Page 92 of Companions of Their Youth
While he waited, he pulled back the curtain and stared out toward the fields behind Netherfield. The rising sun was still low on the horizon, but it cast a faint gold across the hedgerows. The mist clung to the earth like a shroud.
He turned back toward his desk and ran a hand through his hair.
Who is she?
The script was elegant—painfully refined. No servant wrote like that. And yet, what woman of quality would follow him? Who would even be able to come into the neighborhood without drawing attention?
But she wascoming.
His heart pounded again, just recalling it.
The door opened, and Fitzwilliam entered without formality.
"Darcy," he said. The familiarity of his voice grounded him more than he cared to admit.
"Richard," Darcy returned. He reached for his coat. “I am glad you are awake. I needed to get out.”
“A ride?” Fitzwilliam gave him a long look. “You look like you have not slept.”
“I did not… not well, at least.”
Fitzwilliam did not ask more. He only gestured to the hallway. “Let’s ride until we forget what sleeping is.”
They mounted quickly, the cool morning air biting against their cheeks. Fitzwilliam gave a short nod, and without a word, they set off—first at a canter, then faster, hooves pounding against the frost-hardened ground. The moment they passed the edge of the Netherfield woods and reached the open fields beyond, Darcy urged his horse forward with a sharp cry and a dig of his heels.
The animal leaped into a gallop, and Darcy leaned low, the wind howling in his ears, tearing at his coat, stinging his eyes. His hat nearly flew off; he pressed it down with one hand and bent lower still. Faster. Faster. He craved speed—no, he cravedescape. The pounding rhythm of the horse beneath him drowned out the relentless echo of last night’s thoughts, the note on the tray, the perfect slant of that feminine hand:I am coming.
He could feel Fitzwilliam beside him, matching his pace, the colonel’s laughter rising into the air like a battle cry. But Darcy barely registered it. His vision tunneled. All that mattered was the beat of hooves, the rush of blood in his ears, the sharp taste of fear he could not shake.
The wind tore through him, dragging the tension out by force. For one wild, reckless moment, he did not feel hunted.
Only when the horses began to falter—flanks lathered, breaths coming in great, shuddering bursts—did he slow. Chest heaving, he pulled gently on the reins and sat back. His stallion’s sides were slick with sweat, steam curling up into the cold air.
Fitzwilliam drew up beside him, just as winded, his grin fading into something softer. He gave a low whistle. “Good Lord, Darcy. Trying to kill the poor beast—or yourself?”
Darcy shook his head, not trusting his voice. The exhilaration was already fading, replaced by a deep, weary ache that settled in his chest.
They walked their horses in silence for a while, the only sound the soft rhythm of hooves over winter grass and the snorts of the tired animals. Then Fitzwilliam asked, low and measured, “How are you truly?”
Darcy hesitated. “I should be ashamed to admit it.”
“Then do not be,” the colonel said quickly. “Not to me.”
Darcy glanced at him. “It nearly undid me, Richard. The note. I—I was not prepared. I felt as if I could not draw breath.”
Fitzwilliam nodded slowly. “Obsession is not a small thing. Especially when it turns threatening. I have seen what it can do, and what it can drive people to. It is not weakness to feel shaken.”
“I know that. In my mind, at least.” Darcy’s voice was tight. “But I cannot help how I loathe my own reaction.”
The colonel was quiet for a time. Then, after a long pause, he said, “I must report to my commander next week, but… I have been considering something. With the militia arriving in Meryton, I may be able to request a temporary reassignment. As oversight.”
Darcy turned sharply toward him. “You would do that?”
“If I am nearby,” Fitzwilliam said, “I can help you find out who this woman is. And I can keep an eye on Georgiana too.”
Darcy nodded slowly, swallowing the emotion that rose in his throat. “Thank you.”
“Speaking of Georgiana,” the colonel added, “we ought to pay a call soon, do you not think?”
