CHAPTER FOUR #2
Mr and Mrs Gardiner followed suit, and thus, before coffee was even served, the whole party of unexpected guests took their leave.
Darcy offered every civility, his manner warm and composed, but Elizabeth felt, even as she curtsied her thanks, that no one could regret the dispersal more than she did.
The corridors of Pemberley were hushed and softly lit as the family made their way back to their rooms.
Within their chamber, Jane and Elizabeth found the fire newly tended, their trunks brought up and a lamp burning gently on the dressing table. The familiar privacy was a welcome relief after so much observation.
Jane sank upon the edge of the bed, still wearing that quiet smile which never failed to move her sister. “Well,” she said, drawing a long breath, “I do not think we could have met with a more extraordinary evening if we had planned it.”
“Nor could I. I am not sure whether to be astonished, amused, or mortified.” Elizabeth laughed softly as she set aside her shawl.
Jane’s eyes shone with gentle excitement. “Mr Bingley spoke to me.”
Elizabeth had observed him seeking Jane out as the party rose from table, though she had not been near enough to hear what passed between them. "Did he indeed?" she said, turning to her sister with keen attention. "What did he say?"
"It was very brief," Jane said, colouring slightly.
"He inquired whether we had found the road from Lambton difficult, and whether the snow had delayed us greatly. I told him it hadn’t really, and he expressed his hope that we were comfortable at Pemberley.
He asked after Hertfordshire as well, and how Meryton fared since his departure.
" She paused, her voice softening. "He spoke just as he used to, Lizzy—so kind, so unaffected. "
Elizabeth smiled. “And you?”
Jane smoothed the folds of her gown. “I answered as calmly as I could. He said he hoped to visit Hertfordshire again soon.” Her voice softened. “Lizzy, he truly means it. I am sure he does.”
Elizabeth seated herself beside her on the bed.
“Then I am glad, more than I can say. You deserve happiness, Jane.” She hesitated, her voice lowering.
“Yet I cannot help but think—if we had not come here by chance, if the snow had not delayed us here long enough to see him—would he have returned at all?”
Jane looked pensive, though her tone remained serene. “Sometimes Providence arranges what our hearts cannot. We must take comfort in that.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “You are far too generous, as always.”
They were silent for a while, listening to the faint creak of the house as the wind pressed against the windows. From somewhere below came the muffled sound of servants moving about, closing shutters, banking fires.
Elizabeth rose and went to the window. The glass was cold beneath her fingertips. The snow fell still, soft and ceaseless, whitening the lawns and terraces until the world seemed blurred and distant.
Behind her, Jane yawned lightly and slipped beneath the coverlet, her expression peaceful.
Elizabeth lingered, her thoughts restless. So many emotions stirred within her—hope for Jane, unease for herself, a strange flutter of anticipation she would not name.
She looked out once more into the falling snow. “Let it ease by morning,” she murmured, though even she could not tell whether she wished it to clear or to fall forever.
Then, drawing the curtains closed, she turned toward the quiet firelight and the comfort of her sister’s presence, the storm whispering faintly beyond the glass.
***
Darcy Stood By the hearth in his chamber, the firelight playing along the carved mantel and glinting faintly upon the dark windowpanes. His coat lay cast over a chair, his cravat loosened. The hour was late, but sleep seemed impossible.
The day had left him in a state of restless thought. What had begun as an ordinary morning of winter company had turned, in a single hour, into something altogether different. He had seen Elizabeth Bennet again, unexpectedly, impossibly, beneath his own roof.
Outside, the wind sighed low around the eaves, and the faint patter of snow against the glass reminded him of what Jenkins had said.
The gamekeeper’s warning still echoed in his mind: a shifting wind from the north, a sky with that look, snow heavier than in years past. If Jenkins was right, the worst would come by morning.
Darcy stared into the fire. If the storm held, the roads would be impassable for days, and he would have no choice but to shelter the Bennets for as long as it lasted.
The thought did not trouble him for the house’s sake.
Pemberley could sustain a dozen such households without strain.
It was not the inconvenience; it was the nearness.
To have Miss Elizabeth Bennet under the same roof again.
He drew a slow breath and pressed his fingers to his brow.
It had taken all his discipline, all his sense of honour, to remain away from Hertfordshire after the affair with Lydia Wickham.
Once the marriage had been secured, there had been nothing to keep him in London but reason, and even that had wavered.
He had wanted to see Elizabeth, to know that she and her family were safe, to look once more upon those eyes that could so easily undo him.
But he had known too well the danger. If he had returned, if he had renewed his attention, she might have believed his motives pity or pride, some presumptuous wish to bind himself to a family whose disgrace he had just repaired.
He could not bear that thought. It was the reason he had sworn the Gardiners to secrecy, that not even Mr Bennet should know how the matter had been settled. Gratitude, once spoken, might seem a debt, and love born of debt was a thing he would never claim.
And yet, tonight, when she had stood before him again, her countenance gentle but uncertain, it had taken every measure of composure he possessed not to betray the tumult within him. Those eyes, those expressions he knew too well, had undone the quiet he had fought to keep.
He turned toward the window. Beyond the glass, the night lay white and soundless. The snow fell thick and unbroken, the air heavy with its slow descent.
His thoughts drifted unwillingly to Lydia Wickham.
Married now and settled, though the word felt hollow applied to such a man as her husband.
Wickham had written once since his posting in Newcastle, all civility and no sincerity.
Darcy’s jaw tightened. If the storm worsened, he would need to tell Georgiana that Mrs Wickham was among their guests.
Better she hear it from him than from idle talk in the servants’ hall.
He raked a hand through his hair, the fire’s warmth barely touching the chill that had settled upon him.
How strange that a storm, mere weather, should undo every careful distance he had built.
He looked once more to the window, where the snow pressed against the panes like pale, restless mist.
"Let Jenkins be wrong," he murmured.
But even as he spoke, a stronger gust swept down from the north, and the glass shuddered faintly in its frame.