Chapter 4
Darcy had never changed his coat with less patience.
The simple offices of a gentleman’s return, which in any ordinary hour would have soothed him by their order and familiarity, now seemed devised only to hinder him.
His valet’s hands were too careful, the fresh linen too slow to settle, the brush of cloth across his shoulders too precise.
All the while, the memory of Elizabeth’s face at the turn of the gallery remained before him: startled, flushed, mortified, and so near that his hands still seemed to possess the warmth of having steadied her.
He had left her because it had seemed the only proper course. She had spoken of delay; her tone had been constrained; her cheeks had burned, and he, who had once pressed his feelings upon her with unforgivable blindness, would not again force his company where it might be unwelcome.
Yet the farther he had walked from her, the more every step had felt wrong.
To find her at Pemberley, to speak only a handful of stiff sentences, to bow and disappear like some stranger whom she might be relieved to avoid—no, he could not endure it.
When at last he was free, he left his chamber too quickly, checked himself at the corridor, and descended with as much composure as he could command.
His heart beat hard beneath the fresh linen; his skin felt too warm, though the stone hall below was cool.
At a window overlooking the grounds, he stopped, and relief passed through him with such force that his breath left him in a quiet exhale.
They had not gone.
Mrs. Reynolds, good soul, had directed them toward the grounds before their departure, and he saw Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner at some distance, pausing near a bank of summer flowers, their heads inclined together with all the pleased interest of visitors who loved landscapes better than display.
Farther ahead, near the stream, walked Elizabeth alone.
Darcy’s hand tightened briefly on the window frame.
The water shone beyond her in broken pieces of light, and the breeze moved the hem of her gown and loosened a dark curl near her cheek.
She was not looking toward the house. She seemed intent upon the path, though there was a stillness in her carriage that told him her thoughts were not wholly at ease.
This was the chance he had not dared hope for.
He left the house, moderated his pace upon the gravel, and felt each step as if the ground itself had become uncertain beneath him. When he was near enough not to startle her beyond recovery, he drew breath and called her name.
She turned quickly, and for one instant her eyes widened as they had in the gallery.
Then, to his astonishment and deliverance, her expression softened.
A blush rose in her cheeks, delicate and immediate, but she smiled and lifted her hand in the slightest wave before letting it fall, his name called from her lips in return.
She stopped and waited for him, and by the time he reached her side his heart was beating with a violence entirely unsuited to a walk in his own grounds.
“I hope I do not intrude,” he said. “But I saw that you had not yet quitted Pemberley, and I wished to make certain you had found the grounds agreeable.”
“They are very agreeable,” she replied, with a glance toward the water, though her smile trembled. “And you do not intrude. Indeed, I ought to be grateful that you announced yourself from a distance this time. Had you approached silently, we might have met in our usual way.”
For half a second he only stared; then the absurdity of having a usual way of colliding with Elizabeth Bennet overcame his stiffness, and he laughed. It came out low and surprised, but true. Her own eyes brightened, and something tight within him eased.
“I shall endeavour,” he said, “not to establish the custom further.”
“A wise resolution,” she answered archly, “I cannot answer for my dignity if Pemberley’s floors and paths are both determined against me.”
They began to walk, not too near, but near enough that the movement of her gown brushed the grasses at the path’s edge, and near enough that he was conscious of every breath she took.
For a few moments they spoke of the grounds, the stream, the view from the house, and the pleasantness of the day.
She seemed more at ease than before, though not wholly easy; he felt the same disorder in himself, as if his thoughts were a flock startled into flight.
At last, she looked toward the water and said, more quietly, “I learned more today of the late steward’s son.”
Darcy’s steps slowed. His mouth went dry, and the old pain tightened behind his ribs.
“I know,” he said. “I overheard more than I had any right to hear.”
Her blush deepened at once. She turned her face from him, and he cursed himself for a fool.
“Pray do not be uneasy,” he added quickly.
“There is nothing in your question that ought to distress you. Wickham’s history is part of Pemberley’s history.
His father was valued here, and the family was long connected to ours.
His mother was—” He hesitated, seeking justice without cruelty.
“She was ambitious, and often in want of money, though not from want of income. My father, from affection for the steward and fondness for the boy, did much to supply what prudence had failed to secure.”
Elizabeth listened with such intentness that he felt every word pass between them like something fragile being placed in her hands. She looked at him, then away to the stream, where the light trembled over the current.
“Perhaps,” she said slowly, “Mr. Wickham learned early to mistake indulgence for injury when indulgence ceased. It does not excuse him, but it may explain something.”
Darcy let out a breath he had not known he held. He had feared anger, resentment, even renewed disbelief; he had not expected thoughtfulness, nor that quiet generosity which could consider a man’s formation without surrendering judgment.
“Yes,” he said, his voice softer than he intended. “I believe it explains a great deal.”
They walked on beside the water, and for the first time since Hunsford, Darcy felt that Elizabeth Bennet was not moving farther from him with every step.