25 • Breathing

“I’ll get it, Mr. Hill,” Mr. Bennet gestured him back to the kitchen. “These gentlemen are guests like any other. I will be the one to open my home to them.”

Mrs. Bennet rushed back from where she had retrieved his waistcoat. “Oh, Mr. Bennet! We ought to turn out like a proper household. Lord Darcy—”

“Knows that he is catching us unaware, I am sure. Lizzy.” His son parted from Jane to better come into view. “Sit with your mother.”

“But Jane—” Mrs. Bennet began.

“It’s about time I answered,” her husband curtailed, smoothing the front of his aged, garnet waistcoat.

The rest of the family synchronously moved to their seats: Mrs. Bennet and James at the table, and the sisters on the couch. They heard the door open and their father’s welcome resonate through the vestibule. Bingley’s louder and quickness of voice was easily discernible, while a lower, almost inaudible tone was Darcy’s return of the greetings.

Standing and bowing was a blur of formality; even Charles’ grin seemed dimmer beneath the giveaway in his eyes. He was as polite and boisterous as ever, but no sooner had he made his greetings, then he deferred to his companion. James used the moment to glance at Jane, whose colour had returned to her face. If it was her realization at her brother that inflamed the rouge, at least it added a lustre to her eyes. She looked healthy instead of hollowed by her months of love sickness.

  They all returned to sitting, Jane intent and composed. She received them with tolerable ease, and with a propriety of behaviour equally free from any symptom of resentment, or any unnecessary complaisance…

James swallowed, not so much hearing Charles’ discussion with his mother as he ought. He said as little to them as civility would allow, while desperately wishing he could vanish into occupations like his sisters: Kitty with her embroidery and Mary sharpening her quill—

James’ eyes moved on their own, venturing a glance at William. His amber irises were poised elsewhere. James swallowed thickly, looking away. Darcy looked serious as usual, but therein James considered the man’s countenance was how he used to look in Hertfordshire, versus how he had seen him at Pemberley. With his mother’s chatter in the background of his consciousness, James wondered if perhaps William could not in her presence be what he was with the Gardiners. It was painful, but not an improbable conjecture. The Lord of Pemberley would have to navigate social circles with his personality enclosed like a tap.

Charles was Charles, but in the brief moments James paid him attention, he saw him looking both pleased and embarrassed. Mrs. Bennet received him with a degree of civility which made her eldest children the opposite of pleased and most embarrassed; this was only heightened by the contrast with the cold and ceremonious politeness of her addresses to his friend. James particularly felt how much she owed to the latter the preservation of her daughter from irremediable infamy.

“But you rode on horseback, Mr. Bingley. Is everything quite in order with your carriage?”

“It’s more than fine,” he assured. “William commented on the fineness of the morning and I agreed we ought not restrict ourselves in the carriage.”

James involuntarily let Charles’ glance at Darcy pull his own eyes back to the man, only to feel himself locked in that amber stare. William blinked, his eyes flicking back to the matter at hand. The briefest of pauses might have suggested he was not paying attention, or perhaps it was merely unwillingness, as he smoothly confirmed his friend’s words.

“How do the Gardiners fare?” William asked before the conversation could be moved elsewhere. Asked James, specifically, who felt staked to his chair as the inquiry was clearly directed at him. Enough time must have passed in which James could not remember how to breathe, for William added, “Have they written of safe travels?”

It was such a rational question that James could only respond, “Yes, they reached London safely,” and not read anything further from it.

He knew his father—who had done his part and promptly left the family to their fate—had meant well in their seating arrangement, but James felt its flaws. Charles was left to Mrs. Bennet instead of speaking with Jane, and James was not seated beside either of them. The guests had wound up on the opposite side of the Bennets, with Mr. Darcy farthest than anyone.

Now several minutes had elapsed, without bringing the sound of William’s voice. When occasionally, unable to resist the impulse of curiosity, James raised his eyes to his face, but found him looking at Jane or at the floor. James could not blame him. They had both failed at any attempt of proper discourse, but William had always been open about his lack of puissance when it came to conversation. Instead, James felt his disappointment and anger directed at himself.

Their last moments together had been under terrible circumstances, and their time apart had been with Darcy going to such lengths to clean up his family’s mess. At this point, all James could stomach was a heartfelt thank you, let alone all the rest he was feeling, but even that he was ignorant of how to communicate.

James wondered if he looked as pathetic as he felt: in no humour for conversation with anyone but the man across from him, and to him he had hardly courage to speak—

“How is Lady Georgiana?” he sparked. It was an afterthought that he had cut through Charles and his mother’s discussion.

William’s eyes found his, widening just a bit with attention. “She is well, of course.”

The man’s lips remained parted, but James did not dare let himself hope that he wanted to say more. For nothing else emerged, and he slowly nodded as he rested back against the spine of his chair, defeated.

Mrs. Bennet, however, flicked her gaze between them before decidedly ignoring them. “It is a long time, Mr. Bingley, since you went away.”

Charles, ever gracious, agreed to it.

“I began to be afraid you would never come back again. People did say you meant to quit the place entirely, but I hope it is not true. A great many changes have happened in the neighborhood since you went away. Miss Lucas is married and settled. And one of my own daughters. You must have seen it in the papers; it was in the Times and the Courier, I know, though it was not put in as it ought to be. It was only said, ‘Lately, George Wickham, Esq. to Miss Lydia Bennet,’ without there being a syllable said of her father, or the place where she lived, or anything. It was my brother Gardiner’s drawing up too, and I wonder how he came to make such an awkward business of it. Did you see it?”

James had quite given up looking at William and instead kept his head down. It was a secret to perhaps only his mother why Lydia was so briefly cited in the papers; the involvement desired to be quickly forgotten by everyone else in the room.

Charles replied that he had seen it, and made his congratulations. James did lift his gaze to examine the man, and found one ready to let Mrs. Bennet fill the conversation all on her own while he otherwise sought Jane’s gaze. James did not dare turn his head around to see if she was returning it.

“It is a delightful thing, to be sure, to have a daughter well married, but at the same time, Mr. Bingley, it is very hard to have her taken such a ways from me. They have gone to Newcastle, a place quite northward, it seems, and there they are to stay, I do not know how long. His regiment is there, for I suppose you have heard of his gone into the regulars. Thank Heaven! He has some friends, though perhaps not as many as he deserves.”

James pressed his lips together and forewent posture in favour of slouching in his chair to hide his eyes behind his hand. The only thing which drew him out of the cave was the realization that Charles needed to be saved.

“The rumour around here is that you’re here for hunting. Naturally, I was sure you weren’t the one renting Netherfield,” James teased.

Charles brightened but his visage lacked its usual splendour. James was at least grateful for what he saw: Charles only wanted to speak to one person in the room and was losing his ability to hide his disinterest with everyone else. His voice was hollow with growing fatigue as he returned, “It may surprise you that I am a good shot, even if it is not my favourite pastime.”

“When you have killed all your own birds, Mr. Bingley,” intercepted Mrs. Bennet, “I beg you will come here and shoot as many as you please.”

James could feel his sisters’ sighs behind him at such unnecessary and officious attention. Rather feeling like everyone in the room was at stake now, James supplied, “I rather prefer the processes closer to the eating.”

Charles exhaled with his weary, blue blue eyes on him. “As do I,” he sent a thankful smile to him.

James then announced, “Good things in small measure, I think. They’re containing their travel weariness with grace but we’ve run out of tea, anyhow.”

No one had consumed a drop apart from Mrs. Bennet and Charles’ touching his lips to the cup before being swept away by nerves and conversation.

Charles and William stood in unison, which prompted James to stand while his mother shot Jane a dagger of a look. Her lips parted and she bobbed right to her feet, her eyes vacant until James reached for her. They began to follow their guests out to the foyer while Mrs. Bennet called, “You are quite a visit in my debt, Mr. Bingley, for when you went to town last winter, you promised to take a family dinner with us as soon as you returned. I have not forgot, you see, and I assure you, I was very much disappointed that you did not come back and keep your engagement.”

Charles looked a little silly before he was officially out of view. James was sure he never remembered such a promise, and neither did he; so much had happened since then that even if Mrs. Bennet were making it up, it could hardly be proven one way or the other.

James pulled his sister with him to get the door, and being the only lady, Charles bowed slightly for her to go first. That left the pair of them moving towards where the horses were tied, while James and William were well behind them. The former was rather impressed that William had taken the hint and remained where Charles and Jane could have a few precious moments alone.

Just as the height of the impression came, however, it dropped James into a low at the awareness that he was face to face with William. He shut the door of the house for their own privacy, and could only hope he sounded braver than he felt as he gestured to the other pair. “Thank you for…giving them a moment.”

William nodded once. “I am surprised they were not given one inside.”

James felt his chest inclined to cave in and knew he was slouching. “I’m sorry,” and he meant it.

“Don’t be,” he said, but not harshly.

“She doesn’t know…” James tried to insist. “She…” He ran out of air.

“Don’t apologize.”

The man’s hands hung on either side of him, empty and harmless. James focused on breathing but wound up being trapped by those amber irises, now almost orange in the sunlight. In their silence, which lasted seconds or hours, he could not tell, James could only part and close his lips, uttering soft or silent “Um…um…”

He felt sick and stupid. How bloody hard was it to say thank you? Perhaps because a great many things were in the way.

I’m sorry.

Thank you.

I’m sorry for Lydia.

I’m sorry for Wickham.

I’m sorry for my mother.

I’m sorry I love you.

William’s hand was suddenly on his chest, and James thought he heard an odd crunch in the fabric—

His head turned, and James realized he was looking at Jane curtsying to him. William bowed, and he was already on his horse, and then they were gone.

The siblings stood motionless beside one another. James felt ragged, like a banner in the wind. “Am I breathing?”

“Poorly,” he heard his sister say.

“Oh. Good.”