With Fletcher’s help, Bingley’s man had his master ready to leave at precisely noon. By twelve forty-five they had left Meryton behind them and were bowling along down tolerably good road at a ground-eating pace in Bingley’s carriage. Although he was dressed and breakfasted, Bingley’s only contribution to the first hour or so of their journey had consisted of gentle snorts and snores. The sway and dip of the well-sprung equipage had been encouragement enough for Darcy to doze as well, as against all reason he had awakened at his usual early hour from a very troubled night. It was not until they made their stop at a coaching inn for a change of horses that Darcy put the first movement of his campaign in motion.
“Bingley! Charles, do wake up.” Darcy leaned over and, firmly gripping his friend’s shoulder, gave him an ungentle shake. “We are changing horses, and I, for one, need to stretch my limbs a bit. A pint would not be unwelcome, either. Shall we sample the local brew?” He cocked a brow at the muffled groans that issued from the folds of Bingley’s neckcloth. “Perhaps some coffee would answer better. Come, sir; up and out!”
Bingley opened one eye and, seeing the inflexible face before him, gave a great sigh and roused himself enough to stumble down the carriage steps. Darcy grabbed his arm and, laughing, propelled him toward the inn’s wide doorway. His query “A room, innkeeper?” was quickly answered, and a buxom daughter of the house curtsied them into a comfortable private dining room with a window that commanded the yard. An order for something hot and stimulating was given as Bingley slumped down into a worn but respectable couch.
“How can you be so infernally awake, Darcy?” Bingley yawned, squinting up at his companion’s profile against the sun streaming in through the window. “You were later than I to bed and up hours before me, I’ll wager, if your Fletcher had anything to do with it. That man is a positive martinet! He had my poor Kandle in such a quake he could barely hold my razor steady. I had to shave myself this morning, or he would have presented you with my corpse rather than — Don’t laugh, I swear to you, I’m not exaggerating!”
“Corpse, indeed! Bingley, you do nothing but exaggerate, or worse, allow your imagination to run away with you.”
“Now that is doing it a bit too brown, Darcy.” Bingley frowned, mildly affronted. “But if I am to be so accused, tell me, sir, how one is worse than the other so I may decide whether I am insulted or amused.” Bingley straightened his waistcoat and tugged at his coat. “Harumpf.” He cleared his throat sonorously and, picking up a spoon, solemnly tapped it on the table. “You may proceed.”
“The man who exaggerates is perfectly aware that he does so,” Darcy began as he leaned carelessly against the window frame, his arms crossed upon his chest, “and does not expect anyone to take his protestations to heart. He may come to employ it habitually, but he is still in possession of the truth of the matter and, if pressed, will admit it. But the man in thrall to his imagination has relinquished the command of his faculties to an illusion and will hold to it despite all facts to the contrary. Further, he will demand the rest of the world’s credulity in the matter and regard any who refuse as enemies or oppressors or —”
A knock on the door interrupted his discourse. The innkeeper’s daughter entered and deposited a steaming tray of mugs and covered dishes. Bingley’s study of the spoon in his hand prevented him from seeing the cheery smile of the maid as she dipped a curtsy in his direction and quietly closed the door on her way out.
“— Or at the least, a very dull fellow indeed,” Darcy concluded lightly. He crossed to the table and began lifting covers to examine what had been brought for their repast. “Charles, are you not hungry? This looks passable.” He held out a plate. “Charles?”
Bingley looked up at the sound of his name and, shooting Darcy a quick, wry grin, relieved him of the plate and joined him over the tray. “I believe I shall choose to be amused, particularly because you are such a ‘dull fellow.’”
“Just so,” Darcy replied before they fell upon the plain but honest offerings.
After a brisk walk about its environs, they were glad upon their return to the inn to find the coach ready for them. Heated bricks inserted, they clambered inside. Bingley gave the command; the horses leaned into their harnesses, and the two fell back against the squabs. When the horses achieved an even gait, Darcy leaned over and opened his traveling bag, withdrawing Fuentes d’Oñoro from its hold, and settled in closer to the window.
“Oh, you wish to read?” Bingley’s voice held a note of disappointment.
“Yes, if you would not mind. There is no more than an hour of light left, and I promise to put it away before the lamps must be lighted. Would you like Badajoz? It is right here in my bag.” Bingley shrugged his acceptance, and Darcy handed him the volume, little worse for the wear of Miss Bingley’s perusal and its careen across the library floor. It was plain that Bingley wished to continue their discussion from the inn, but Darcy kept resolutely to his plan. Leaning back again into the light, he fingered the ends of the embroidery threads that held his place before sliding one finger into the slight breach and opening the book. The colorful threads lay nestled in the crevice of the binding, an intricately feminine knot gathering them at the top. With one eye on his friend, he quickly secreted the token into his coat pocket and then devoted himself to his book, not returning the mark to a new resting place until the shadows made it impossible to read any longer. As he put it away, Bingley returned the other and remarked that they were almost to London. “Do you join me for dinner at Grenier’s?”
“Your invitation is appreciated, Bingley, but I must remain at home. I have a full schedule of appointments to attend to tomorrow. What say you to dinner at Erewile House tomorrow evening?”
“ ‘Capital!’ as Sir William Lucas would say.” Bingley chuckled briefly and then sobered. “Darcy, I’m thinking of making an offer on Netherfield.”
“An offer? That is rather premature, don’t you think?”
“I thought you approved of Netherfield.”
“Yes, it is well enough” — Darcy measured out his words — “but I would not advise you to purchase it, at least not yet. This was but your first taste of country living. You found it agreeable. But I find it incumbent upon me to remind you, your sisters did not.”
“Oh, Caroline!” Bingley replied disparagingly. “Only something as grand as Pemberley would satisfy her, and even if I were to fall into such an estate, we both know that I am not ready for it. Netherfield is perfect!”
“Perhaps. Still, I should not call it wise to be hasty in this. You hold a contract to rent for a year? Take that year. Hertfordshire is not the only bit of country in England.”
The carriage slowed as they approached the Highgate Toll. The busy tollgate’s noise being inimical to further conversation, Darcy leaned back into the shadows and covertly watched his friend. Bingley’s brow was creased in a rare furrow that bespoke a mind suddenly cast into uncertainty. As the carriage rolled toward May-fair, though, he appeared to shake free from his disquiet.
“I hope that you will not have to spend all your time in business affairs before you leave for Derbyshire.”
“Not all my time, no. There is the pleasant duty of searching out Christmas gifts for Georgiana. I should look in at my club as well.”
“Certainly, but what of enjoyable things like…a play or a look in at St. Martin’s. Belcher is to display against Cribb, I have heard, and after deal with a newcomer, a fellow from Belgium. Blerét, I think.” He did not give over at Darcy’s shrug. “L’Catalani is to perform at Lady Melbourne’s; surely you will be finished with your accounts by then?”
“You are singularly well informed, Charles,” Darcy replied dryly, his voice edged with a sudden, inexplicable irritation. “Pray, leave your recommendations with Hinchcliffe, and I shall endeavor to oblige you as often as I can.”
“Your secretary! Oh, I would not dare. I don’t believe he entirely approves of me, Darcy.”
“Has Hinchcliffe been impertinent to you? I am sorry for it.”
“Do not apologize.” Bingley smiled at his friend’s perturbation. “I know how invaluable he is to you. Both he and your Fletcher are quite well regarded, you know. I have, in fact, overheard any number of gentlemen of our acquaintance lament their inability to entice one or the other of them away from your employ. Such complete loyalty!”
Darcy winced guiltily at the appellation and looked away to the window. The carriage turned into Grosvenor Square and came to a gentle stop in front of Erewile House. “Besides, it is likely a great honor to be snubbed by him. Further, if he should ever discover it is I who peached on him, Hinchcliffe will deny me the services of the nephew he has been training. So say nothing, I beg you.”
Grunting in agreement to Bingley’s request, Darcy began arranging his traveling bag to be brought into the house. The carriage door was pulled open by a footman. Behind him, holding high a lamp, was Erewile House’s venerable butler, a look of relief warring with deference.
“Mr. Darcy, sir. So good to have you safely home.”
“Thank you, Witcher,” he returned as he descended from the carriage, “but you should not be out here in the cold, my good man.”
“Thank you, sir, but Mrs. Witcher was just that certain the weather would turn before you arrived that only my personal assurance of your safety will do.”
“I desire, then, that you go and inform her so, directly. The footman can handle what is needed.” Darcy turned back to the carriage door. “Bingley, I will not keep you from your dinner. Eight tomorrow evening?”
“Eight it shall be.”
Darcy nodded curtly at his reply, and the footman shut the carriage door. He mounted the steps as Bingley’s carriage pulled away, in seconds gaining the warm, welcoming hall of his London home.
“Pardon me, sir, but Mr. Fletcher wishes to know if you require a bath to be drawn before dining.” Witcher stepped up behind him to help with the divesting of coat, hat, and gloves. “Monsieur Jules begs leave to inform you that dinner can be served within the hour if you so desire, and a nice hot toddy is on its way to the library at this very moment.”
Ah, yes, it is good to be home, Darcy thought wearily. “You may tell Fletcher that a bath is highly desired. Dinner in an hour and a half would please me immeasurably.”
“Very good, sir. And the toddy, sir?”
“I am on my way to the library. Thank you, Witcher.”
“Mr. Darcy.” Witcher bowed as his master started up the stairs to his sanctuary. Upon entering, Darcy found a fire blazing cheerily in the hearth and the promised hot drink on a tray at the side of his favorite chair. A quick look at his desk’s burnished top revealed his appointment book and correspondence neatly arranged and precisely annotated in Hinchcliffe’s clear hand. His books were already unpacked and lying in wait of his attention on the shelf reserved for his current reading.
Everything was as it should be. Sighing to himself, he strode over to the jug of hot liquor. He poured a comforting amount into the mug on the tray and blew out the candle before settling down into the hearthside chair and propping up his heels on the footstool before it. He took a long draw on his drink and, closing his eyes, leaned back. He tried mightily to think of nothing but the hot, sweet liquid sliding down his throat and the pleasurable sensations of once again being home, among his own people and possessions. But the vision of Bingley’s troubled face in response to his purposeful remarks would not be dismissed.
Bingley! He groaned aloud and, sitting up, leaned forward to stare into the fire. It is all to good purpose, he told himself for the thousandth time, and it is of no matter how the whole affair makes you feel. As he took another draw from the mug, his eyes strayed about the room and fell upon the book he had been reading in the carriage. Remembering what lay inside its pages, he quickly turned away. Surely Fletcher was ready for him by now! He set the mug down upon the tray and strode out the library door.
The next morning found Darcy awaking from the first night of true repose he had experienced in some time. Almost before the bell pull had stopped swaying, Fletcher appeared and, with quiet expertise, prepared him for a day devoted to his business affairs. Breakfast and the perusal of the morning’s newspaper, Darcy noted, had been blessedly devoid of Miss Bingley’s chattering interruptions, and when both were finished, he looked up to be informed that his secretary awaited his pleasure in the library.
“Mr. Darcy, sir.” Hinchcliffe rose from his chair set directly across the wide desk from Darcy’s own.
“Hinchcliffe” — Darcy acknowledged his slight bow — “it appears we have quite a day ahead of us. Did you receive the instructions concerning the disposition of the charitable funds for this year?” He sat down opposite his secretary, who then resumed his own seat.
“Yes, sir.” He drew Darcy’s letter out of the leather case in his lap and lay it on the desk for his master’s approval. Each recipient of Darcy’s yearly largesse was noted and checked off in Hinchcliffe’s neat script. “Expressions of gratitude for your interest arrive daily, sir.” He withdrew more letters from the case and laid them beside Darcy’s. Darcy swept up the letters and glanced through them before pushing them back across the desk.
“Very good, Hinchcliffe.” An almost imperceptible nod of the head was the sum of his secretary’s response to his words. Its curt nature and Darcy’s unconcern over such procacious behavior in a servant would have surprised many of his acquaintances. Of course, they could not know that Hinchcliffe had been his father’s secretary, engaged into his service since Darcy had been a lad of twelve.
Their first meeting had not been an auspicious one. Elated to be home on a short holiday from Eton, Darcy had run into Erewile House straight out of the carriage, through the entry hall, and right into a tall, black-clad form just coming into the hall. When the last bit of paper had finally drifted to the floor, he’d found himself lying across the legs of a stern-eyed man of about thirty years. The fall had knocked the man’s wig askew at a comical angle in such a marked contrast to the granite set of his jaw that Darcy had been unable to prevent a sign of the humor of their situation from escaping him. That had lasted only until the strange servant untangled his limbs and rose to his full height. To Darcy’s twelve-year-old amazement, the man had seemed a giant and one with a darkling eye focused wholly upon himself.
“Master Darcy, I believe,” the giant had rumbled.
“Yes, sir,” he had responded in a much subdued voice, sure that he had been unlucky enough to have tumbled over an unknown schoolmaster engaged to keep him at his studies during the holiday.
“I am your father’s new secretary, Mr. Hinchcliffe,” the giant had continued, his diction precise and his voice stentorian. “You, sir, are awaited in the library. You will pardon me if I do not announce you, as I have an unexpected task to complete. I suggest you bestir yourself before your father comes in search of you.” Fixing him with a final, stern look, Hinchcliffe had turned and begun retrieving the papers that littered the hall while Darcy walked quickly up the steps and slipped inside the library door to safety.
For years Hinchcliffe had been a rigid fixture among the servants whom Darcy had learnt to appreciate only when he had come home from university to find his beloved father’s health in an alarming state. During those two harrowing years before his death, Hinchcliffe had tutored Darcy on all his father’s business interests and concerns, and he could conceive of no other more suited to be his own secretary than the man who knew the Darcy interests so intimately and had kept them so faithfully and so well. He did not look for warmth from Hinchcliffe, nor did he expect deference. It was enough for Darcy to be certain that he had merited the respect and loyalty of a man who had known of all his concerns since boyhood and, further, tendered him the services of a true master at his craft.
“Mr. Darcy, sir, there is one thing more I must bring to your notice.” Hinchcliffe withdrew yet another letter from his case and, carefully opening it, laid it on the desk. “I received this from Miss Darcy a few days ago. Shall I do as she has requested, sir?”
Darcy took up the letter and read it softly aloud:
21 November 1811
Pemberley House
Lambton
Derbyshire
Mr. Hinchcliffe,
If you please, make out a check from my Charity Funds in the amount of twenty pounds to be given over to the Society for Returning Young Women to Their Friends in the Country, the address follows, and see that a check for one hundred pounds per annum is made over to them hereafter.
Sincerely,
Miss Georgiana Darcy
Eyebrows arched high in surprise, Darcy looked over the top of the letter at his secretary. “The Society for Returning Young Women! Hinchcliffe, are you acquainted with this society?”
“I was not, sir, previous to Miss Darcy’s letter. I have made inquiries, and it is a legitimate society with connections to Clapham, sir. Very respectable board of directors, subscribers are from the best families and even a few peers. Nothing objectionable, sir.”
“Hmm,” Darcy replied, staring at the letter thoughtfully. “That may be so, but I object to my sister knowing of such women…such evils,” he amended. And further, that she did not consult first with me! Why did she not? He frowned.
“Shall I comply with Miss Darcy’s directions, Mr. Darcy?” Hinchcliffe’s voice rumbled quietly.
“Yes,” he answered slowly, drawing out his assent to the request. “Make over the twenty-pound bequest, but do not send the hundred until you have heard from me on it. I would speak to Miss Darcy first.”
“Very good, sir. Your first appointment is with the manager of the warehouse that handles the imported goods from your shipping interests. Shall I show him in?”
Darcy nodded, and the day began in earnest with a series of meetings and negotiations. Bargains were struck and funds withdrawn or invested in quick succession, with only a short pause in the late afternoon for a cold collation and glass of ale. This had been pressed upon him most insistently by his watchful housekeeper, Mrs. Witcher. When the door had closed behind the last man in his appointment book, the clock was very near to striking six.
“A most productive day.” He sighed, closing the account books and sitting back in his desk chair. Hinchcliffe leaned across the desk, pulling the accounts into a neat pile and then taking them in a stack to the safebox hidden behind a set of weighty tomes on a bookshelf.
“Yes, sir,” replied the secretary as he took a small key attached with a chain to his waistcoat, locked the safebox, and replaced the books. “Will that be all, Mr. Darcy?”
“Yes, that is all! Go and get some dinner; I have worked you unmercifully.” As Hinchcliffe bowed slightly and turned to go, Darcy had a sudden thought. “Hinchcliffe, how is your nephew coming along? The one you are training. Is he looking for a position?”
“Your interest is most kind, Mr. Darcy. The young man is coming along nicely, sir, but I would not say he is ready as yet to look for a situation. Another half year will tell.”
“I dine tonight with Mr. Bingley, who is quite interested in acquiring your nephew’s services. A better master would be hard to find.”
“Mr. Bingley, sir?” Hinchcliffe paused and then continued. “Ah, yes, I recall him now, sir. Fortune through trade, Yorkshire family, I believe.” He sniffed delicately.
“Correct on every count, and my particular friend,” Darcy emphasized. “I would consider it a great favor, when your nephew is ready, if he would give serious thought to entering into Mr. Bingley’s employ.”
“He would deem it an honor to oblige you, Mr. Darcy. Good evening, sir.”
As the door closed on his still formidable secretary, Darcy struggled out of his coat and, laying it across his desk, walked over to the hearth, stretching his back muscles as he went. Bingley was likely right about Hinchcliffe snubbing him, he thought, as he reached for the decanter and poured out a glass. He shook his head and then took a sip from the heavy cut-glass tumbler, letting the liquid roll down his throat. At least you have done him a good turn in this that he will appreciate immediately. Not like the other. That will take some time.
The clock struck the half hour. Darcy threw back the last of the contents of his glass and set it down on the tray. Bingley would be there in an hour or so, and he had been confined to the house the entire day. He needed some exercise; a brisk walk about the square would be just the thing. Slipping his coat on, he rang for his greatcoat and hat. Witcher appeared with them, and with a caution that he would be back in twenty minutes and desired Fletcher to be ready for him, Darcy ran down the stairs and set off at an invigorating pace.
“Now then, Darcy, are you finished with work so Jack may play, or is he to continue to be a dull boy?” Bingley accepted the glass of deep red wine his friend offered and sat in his customary chair at the dining table in one of the smaller parlors of Erewile House. As the servants moved quietly about, uncovering dishes and serving them, Darcy lifted his glass in a toast.
“To a swift and successful conclusion of Jack’s obligations, so his friends will not languish in boredom.”
“Hear, hear.” Bingley laughed and downed a portion of the fine burgundy. “Truly, are you free from your account books and solicitors? It has been well over a week!”
“Not yet, and before you ask, I have had little opportunity to look at any cards, so I have not decided on anything. Except…” He paused, slowly twirling the stem of the wineglass.
“Yes…except?”
“You mentioned the diva L’Catalani, and I find myself sorely tempted to attend Lady Melbourne’s soiree.”
“Tempted, you say! Do you mean to go? I should like to go, but only if you are. That set is a bit above my touch.” Bingley began to tuck into the delicious meal before him.
Darcy snorted. “That set! Do not let their titles and airs fool you, Bingley. They hide a dangerous, deceptive lot that you would do well to stay clear of. Intrigue and ambition are their creed, and woe to the man or woman who becomes entangled in their plots.”
“Rather a dark view, Darcy! But I daresay I am too much of a nobody to attract their attention and could chance a venture into the lion’s den without much harm being done. And to hear L’Catalani!” he entreated. “Darcy, we must attend!”
A shadow of hesitation passed over Darcy’s features as he regarded his friend, but in the face of such earnestness, he could not but agree. “So be it, Bingley; we shall go. But be forewarned and keep your head. I shall call for you at nine tomorrow evening.”
“Marvelous, Darcy.” Both then fell to their dinners, Bingley interspersing sporting news and men’s club gossip between mouthfuls of stuffed capon, chartreuse, and veal d’olive. When the two had done justice to Monsignor Jules’s artistry, they repaired to the library for a glass of port, which Bingley accepted from Darcy with a deep sigh.
“Charles?”
“It has been two weeks, you know.”
“Two weeks?”
“Yes, two weeks since the ball. Two weeks since I last saw Miss Bennet. It seems an age! Wasn’t she lovely? I could scarce keep from her side.” Bingley’s attention seemed to waver from his surroundings.
“Yes, well, that was obvious to anyone with eyes, old man.” Darcy paused and, gathering his powers, asked disinterestedly, “Would you say that she feels the same?”
Bingley shook himself slightly and turned in puzzlement to his friend. “Yes, of course. Why would you ask?”
“On what, exactly, do you base your opinion? Did she confess herself to you?”
“No, no, of course not!” Bingley put his glass down, stepped away, and then returned to pick it up again. “What a thing to suggest, Darcy! Miss Bennet is a lady, gently bred. She would never —”
“She looked at you, then, in such a way that left no need for words of love, of attachment?” he pressed.
Bingley’s mouth opened in protest. “I remind you again, Miss Bennet is a gentlewoman. It would be entirely inappropriate.”
“Then tell me, Charles.” He closed in, allowing his friend no opportunity to stray from the point. “On what grounds do you believe she holds you in greater regard than other men of her close acquaintance? You admit she has not spoken of love, nor given you glances full of tender meaning. What then?”
“A man just knows,” Bingley sputtered.
Darcy shrugged skeptically.
“You believe me to be exaggerating the thing, but I swear to you, I am not! Not this time.”
“Ah, yes. ‘Not this time,’” Darcy returned softly. Bingley stared into his glass while Darcy, forcefully maintaining an air of nonchalance, sat down and sipped at his port. As the silence between them stretched on, he glanced at Charles now and again, attempting to gauge his thoughts. The repeated flex of his jaw bespoke deep agitation.
“You believe me to be imagining it, the warmth of her regard?” Bingley’s question seemed more a statement than an inquiry.
“Charles,” he returned in a conciliatory tone, “you must be the judge of that. I only wish to caution you, warn you away from an alliance that would bring you more pain than satisfaction. The difficulties of Miss Bennet’s family and connections are many, yet these may be borne if you are absolutely convinced of her devotion. But if marriage were contracted with only want of advancement in Society on the lady’s part…” He left the rest unspoken.
Bingley gulped down the remaining contents of his glass. “Yes, well, no more need be said. Nine tomorrow evening, then?” He rose from his chair and, to Darcy’s surprise, sketched him a bow. “I think I will make an early night of it, Darcy. I have some appointments of my own in the morning. I imagine I should dress to the nines for Lady Melbourne’s?”
“Yes, but with restraint. Brummell will, undoubtedly, be there, and it would be better not to attract his opinion at all than to suffer his wit. You must go then?”
“Regretfully, yes. Oh, do not get up!” he hastened to add as Darcy made to rise. “I can make my way to the door.”
“Nonsense.” Darcy left his chair and summoned a footman. “Mr. Bingley’s things, please.” He turned back to his friend. “Charles, I have spoken to Hinchcliffe.”
“Not about his behavior toward me! Darcy!”
“No, no…about his nephew. He shall be ready to apply to you in a few months or so; I have Hinchcliffe’s assurance on it.” They had reached the hall and Witcher, who stood with Bingley’s hat, coat, and gloves at the ready.
“Thank you, Darcy.” Bingley managed a smile that, though small, devastated Darcy with its sincerity. “I appreciate your advocacy in this immensely. You have ever been my good friend.”
Darcy did not wait for the great front door to click shut before he turned and sought again the sanctuary of his library. He nearly threw himself into his chair and sat motionless as a servant scurried in to stoke the fire on the hearth.
“You have ever been my good friend.” He closed his eyes, his jaw clenching. Are not the wounds of a friend blessed? He directed his question heavenward. Better a moment’s pain than a lifetime of disgust and regret because that friend did nothing!
A sudden need to do something, anything, gripped him. Darcy sprang to his feet. Striding over to the sword case, he tore off his coat, waistcoat, and neckcloth, and threw them on a chair. Swiftly unlatching the case, he examined the collection and, reaching in, selected a perfectly balanced rapier. Taking a lamp from his desk, he continued his pace out of his library and into the hall. Where to go? Hesitating only briefly, he struck out for the ballroom. He encountered no servants on his way and slipped into the great room without a sound. Setting the lamp upon a Sheraton console hugging the wall, he moved out onto the floor, executing wide, slashing figures as he went. The muscles in his shoulder protested a month’s disuse in the exercise, but he ignored them and continued the regimen until they loosened and he was sure of his blade’s balance and reach. Then, bringing the blade upright to his lips, he assumed the en garde, holding his body in the curiously taut yet easy pose of the experienced swordsman.
He lunged. An imaginary opponent parried his move. He lunged again. This time his thrust was parried, and he faced a lightning riposte. Darcy brought the rapier up and blocked the attack, then twisted his wrist, using his blade to set his opponent off balance. It did not succeed. Block…block again, thrust. He laughed. That had shaken him! Darcy lunged as the other backed a step, then two.
The flame of the lamp glinted again and again off his sword as Darcy worked through the classic forms of advance and retreat. Back and forth across the dark floor he chased, harried, and otherwise engaged his imaginary foe until beads of moisture stood out on his forehead and his sword arm decried the weight of his blade. With a final, sweeping arc, he brought it up in salute and, bowing, honored the empty darkness that had opposed him.
His sides aching, Darcy caught up the lamp and, slipping silently down the hall, brought it and the rapier back to the library. He returned the sword to its case and retrieved his discarded clothing. Tired as he was, he knew he was not yet ready to succumb to sleep. His book! He would read until sleep demanded his surrender. From where he stood, he could see Fuentes d’Oñoro standing at attention and, next to it, his father’s long-ago gift to him, Whitefield’s sermons. Reaching across to the shelves, he pulled out Fuentes d’Oñoro and, tucking it under his arm, blew out the lamp and made his way to his bedchamber.