Chapter 22
Three days had passed since Elizabeth left Netherfield, and Darcy missed her with an ache that had become almost physical.
He had not expected absence to have weight.
That was foolish, perhaps. He had known longing before, though chiefly for places and people bound to him by duty and affection—Pemberley during those first months at school, Georgiana when he had left her at Matlock House, the version of his life that might have existed had his father been honorable and his mother lived.
But this was different. This was not the steady pain of separation from what was already his. This was sharper, less dignified, and far less useful.
He missed the turn of Elizabeth’s head when something amused her. He missed the challenge in her eyes when she thought him too cautious. He missed the way she listened as though conversation mattered. He missed, to his shame, the very danger of her nearness.
It did not help that he had seen her at church on Sunday.
She had stood with Miss Lucas, composed and pale in the cold churchyard, speaking just enough to satisfy civility while carefully avoiding the Netherfield party.
Bingley had gone to Jane with no more ability to disguise his feelings than a sunrise had to disguise itself, and Darcy had remained where he was, anchored by his own miserable restraint.
He had felt Elizabeth’s presence like a touch upon the back of his neck. He had not looked at her.
Coward.
Monday had offered no improvement. Bingley, taking seriously Elizabeth’s observations about Netherfield’s lower fields and the drainage near the mill road, had insisted they spend much of the day with the steward examining ditches, culverts, and the sorry consequences of years of ornamental indifference.
Darcy ought to have been grateful for useful occupation.
Instead, every blocked channel and neglected bank reminded him of Elizabeth’s intelligence, her care, and the fact that she had known the estate better than the man leasing it.
By Tuesday morning, he was restless enough to welcome almost any exertion, even one proposed by Bingley before breakfast had fully settled.
“I thought we might ride out,” Bingley said, looking more innocent than he generally did when innocence was genuine. “There are still a few matters I wish to understand about the eastern boundary, and Mr. Hargreaves said the lower ground toward the copse ought to be inspected before more rain.”
Miss Bingley looked up from her plate and wrinkled her nose. “More tenant matters?”
“Estate matters,” Bingley corrected cheerfully.
“I cannot imagine anything less inviting than a long ride to look at wet fields.” She turned a page of the newspaper without reading it. “I shall remain here and work upon tenant things.”
Bingley blinked. “Tenant things?”
“Yes. Surely there must be lists, or baskets, or some other improving occupation by which one proves benevolence without ruining one’s shoes.”
Mrs. Hurst laughed softly. Darcy did not. He had learned, since coming to Netherfield, that Miss Bingley’s attempts at benevolence generally ended with someone else doing the work and Miss Bingley receiving the credit.
Bingley accepted this declaration with a gravity that did him credit and only betrayed himself by glancing once toward Darcy. “Then we shall not impose upon you, Caroline.”
Half an hour later, they rode from the stables into a morning bright with weak November sun.
The roads were still damp, the hedges mostly bare, and the air carried that sharp scent of wet earth and fallen leaves which made Derbyshire seem nearer than it was.
Darcy drew in a long breath and felt, for the first time in several days, that he might be able to think clearly.
Then Bingley turned his horse toward Meryton.
Darcy reined in slightly. “You have mistaken east for west.”
“No, I have not.”
“The lower ground lies the other way.”
“Yes, I know.”
Darcy looked at him.
Bingley’s grin appeared all at once, sheepish and irrepressible. “That was only an excuse to be rid of Caroline. I am going to Longbourn.”
“I see.”
“To inquire after Miss Bennet’s health,” Bingley added quickly, as though propriety could be strengthened by urgency. “It would be unpardonable not to do so, after she was so lately ill beneath my roof.”
“Unpardonable,” Darcy repeated.
“You need not come.” Bingley’s tone shifted, becoming kinder. “I know matters have been… awkward.”
Darcy looked down the road. Longbourn lay beyond Meryton, and Elizabeth with it. To go was dangerous. To remain behind would be safer, wiser, and very likely unbearable.
“I shall accompany you,” he said.
Bingley’s pleasure returned at once, though he wisely made no comment.
They rode toward Meryton at an easy pace, Bingley speaking of Jane, then stopping himself, then beginning again on Netherfield, then somehow returning to Jane within three sentences.
Darcy answered when required and let the rhythm of the horse beneath him steady what little portion of himself remained governable.
He had not decided what he would say if he saw Elizabeth.
He had not decided whether he had any right to say anything at all.
The decision was taken from him when they entered Meryton.
The five Bennet sisters stood near the shops with a tall, heavyset man in clerical black, speaking to several officers.
Lydia’s laughter rang clear across the street.
Kitty hovered close beside her. Mary looked grave.
Jane, fair and gentle, stood a little apart from the livelier group. And Elizabeth—
Darcy’s breath caught before he could prevent it.
She wore a bonnet trimmed simply, her gown modest and suited to the morning, but she seemed more beautiful to him than any woman in London’s most crowded ballroom.
There was color in her cheeks from the air, though not enough to hide the weariness beneath it.
Her expression was composed, but he knew her better now; he saw the guardedness, the care with which she kept her thoughts to herself.
Bingley, delighted beyond caution, rode forward at once and dismounted. “Miss Bennet! How fortunate. I had meant to call at Longbourn to inquire after your health.”
Jane blushed beautifully. “You are very kind, Mr. Bingley. I am much improved.”
“I am excessively glad to hear it.”
Darcy dismounted more slowly, schooling his features as the rest of the party turned. Elizabeth’s eyes touched his and then moved away. Not with the quick warmth of the library. Not with the shared amusement of the dining table. This was politeness without invitation.
He had taught her that with his own behavior, and she was now returning like for like.
Jane, recovering herself, gestured to the clergyman at her side. “Mr. Bingley, Mr. Darcy, allow me to introduce our cousin, Mr. Collins. He is lately arrived from Kent.”
The man in black bowed with great ceremony first to Bingley, then to Darcy, though his gaze sharpened noticeably at the second name.
“Mr. Darcy?” he repeated. “Not Mr. Darcy of Pemberley?”
Darcy inclined his head, already feeling his expression close. “The same.”
Mr. Collins’s face lit with the peculiar triumph of a man who had discovered a connection he intended to use at once.
“Then I am most particularly honored. Most particularly. I am privileged, sir, to be known to your esteemed aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, whose gracious patronage has placed me in the humble but respectable living of Hunsford. A living, I may add, of which I am most sensible, as it places me beneath the eye of one of the greatest ladies in the kingdom.”
Darcy’s shoulders stiffened. “My aunt is very kind to those she chooses to notice.”
“Kind! Benevolent! Condescending beyond all measure.” Mr. Collins clasped his hands before him.
“I am delighted to inform you that all at Rosings are in excellent health. Her ladyship’s wisdom is as penetrating as ever, her generosity as active, and Miss de Bourgh as lovely and accomplished as one could desire in a lady of her exalted station. ”
Everyone stared, but Mr. Collins continued prattling on, apparently encouraged by his own importance.
“Indeed, the whole establishment at Rosings is exquisite beyond description. I often say to my cousins that they can hardly imagine the grandeur until they behold it for themselves. And as to Miss de Bourgh, your betrothed—”
Elizabeth let out a small gasp, and Darcy’s stomach turned over within him.
“There is no formal engagement,” he said sharply. “No such betrothal exists.”
The officers looked interested. Lydia did as well. Jane’s eyes widened with discomfort. Elizabeth’s face had lost its color.
Mr. Collins blinked, then smiled with a repellent air of understanding.
“Ah. Yes. To be sure. These delicate family arrangements are not always to be spoken of publicly. Lady Catherine has, of course, long expressed her hopes, but I shall say no more. No more at all.” He tapped the side of his nose and gave a little wink. “A clergyman must be discreet.”
Darcy stared at him.
The urge to mount and leave became almost overwhelming.
He could not look at Elizabeth, and yet not looking was worse.
When he did, very briefly, her eyes were lowered.
She was pale, her gloved hands folded too tightly before her, her entire manner still with the effort of concealment.
She had heard. Of course she had heard. And from Mr. Collins’s vulgar insinuation, she might now believe all of it true.
“My aunt speaks with more confidence than authority on many subjects,” Darcy said, his voice colder than he intended. “I should be obliged if you would not repeat her conjectures as fact.”