Chapter 1 #2
Not wanting to intrude when she was obviously still upset, he almost withdrew, but fate must have taken a hand again, and she looked up. Immediately, her eyes were drawn to his, and for a moment, it was as if the world stood still, and there were only the two of them in it.
Finally, he broke the silence. “Well?” he said, his tone harsher than he intended. He was unable to help the upwell of emotion he felt at seeing her again.
“What do you mean by accosting me yet again, Mr. Darcy?” she demanded, colour rising in her cheeks, her eyes flashing with righteous indignation.
Her words and the tone of her voice struck him harder than any reproach could.
In an instant, he realised his error. The sharpness in his tone had been born not of anger toward her, but of the turmoil roiling within him—the shame of his past behaviour, the uncertainty of how she would receive his letter, and the ache of knowing he had lost her regard entirely.
He winced inwardly, hating himself for allowing his feelings to show.
Before her, he had always prided himself on his composure—on the cool reserve that never wavered, no matter the circumstance.
Yet somehow, she had stripped him of that vaunted stoicism.
Every emotion he had long kept buried, all the pride, longing, shame, and frustration, rose unbidden to the surface in her presence, and he scarcely knew how to govern them.
Letting out a slow breath, Darcy bowed his head slightly and forced himself to regain control, to steady the tide that threatened to overwhelm him. His anger was misplaced, and he knew it. The only person truly deserving of it—the only one to blame—was himself.
“Forgive me, Miss Bennet,” he began, striving to make his tone sound—if not humble—at least conciliatory. “I did not intend for my question to be expressed in that manner.”
“That was a question?” she retorted, her brow raised in disbelief as she fixed him with a glare. Her arms folded tightly across her chest, and she drew herself up to her full height, every line of her bearing proclaiming her indignation.
“It was,” he admitted at last, his tone resigned, the faintest sigh escaping him. Elizabeth seemed to sense his surrender, for her posture softened just slightly, something for which he was grateful. “Did my letter… could you…” He faltered, the words catching in his throat.
After a brief pause to steady himself, Darcy tried again. “I merely wished to know whether you believed what I wrote—particularly concerning Wickham.” His voice was quieter now, the usual confidence tempered by something far more vulnerable.
For a heartbeat, neither spoke. The breeze carried the faint sound of water from a nearby brook, and Elizabeth’s expression softened.
“I do,” she began, releasing a slow breath as the tension seemed to drain from her.
Her anger ebbed away, leaving in its wake something that looked very like shame.
“Perhaps I did not want to at first, but you are an honourable gentleman, and you would never have made up such a story about your sister. Even when I disliked you, I could tell that you adored her by how you spoke of her and how often you seemed to write to her. I can imagine that the circumstances were quite difficult.”
“They were,” Darcy admitted, his voice unsteady as he answered.
“Georgiana is better—although she has not yet fully recovered from what that cad attempted.” The word escaped him with quiet venom, and he paused, struggling to master the surge of feeling it roused in him.
When Elizabeth gave a small gasp, he was quick to add, his tone faltering even as he attempted to reassure her, “He did not harm her—not physically—but she was cruelly deceived. Her heart is much wounded. He made her believe she was unworthy of affection, that no one could ever value her for anything beyond her fortune.” He drew a breath, his composure wavering.
“When I confronted him, he spoke with deliberate cruelty—words which, unhappily, my sister overheard.”
“And then, not long after, you were obligated to come to Hertfordshire with your friend,” Elizabeth stated without heat. “That certainly explains your ill-humour while you were in our little part of the world.”
Darcy sighed again. “Only a part of it, Miss Bennet,” he admitted, his head hanging, refusing to meet her eyes as he confessed further.
“You said some rather harsh words last night, and as much as I hate to admit it, most of it was well deserved. You may have been incorrect in some of the particulars, but I was not pleasant company in Hertfordshire, and on several occasions, I did not behave as a gentleman ought.”
Cocking her head to the side, Elizabeth asked, “I am certain my friends and relations did not help. It has occurred to me as I read your letter what you must have seen and felt upon entering that first assembly. Mama and the other matrons were going on about Mr. Bingley’s fortune from almost the moment you entered, and they began speaking of yours almost immediately after you were introduced.
My youngest sisters were carrying on in an unseemly fashion as they always do, and my father has not bothered to do anything to improve them.
Perhaps Jane and I ought to have done more, but we have not, mostly because their behaviour has been tolerated in Meryton for so long that, until I saw it through your eyes, I had not considered how others must have viewed our family. ”
She trailed off, glancing down at the folded paper in her hand. “It is a strange thing to view one’s own relations through another’s eyes. We are so accustomed to our faults that we mistake them for ordinary behaviour.”
“But have your sisters almost eloped with a rake?” Darcy interjected, surprising her with his defense of her family. “In light of that, how can I criticise your sisters’ behaviour more than my own? Georgiana certainly knew she ought not elope, but still, she almost did.”
“You said in your letter that her companion was complicit in the scheme, did you not?” Elizabeth asked.
“How would your sister, who was only fifteen at the time, have known to question it, when the person who was meant to be guiding her was encouraging her to behave in exactly that way? Besides, she did not elope; you arrived in time to save her from making a mistake.”
“What if I had not?” Darcy asked, his tone ragged.
“But you did,” Elizabeth said gently, taking a step or two nearer the gentleman. “You did arrive in time, and you saved her. You cannot allow yourself to dwell on what might have happened. Surely she knows better now.”
“She does,” Darcy replied, but it was obvious he was still in pain from the memory of that event.
“You must have still been very affected by this when you arrived in Hertfordshire,” Elizabeth concluded, suddenly feeling far more sympathy for the man whom she had rejected and nearly hated only the evening before. “When did all of this happen?”
“Early in August,” Darcy said simply.
“And you arrived in Hertfordshire early in October, less than two months later,” Elizabeth said, taking yet another step nearer. “You were in no mood to dance that first evening; it is no wonder you said what you did to your friend.”
Her tone was almost teasing now, although her eyes were kind as she looked up at him.
The tension that had shadowed their conversation seemed to have eased by degrees until it was almost entirely gone.
Darcy looked up, startled by how near she stood; the faint scent of rain and wildflowers lingered about her, and for a moment, his breath caught.
She appeared not to notice—or perhaps she did, for a delicate flush rose in her cheeks before she turned her gaze away. Neither made any mention of it.
Instead, Darcy slipped off his greatcoat and carefully spread it over a patch of ground, the movement deliberate, almost reverent. “Perhaps we might sit,” he said softly, his voice lower than before, “and you will explain that remark.”
Elizabeth hesitated only a moment before obeying, her skirts brushing the edge of his coat as she settled upon it.
When he took a seat upon a nearby log, turning towards her, the space between them felt perilously slight.
His expression was composed, but there was a quiet intensity in his eyes that made her pulse quicken despite herself.
“At the assembly,” Elizabeth began evenly, “your friend suggested you dance and offered to introduce you to a partner.
You said—and I remember it perfectly: ‘She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me…. And then you said something about not giving consequence to young ladies who had been slighted by other men.”
She mimicked his deep, clipped manner of speaking with an arched brow and the faintest tilt of her chin—an imitation so precise that Darcy winced even before she finished. Mortification flooded him, yet despite himself, a strained laugh escaped—more a breath than sound.
“That was…” He swallowed hard, his voice breaking. “That was unforgivable of me, was it not?”
The words hung between them. Elizabeth’s breath caught, although she did not look away. In that instant, he appeared younger somehow—unguarded, almost boyish in his remorse, the proud reserve stripped away.
However, whatever trace of laughter had lingered vanished entirely as shame overtook him.
“I suppose I owe that young lady an apology,” he said quietly, each word heavy with feeling.
“But it was not merely any young lady.” His voice faltered as he met her gaze.
“I was speaking of you when I said that, was I not?”