The Guest | F. Darcy

Chapter 13: A Visit to Marshall Manor

It was no secret that Fitzwilliam Darcy was not fond of crowds, nor did he enjoy traveling in company, however small it may be. On long journeys, he always preferred solitude. It allowed him to revel in the quiet, to escape the tedious conversations of those who sought to impress him, and—more than ever now—to be alone with his thoughts.

So when he suggested to Bingley, still melancholy and restless, that they spend a few weeks at Pemberley, he had made his own arrangements. Bingley, along with his sisters and Mr. Hurst, would travel together in their carriage. Darcy, however, had departed a day earlier, choosing to make the journey on horseback.

There were multiple reasons for his decision. The foremost was the suffocating presence of Miss Bingley, whose attentions had grown more persistent, bordering on desperate. He wished to avoid her coy smiles, her thinly veiled remarks about matrimony, and the ceaseless flattery she believed would endear her to him.

But there was another reason.

Georgiana's letters had kept him well-informed about the goings-on at Pemberley, and among the familiar names, one appeared more frequently than he had expected: Lady Marshall. His sister had written extensively of her illness, her slow but steady recovery, and the doctor who attended her.

A doctor.

The moment he had read it, a memory surfaced—Adele, seated by Jane's bedside at Netherfield, her hands deft and certain, her voice soft but firm as she had coaxed her sister to drink a tonic she had prepared herself. He had watched her then, quietly admiring the way she cared so deeply for others, and now, all these months later, the mere thought of her made his chest tighten painfully.

He had not seen her since that day in London. Not since she had turned from him, her expression guarded, her voice cold.

Would he ever see her again?

It was a foolish thing to hope for. A man cannot erase his mistakes, nor summon back the affection he has foolishly lost. His regret had taken root in him, growing like ivy, clinging, strangling, refusing to let go. He doubted it ever would.

And so, with little hesitation, he had altered his course, choosing to visit Marshall Manor on his way to Pemberley.

The moment he crossed the threshold of the estate, a strange feeling settled over him.

It was not the warmth he usually felt upon returning to a place tied to his childhood. No, there was something else in the air—something heavy, something unsettling.

Even the butler's greeting had felt... odd. Measured. As though he knew something Darcy did not.

And then there was Lady Marshall herself.

"Fitzwilliam," she greeted him at last, and though her voice was even, he could not tell if it was a welcome or a reprimand.

He bowed, taking her frail hand and pressing a kiss to it before seating himself opposite her.

"I had hoped to find you in better health," he said, his concern genuine.

"Your concern is appreciated," she replied coolly.

Darcy sat stiffly in his chair, feeling an unfamiliar tension settle over him. Lady Marshall, always a woman of warmth and kindness, was regarding him with an air of quiet deliberation. She was not unkind, nor was she outright cold, but there was something measured in her responses—something withheld.

"Georgiana writes to me often," she said at last, lifting her teacup to her lips. "She speaks of you with great affection. You must be very proud of her."

"I am," Darcy answered, choosing his words carefully. "She has grown in both confidence and understanding. I only hope she continues to be surrounded by those who wish her well."

"That is always the hope, is it not?" Lady Marshall murmured, setting her cup down with a soft clink. "To surround ourselves with those who truly care for us? Those who would never act in a way that might cause us unnecessary pain?"

Darcy shifted in his seat. The words were innocuous enough, but there was a sharpness beneath them, a suggestion he could not ignore.

"That is indeed the hope," he said carefully. "Though we do not always succeed in it."

Lady Marshall hummed, studying him as though weighing his very soul.

"And tell me, Fitzwilliam, what has brought you to my home today?"

Darcy hesitated for only a moment before answering. "I wished to inquire after your health. Georgiana has written of your illness, and I wanted to see for myself that you were recovering."

"How very kind of you." A ghost of a smile touched her lips, though it did not reach her eyes. "But I wonder... was it truly my health that prompted this visit?"

Darcy's brows furrowed slightly. "What do you mean?"

Lady Marshall regarded him for a long moment before shaking her head lightly. "Nothing of consequence, dear boy. Only that you have never made an unplanned stop here before. I suppose I am merely surprised by your sudden concern."

There it was again. That measured tone. That unspoken meaning.

Darcy exhaled slowly. "It is true that I do not often divert from my course, but you have been a dear friend to my family, and I could not, in good conscience, pass by without paying my respects."

Lady Marshall nodded as though satisfied by the answer, though something in her expression remained guarded.

"How long will you stay in Derbyshire?" she asked instead.

"Several weeks, at least," he said. "Bingley and his sisters will be joining me soon."

"Ah," she mused, tapping a delicate finger against the rim of her cup. "Mr. Bingley."

She said nothing more on the subject, though Darcy felt as if there was more she wished to say.

Silence stretched between them, neither oppressive nor comfortable. And in that silence, Darcy became increasingly certain of one thing:

Lady Marshall knew something.

And whatever it was, it had changed the way she looked at him.

The conversation continued, polite but distant, and the longer he remained, the more he felt it—that subtle shift in her demeanor. Lady Marshall had always been warm toward him, treating him as one of her own, but now there was something restrained in her manner, something unreadable in her gaze.

For the first time in his life, Darcy did not feel entirely welcome at Marshall Manor.

And he could not understand why.