16. Sixteen
Sixteen
Elizabeth slowed her pace as the path curved toward Oakham Mount, the breeze tugging lightly at her bonnet strings. It was the kind of afternoon that invited contemplation, the horizon stretching wide and pale beneath a sky heavy with winter light. She had come here seeking quiet, a reprieve from the crowded chaos of Longbourn. The air was crisp, the ground firm beneath her feet, and for a time, she allowed herself the luxury of wandering without aim.
As she paused near a weathered outcrop to take in the view, the distant sound of hooves reached her ears. She turned, half-expecting to see a farmer tending his fields below, but instead, a rider crested the rise. The dark figure on horseback moved with an easy grace, and recognition came swiftly.
Mr. Darcy.
He dismounted a short distance away, tying his horse to a low branch with practiced efficiency. He seemed unaware of her presence at first, his attention fixed on the path ahead. Elizabeth considered retreating quietly down the hill before he noticed her —an option that grew increasingly appealing as he straightened and turned in her direction.
Too late.
“Miss Bennet.” He inclined his head, his tone neither surprised nor overly familiar.
“Mr. Darcy,” she replied, keeping her expression as neutral as his. There was no easy excuse to slip away now, not without appearing deliberately rude, and so she remained where she was, watching as he approached.
Darcy halted a few paces from her, his gaze sweeping briefly over the landscape before returning to her with measured politeness. “I was told the view from Oakham Mount was worth the ride. It seems the recommendation was not misplaced.”
Elizabeth tilted her head, studying him. “It is quite the popular spot. I had not expected to meet anyone here, however.”
“Nor I,” he admitted. “But it is a pleasant surprise.”
Pleasant, was it? Elizabeth permitted herself the ghost of a smile. Perhaps she was on her way to winning this wager, after all. For a moment, they stood in silence, the wind threading through the grass around them. There was a tension in his bearing—calm on the surface, but tightly controlled beneath. He did not seem entirely at ease, as though something weighed upon him that he was unwilling to share.
She stole a glance at him. His brow was faintly furrowed, his focus turned inward. Whatever occupied his mind, it was not something he meant to divulge easily. Elizabeth knew enough of Mr. Darcy to expect reticence, yet she could not help but wonder what had brought him here, alone.
“You are enjoying the morning air, I see,” she said at last.
Darcy’s gaze flicked briefly toward her before returning to the path ahead. “Yes. The countryside is particularly pleasant in the early hours.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “I find it refreshing, though I suppose it lacks the grandeur of Pemberley. Or so I have heard from Miss Bingley and Mr. Collins.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched slightly, but his tone remained even. “Grandeur is not always what one requires.”
“Oh? And what does one require, in your estimation?”
He hesitated, as though weighing whether to answer. “Tranquility.”
Elizabeth tilted her head, studying him curiously. “You do not strike me as a man easily disturbed, Mr. Darcy.”
“Appearances can be deceptive.”
The admission, though simple, caught her off guard. She had not expected him to engage so directly, and it stirred a flicker of curiosity she couldn’t quite ignore.
“Is it the company here in Hertfordshire that disturbs you, or something else?”
Darcy’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I did not say I was disturbed.”
“No,” she agreed, her eyes gleaming with mischief, “but you implied it rather strongly.”
He glanced at her then, something flickering in his expression—wry amusement, perhaps, or grudging respect. “You are quite determined to draw conclusions, Miss Bennet.”
“Only when you leave me such tempting gaps to fill.”
Another pause followed, but this time it felt less strained. Darcy’s posture relaxed slightly, though his guarded demeanor remained intact.
“It is my sister,” he said at last, the admission emerging slowly, as though each word required deliberate effort. “She is… still very unhappy.”
Elizabeth flicked her gaze back to his face. “I am sorry to hear it. Has something changed since we last spoke of her?”
“She remains in Lincolnshire with acquaintances. They are well-meaning, good people. But I have come to believe they are ill-suited to her temperament.” His voice was steady, almost careless, but Elizabeth detected a hint of something beneath it—concern, perhaps, or frustration.
She tilted her head thoughtfully. “Then why not bring her here? To Netherfield, I mean. Surely she would find the company more agreeable.”
Darcy’s reaction was swift, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly before he quickly masked whatever had unsettled him. “That would not be possible.”
Elizabeth arched a brow, intrigued by his sudden defensiveness. “Not possible, or not preferable?”
He hesitated, clearly weighing how much to reveal. “It is simply not an option.”
“Then perhaps you might return to London yourself and bring her to stay with you there. Or if that is also impractical, could you not take her back to Pemberley?”
Darcy regarded her with an odd expression, as though her suggestion were both unexpected and strangely disconcerting. “You would encourage me to leave Hertfordshire?”
She shrugged, a teasing glint in her eyes. “Why not? It is not as though anyone here expected you to stay. Besides, the people of Meryton are hardly inclined to miss a poet.”
A flicker of conscious embarrassment crossed his face at the mention of poetry, and Elizabeth’s lips curved into a mischievous smile. “What, Mr. Darcy? Have you so soon forgot your newfound literary talents?”
Darcy’s mouth tightened, though whether from amusement or irritation, she could not tell. “I see you continue to enjoy your sport at my expense.”
“And you continue to provide ample material. Perhaps it is you who should be blamed for your predicament.”
They stood there for a moment, the view stretching out before them, but Elizabeth’s focus remained on Darcy. He appeared pensive, as though weighing her words with greater care than she had intended.
At last, he straightened, his composure firmly in place. “Thank you for your suggestions, Miss Bennet. They have… given me something to consider.”
She inclined her head. “I do hope you find a solution that brings her some measure of happiness.”
Darcy nodded, his expression unreadable once more. “Good day, Miss Bennet.”
“Good day, Mr. Darcy.”
As he turned to leave, Elizabeth watched him for a moment, her thoughts swirling with the oddness of the encounter. He was still as frustratingly reserved as ever, yet beneath that impenetrable exterior, there was something more—something she could not yet name but found herself wanting to understand.
Elizabeth Bennet had… surprised him.
He had gone to Oakham Mount that morning seeking solitude, only to find her already there. It should have been an inconvenience, another moment of forced politeness in a town where civility was more exhausting than the expectations of London society. And yet, somehow, it had not felt like that at all.
Her suggestion had caught him off guard. She had not pleaded for his company, had not hinted at wanting him to remain longer in Hertfordshire—far from it. She had coolly suggested he might leave, even teased him about being missed by no one. He frowned slightly, remembering her parting words: “Poets may not be appreciated here, Mr. Darcy, but perhaps your sister would fare better with you elsewhere.”
It was unexpected. He had assumed, like so many others, that she might be angling to keep him near, driven by the same mercenary motives he had grown so accustomed to guarding against. And yet she had practically encouraged him to go, as though his presence were inconsequential to her.
Darcy leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. He found himself reconsidering everything he had assumed about her. It was disconcerting—irritating, even—that she continued to evade every expectation he set.
Elizabeth Bennet was a woman of contradictions. Her cleverness was undeniable, her conversation lively and engaging enough that she could lay any snare she liked, and yet there was no apparent calculation in her manner. If she sought to trap him in the web of marriage—like so many before her—she was going about it in the strangest way possible. In fact, she seemed intent on doing the opposite, treating him with a degree of irreverence that was both infuriating and oddly… refreshing.
His lips tightened as he picked up the pen again. Georgiana’s unhappiness gnawed at him, but for the first time, he allowed himself to consider Elizabeth’s suggestion. It had been flippant, no doubt meant in jest, but perhaps there was wisdom in it. Georgiana had always fared better in familiar company—among those who truly cared for her, rather than those who viewed her merely as an heiress to be entertained.
He stared down at the unfinished letter. Break off his stay in Hertfordshire and return to Pemberley? It was a tempting thought, though complicated by timing. He could hardly leave Hertfordshire now without raising questions. Besides, Bingley would never let him hear the end of it if he disappeared just before the ball.
And yet the idea lingered.
Darcy frowned again. This was precisely why he had been avoiding her. Elizabeth Bennet was a distraction—a maddening, unpredictable distraction—and if he was not careful, she would upend more than just his carefully laid plans.
With a resolute sigh, he dipped the pen into ink and began to write, determined to focus on Georgiana rather than the woman who, despite his better judgment, had taken up far too much space in his mind.
My Dearest Georgiana,
I hope this letter finds you well. I have given further thought to your concerns…
But even as the ink flowed, his thoughts betrayed him, circling back to Elizabeth Bennet—irrepressible, intriguing, impossible to ignore.
Elizabeth stood at the window, her fingers tapping idly on the wooden sill as she stared out over the fields. She was not certain why the conversation with Mr. Darcy continued to occupy her mind, but it did. She turned away, crossing the room once more, her restless energy finding no outlet. His manner had shifted—subtly, yes—but it had been enough to catch her attention. Concern for his sister had softened some of his reserve, though he had hardly invited her sympathy.
She paused mid-step, her brow furrowing. Why did it matter? Whatever turmoil troubled him, it was none of her concern. Yet here she was, pacing the length of the parlor as if searching for a resolution to a puzzle she had not intended to solve. With an exasperated sigh, she seated herself in the nearest chair, the distant murmur of voices from another room offering little distraction.
Elizabeth was not accustomed to feeling unsettled, and Mr. Darcy’s guarded glimpse of vulnerability had done precisely that.
The creak of the door pulled her from her thoughts. Charlotte Lucas stepped inside, a basket in hand. “Elizabeth! I hoped I might find you here. Your mother mentioned you had returned from your walk.”
“Charlotte!” Elizabeth hurried forward to greet her. “I was in desperate need of sensible company. Please, sit.”
Charlotte smiled and set the basket down, taking the offered seat. “I cannot stay long. My mother is expecting me shortly, but I wanted to deliver this before I forgot.” She opened the basket to reveal a small bundle wrapped in linen. “Mama insisted we send along some of her preserves. She claims you were admiring them last week.”
Elizabeth chuckled, grateful for the distraction. “Your mother’s preserves are the envy of the neighborhood. Thank her for me.”
Charlotte studied her friend for a moment, her expression thoughtful. “You seem… preoccupied. I hope the morning’s walk was pleasant?”
Elizabeth hesitated, unsure how much to share. “It was… enlightening, in an unexpected way.”
“Enlightening?” Charlotte’s brow lifted in curiosity. “Dare I hope it involved something—or some one —of interest?”
“Perhaps,” Elizabeth said with a mischievous smile. “I encountered Mr. Darcy on the path.”
Charlotte blinked. “Mr. Darcy? And did he speak, or merely glare at you in his usual fashion?”
“Oh, he spoke,” Elizabeth said lightly, though her tone did not quite match the unease lingering in her mind. “In fact, he surprised me. He spoke of his sister.”
“His sister?” Charlotte leaned forward, intrigued. “That is a rare topic indeed. I do not believe I have ever heard him mention her before.”
“Nor had I,” Elizabeth admitted. “He seemed… conflicted. Apparently, she is unhappy in her current situation, though he did not elaborate much beyond that. I told him he ought to collect her from Lincolnshire, where he has sent her, and take her back to London himself. It was as if it was the first time the notion had ever occurred to him!”
Charlotte considered this, her hands clasping neatly in her lap. “How very strange! I had always thought Mr. Darcy indifferent to the troubles of others, but perhaps I was mistaken.”
Elizabeth frowned slightly. “I would not go so far as to say he is indifferent. Reserved, certainly. Guarded. But there was something genuine in his concern for his sister. It was… disarming.”
“Disarming?” Charlotte echoed, a knowing gleam in her eye. “Elizabeth Bennet, I do believe you are beginning to see Mr. Darcy in a different light.”
Elizabeth scoffed, though it lacked real conviction. “Do not read too much into it, Charlotte. He is still insufferable most of the time.”
“Most of the time,” Charlotte repeated, smiling faintly. “But not all of the time, it seems.”
Elizabeth waved a hand dismissively, though the gesture lacked its usual vigor. “Enough of Mr. Darcy. I shall not waste my breath defending a man who barely speaks enough to defend himself.”
But Charlotte was not so easily deterred. “Enough of Mr. Darcy, indeed.” She paused, then added, “Except you have just given him advice that, should he follow it, will take him far from Hertfordshire—far from you.”
Elizabeth blinked, taken aback by Charlotte’s pointed observation. “I did no such thing,” she protested. “I merely suggested that he do what is best for his sister.”
“And what if what is best for his sister means he leaves immediately?” Charlotte leaned forward slightly, her voice calm but firm. “If Mr. Darcy departs, you may as well concede the wager now. After all, you cannot win over a man who is no longer in the vicinity.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again, realization dawning slowly. Her own words came back to haunt her—encouraging him to go, shrugging off his presence as though it mattered not whether he stayed. Had she truly been so foolish?
“I did not think of that,” Elizabeth admitted at last, her tone quieter, more thoughtful.
“I can see that.” Charlotte tilted her head, studying her friend with a mixture of amusement and concern. “It seems to me that you are playing a rather dangerous game without even realizing it. First, you spend days, weeks, even, sparring with him, and now you all but invite him to leave. Are you trying to win this wager, or have you grown tired of the contest?”
Elizabeth frowned. “I have not grown tired of anything. I simply…” She trailed off, uncertain how to finish the sentence. The truth was, she had not considered the implications of her advice to Darcy—only that it had felt right in the moment.
Charlotte raised an eyebrow. “Well, I suppose if you wish to see him go, that is your choice. Though I must say, it would be a rather dull outcome. You were just beginning to enjoy the challenge, were you not?”
Elizabeth shot her a sharp look. “Enjoy is not the word I would use.”
“No? Then what word would you use?”
Elizabeth hesitated, torn between brushing off the question with humor or admitting to something more. “Very well,” she said at last. “It has been… engaging.”
“Engaging,” Charlotte echoed, her smile deepening. “I see. And would it be so terrible to admit that perhaps you do not wish for him to leave after all?”
Elizabeth straightened in her seat, her chin lifting slightly. “Whether he stays or goes is entirely his decision. I only suggested what might be best for his sister.”
“But not necessarily what might be best for you,” Charlotte pointed out gently.
Elizabeth fell silent, considering her friend’s words. It was a strange thought—that she had, perhaps unwittingly, influenced Mr. Darcy in a way that could affect her own standing in the wager. Worse still was the realization that she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted him to leave.
“I did not expect him to take me seriously,” Elizabeth said finally, as though voicing the thought aloud might make it less absurd.
Charlotte chuckled softly. “Elizabeth, if there is one thing I have learned about Mr. Darcy in the past few weeks, it is that he takes everything seriously—including, it seems, you.”
Elizabeth’s lips tightened, but she could not deny the truth in Charlotte’s observation. Darcy had, for all his flaws, listened to her—really listened. And in doing so, he might cost her something she held rather dear.
“Well,” Elizabeth said briskly, rising from her seat with an air of determination, “if he does leave, I shall simply find another way to win the wager.”
Charlotte smiled knowingly. “Of course. Though perhaps next time, you might think twice before offering advice that could send your object running.”