Chapter 19
NiNETEEN
Elizabeth
“And then Mama insisted the roses must be white, not pink, for she declared pink would clash with—” Jane paused, a small frown creasing her brow as she studied her sister’s face. “Lizzy, are you listening?”
Elizabeth blinked and took a delicate sip of her tea before offering a small, apologetic smile. “Forgive me, dearest Jane. What were you saying about the roses?”
Jane laughed. "You have not heard a word I've said for the past five minutes. And we only have a month until the wedding—there is much to decide!"
"Three weeks since Mr. Bingley proposed and you are already exhausted with planning. Imagine how you will feel by November."
"I am not exhausted, I am excited. Though I confess, I thought Mr. Darcy would have returned to Netherfield by now. Mr. Bingley mentioned yesterday that he could come any day now, but—"
Elizabeth's heart gave a painful lurch at the mention of his name, but she forced her expression to remain neutral. "Perhaps his business in Bristol required more time than anticipated."
"Perhaps. Still, it has been a month since we left Bath. I had hoped—"
The sound of approaching footsteps drew the sisters’ attention, and both turned toward the doorway just as Hill appeared there.
"Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy, ma'am."
Everything stopped.
The room. Her breath. Her heart.
Mr. Darcy.
Elizabeth's teacup slipped from her fingers. Jane caught it before it could shatter, but Elizabeth barely noticed. She could only stare at the doorway, frozen, as two figures entered.
Mr. Bingley came first, beaming as always. And behind him—
Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Elizabeth thought she might die. Actually die, right there in the drawing room at Longbourn, because her heart had forgotten how to beat and her lungs had forgotten how to draw breath and the floor was tilting at a very alarming angle.
He looked—
Thinner. Tired. Shadows beneath his eyes. But his gaze found hers immediately, and in that instant Elizabeth saw everything: hope and fear and longing and something that looked almost like desperation.
She gripped the arm of her chair to keep from swaying.
“Mr. Bingley! Mr. Darcy!” cried Mrs. Bennet as she swept into the room from the adjoining parlour. “How very good of you to call! We are so pleased to see you again!”
Mr. Darcy bowed. "Mrs. Bennet. Miss Bennet. Miss Elizabeth."
His voice was exactly as Elizabeth remembered—deep, controlled, achingly familiar. She managed a curtsy, though her knees felt weak.
"I did not know you had arrived at Netherfield," Mrs. Bennet continued. "Mr. Bingley said nothing of it yesterday!"
"I arrived only this morning, ma'am," Mr. Darcy replied.
Mr. Bennet emerged from his library, drawn by the commotion. When he saw Mr. Darcy, his expression transformed into something Elizabeth had rarely seen: genuine, unguarded gratitude.
"Mr. Darcy," her father said, crossing the room with his hand extended. "I have been hoping for the opportunity to thank you properly."
Mr. Darcy took his hand, looking slightly confused. "Thank me, sir?"
"For saving my daughter's life during that fire in Bath. Mrs. Gardiner wrote to us about your courage. If you had not acted when you did—" Mr. Bennet's voice roughened. "I am in your debt, sir. Profoundly."
"Any man would have done the same," Mr. Darcy said quietly.
"Perhaps. But it was you who did it." Mr. Bennet's grip tightened briefly before he released Mr. Darcy's hand. "Thank you."
"Indeed!" Mrs. Bennet added. "We are forever grateful, Mr. Darcy! You are a hero! The very best sort of gentleman!"
Mr. Darcy looked somewhat discomposed by Mrs. Bennet’s effusions. His gaze, however, soon found Elizabeth’s, and in it she discerned a silent enquiry—Are you well? She gave a small, steady nod, and at once a measure of the tension left his frame.
“How was your time in Bristol, Mr. Darcy?” Jane asked with gentle civility. “Mr. Bingley mentioned that you remained there to care for a friend.”
The light in Mr. Darcy’s eyes dimmed. “My friend passed away,” he replied quietly. “It has been nearly a fortnight now.”
“Oh, I am most sorry to hear it,” Jane said, her voice full of sincere concern.
“As am I,” Elizabeth added softly. “For you to have stayed so long, he must have been very dear to you.”
Mr. Darcy's gaze held hers for a moment. "He did. He was—he gave me counsel when I needed it most. I will miss him."
There was something in the way he said it, something in the way he looked at her, that made Elizabeth's breath catch.
The visit proceeded with all the usual civilities. Mr. Bennet spoke to the gentlemen about their time in bath and what he had heard from the Gardiners and some of the things Elizabeth mentioned in Bath.
Later in the visit, Mr. Bingley and Jane conversed softly in the corner, their happiness evident in every glance they exchanged.
Mrs. Bennet was in high spirits, speaking animatedly of wedding preparations and, in the same breath, lamenting that her three younger daughters were taking an age to return from their visit with her sister, Mrs. Philips.
Meanwhile, Mr. Bennet engaged Mr. Darcy in conversation concerning Bath and other matters of business.
Mr. Darcy remained perfectly cordial, though somewhat reserved.
He replied with propriety when addressed, contributed politely to the general discourse, and, from time to time, allowed his gaze to rest upon Elizabeth—only to turn it away again, as though fearful that lingering too long might betray more than he intended.
When the gentlemen finally rose to leave after an hour, Mr. Bingley announced that they’d be calling again the following day.
As they departed, Mr. Darcy paused at the door and turned back to Elizabeth.
"Miss Elizabeth," he said quietly. "I hope you are well."
"I am, thank you. And I hope—" She hesitated. "I hope you are recovering from your loss."
"I am endeavoring to," he said. "Day by day."
Their eyes met, and in that brief moment Elizabeth saw all that words could not convey—the weight of grief, the tenderness unspoken, and the multitude of things that might have been said between them.
And then he was gone.
Elizabeth was left standing in the hallway with her heart pounding and her hands trembling.
***
When the gentlemen had long departed and Mrs. Bennet had at last exhausted her exclamations on how Jane’s wedding was certain to be the talk of Hertfordshire—for even Mr. Darcy would be attending! —the house grew still.
Jane found Elizabeth in the small drawing room at the back of the house, where they often retreated when they wished for privacy.
Elizabeth stood at the window, gazing out at nothing in particular, her mind still in turmoil from the afternoon’s events.
“Lizzy,” Jane said softly, closing the door behind her.
Elizabeth turned. Her sister’s expression was knowing and gentle—the look Jane always wore when she saw far more than Elizabeth wished to reveal.
“You said nothing to him,” Jane observed quietly.
“There was nothing to say,” Elizabeth replied. “Not in front of everyone.”
“You had a thousand things to say,” Jane returned, moving closer. “I could see it in your face. Each time he looked at you, I thought you would speak—and yet you did not.”
Elizabeth sank onto the settee, her composure crumbling. “I could not find the words, Jane. After everything—after Bath, after his letter, after all these weeks of rehearsing what I might say—when the moment came, I simply stood there like a fool.”
Jane sat beside her and took her hand gently in her own. “He will call again tomorrow. Mr. Bingley has already made certain of it.”
“What if I cannot speak tomorrow either? What if I—” Elizabeth’s voice wavered. “What if I have already lost my chance?”
“You have not lost anything,” Jane said firmly.
“He spoke of his friend’s death so calmly,” Elizabeth whispered. “He must be grieving still, and here I am thinking only of myself—”
“You are thinking of both of you,” Jane interrupted kindly. “As you should. Tomorrow, when they call, you will find your words. And if not within these walls, then out of doors. You will walk with him, and you will speak. You must, Lizzy.”
Elizabeth blinked back tears and managed a faint, tremulous smile. “When did you become so very wise?”
Jane laughed softly. “You are forever asking me that, Lizzy. And if you must know, I shall maintain that I have always been so.”
Elizabeth’s lips curved into a true smile at last. “How immodest you have grown, Jane.”
“Only with you,” her sister returned, her eyes warm with affection.
***
That night, Elizabeth lay awake long after Jane had fallen asleep.
Her mind was on one person only. Mr. Darcy.
He had come. After all these weeks—after Bristol, after the death of his friend, after whatever grief he still bore—he had come to Netherfield.
He had walked into her home and looked at her with those dark, steady eyes that seemed to see straight through to her very soul.
And she had done nothing. Said nothing. Simply stood there like a fool, too afraid to speak the words that pressed upon her heart.
I was wrong about you. I am sorry. I understand now who you truly are.
I have read your letter a hundred times. And though you spoke of much in Bath, I see now that you tried to tell me everything long before—back in Kent, when I would not listen. I am ashamed that I ever defended Mr. Wickham, ashamed that I judged you so unjustly.
I am sorry—for Kent, for my pride, for every unkind word I ever spoke to you.
She pressed her eyes shut, shaking away the tide of thoughts that had stirred within her ever since those last days in Bath. After all, she had said none of it. She had allowed him to leave without uttering a single word of consequence.
Tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow, when he calls with Mr. Bingley, I will find a way to speak with him privately—to apologise again, properly—to make him understand that I no longer see him as the proud, disagreeable man I once believed him to be.
Tomorrow, she would find the courage.
She must.