Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Never had Darcy desired his cousin’s absence more acutely.
The past three weeks had been exquisite torture, not just because of Fitzwilliam’s company, for he was as effusive and irritatingly pleasant as ever, but due to Miss Bennet’s response.
At Fitzwilliam’s jokes, her eyes glowed a little brighter; her head would tilt unconsciously towards him during one of his unnecessary anecdotes.
She is no coquette, Darcy allowed himself to observe.
But there can be no mistaking the way she looks at him.
Miss Bennet admired his cousin. He could not be happy about this.
For all his flightiness, Fitzwilliam was a good man, and he was the closest Darcy had ever had to a brother, but if he had a fault, it was his eye for a pretty woman.
Darcy did not wish for Miss Bennet to be hurt because of his cousin’s propensity to fall in love at a moment’s notice.
If only Fitzwilliam would go to Haddon Court! Darcy had badgered his cousin at every opportunity to do his duty to his family, but the man had myriad excuses to justify his prolonged stay at Pemberley.
All four of them were out walking, with Lady Acaster spending the morning attending to her correspondence.
Darcy had suggested a tour of the grounds.
It was a strange occurrence, to be master of an estate about which people shared memories that he had no part in.
From their conversation, he understood, in a way that he had not fully appreciated before, how thoughtful Miss Bennet had been towards his sister.
There had always been some game, some flight of the imagination that had turned Georgiana’s mind away from their father’s poor health.
Apparently, there was a spot somewhere in the wooded paths ahead that held particular significance to Georgiana, and she begged Fitzwilliam to help her find it. With bright eyes, she gestured towards her friend. “You must stay there! I wish to surprise you.”
His sister linked arms with his cousin, and Darcy was left next to Miss Bennet.
He tried not to think about how pretty she looked in that creamy dress, its ribbon the same deep emerald colour as the fields leading up to the woodland.
Strands of her dark curls had come loose in the unusually cool breeze, and shivering, she drew her shawl closer to her body.
Instinctively, he offered her his arm. “Shall we step out of this sharp wind?”
From under her bonnet, she regarded him with surprise, and he could see the charming scattering of freckles covering her nose. “I am grateful for your suggestion. There was a worryingly determined air about your sister—I fear we might be left waiting awhile.”
They moved towards a small grouping of trees clustered together.
In vain, Darcy told himself that he did not need her conversation, that he was content enough to stand wordlessly beside her, but after witnessing Miss Bennet’s easy happiness in his cousin’s presence, this current silence was oppressive. He felt compelled to break it.
Abruptly, he asked, “What are your favourite flowers?” Her eyes widened, and he added quickly, “You mentioned—I think—that they are your preferred subjects to draw.”
“How can I answer—they are all so captivating! My aunt took me once to an exhibition of flower-pieces at Somerset House. My head was turned this way and that, my drawing book as full as my imagination.”
Darcy smiled as he pictured it, but he could not help observing, “That is not a direct answer, Miss Bennet.”
She looked up at him in surprise, challenge sparking in her eyes. “Whatever can you mean? Am I only permitted to favour one?”
“No, of course. But I have noted that rarely do you give your true opinion on a subject. You have been here for nearly two months, and I feel as though I hardly know you.”
“We can claim some small acquaintance, I believe.”
“If you are referring to that summer five years ago, then forgive me when I say I do not think it counts.”
Miss Bennet fell silent, as though she disagreed.
Darcy did not like this reticence, not when she was capable of such teasing laughter.
Painfully aware that when they first met, he was not especially warm to her, as Fitzwilliam had been, Darcy felt compelled to justify himself.
“Do you know, I remember very little of that period of my life. Not wishing to break under the great burden of grief, I hid myself away. Indeed, I look to the young man I was before, and for all the riches and lands he inherited, I envy him nothing. I do not think I ever thanked you for the care you showed my sister. It was a dark time, and you were her light.”
Surprised by how much of his inner turmoil he had revealed to her, Darcy risked a glance at her face, only to see that she was utterly dumbfounded. For a dreadful moment, he thought she might cry.
Thankfully, she composed herself, murmuring, “I am glad that I was able to be of some comfort. Dear Georgiana—Miss Darcy—was like a sister to me.”
“I understand you have four of your own. Tell me of them.”
Her beautiful eyes widened. “You want to know about my sisters?”
“Is that so strange?” At her confusion, he added with gentle playfulness, “I promise not to ask which one you like the best.”
Subtly, her lips curved, and a moment of true and warm connexion passed between them. “What do you wish to know?”
Nearly all the walks around Pemberley’s grounds had been exhausted save the one that led to the steward’s cottage.
Elizabeth had devised every excuse she could to avoid it.
She had no wish to return to the last place she had encountered Mr Wickham.
In the solitude of her bedroom, his face had begun to plague her thoughts in a way that she had not permitted it to in years.
With unease, she recalled how on one listless day during that fateful summer, Mr Wickham had arrived, unannounced, after being sent down for an undisclosed reason from Cambridge.
As the son of the late Mr Darcy’s steward, Pemberley had been Mr Wickham’s childhood home, and he stalked its corridors with an enormous air of entitlement.
Elizabeth remembered how Mrs Reynolds had placed a firm hand on her shoulder and guided her away every time Mr Wickham came near.
Even in the hazy night-time heat, she shivered, thinking of the crooked red-brick building where that awful man had once stayed.
A clattering sound echoed in a distant room.
Rising from her bed, Elizabeth opened the door and looked out into the darkened corridor beyond.
All she found was silence and darkness. Shaking away her nerves, she slid back under the coverlet, promising herself not to allow that scoundrel to disturb any more of her peace.
Instead, she thought of the colonel, grinning as she recalled how easily he ruffled Mr Darcy’s feathers.
They seem more like brothers than cousins.
Mr Darcy’s face returned to her, his expression haunted as he spoke of his grief.
His is a solitary existence. There was something in his manner of talking that makes me wonder whether he has ever shared these painful recollections with another.
Sympathy flooded Elizabeth’s heart. If only he were closer to his sister—I can see how desperately she seeks his approval.
Exhausted, she closed her eyes, and it was Mr Darcy’s face she pictured when sleep finally claimed her.