horseback just to be with us,” Miss Bingley said. A faint air of contempt for such a low form of transportation suggested itself in her comment.
    “Yes, poor dear, she was quite soaked through,” put in Mrs. Hurst. Picking up her spoon she concluded, “It is such a shocking thing to have a cold.”
    “Shocking is the very word,” agreed Miss Bingley. “An excessively shocking thing, it is.” They then dropt the subject and largely ignored Elizabeth, and her sister’s health, for the rest of the dinner.
    Darcy listened with mild disgust as these repetitious nothings swirled about the table. He wished he could add something of more substance, but he had little opportunity, as Elizabeth was seated on the same side as he, and Miss Bingley was positioned most inconveniently between them. Elizabeth