Chapter Text
If there was a point in time when Edward stopped regretting his last conversation with Darcy, he was not able to identify it. He simply stopped thinking about it and continued with his life. The presence of Bingley, expansive and sociable as he was, greatly helped him.
He thought about it as closing a curtain upon a part of his life that felt slightly foreign; he was nostalgic, of course, but it was a return to normality. Everything had lost some of its lustre, but he imagined it was a direct consequence of growing older. He had matured, or so he believed, and would not jump so easily into things as before.
His sister was too happy, too involved with her soon to be husband to pay more than cursory attention to him, until there was nothing to note any longer. Edward was amiable and cheerful, and would not let himself fall again. The innumerable social calls that were received and had to be reciprocated on account of the engagement proved to be providential in their distracting quality, and his increasingly heated discussions with his father consumed most of his attention.
Mr. Bennet was, for the first time in Edward’s life, maudlin. Of course, in him that humour was conveyed by increasingly weaker jokes about how his children were all going away and finally leaving him to his books. If Edward had half a hope that this would bring him a respite from his father’s insistence that he go to continental Europe and finish the ill-gotten plan of changing back to a woman, it was dashed immediately. His insistence on that point continued on, and finally, it sparked a discussion that began over the dinner table.
Bingley had, for once, left the Bennets to themselves for most of the day, and so they were only the three of them.
It began innocently enough; Jane was talking about the honeymoon trip when she said, “Miss Bingley asked that she be left at Netherfield, which Mr. Bingley thought strange enough. We had considered she would prefer to be left in London, if she did not want to accompany us.”
“I would have thought she would want to be left at Pemberley on your way north,” said Edward with an impish grin. It failed to draw from her sister anything more than a sharp look.
“Then you would be wrong, clearly. She wants to stay at Hertfordshire, and I was thinking that she does not have any friends in the neighbourhood except you two. Mrs. Hurst will stay with her, of course, but she is accustomed to having a more broad society. I will try to encourage her to seek out Charlotte Lucas, Miss King, and the Misses Goulding, but I am afraid they are not really the sort Caroline will openly welcome as her friends.” Jane was speaking in an open, no nonsense tone, but Edward felt that a request would be coming his way rather quickly.
“And what do I have to do with all that?” In his opinion—not that he would speak it openly now, as it would only hurt Jane—Miss Bingley was best left to her own devices. She was not someone who would respond well to being ‘encouraged’ towards people she felt below herself.
“Well, it has come to my notice that lately she trusts your opinion and seeks your advice on rather diverse matters. I am not asking much, just that you help me to convince her.” She paused, and Edward was about to tell her that he could do it, if it made her happy, but that he thought the scheme rather hopeless, when she bit her lips and added, “And that you call on her sometimes, while I am away.”
Edward chocked on his wine, but before he could get his breath and wits together, his father spoke.
“I am afraid that, while I consider your desire to help your friend a good and commendable one, Edward will not be able to do it.”
It was his luck that he was not drinking anything anymore, for Edward felt like chocking again. He understood that his father would not take kindly to any matchmaking schemes which involved him—Edward shared the feeling, in all honestly—but now they would have to explain, and what would they say?
It would have been much better he left Edward to answer. Did he fear that Edward would gleefully jump at the opportunity of courting a woman—no less a lady that practically hated him?
With a light tone, his father continued, “He has some business to take care for me and my cousin after your wedding, and now that the Treaty of Amiens has been proven to make travel safe, he is going to take his Grand Tour, after you depart with your husband.”
Jane almost dropped her cutlery in surprise. “He is? But why? Neither of you has said anything to me.”
“You were worried enough with organizing the wedding breakfast and adapting yourself to the changes in your life. I saw no need to add to it. Why? Well, that is easy enough. There is no time like the present, and considering that I am feeling older by the minute, Edward’s education must be completed sooner rather than later.”
Edward felt numb. It was, of course, a move that did not actually force him to do as his father was bidding and start wearing a dress, but it would bring the discussion out in the open if he spoke now. He would rather not do it in front of Jane, he would rather wait. And then again, no other words could come out of his mouth, so he stayed silent.
It was good that Mr. Bennet filled the sudden gap in the conversation with explanations of the travel plans, of months in Paris, and time in Italy, or Austria if Edward wanted. It distracted Jane from the latter’s pale—and he could not conceal it, scowling—face. It also spoke of his father’s having made all the arrangements already without consulting him.
Nevertheless, when a bewildered Jane left the table not much after, Mr. Bennet and Edward lost no time in going into the study. Behind closed doors, Edward felt calm again.
“You cannot force me to do it. I can very well go and come back as I am now; you could not expose me without exposing yourself!”
His father sighed, went around his desk, and sat down. He looked at Edward for a long moment before speaking. “I never thought of forcing you. I am only helping you come to the best conclusion sooner rather than later.”
“The best!” Edward could not sit, could not be still, and suddenly pacing the room was his only outlet.
Mr. Bennet’s tone was calm, and nothing could have unnerved Edward more. “You are not convincing me I am mistaken if you just repeat part of my discourse as a response, you know.”
Edward stilled in front of the desk, forcing himself to face the matter headlong. “You cannot be convinced.”
Mr. Bennet looked away. “I have received a letter. I did not want to tell you until I could be sure of it, but your uncle is ill… mortally ill. He is not expected to survive the spring.”
Edward was shocked, his anger temporarily arrested by this news.
“I am sorry to hear it,” said Edward. “I—I owe him more than I can express, and I have visited with him far too little.”
“Of course, he sends his regards to you, as well, but that is not why I was speaking to you about it. This is the moment. If Elizabeth does not appear now, then she will have to die up north, we cannot risk discovery; I could not leave my daughter in Scotland when both her guardians are dead.”
A glimmer of hope then showed itself. “Let her be dead, then. To me she is dead already.”
“Edward, you are being a child. You cannot carry on this way forever.”
Edward sneered; to be accused, now, of being childish, when it was his life on the line, his future. He felt the need to do something extremely stupid, but there was not a thing in reach that he could break; he wondered if his father had predicted his feelings. “And why the hell not? I have carried it on this long—my whole life.”
A long silence followed this, but Edward could not bring himself to regret his words. He had no desire to face his father’s look, though, and the window offered a strangely comforting respite.
When so much time had passed that Edward was about to excuse himself, Mr. Bennet finally spoke. “Do not be irrational, you cannot change who you are, of course this is the best decision.”
“Ha! That is what you keep repeating, what I have always believed; ‘I am who I am, nothing more, and nothing else’. But now I am beginning to think that I am what my father deems appropriate for me to be, at his sole whim. You cannot change me so easily.”
“What, do you want to stay here as Edward forever? Forever being chased around by your sister with unlikely subjects for you to marry? Growing more and more bitter and alone…”
Turning around with sudden insight, Edward said, “Like you, you mean, father.”
There was only a slight pause before he answered. “Of course. Only, unlike me, you will not have your two children to keep you company.”
Edward felt drained of words and so stayed silent, and from this his father seemed to grow strength to expand himself on the subject of the Tour. The dark window pane cool against his forehead, Edward resigned himself to listening.
It was best, Mr. Bennet said, if Edward travelled until the entail matter was entirely settled at the very least before disappearing at sea, and that he, once in London again, went to his aunt and uncle Gardiner as Elizabeth. He had prepared everything on those accounts, and Edward only had to decide the particulars of the trip itself. He went on for what it seemed like centuries, until Edward thought he could take no more, and asked to retire.
“You will do it then?”
Edward looked away before answering; he could not face his father. “I will go.” And he went out, before any more questions could come his way.
He walked through the dark house as an angry ghost, the energy that had abandoned him until that moment seeking an outlet in his long strides. Jane was standing at the top of the stairs when he reached it.
“Edward, what is the matter? I heard arguing. You and my father never argue.”
He answered her while going into his room, leaving his door open. “There is always a first time for everything, I suppose.”
“But why? Is it the trip? Do you want to stay in Hertfordshire?”
He talked without turning, too preoccupied with finding his gloves. “It is… nothing. We will not argue again; you have nothing to worry about.”
“You cannot tell me that! You know I will worry regardless. You can talk to me, you know; you can tell me anything.”
Edward had to turn to her then, but he was not in the mood for coming up with a lie. He held her gaze and tried to make his tone even. “But it is not important. And the matter is, in any case, resolved.”
Jane then looked away, and her tone was surprisingly bitter when she said, “You always treat me like I am too simple to understand what worries you. Both of you do.”
Edward flinched and looked down. “I do not—I will not argue the point with you now. I was about to go out, I will just be on my way.”
“In the middle of the night!”
“In the middle of the night. I spent the day cooped up; I will not be able to sleep unless I expend my excess energy. Do not worry, I carry a pistol.” And having located his gloves on a low stool, he kissed her cheek quickly, and he went out.
He saddled his stallion himself, and he rode him like the devil. The night was, of course, frigid, and there was little moonlight. He had to stop in a copse when he began to think that if he killed himself in a riding accident, in light of their last conversation, Jane might very well think he had done so in purpose.
After jumping down and tying the horse to a tree, there was nothing left for him to do but pace. And think. How he was tired of it. Not for the first time, he wished he had been born male. He wished… How different his life would be if his mother had survived; perhaps he would have a younger brother. Or a brother of his own age, had his twin lived.
He had always shied away from thinking how his life would have been if he had been raised as Elizabeth, but he could no longer hide from it.
It was initially unthinkable. He, a lady? He, netting purses? He, demurely lowering his eyes and blushing at polite praise? Sitting down, hands in his lap, maidenly waiting to be asked to dance? The idea was preposterous; he almost wanted to laugh!
Then again, if he had been raised to it, perhaps it would not have been so bad. He would be used to it, the idea of being gentleman unthinkable. He smiled bitterly at the night.
He would have, of course, a completely different relationship with every person he had met. No secrets kept from Jane, of course—that did not sound half bad. He would not be his father’s favourite; his brother would hold that position. At that moment he could not bring himself to think he would regret it; his father’s favouritism had not brought him much happiness lately. Bingley would have been perhaps only his sister’s betrothed, later a brother. Darcy… they would have never been friends; no amount of self delusion could convince him otherwise.
He let himself lean on the rough bark of a tree, hands in his great coat pockets.
Gentlemen and ladies were not friends, except in the most extraordinary of circumstances, and he was not thinking, anyway, of being that kind of friend, not even to Darcy. What kind of friend did he want to be with Darcy? They were not… it was not the same kind of friendship he had with Bingley, that much he knew.
He scoffed at himself. There was nothing mysterious in their friendship. He trusted Darcy more than he trusted Bingley because his character was steadier. He respected his mind more; he found him more interesting, the intricacy of his character more elusive. He could argue with Darcy, and not with Bingley, because the latter hated disputes and thought any kind of disagreement a dispute, and consequently, he could talk to Darcy more. It was no more than that, he was sure, but it was more than he could have expected of his relationship with Darcy if he was a woman.
He sighed and let himself slide into a crouching position against the tree. God, he was cold.
He was also not thinking matters through. His uncle was dying. How cold of his father to think of it only as an added problem to be solved; how like his father was to do that, too, to try to forgo grieving altogether. Not that even he would be able, but he would not show weakness to anyone, not even his own son. Edward could not imagine his father crying. Nor he himself, for that matter. He could very well imagine Jane doing it, though not in public of course, and not often. He could even remember having consoled her on an occasion or two.
He was being selfish. He knew his father was right; as long as he kept living like that, he ran the risk of discovery. He did not want to know the legal consequences of this kind of charade. He had the responsibility of helping his father take care of the family, he knew, and if he had to put on a dress the rest of his life to do so, well, so be it. How grieved would Jane be if both father and sibling were turned to the gallows? He would do it, he would do his duty.
Darcy would be proud, he thought, sardonically, that I am finally doing my duty, as a man. Is not that what he considers most important?
But it did no good to try to deceive himself; he did wish Darcy were proud of him, even as he knew it could not be so.
He breathed deeply, trying to get past the knot in his throat; the urge to rage against fate suddenly overwhelming again. He looked up to the indifferent sky through the bare branches, not seeing it. How he wished someone—Darcy—would tell him what to do; but then again, that was what his father was doing, was it not? What he wanted was someone to tell him that he should defy his father, but no one would do so; even he himself thought that he should heed his orders and follow his plan.
He was what he was, of course, physically as well as mentally, but while he could learn to hide what he thought, there was no hope of doing so with his body, not for ever. He had to be responsible; he had to do as he must.
The horse whinnied and pushed against his shoulder.
“Yes, yes, it is cold; we are going.”
He made his way back with more care than speed, the warmth of his bed beckoning him, sleep’s oblivion agreeably near.
It was only a few days after that when he was called to attend his sister to London and back.
The whole party was invited to stay at the Hursts’, and Edward had to accept, being that there was no polite way to decline. It was not, he had to admit to himself, that the hostess made him feel it—Mrs. Hurst was all that was amiable to him now—but he could not be comfortable.
Bingley took care of taking him out when he could, and when he was too busy to do so, Jane commanded him to follow them while they shopped. Even knowing such a sisterly tyranny was well meant, Edward found it galling.
But shopping was easy enough when one did not care much for the purchases being made, and he resigned himself to making some noises every time Jane or Miss Bingley asked for his opinion, and keeping a steady amount of chatter going. It was comfortably dull.
Walking down the streets, Edward let himself fall behind the ladies. He could not stop himself from looking around for someone he knew could not be there. He lingered in the windows of the shops looking inside when he was in the street and outside when he was waiting for purchases to be decided upon.
“Mr. Bennet,” asked Miss Bingley constantly, or at least that was what it seemed to Edward, “what do you think?”
“Decisions, decisions…” said Edward once, sarcasm seeping into his voice despite his attempts to moderate it. “Should my sister go with crude or white kid gloves? I see it is of momentous importance.”
Jane shot him a severe look, but Miss Bingley did not seem to take offence, and he would have bet that she had not heard him, had he not seen her heightened colour.
Bingley tried to interest him in some sport, and visiting some clubs, and given his friend’s kindly intentions, he could not but agree. Improving his fencing was the only thing that he was able to muster much enthusiasm for, and thus they went to Angelo’s three times in as many days while they stayed in London. They only found someone they knew there on their third visit.
It was, to Edward’s considerable dissatisfaction, Colonel Fitzwilliam. Did the man not have duties? He wondered. The gentleman did not appear to note anything amiss in Edward’s behaviour, and furthermore, seemed to like his company, or perhaps Bingley’s, or both, because after some pleasantries were exchanged he invited them to dine with him at White’s. Edward wanted to make some excuse to avoid it, but of course, Bingley was too agreeable to even lose any time considering it, and he agreed to it at once. It was indeed ironic, but Edward could now find in himself a definite sympathy with Darcy’s position in the early moments of their acquaintance, or better yet, knowing Bingley, in any moment those two gentlemen made new acquaintances together.
Being that there was no other choice, Edward smiled and expressed looking forward to the evening. He still had yet to enter White’s, and Darcy’s cousin was nothing if not entertaining, despite any other faults he may or may not have.
He found White’s much like Brook’s, observing even some of the same gentlemen he had seen in the other club. He looked around, slightly on edge, but no one paid any attention to him, so he quickly stopped paying any attention to them.
The colonel was waiting for them at their table, and showed an inordinate pleasure in their coming, taking into account that they were expected. Though Edward was tempted to suspect design in his actions—given that Darcy knew he had met his cousin, and that Edward had not had a word from him since the fateful last night at Netherfield—it was soon obvious that the colonel was merely a very agreeable man who liked company and found himself with an empty evening. He barely mentioned his cousin at all, for all that he talked incessantly, and Edward had no time to feel angry at his own disappointment.
It was Bingley who finally asked, after the port had been passed around.
“Say, Fitzwilliam, have you heard of your cousin? I’m quite sure I was the last one to write, some two weeks ago, and he has yet to respond to me. It is nothing like him.”
Edward tried his hardest to appear uninterested. He had no windows within easy reach, and looking fixedly at the wood panelling would have appeared bizarre, so he took a long drink from his port glass, and hoped no one would pay him any mind.
“I am afraid I have not, though I cannot report a similar situation. I think I am in his debt, but I have no reason to write to him presently. I am sure you can reach him at Pemberley with an express if it is a matter of importance.”
“Of course, of course; I wondered if perhaps he was away for business and thus had yet to read mine.”
And that was that. No other word was spoken of him during the whole evening, leaving Edward drained. He had expected a more challenging experience, and he found he could hear his name with adequate equanimity. He was profoundly curious about how Darcy was faring, but that was natural for someone he still considered his friend, and he thought the feeling would pass with time.
Returning to Longbourn, even though it meant facing his father, was a relief. He found he had tired of city life.
Even though Bingley was, even then, increasingly besotted with Jane, he proved to be a good friend to Edward. They spent at least a couple of hours of every day in each other’s company going out, or practicing diverse sports. Edward could not help feeling there was something missing in those encounters, and soon enough reached the conclusion that the thing Darcy brought to them, that Bingley was incapable of, was competition. And he refused to think further on the matter.
On one such an occasion they went out shooting on Netherfield’s lands with some local men, a week before the wedding. Bingley had, like always, killed twice as many birds as everybody else, and now hung back, giving the others their chance. Or at least that was what it seemed at first to Edward, who was observing him. Bingley stood to one side, a pleasant smile in his lips and a faraway look in his eyes. With a sudden inkling of what he could be thinking of, Edward approached him.
“What, Bingley, already tired of shooting, or are you missing my sister?”
Bingley started and looked over to him with a guilty smile. “The latter, my friend; I see I am an open book around you.”
“That you are, though I do not think it is anything to be ashamed of. Everyone is a fool when in love, do you not think so?”
“Everyone a fool but you, you would say,” said Bingley smiling broadly, “I would like to see you suffering from a similar condition.”
“A fool? I believe I am not so presumptuous as to think I am never a fool. On the contrary, I can easily think myself a Jester.”
“Ah, a magnificent dodge, my friend, but I am no fool, and I will enjoy seeing you in love very well.”
Edward could not avoid making a face at that. “You and my sister both are very insistent on that point. What is it about people about to get married?”
“Ah, everyone thinks young men ought to fall in love.” Bingley’s eyes were crinkled with suppressed laughter.
“That cannot be true. Surely not all young men fall in love. I will not ask for your experiences, as I know you cannot possibly answer me, but have you ever seen Darcy in love?” As soon as he said it he wanted to shake himself; did every subject have to end up on Darcy?
“Well, Darcy is a special case, of course. I have never seen him make a fool out of himself for it, but I do think he has been infatuated before.”
“Darcy, infatuated? With whom?” Edward was startled; he had never considered it, though of course it was silly to think it outside of the realm of possibilities.
“So many…” teased Bingley.
Edward startled. “You cannot be serious!”
“And I am not, but I am also not at my leisure to unlock the vast Darcy’s secrets for you, I am afraid.” Bingley was smiling, but Edward knew it was true; Darcy would not like to be discussed in that manner.
“I would not be interested in knowing them in any case, if there are indeed secrets,” said Edward, who felt unequal to determine why he was so curious, and in any case did not want to indulge his own feelings in the matter; but he was sure Bingley was laughing at him anyway, and so he continued, “Well, have I succeeded in distracting you from that crippling longing that makes you unable to shoot?”
Then it was Bingley’s turn to make a face, but he only muttered, “You will understand me one day.”
Edward’s mind had stayed doggedly on another subject and he found he did not care if he indeed ever understood Bingley on that matter. “Has Darcy answered your letters?”
Bingley did not appear surprised by the inquiry. “He has, at last. He apologized, too, for the delay.”
Edward made a show of inspecting his weapon, and spoke in as even a tone as he could make it. “Is he coming, to the wedding?”
Someone called out for Bingley, a few yards away, and he hurriedly got out, “I did not insist, but he said he would make the attempt to settle his matters in time to come,” before walking over to the group of men that were discussing where to head next.
Edward only stared at his back, taking a moment to compose himself; the subject made more of an impression on him than he wanted to admit, to himself or even more still, to others. He had thought Darcy would stay away; the prospect of having to face him so soon unsettled him.
He had only a few days to prepare himself, and he did not quite manage. The morning came, and even though he found himself somewhat busy, particularly carrying orders to the housekeeper for Jane, and checking for her that all was as it was expected, and where it was expected to be, he could not avoid a feeling of expectancy that grew as the hour to go to the church came near. He still had not settled satisfactorily the matter of how to act. He thought he had better follow Darcy’s lead, but he could not think how that would be.
The bridal party was not very large, of course, and so he realized soon enough upon arriving that Darcy was not among them. He did not know which of his feelings was greater, his disappointment or his relief. The ceremony passed in a haze of both, part of him thinking that it was surprisingly cowardly of Darcy to not show up in the end, and part defending him still: if not even Edward could imagine how to act, how could Darcy be expected to?
Edward was coming out of the church when he saw him, and he could only stare, incomprehensibly. He must have sat at the back, he thought. He must have waited until we were all inside to enter, he reasoned, and still could not get past the fact that Darcy was there, no twenty paces from where Edward now stood.
Darcy’s back was to him, and he wondered at his own quickness at knowing him anyway. How familiar was his figure! How could Darcy feel so to him and at the same time so much a stranger, Edward could not fathom.
“Mr. Darcy has arrived, then,” said a voice at his side, and Edward realized that he had been staring for what must be an inappropriately long time, and that Miss Bingley had undoubtedly observed it, as he was escorting her.
“Yes, I thought… I thought I may have gone mad. I did not know he was coming.” His tone was not calm, and that would not do at all.
“My brother is so distracted with his wife, he must have forgotten to tell you. But I myself thought he must have changed his mind, when he did not arrive yesterday, as his letter said he would.”
Edward shook his head. “I… perhaps he told me, and I forgot; I have been distracted, as well.” He only realized his mistake when he turned to her, wrenching again his gaze from Darcy’s figure. She had been looking to him, and was now blushing, without turning away.
He could not face her eyes, and so turned ahead, and started walking again. “Come, they will go ahead without us if we do not hurry.”
Darcy was nowhere in sight, and Edward thought he must have gone ahead to Longbourn. He thought he managed to hand Miss Bingley into her carriage passably well, but his hands trembled on his horse’s reins when he mounted, making the animal skitter nervously.
He wished he could get lost on the way, but he thought Jane might note it and worry. The temptation followed him all the way into the house.
Edward could not eat, he could barely speak. He thought he might have offended some of his neighbours with his boorish behaviour, but he could only look for Darcy, and once he found him, talking with Mr. Bennet, he could only concentrate on maintaining his gaze away from him.
He wondered if he should greet him and recoiled from the idea of imposing on him. He had just convinced himself that he should, even if it would have to be done in front of his father, when he looked again, and they were no longer together. He had barely decided how he should feel about it—disappointed—when he turned and found Darcy in front of him.
His heart jumped, and he raised his eyes to meet Darcy’s. Darcy’s gaze gave nothing away.
“Darcy!” Edward did not know how to speak, what to say, what to do. He extended his hand to shake his.
Darcy hesitated briefly and said, “Mr. Bennet.” His voice was level, and he finally extended his.
Bare skin met bare skin, and Edward did not know why, but he blushed violently. He never had before. Vaguely, he thought it was because Darcy knew, and that he could imagine how awkward it was for Darcy, but then again, Darcy was not blushing.
The warm contact lasted for a brief moment and Edward dropped his eyes when Darcy dropped his hand. When Darcy did not speak again, he raised them again and said, “Your sister is in good health, I trust?”
“She is in excellent health, thank you.”
“Was the weather during your journey as dreadful as it was here in Hertfordshire?”
“Not at all, the journey was very pleasant.”
“I am glad,” said Edward, desperately thinking what to say next, and coming up with nothing. The silence was dreadful. “I am glad, you know,” he said, finally, “that you could come.”
“Bingley has been my friend for a very long time; I could not have missed it.”
Edward could not read his tone, and locked his gaze with his. “You are a very good friend.”
It was Darcy who looked down then. “I… surely I cannot say. It is for my friends to decide.”
A pain blossomed in his chest and made Edward suck in a breath, and he struggled to keep his tone even. “We may ask Bingley to settle it, but I am sure he considers you a very good friend.”
Darcy startled a little and said, “That is not… that is, Bingley is a very easy person, and we have never had a dispute, I do not doubt he would say so. You, on the other hand, have more things to complain about.” Darcy met his eyes, and Edward fancied that perhaps he was smiling, a very little.
He could not avoid smiling in response, suddenly light, the pain easing as quickly as it had appeared. “I am sure I do not know what you are talking about; I never complain.”
Darcy smiled more fully then, and said, “That is settled, then.”
Edward had to recollect himself, as he thought he may have been staring, and said, “How long do you expect to stay at Netherfield?”
“No more than a day, to be sure, my sister is still waiting for me at Pemberley.”
“You must hate all this flitting across the country,” observed Edward, between curious and hurt that he would not be staying longer.
“A little, but travelling by myself gives me time to think.”
“Of course, because you do so little when you are settled on a place,” said Edward, dryly.
“I surely am not to blame because I cannot be considered the rashest of my friends!” answered Darcy in good humour before asking him, “And you, what do you plan to do now that your sister will be away?”
“My father has arranged for me to go to the Continent.” Edward wanted to say more, but did not quite know how.
Darcy looked away. “That is unfortunate, then; we will not see each other for very many months.”
“I can write,” Edward said at last, because he did not know how to answer that. They would not see each other ever again, in a sense.
Darcy looked away. He seemed to be struggling with himself for a moment, and then said, “I do not doubt it, I’m sure you write charmingly.”
Edward did not quite know how to answer. What did that mean? Would Darcy prefer that he did not write to him? If so, he should not insist. But then, it was not clear, he had not been clear when offering.
“My sister thinks so; but then, you know Jane, she is incapable of thinking less of me.” He hesitated for a moment more, and concentrating his attention on his sleeve, added, “I could write to you, if you would be interested in my impressions of the Continent.”
There was a long silence, and Edward felt it responsibility to speak, to dismiss his own offer, even though he felt like chocking on the words. He straightened himself. “That is, I…”
But then Darcy raised his eyes to meet Edward’s, and interrupted him, saying seriously, “Do; I have found myself missing our talks these past months.”
And then Bingley called him away to introduce him to someone, and they did not talk again until they took their leave.