Chapter Twenty-Nine #2
He slowed, then came to a halt, turning fully towards her.
Something in his manner changed; the reserve that usually guarded his features gave way to a look of such deep regard that she felt it before she dared meet his eyes.
She stilled, caught by their warmth. The world seemed to narrow until there was only the sound of their breathing and the faint rustle of wind across the path.
He released her arm and took both of her hands. “Elizabeth.”
For a heartbeat she could not move. How did he become so dear to me?
The thought startled her as much as his touch.
His fingers brushed her cheek, tracing lightly down to the chain about her throat—the spinel pendant she always wore, her father’s final gift, and the emblem of all she had endured.
The gentle trail of his fingers to the pendant stirred a confusion of feeling—fear, remembrance, and a warmth she dared not trust.
A sharp breath escaped her. She stepped back, the motion abrupt.
Heat rose to her cheeks. “I—” She broke off, then forced herself to remain calm.
“I need to go inside. Thank you for the walk, sir, and I hope your letter to Miss Darcy meets with success.” She curtsied and hastened away, unwilling to look back for fear that she might find reproach in his eyes—or worse, something gentler still.
He is not Fiennes. Of late, thoughts of her husband intruded more often than she liked, and she was heartily sick of them. With effort she forced the memories aside. It does no good to dwell on what cannot be changed. Think of the past only as it gives you pleasure.
When she entered her chamber, she was not surprised to find Suzanne waiting. Elizabeth removed her bonnet and reached for her shawl.
“Well?” Suzanne enquired. “Tell me of your walk.”
“What would you know?” Elizabeth crossed to a chair opposite her friend. “We walked as far as the pond and watched the ducks. Mr Bingley’s sisters intercepted us on our return, demanding Mr Darcy’s company.”
“Tell me he did not abandon you!” Suzanne gasped, eyes wide with outrage.
“Of course not.” Elizabeth sank into her chair with a sigh. “Mr Darcy is a gentleman.” She drew her feet beneath her and wrapped her arm round her knees.
Suzanne regarded her in silence, the searching look in her eyes discomposing. It was as though she sought answers Elizabeth herself could not name. “Do you like him?” Suzanne asked at last.
“I do…I like him very much. He unites sense, integrity, and kindness beyond what I have seen in any other gentleman—and has become a valued friend. I esteem him above any other man of my acquaintance.”
Suzanne gave an exaggerated sigh. “Such insipid remarks,” she said airily. “Come to me when you can speak of that gentleman with something warmer than esteem.”
Elizabeth caught up a pillow and threw it at her.
Suzanne’s squeal and laughter rang out, bright and unrestrained.
“I do not know what you wish me to say,” Elizabeth protested, smiling despite herself.
“If you see a marriage in my future, you must disabuse yourself of the notion. Though you have found happiness once more, I have no intention of surrendering my freedom to another man’s power. ”
Suzanne’s smile faded. “Do you judge me for my choice?” she asked softly. Her look of genuine concern stirred Elizabeth’s sympathy, and she hastened to reassure her.
“No—certainly not. You must live your life as you see fit. It is only that I recall you once holding sentiments much like mine. You have tried to describe what altered them, yet I suppose I must experience such a change myself before I can understand it completely.”
“And why should that not be with Mr Darcy?” Suzanne pressed. “You just said you esteem him above any other gentleman. My sister has known him from childhood—surely Lady Matlock could tell you all you might wish to learn. Tell me, have you written to her lately?”
“You will keep your sister out of this,” Elizabeth warned. “I do write to Lady Matlock, though never of personal matters. She and I were but slightly acquainted when I quitted town. The understanding you and I share is of another sort.”
Suzanne looked at her dubiously . “Do you question my sister’s sincerity—her acceptance?
” she asked. “I assure you she would welcome the notion of having you for a niece. Lady Matlock’s support would smooth your way into society—and you would not stand alone—you would have me with you. If it is consequence you fear—”
Panic rose with every word. Reason told her Suzanne spoke only the truth, yet the thought of becoming a wife once more—of surrendering her hard-won independence, her very peace of mind—to any man’s authority filled her with dread.
If Suzanne knew what Fiennes truly was—his origins—she would not speak so easily of her sister’s approval, she told herself.
Elizabeth shook her head. “No, stop, I beg you,” she said firmly. “Mr Darcy and I are friends. I can be nothing more than that. Not now.” Not yet, whispered a voice she dared not heed.
Suzanne’s expression softened. “Very well, Elizabeth, I shall say no more; I can see the subject distresses you.”
Their conversation faltered, then wandered to safer topics, until at last their ease returned. Elizabeth was grateful when the earlier discussion was forgotten—and still more when, around four o’clock, she, Suzanne, and Jane took their leave.
The relief of being home once more was profound.
On reaching Longbourn, she went straight from the carriage to the nursery, where Elinor’s laughter restored her spirits more surely than any conversation could.
Resolved to put all thoughts of marriage from her mind, Elizabeth passed the afternoon in her daughter’s company.
Alone in her bed in the quiet of the night, she could not but imagine what life beside Mr Darcy might be. Would it prove another calamity such as before? I do not believe so. But could I endure the risk? It was a question she dared not answer.
Sleep would not come; the memory of his eyes—searching, impossibly kind—would not be dismissed. She feared their image would outlast the night.