April 21, 1812
“Imust get out of this banyan. I must get out of this house, Briggs.”
Darcy had another restless night and could not reconcile himself with the events of the previous evening.
Elizabeth’s ignoring him was the least of his concerns.
It was the appearance of the handkerchief…
the one he had purchased for her from Bingley’s store, in the dream life.
How had it been at the parsonage if that life was only a dream?
And no, he did not want to go for a walk in the garden.
He wanted to send word to the stables to saddle Ulysses.
I need to ride, to escape this life which I have not chosen, and remind myself of the blessings which remain.
My sister. My estate. My heritage. But he had been forbidden to ride.
Richard had instructed the groomsmen to put Ulysses in the back pasture to graze and not saddle any horses for Darcy. My cousin is worse than a governess.
“Also, send up a tray. Just coffee and toast.” Briggs bowed and left, leaving Darcy to begin his daily ablutions. It is still early enough that no one will be down to break their fast, and even if they were, I do not wish for company.
“Not true,” he said, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and standing.
There is only one whose company I desire, but she will avoid me at all costs.
He picked up the paper and glanced at the headlines before depositing it back on the table and walking to the washbasin.
Looking at himself in the mirror, he splashed water on his face and ran his hands through his unruly curls.
Our children would have a mop of curls. Snapping back from the thought, he ruefully shook his head.
It is not meant to be, old man. Whatever her feelings for you, which might have begun to bloom at the parsonage, are obviously gone. But why?
Within the hour, he maneuvered down the stairs and out into the bright winter sunlight. I must take myself off from the ghosts haunting my mind.
The walk had not been arduous, but he had been lost in thought, meandering through the woods, when he realized his feet had led him where it all began the previous week. I stood here, and she there. He stared as if he concentrated long enough, Elizabeth would materialize holding his letter.
“That blasted letter. How could I have given her something so damnable?” He walked along the road, taking a bridle trail toward a meadow.
“First, I insult her family and tell her I love her against my will and better judgment, then compound the slight by writing it all down on paper?” He wandered aimlessly, eyes on his boots, kicking stones along the path.
“I hope she has burnt it or has forgotten the contents in the last week’s mishaps,” he whispered.
“If I were any type of gentleman, I would ask her forgiveness when next I saw her.”
He had kicked another stone and it bounced off of a fallen tree, coming to rest alongside a pair of half boots peeking out from woolen skirts. When he raised his eyes, a pair of brown ones stared back at him.
She watched him approach, mumbling to himself; she hoped he would not look up and see her; maybe he would continue down the smaller path at the fork.
Luck was not with her, and an errant stone brought him to her.
She had known it was folly to come out this morning, to sit in the same location she had found him unconscious and bleeding.
Last night, her emotions were nothing if not distraught.
Finding that letter, the letter which was most certainly not the one Mr. Darcy had given her on that fateful day last week, had thrown her world into a tumult.
She could not look at him during dinner, nor afterward in the music room.
He had seemed so eager to converse with me, but I could not remedy where that letter had come from.
“His” words of love had undone me. Her cheeks grew warm at the mere thought of them.
No, it was quite the opposite of what I had steeled myself to expect upon the letter’s second reading.
That so much feeling resides inside the breast of the man who I have always believed so cold?
Those were not the sentiments of Mr. Darcy. Those were the words of Mr. Fitzroy.
And now she watched him, holding her breath for the moment of discovery. Then he was before her.
“Elizabeth!” he said, his eyes meeting hers. His ability to speak ceased and he could only stare.
“Mr. Darcy.”
“Forgive me. Miss Bennet. I…um… I see you have been enjoying the sunshine this morning.”
A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth at his attempt of conversation. “I have. Only yesterday, I thought I might never see these woods again but am grateful to Miss de Bourgh for her kindness in extending the invitation.”
“May I join you on your walk back to Rosings?”
There was a thinness to his voice, a strain Elizabeth did not recognize. After only a brief hesitation, she replied, “I would like that.”
A brisk breeze made her eyes tear a bit and she reached in her pocket for her handkerchief. She saw his attention directed at the article. “It was such a thoughtful gift.”
“It was.” He raised his hand, indicating which direction to walk.
“Such a surprise, as if from a dream.”
His steps faltered, but he quickly recovered, nodding at her pronouncement.
“I have enjoyed making Colonel Fitzwilliam’s acquaintance,” she said, hoping to encourage discussion.
“Have you?” A peculiar look crossed his face.
“Yes. It must be satisfying to have such a bond with a cousin. You have met mine,” she said, with a wry grin. “I am certain you recognize yours is superior to my own.”
She was surprised to hear him laugh at her remarks, and she began to find it easier to not only be alone in his presence but to ignore the letter weighing heavily in her pocket.
“Richard is the best of men,” he said, walking beside her. “Our youth was spent in pursuit of diversion. My life would be less without him.” A strange sound caught in his throat.
“I am certain you have had many unforgettable adventures. And the colonel seems to be one who has always had an adventurous spirit.”
Darcy brightened. “But we did not attempt too many dangerous activities. It was not as if I convinced him to jump off a cliff strapped to Da Vinci’s flying machine.”
Her body jerked to a halt. “What did you say?”
“I was making a comparison to the flying machines of Da Vinci. Have you read of them, Miss Bennet?”
She could not place the sound in his voice. Hope? Fear? She knew not what. But she was all too aware of his intense gaze. “No. I have read of Da Vinci’s inventions, but my father…my father…”
She shuddered, and he reached up to straighten the wrap that had started to slip from her shoulders. His hands stayed at the end of the fabric. “Miss Bennet…”
“Yes?”
“In this last week, I have felt as if I have lived a lifetime. A lifetime of loss and discovery. I am uncertain who I am anymore.”
“I believe you are who you have always been.”
“Heaven forbid you believe that,” he said, dropping his hands and walking away with quick steps. “If that be the case, there is nothing in my power to change your opinion of me.”
“You are wrong,” she said, stopping him with her words.
“I am wrong?” he asked, turning to her, and returning to face her. “What have I to recommend myself? Insults? A taciturn disposition? An aunt who has behaved meaner than any relative I have accused you of having?”
She shook her head, and she reached into her reticule and withdrew the letter.
Upon seeing it, he lowered his head in shame. “I should not have written that,” he said. “Forgive me for the degradation of your family, and the disservice I performed to your sister. I plan on immediately writing to Bingley to make things right.”
“Thank you,” she said softly, lowering her eyes. “Although I am grateful for your words, and more so for your actions on behalf of my sister, I do not find this letter repugnant.”
He stepped back and cocked his head at her. She could still not meet his eyes.
“I find it…impassioned.”
Confused, he said, “I do not understand. This was the most ungentlemanly letter ever written. After contemplation, I agree with your estimation of my person. There is nothing I did to show good character at all. You are much too generous with me.”
She extended the parchment. “Please read it aloud,” she said as she heard him unfolding the pages.
“Aloud?”
“Please, sir.”
“Very well,” he said, agitation in his voice. Clearing his throat, he began, “Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Be not alarmed, my love… that this letter contains any sentiments that last night were so worrisome to you…”
He gasped, and it was then she knew he realized what he held.
They walked in silence as if hesitant to say the words aloud.
How can any of this be part of a dream? Or am I still dreaming?
A servant met them on the steps to Rosings with news that his doctor had arrived, halting whatever conversation they might have eventually summoned.
But what was he to have said to her? How was he to recover after finding her in possession of that letter while using the handkerchief he had bought from Bingley’s store? Nothing made sense.
Dr. Wiley had arrived and, with him, a specialist from London who wanted to examine the patient. As he handed his hat to the footman and entered Rosings, the trusted butler said, “Sir, the doctors have been shown to their guest quarters. Colonel Fitzwilliam awaits you in the drawing room.”
“Thank you, Holden.”
The old servant bowed and walked down the corridor, leaving Darcy and Elizabeth alone in the entryway.
“I believe I will retire to my room. With a book,” Elizabeth said, barely meeting Darcy’s eyes. She took a step toward the stairs when he reached his hand to stay her.
“Miss Bennet…Elizabeth…we must speak.”
“Yes, we must,” she said softly. Confusion was in her eyes, and he wanted to smooth the furrow between her brows.