Chapter 13
The morning light crept into the house on Gracechurch Street with a hesitancy that matched Elizabeth’s own state of mind.
Sleep had eluded her entirely; the hours had been spent in restless turns upon the pillow, her thoughts a merry-go-round of gratitude, guilt, and that most perilous of emotions — hope.
Every creak of the house had made her start, imagining Mr Darcy’s tall figure at the door, his voice low and measured, asking after Lydia, or perhaps — wild fancy!
— after her. By dawn, she had risen, pale and bleary-eyed, determined to appear composed, though her heart beat a traitor’s tattoo beneath her muslin.
When the servant announced Mr Darcy shortly after breakfast, the drawing room seemed suddenly too small, the air too thin.
He entered looking every inch the gentleman who had ridden hard and slept little — his coat brushed but still bearing faint traces of the road, his expression grave yet composed.
After the usual civilities, he requested a word in private with Mr Bennet and Mr Gardiner.
The three gentlemen withdrew to the small study at the back of the house, leaving the ladies in a state of restless anticipation.
Elizabeth paced. Jane sat with folded hands, her needlework forgotten in her lap. Lydia, propped upon cushions with her ankle elevated, sulked in silence, still smarting from her father’s lecture the day before. Mrs Gardiner watched her eldest niece with quiet concern but said nothing.
The conference lasted too long for Elizabeth’s patience; when the study door opened again, Mr Darcy emerged first, bowing to the room at large.
“I must take my leave,” he said, his voice steady. “There are matters still to settle, but I trust your family will soon be restored to some tranquillity.”
Mr Bennet inclined his head. “We are more in your debt than words can say, sir. Please send us news on the progress of this affair. We shall remain in London for two or three more days.”
Mr Darcy bowed and took a few steps towards the door.
Elizabeth’s heart pounded so strongly that she was certain everyone could hear it.
Was everything settled? Would he leave now?
Would she see him again? A strange sense of despair enveloped her as she felt the moment slipping away like sand through her fingers.
She was terrified of her own boldness but could not live with that burden on her chest any longer.
She stepped forwards before courage could desert her.
“Mr Darcy,” she said, her voice clear though her hands trembled at her sides, “might I beg a few private moments with you — in the hall, perhaps — before you go?”
A startled silence greeted the request.
Mr Darcy’s dark brows lifted fractionally; surprise flickered across his features before he schooled them back to calm. Mr Bennet regarded his second daughter with a mixture of puzzlement and faint amusement. Jane’s eyes widened; Mrs Gardiner’s lips parted in quiet astonishment.
“Of course,” he eventually answered. “If Mr Bennet approves.”
After the briefest pause, Mr Bennet gave a small, amused shrug. “Well, Lizzy, if you mean to scandalise the household before luncheon, you may as well begin. Just do not upset Mr Darcy — we are already in his debt.”
“Papa, this is no time for teasing,” Elizabeth scolded him gently. “There is something I must clarify with Mr Darcy, regarding a discussion we had in Kent. That is all.”
“Do as you please. Go into the hall, as you suggested, so we shall hear nothing untoward.”
Elizabeth and Mr Darcy stepped out into the narrow hall. The door to the drawing room remained ajar, a concession to propriety, but the murmur of voices within was distant enough to grant them a fragile privacy.
Elizabeth drew a steadying breath. “Forgive me, sir, for detaining you. I could not let you leave without speaking. I cannot wait another moment without thanking you for your kindness to my sister, to my entire family. My gratitude cannot be expressed in words, even more so because I know I do not deserve your generosity.”
Mr Darcy regarded her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. When he spoke, his tone was low, almost gentle, but not entirely composed.
“Whatever you believe I have done for you or your family, I shall not admit it as such and no thanks are needed. I would far rather bear your disdain than see you humbled by gratitude or have your opinion of me altered merely by a sense of obligation.”
Heat rose in Elizabeth’s cheeks as she struggled to hold his gaze and clear her throat enough to speak further.
“My humbleness — if there is any — is born not from obligation but from shame for my past misjudgment. My opinion of you had changed long before this unfortunate situation occurred. But now your kindness stirs my guilt, because I know I do not deserve it — just as I did not deserve all the feelings you mentioned that day at the parsonage.”
For an instant, Mr Darcy’s mask slipped.
Something raw and unguarded flashed in his eyes — surprise, perhaps, or the ghost of old pain.
Then he mastered himself, averted his eyes, and replied, “My feelings were there,” he said quietly, “vivid and strong, whether you believed yourself deserving of them or not, whether I wished them or not. They existed quite independent of merit or justice.”
They gazed at each other for a moment, which Elizabeth felt long and heavy. Then he forced a smile and added with the faintest trace of wry humour, “Now, however, I believe you should return to your family before they come forcibly to interrupt our conversation. Good day, Miss Elizabeth.”
He bowed again — correct, restrained — and turned towards the door. Elizabeth watched him go, her heart hammering, her hand still trembling.
When the front door had closed behind him, she remained rooted to the spot, distressed, tormented, perilously close to tears. The hall seemed suddenly colder.
When she had slightly composed herself, she returned to the others, bearing their curious stares.
“Well, Lizzy? May I enquire about that particular request? Should I be alarmed about you having a secret conference with Mr Darcy, of all men?”
Elizabeth managed a tremulous smile. “I only wished to apologise, Papa, for some offensive things I said to him in Kent. Nothing more.”
Her father studied her for a while. “Apologies, is it?” he said at last, his tone dry. “In private, in the hall, with all the solemnity of a state secret? Very well. We shall pretend we believe you.”
“Papa, my apologies were regarding a certain person who had utterly betrayed my confidence and whom I believed over Mr Darcy. If you knew how I abused him and what accusations I threw at him, you would understand why this conversation could not be delayed, especially under the present circumstances.”
“You mean George?” Lydia exclaimed from her seat.
“Yes, Lydia, it is about George Wickham, who spread nothing but lies in Meryton about Mr Darcy, the same George Wickham who has now succeeded in ruining our lives, while Mr Darcy put so much effort into helping us!”
“Why are you angry with me, Lizzy? You were the first one who liked George and always spoke highly of him!” Lydia cried.
“That is true, Lydia. And that is why I am so ashamed of myself, and I had to apologise to Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth admitted.
“Now that we have clarified the matter, let us try to calm down,” Mrs Gardiner interjected. “We all liked and trusted Mr Wickham at the beginning and all have reasons to thank and to apologise to Mr Darcy.”
With that conclusion, nobody pressed her further, and the subject of conversation was changed, but Elizabeth remained mostly silent, her heart heavy, her mind preoccupied.
She escaped to the window-seat in the drawing room, pretending to read while her thoughts spun in dizzying circles.
Her gesture had been bold and improper; she had told him part of what she wanted, and he had responded in a way that only increased her turmoil.
He had refused her gratitude and thanks and said he preferred her disdain.
He had not denied that his feelings still existed, nor had he admitted it.
He had not welcomed her gratitude, nor encouraged her confession.
Yet neither had he dismissed her with cold indifference.
What could he mean? Who could understand him?
She was certainly still far from the ease she had hoped to feel after the apology.
In the quiet warfare of her own heart, hope and despair contended for mastery, and neither would yet declare a victory.
The afternoon sun poured through the windows with the kind of golden generosity that seemed determined to mock the recent gloom.
No sooner had the family settled into a tentative calm — Lydia sulking over her ankle, Mr Bennet nursing both his wound and a fresh drink — than the knocker sounded with cheerful insistence.
“Mr Bingley,” The servant announced, and in bounded the gentleman himself, all smiles and sunshine, hat in hand and cheeks flushed.
Jane rose so quickly she nearly overturned her work-basket. Her hands flew to her cheeks, already blooming pink; her eyes sparkled with a mixture of delight and nervous terror. Elizabeth felt her own heart lift in sympathy to see her dear sister so relieved and joyful.
“Miss Bennet! Mr Bennet, Mrs Gardiner, Mr Gardiner, Miss Elizabeth, Miss Lydia.” Mr Bingley beamed at each in turn, bowing with boyish exuberance. “I am glad to see you all.”
“Likewise, sir. I assume your business concluded in a satisfactory way?” Mr Bennet replied.
“It did. I hope I am not intruding with my impromptu visit.”
“Not at all. It is never an intrusion when the visitor brings such evident good humour,” Mr Gardiner said. “Please sit with us. Would you like a drink?”