Chapter 7
SEVEN
Elizabeth
The new glow of Jane's reunion with Mr. Bingley did little to quiet the anticipation in Elizabeth's heart.
It seemed all she longed for was the arrival of the gentlemen who had promised to call.
She tried to tell herself that her eagerness was for Jane's sake—to see her sister's happiness secured—but she could not deny that she wanted to see Mr. Darcy as well, though she knew not what she would say to him, or what she would do if he spoke to her.
At breakfast, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner barely mentioned the previous evening, save to confirm that the gentlemen were expected to call.
Just after ten o'clock, a knock sounded at the door.
Elizabeth's heart gave an involuntary leap. She set down her teacup with more force than intended, the china rattling against the saucer.
Jane looked up, her cheeks already coloring.
"I believe that will be our visitors," Mrs. Gardiner said mildly, though her eyes sparkled with amusement.
The maid showed the gentlemen into the parlor. Mr. Bingley entered with barely restrained enthusiasm, his entire countenance brightening the moment he saw Jane. Mr. Darcy followed more sedately, though his eyes found Elizabeth almost at once.
"Good morning," Mr. Bingley said warmly. "I hope we do not call too early?"
"Not at all," Mrs. Gardiner assured him. "We are delighted to receive you. Please, sit."
The gentlemen took their seats—Mr. Bingley positioning himself as near to Jane as propriety allowed, Mr. Darcy choosing a chair that happened to afford him a clear view of Elizabeth.
Mr. Gardiner, who had been reading the newspaper, folded it and set it aside.
After pleasantries had been set aside and tea served, Mr. Gardiner started the conversation. "So, gentlemen, how long have you been in Bath?"
"Nearly a month now," Mr. Darcy replied. "I have been coming to Bath since I was a child—first with my father, and now as the one managing the estate."
“Do you reside upon the estate now?” Mrs. Gardiner asked, unable to suppress her curiosity.
“Yes, ma’am. Most of the rooms are let, but I keep a small portion for my own use whenever I visit. It is by no means grand—nothing to compare with Pemberley—but it serves me well enough.”
"Only business brings me to Bath," Mr. Gardiner said with a chuckle. "I have never had the luxury of keeping a second residence."
"This house is quite lovely, though," Mr. Bingley observed, glancing about the well-appointed parlor. "Better than many lodgings I have seen in Bath. How did you find it?"
"Through a friend," Mrs. Gardiner said. "She owns several properties in Bath and lets them during the summer months. We were fortunate she had this one available."
"It is very comfortable," Jane added softly.
"And well-situated," Mr. Bingley said, his eyes never leaving Jane's face. "Close to all the best walks and prospects."
"Speaking of walks," Mrs. Gardiner said, "perhaps you gentlemen would be kind enough to show the girls something of Bath? They have seen very little of the city since we arrived."
"We would be delighted," Mr. Bingley said at once. "Would we not, Darcy?"
“Of… of course,” Mr. Darcy stammered, his gaze still fixed upon Elizabeth. “If the ladies would do us the honour, it would be our pleasure.”
Elizabeth felt a curious mixture of reluctance and eagerness stir within her. To be thrust into Mr. Darcy's company, to walk beside him, to make conversation—it was precisely what she both wanted and feared.
But there was no polite way to refuse.
"That would be lovely," she heard herself say.
Jane agreed as well, and within a quarter hour the party had assembled for their walk. Mrs. Gardiner declined to join them, citing correspondence that required her attention, but she seemed perfectly content to let the young people go without her.
They set out into the crisp morning air, Mr. Bingley and Jane falling naturally into step ahead, while Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth followed at a more measured pace.
For several minutes, they walked in silence.
Elizabeth stole glances at Mr. Darcy from beneath her bonnet. He appeared perfectly composed, his expression thoughtful but not severe. There was none of the cold pride she remembered from Hertfordshire, none of the wounded anger from Kent. He looked—she hardly knew how to describe it—at peace.
It unnerved her.
"How is your sister?" she asked at last, grasping for safe conversation. “When last we saw in Kent, I remember your aunt mentioning her, and you said she was in London."
"She is still in London with my cousin," Mr. Darcy replied. "We stayed at Pemberley two months ago, but she left after a fortnight. She finds town more diverting than the country at present."
"She is well, I hope?"
"Very well. Thank you for asking."
Another pause. Elizabeth searched for something else to say.
"And Colonel Fitzwilliam? Does he remain in London as well or the regiment has him occupied elsewhere?"
"He does. His regiment keeps him occupied there, though he writes that he finds military life less agreeable than he once did."
"I am sorry to hear it. He seemed quite content when I knew him in Kent."
"He was," Mr. Darcy said quietly. "Kent was a pleasant interlude for both of us."
Elizabeth's breath caught. Was he thinking of what had happened there? Of his proposal, her refusal, the letter she had not read?
But his expression gave nothing away.
They walked on, the silence between them no longer quite so easy. Ahead, Mr. Bingley said something that made Jane laugh—a soft, musical sound that carried back to them on the breeze.
"They look so happy," Mr. Darcy observed.
"They do," Elizabeth agreed. Then, before she could stop herself, she added, "I should thank you, sir. Jane told me that Mr. Bingley said you were the one who informed him of her visit to London. I suppose if you had not, they might never have found each other again."
Mr. Darcy's jaw tightened. "There is nothing to thank me for, Miss Elizabeth.
I made a mistake, and I corrected it as soon as I realized what I had done.
" He paused, and when he spoke again, there was pain in his voice.
"Seeing your sister yesterday—her countenance—I understood what separating them must have done to her.
I am sorry it took Bingley so long to summon the courage to speak to her.
Thank God I asked him to come to Bath with me, else they might have lost each other entirely. "
Elizabeth looked at him in surprise. This was not what she had expected. There was no defensiveness in his tone, no attempt to justify his actions. Only regret.
"You could not have known," she said softly.
"I should have trusted Bingley's judgment. And I should have looked more carefully before presuming to know your sister's heart." He met her eyes. "It was arrogant of me. Presumptuous. I see that now."
Elizabeth did not know what to say. The Mr. Darcy of Hertfordshire would never have admitted such a thing. The Mr. Darcy of Kent had been too proud to consider that he might be wrong.
But this Mr. Darcy—this man walking beside her in the Bath morning—was different.
"Speaking of Bath," she said, seeking firmer ground, "I did not know you had property here."
"I inherited estates in about ten towns," he replied. "I have acquired two additional properties in other locations as well. It can be a considerable amount of work to manage them all."
"I imagine so. Do you travel to each of them regularly?"
"As often as duty requires. Though I confess I prefer Pemberley to anywhere else."
"You must miss it when you are away."
"I do." His voice softened. "But sometimes distance is necessary. For reflection, if nothing else."
Elizabeth glanced at him, but his expression had turned inward, as though he were thinking of something—or someone—far away.
They walked on through the streets of Bath, passing elegant townhouses and well-dressed pedestrians. Mr. Darcy pointed out landmarks—the Assembly Rooms, the Pump Room, the Royal Crescent in the distance. Elizabeth listened, asked questions, and found herself unexpectedly at ease.
There was no tension between them now. No awkwardness. Just two people walking together, speaking of ordinary things.
It should have been comforting.
Instead, Elizabeth felt strangely unsettled.
She had spent so long thinking of Mr. Darcy as her adversary, as the man who had insulted her and wronged those she loved. But how could she sustain that view when he spoke so openly of his mistakes? When he walked beside her without pride or pretension?
She had never been nervous around him—not in Hertfordshire, where she had thought him merely disagreeable, and not in Kent, where anger had burned away any other feeling.
But now—now she felt something she could not name. A fluttering in her chest whenever he looked at her. A heightened awareness of his presence beside her. An inexplicable desire to know what he was thinking.
It was disconcerting.
Ahead, Mr. Bingley and Jane had stopped to admire a flower seller's display. Mr. Bingley purchased a small bouquet and presented it to Jane with such obvious delight that Elizabeth could not help but smile.
"He is very much in love with her," Mr. Darcy observed.
"Yes. And she with him."
"I am glad of it. Truly." He paused, then added more quietly, "I hope they will be very happy."
"As do I."
They stood watching the happy couple for a moment longer. Then Mr. Darcy turned to Elizabeth.
"May I ask you something, Miss Elizabeth?"
Her heart gave an unexpected leap. "Of course."
"Are you—that is—" He seemed to struggle for words, which was unlike him. "Are you content in Bath?"
It was such a simple question, yet she found it difficult to answer.
"I am," she said at last. "More content than I expected to be."
"I am glad."
Something in his tone made her look up at him. His eyes were fixed on hers, and in them she saw something that made her breath catch—a warmth, a tenderness, that had no place in the regard of a man who had once called her connections a degradation.
But before she could speak, Mr. Bingley called back to them.
"Darcy! Miss Elizabeth! Come see these roses. Are they not magnificent?"
The moment broke. Mr. Darcy turned away, and Elizabeth released a breath she had not known she was holding.
They rejoined the others and continued their walk, the four of them together now.
Mr. Bingley kept up a steady stream of cheerful conversation, pointing out every shop and landmark with the enthusiasm of a man determined to impress the woman he loved.
Jane smiled and responded with her usual gentle grace.
And Elizabeth walked beside Mr. Darcy, acutely aware of every step, every glance, every word he spoke.
By the time they returned to Camden Place, her mind was in turmoil.
She had expected to feel anger when she saw him again. Resentment. Perhaps even contempt.
Instead, she felt something far more dangerous.
She felt drawn to him.
And she had no idea what to do about it.
***
The gentlemen took their leave shortly after their return, promising to call again soon. Mr. Bingley's promise was directed entirely at Jane, while Mr. Darcy's—though more reserved—seemed to encompass them all.
As the door closed behind them, Elizabeth found herself staring at it, much as she had the night before.
"Well," Mrs. Gardiner said, coming to stand beside her. "That looked like a pleasant walk."
"It was," Elizabeth said quietly.
"And Mr. Darcy was attentive?" Jane said.
Elizabeth turned to look at her sister. "What do you mean?"
"Only that he seemed quite determined to ensure you had a good view of Bath. I noticed he pointed out a great many landmarks."
"He was being polite."
"Mmm." Mrs. Gardiner's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Yes. I am sure that is all it was."
Elizabeth opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. What could she say? That she had noticed the same thing? That Mr. Darcy's attention had been marked enough to unsettle her?
"I am going to rest before luncheon," she said instead. "The walk was more tiring than I expected."
"Of course, dear."
Elizabeth escaped to her room, her mind still churning with questions that had no answers.
What was Mr. Darcy doing? Why was he being so kind, so attentive? Did he still have feelings for her, or was this simply the courtesy one would show to any acquaintance?
And more troubling still—what did she want the answer to be?
She sank onto the edge of the bed and pressed her hands to her face.
She had been so certain of everything in Kent. So sure of who he was and what he represented.
But now—now she was certain of nothing. Not even of Mr. Wickham’s claims, though she still wondered why Mr. Darcy would not speak of them.
The only thing she had begun to know with any certainty was that she was not nearly so indifferent to Mr. Darcy as she had once believed. And that realisation frightened her more than anything else.