Mr. Darcy spent his last afternoon at Netherfield preparing letters for his steward, instructing his valet on what arrangements were required for his return, and avoiding his friends. He was in no mood to try and explain his hurried departure to Mr. Bingley when he had not yet come to grips with the impulsive decision himself. There was truth in the reasons he confessed to the party at Longbourn. His steward, he was certain, would always claim that there were matters of import that could only be properly attended to by his master. And he dearly missed his sister. But the fact remained that no more than four and twenty hours ago these were not compelling enough reasons for him to consider cutting short his stay.
Supper approached, and it was acknowledged that he could no longer escape the inevitable. He headed down to the dining room where Mr. Bingley forthwith appeared and confronted his guest excitedly. "Darcy, what on earth is this sudden trip to London about? I heard nothing about it until just this morning! Pray, do not try and convince me that in the course of your stroll with Miss Elizabeth this afternoon you were thusly informed of such urgent matters that cannot be delayed." If his words alone did not express his frustration at his friend, his reddened cheeks and defiant glare left no doubt.
With a heavy sigh Mr. Darcy began, "You are right, Charles, I was only considering a trip when we set out this morning but had not settled the matter. It came upon me suddenly how much I have missed Georgiana. You have your sisters with you always, you cannot know the worry and concern that I suffer not having mine close by my side. And there are a few very important matters - or one at least - that I fear I can resolve only by leaving Netherfield."
His words were chosen wisely, indeed, for there was little argument that Mr. Bingley could use against brotherly affection and duty. Still, he was not willing to concede entirely. "I dare say, you are not running to London, but rather running from Hertfordshire! It is clear you are resigned to your course, but I insist that you return shortly. It has been decided, I shall give a ball, and you must be here to welcome my neighbors and make amends to all the ladies you have slighted." Bingley forced a dull laugh, unconscious of the sting his words caused his friend.
Mr. Darcy experienced genuine pangs of self-remorse seeing his friend's discontent and worry and endeavored to bring more welcome thoughts to his attention. "And you are convinced that the possibility of an evening spent in the company of a beautiful lady has not influenced you in any way? You deny that you are - perhaps - thinking of more than just the happiness of your neighbors with this scheme?"
"I have no desire to deny it, Darcy. She is an angel!" Mr. Bingley set forth describing the many virtues of his object and was not happy until Darcy, himself, admitted he had never met a prettier or pleasanter lady in all of his acquaintance.
The excuse of an early morning departure freed Mr. Darcy from continuing his praise of the eldest Miss Bennet, and he soon headed upstairs. In his room, he found that all arrangements had been put in place as ordered and that there was nothing left for him to do but wait for morning.
Sleep eluded him, and he lay awake into the early morning hours meditating on a pair of dark, perplexing eyes. He mused over how they could reveal such depths of perception and wit and warmth and also conceal hidden desires and wishes and regrets. He longed to believe that those eyes had betrayed their owner with a brief flash of distress as he announced his intention of leaving, but he was determined that he should not believe it just because he wished it. He could not stop himself from imagining that even as he was held captive by the memory of those eyes, their owner might be awake and thinking of him, too. Whatever comfort he could draw from this reverie was lost as he recalled her words from that morning: 'I am not made for sorrow, Mr. Darcy'.
Sunrise finally brought his escape, and before the family had even stirred enough to remember that they had a guest to bid farewell to, he was setting a steady pace towards London. The fresh air revived his spirits, and he drew firm in his resolution to keep his mind focused only on what was ahead. He passed through the small town of Meryton before the bustle of the day could distract or pull him in; no familiar faces looked up to shake their disappointment in his exit, no shopkeeper waved him over to ask for advice on this method or that matter. He slowed as he approached the path from Longbourn and regret again overwhelmed him.
Elizabeth gave up on sleep at the break of dawn and took to the shrubberies to clear her mind and soothe her weary spirit. A turn in the gardens soon progressed to a brisk stroll through the park; the crisp air, the familiar paths, the dew-laden foliage her source of comfort during those seldom moments of struggle that she had encountered in her generally peaceful and pleasant existence. She attributed her anguish and disquiet to the realization that she might very soon lose her dearest sister to matrimony.
To the incongruity of her emotion, Elizabeth was not unaware. She had anticipated the match from the beginning, seeing good in Mr. Bingley from the very first and feeling her estimation of him only rise with his pleasing attentions to her sister. A better, more deserving gentleman could not have been designed to match Jane's universal good-will and cheerful spirit. Elizabeth knew this to be true. But she felt deeply what the loss of her sister would mean to her, even if her removal was only the short distance to Netherfield Park. She could not think without pain of evenings spent without her dearest, closest companion.
If she were honest with herself, which she was most certainly not, she might also have acknowledged other disappointments. She might have considered whether her discomfort stemmed not from reflection on the advantages that Netherfield might soon gain, but rather from that which it must soon relinquish. It was these thoughts Elizabeth could not - would not - entertain. She could contemplate rationally her surprise in Mr. Darcy's abrupt withdrawal, and her confusion that this would be news to his friend, too. She was confident in her own objective observation that it must be some matter of importance to draw him back to London at this time of year and in such haste. She was stubbornly determined to dismiss any disappointment or concern that she might be feeling on his account.
Turning back towards the house, a bitter gust of wind brought a pink glow to her cheeks and an errant tear to her eye. She removed a handkerchief from her pocket, her thumb absently tracing the foreign needlework in the corner; deep blue flowers with a delicate golden scroll lovingly applied by a determined but novice hand. Her resolve wavered as she glanced down and recognized the ornate monogram - FD - that graced the pattern. Her thumb moved from the cloth to the faint mark on her nearly healed finger. For a fleeting moment she was transported back to Netherfield Park; she felt the heat radiating off Mr. Darcy as he came to her side, the strength of his hands pressing the handkerchief to her wound, the rush of relief his comforting gaze provided. Elizabeth pulled the wretched cloth to her eyes to mask the sobs that were now freely flowing.
Darcy steered his mount onto the path towards Longbourn, stopping to take one last look at all that he was leaving. At the farthest end, he saw her. She appeared to be lost in contemplation, turning back towards her home. He wanted so much - he desperately needed - to look into those eyes and see what they would reveal to him. He lifted his reins to guide his horse closer but stopped himself. A rush of cold air pulled him back from his thoughts, his gaze fixed on her with longing.
If you go to her now, do you trust yourself to turn back? No time was lost as he accepted that he could not. He felt the full weight of his vulnerability and weakness. At only one other time in his life did he know himself to be so little under regulation and he would not allow himself to be so guided by emotion and passion. He turned towards London and rode with an urgency that matched his distress as he declared, "I shall conquer this. I shall!"