Chapter Twenty-Eight #2
“The skies are clear, and the sun is high,” Mr Bingley replied. “The roads should be quite passable this afternoon. We shall enjoy your company until then.”
Elizabeth chanced a look towards Mr Darcy.
His features betrayed nothing—neither satisfaction nor disappointment—only a stillness that seemed reflective.
For a fleeting moment, she saw his sleeping face in the firelight, that quiet ease which had so disarmed her.
She felt her cheeks warm; she looked away and fixed her gaze on her plate once more, willing her thoughts to good order.
Had he dreamt of her or merely spoken her name by chance? She could not tell which thought was the more perilous—that he had dreamt of her, or that she secretly hoped he might. What folly to be unsettled by a dreamer’s murmur—and how easy the memory of it disturbed her calm.
Darcy
It had not been a dream.
After spending hours in his chamber the night before, still fully attired and unable to find rest, Darcy at last left for the library.
There was always a fire there; the servants knew his fondness for the room.
Many a night he had passed within those walls, reading letters or attending to business while the household slept.
His daylight hours were spent with Bingley—hunting, calling upon neighbours, or reviewing estate matters.
The respite from his own affairs was welcome, yet habit kept him alert to Pemberley’s concerns.
His steward was more than capable, but he could never fully set aside responsibility, even on a holiday.
He descended to fetch a book he had left there two days before, hoping it might quiet his mind.
His thoughts were far removed from accounts or correspondence—they were filled with Elizabeth.
Knowing she slept only two doors away had driven rest from him entirely.
Her nearness unsettled him; he could think of nothing else.
He longed to understand her heart. Did she ever think of him when they were apart—miss him, as he missed her?
He wished to court her openly, to declare his affection, and to tell her how deeply she had altered his life—and to kiss her.
He even dared to imagine calling her daughter his own and returning with them both to Pemberley to be a family.
But some inward caution restrained him. Instinct warned him she was not ready; to press his suit now might end in disaster. And so he waited.
Unequal to remaining in his chamber, he took up his banyan and slippers.
His decision not to undress proved wise; he could move through the corridors unseen and spare himself any chance encounter with Miss Bingley, who might mistake civility for compromise.
Avoiding the one creaking stair, he reached the library unobserved and stirred the fire to life.
Resting one arm on the mantel, he watched the coals brighten, the glow reminding him of Elizabeth’s eyes.
Even here, I cannot escape her, he thought with a low groan.
Settling into his accustomed seat, feet on the stool, he opened his book, though his mind wandered continually back to her.
The room was quiet, the fire steady. Sleep crept on him gradually, softening his restless thoughts until images of Elizabeth filled his mind—Elizabeth smiling pertly, Elizabeth dancing, Elizabeth in his arms.
Some sound roused him; half-awake, he glimpsed movement and caught the scent of rosewater and jasmine—light, unmistakable, and hers. Elizabeth, he thought, before sleep claimed him once more.
Now seated at breakfast, he almost convinced himself it had been a dream—until Elizabeth’s unguarded words proved otherwise.
She mentioned seeking a book in the library, and though it appeared her words had escaped her without thought, they struck him like a blow.
His heart leapt, then steadied beneath her calm reserve; she did not look at him.
He forced himself to remain still, to appear unmoved, though his every sense was fixed upon her.
She jested about the library chairs being more inviting than the beds; he wanted to join in the merriment, yet the sound caught in his throat.
He yearned to speak with her but dared not deepen her embarrassment. With effort, he tore his gaze from her and finished his meal. Elizabeth mentioned walking out; he resolved to do the same. A little air might serve them both.
She rose first, despite being the last to arrive.
Darcy watched her take her leave, then pushed back his chair and made his own excuses.
He deliberately feigned notice of Lady Westland’s pointed glance; to Bingley he merely said they might discuss the drainage after luncheon.
Without further delay, he quitted the breakfast room.
Within minutes he had donned his coat and gloves. Stepping from his chamber, he saw Elizabeth on the stairs. He called softly to her and quickened his pace. Even if she is not ready to hear me, I can at least walk beside her. Surely, she will not object to that.
Reason urged patience, yet his heart pressed forward, deaf to caution. What harm could there be in a walk?