Chapter 8
EIGHT
Darcy
Darcy found Mr. Hewitt in his usual spot the following morning, though he arrived earlier than was his custom. The sun had barely cleared the rooftops of Bath, and the air still held the coolness of night.
Under his arm, Darcy carried a leather-bound volume—a collection of essays on natural philosophy that he thought Hewitt might enjoy.
He had occasionally been bringing books to the older gentleman for the past fortnight, ever since he had noticed Hewitt finishing the same worn tome for the third time.
Hewitt looked up as Darcy approached and smiled in recognition. He gestured to the bench beside him.
Darcy sat and held out the book. "I thought you might enjoy this. It is quite engaging."
Hewitt took it with evident pleasure, running his fingers over the embossed cover before opening it to examine the contents. He nodded his thanks, then set it carefully beside him and returned his attention to Darcy with an expectant look.
Darcy understood. The book was appreciated, but Hewitt knew him well enough by now to recognize when something weighed upon his mind.
"I walked with her yesterday," Darcy said without preamble. "Miss Elizabeth. Through Bath. It was—" He paused, searching for the right word. "It was not what I expected."
A breeze stirred the leaves overhead. Hewitt adjusted his spectacles and waited.
"I thought it would be awkward. Painful, even. After everything that passed between us in Kent, I assumed she would barely tolerate my presence. That every word would be a struggle, every moment uncomfortable." Darcy shook his head slowly. "But it was not like that at all."
He fell silent for a moment, remembering. The way Elizabeth had walked beside him, the questions she had asked, the ease that had settled between them like something natural and unforced.
"She asked about Georgiana. About my cousin. Ordinary questions, nothing remarkable. And yet—" He exhaled. "And yet I found myself wishing the walk would never end. Wishing I could simply exist in that moment, walking beside her, speaking of nothing in particular, and have it be enough."
At this point, Hewitt turned a page of his own book—the one he had been reading when Darcy arrived—but his eyes did not move across the text.
"I still love her," Darcy said quietly. "That has not changed.
I do not think it ever will. But I am not fool enough to believe I can simply ask again and expect a different answer.
She made her feelings abundantly clear in Kent.
I was the last man in the world she could ever be prevailed upon to marry.
Those were her words, and I have no reason to think she has altered her opinion. "
A carriage rolled past on the street below, its wheels clattering over the cobblestones.
"But perhaps," Darcy continued, his voice careful, measured, "perhaps if I do not presume. If I simply—exist in her presence. If I show her through my actions what I could not adequately express in words—" He broke off, uncertain how to finish the thought.
"I would like another chance," he admitted. "Not to propose again—God, no, I would not inflict that upon her again. But simply to know her. To be near her. To let her see that I am not the man she believed me to be in Hertfordshire. Or even the man I was in Kent."
He looked down at his hands, which were clasped tightly on his knees.
"Yesterday, she thanked me. For telling Bingley about her sister's visit to London.
She said that if I had not, they might never have found each other again.
" His throat tightened. "I told her I had made a mistake.
That I corrected it as soon as I realized what I had done.
I mean, to have caused her sister all that heartache—" Darcy's voice dropped to barely above a whisper.
"How can I ask for her regard when I have done such injury to those she loves? "
The silence stretched between them. A bird called from somewhere in the trees.
Hewitt glanced up briefly, then back to his book.
"And yet," Darcy said slowly, "yesterday, when we walked together—she did not seem to hate me. She spoke to me civilly. More than civilly. There were moments when I thought—" He stopped himself. "No. I will not presume. I have presumed too much already, and it has brought me nothing but misery."
He leaned back against the bench, closing his eyes briefly.
"I will be content with civility. If she can tolerate my presence, if she can speak to me without anger or disdain, that will be enough. It will have to be enough."
But even as he said it, he knew it was a lie.
It would never be enough. Not when his heart leapt every time he thought about her.
Not when coming to Bath had not stopped him from dreaming of her fine eyes.
Not when the sound of her voice could alter the course of his entire day.
Not when every fiber of his being longed to reach for her hand, to tell her that he loved her still, that he would love her always, regardless of whether she could ever return his regard.
"I am trying to be patient," he said. "To be worthy of her. To become the man she might—" He stopped, shook his head. "No. Not the man she might love. I have no right to hope for that. But perhaps the man she might respect. The man she might call a friend."
At this, Hewitt closed his book and slipped it beneath his arm. He rose, took up his walking stick, and laid a hand briefly upon Darcy’s shoulder.
It had become something of a ritual after their more serious one-sided conversations, and Darcy was never entirely certain whether the gesture conveyed comfort, sympathy, or merely understanding.
Then Hewitt inclined his head and continued down the path, leaving Darcy alone with his thoughts.
Darcy watched him go, then turned his gaze toward the Royal Crescent, its elegant curve golden in the morning sun.
He would see Elizabeth again. Perhaps today, perhaps tomorrow. Bingley had already declared his intention to call on the Gardiners every day until Jane agreed to marry him, and Darcy could hardly refuse to accompany him.
And when he saw her, he would be civil. Kind. Respectful. He would show her through his actions what his words had failed to convey in Kent.
That he valued her. That he respected her. That he would never again presume to dictate what she should feel or whom she should regard.
And if, in time, she came to see him not as the proud, disagreeable man she had once despised, but as someone worthy of her esteem—well.
That would be more than he had any right to hope for.
But hope, it seemed, was not something he could relinquish. No matter how much wisdom dictated he should.
Darcy stood, straightened his coat, and turned back toward his lodgings.
Another day awaited. Another chance to be near her, to speak to her, to perhaps—if he was very fortunate—make her smile.
It was not enough.
But it would have to do.