Chapter Eleven #2
Elizabeth drew a breath. “There was an accident. My father and I were returning from Town. The horses bolted. The carriage overturned.” She paused. “He shielded me.” Her hand moved to touch her eye before dropping to her lap.
Darcy did not move.
“He died,” she said. “As did the coachman and the footman. I was the only survivor.” The thought still made her chest ache with guilt and regret. Why had she been spared?
“I must admit, I heard something of an accident, but I was not aware of the particulars.”
“There was no reason you should be.”
She continued, her voice steady. “Mr. Collins and his son arrived soon after. The elder proposed that Jane marry his son so we might remain at Longbourn. She agreed. I was insensible at the time. When I woke, my father was gone and Jane was married.” Oh, how it had distressed her to think of her most angelic sister married to save the family.
“At first, I could not see at all,” she added. “Sight eventually returned in one eye. The headaches were severe then. They are less so now.”
“I am sorry.”
“It is past,” she said. And still, it feels as though it was yesterday.
Darcy’s gaze remained steady. “You speak as though such things are settled.”
“I do not know that anything of consequence is ever light,” Elizabeth said. “One learns how to bear it.” Though some days the weight of the burden might be oppressive.
Before he could respond, the door opened and Thomas rushed in.
“Mama!”
Jane rose at once, gathering him into her arms, her expression transformed with affection.
Darcy observed quietly. “It appears the child seems to have increased Bingley’s regard.”
Elizabeth followed his gaze and laughed softly. Even with her unclear vision, she could see the absolute smitten expression on their neighbor’s face. “You believe him capable of loving another man’s child?”
“Entirely,” Darcy said. “Bingley does not love by halves.”
She met his gaze, her heart quickening at something unspoken. The moment did not last.
“We have determined,” Lydia announced as she burst into the room, “that the weather is warm enough to justify a picnic.”
Mrs. Bennet brightened. “A picnic? In the little wilderness?”
“It would be delightful,” Kitty said.
Mary added, “There would be shade from the evergreens if it grows too warm.”
Miss Bingley lifted her brows. “To dine outdoors like rustics seems a singular amusement.”
Elizabeth had scarcely turned toward her before Georgiana spoke.
“We often have picnics at Pemberley.”
The room shifted. Darcy leaned slightly toward Elizabeth. “Brava.” Elizabeth smiled despite herself.
Plans began at once. Lydia spoke of cakes and pastries, Kitty of tea and scones. Mary volunteered to see that everyone had rugs and cushions for comfort. Mrs. Bennet called for Hill to help with the arrangements. Georgiana joined in with growing confidence. The date was set for two days’ hence.
Elizabeth listened, the earlier disturbance in her thoughts softened, though not gone.
When she glanced toward Darcy, she found his attention upon her. She looked away first. Still, the warmth remained.
And as the room settled into smaller conversations and ordinary concerns, Elizabeth was left with the uneasy certainty that something within her had shifted—not violently, not painfully, but in a way that could not easily be undone.
The press of conversation within the drawing room did not long contain them.
It was Lydia who first declared that the air must be enjoyed while it remained so agreeable, and Kitty seconded the notion with such enthusiasm that even Mrs. Bennet, who might otherwise have insisted upon the comforts of indoors, was persuaded.
Shawls were fetched, bonnets adjusted, and in a matter of minutes the party found itself moving out toward the grounds, their voices carrying lightly across the gravel as they walked.
Elizabeth stepped onto the path, her hand resting upon her walking stick, her attention settling as it always did once she crossed the threshold into open air.
The light was brighter than it had been earlier, though not so harsh as to cause immediate discomfort.
She angled her face slightly, adjusting to it, and allowed herself a moment to take in the warmth upon her skin.
Mr. Darcy fell into step beside her without ceremony. “Do you often walk here?” he asked.
Elizabeth inclined her head. “When the weather permits it. The paths are familiar, which makes them preferable.”
“And unfamiliar ones?”
She smiled faintly. “Require more patience.” She did not inform him she knew all the paths around Longbourn by heart.
Darcy glanced at the ground before them, then back toward her. “You do not lack for it.”
“I have had reason to cultivate it.” There was no bitterness in her tone, only acknowledgment.
The group moved ahead in small clusters, Lydia, Kitty, and Mary leading Miss Darcy with lively conversation, while Mr. and Mrs. Hurst followed at a more measured pace.
Mr. Bingley remained near Jane, his attention as fixed as ever.
Miss Bingley, however, did not remain where she had been.
She appeared at Elizabeth’s other side with a brightness that did not reach her eyes. “Miss Bennet, you must tell me—does the air here always agree so well with visitors, or have we been particularly fortunate?”
Elizabeth was forced to turn her head at an uncomfortable angle to see her. “I believe Hertfordshire does its best to oblige.”
Miss Bingley gave a small laugh. “How fortunate for us.” She opened her mouth to say something else, but was interrupted.
“Miss Bingley,” Lydia called suddenly from ahead, her tone bright with purpose. “You must tell us where you had your gown made. I have never seen such trimming before.”
Kitty added at once, “It is very fine. Is it London work?”
Miss Bingley hesitated only a moment before turning toward them, clearly pleased by the attention despite herself. “It is, indeed.”
Lydia caught her arm at once, drawing her along. “You must describe it to us properly.” With that, they were gone.
The interruption was swift and effective. Elizabeth remained where she was, aware of the sudden ease that returned to her side of the path. She knew what her sisters had done. The thought stirred both gratitude and something else, something tinged with sadness.
Their efforts were kind. They would not change what could not be changed. No one wished for a wife who could not meet the expectations of society without difficulty. No amount of affection or loyalty could alter that truth. She had accepted it long ago.
And yet, she walked beside Mr. Darcy. Elizabeth steadied herself. He was the best man of her acquaintance, and she could not deny the way his presence felt natural and easy.
“You are well defended,” Darcy said, his tone low.
Elizabeth allowed a small smile. “My sisters are attentive.”
“I believe they are more than that.”
She took a moment before answering. “They might have been entirely different had life not taken such an unexpected turn. Lydia was bordering on wild and Kitty followed her into whatever mischief she arranged. Mary was prone to sermonizing, but I believe the younger Mr. Collins cured her of that. He had been studying for the church, you see, and his particular manner of preaching taught Mary how parsimonious she sounded. All my sisters have risen to the challenge of adapting for their injured sister.” She smiled, watching Lydia and Kitty keep Miss Bingley occupied further up the path.
“They need not trouble themselves,” she said after a moment. “Their efforts will come to nothing.”
Darcy’s gaze shifted to her more fully. “You are certain of that?”
Elizabeth’s hand tightened slightly upon her walking stick. “I am practical.”
Darcy did not reply promptly, though his expression altered in a way she could not quite read.
They walked on. The path curved gently, the others moving ahead without noticing the small distance that had begun to grow between them. Conversation carried faintly from before, laughter rising and falling with the easy rhythm of those who felt no need to moderate their voices.
Elizabeth felt the shift before she fully acknowledged it.
They had fallen behind. She slowed her pace slightly, not from intention, but from habit, her attention fixed upon the ground before her.
Darcy matched her without remark. A small bench came into view, set just beyond a cluster of low trees where the path widened.
Elizabeth paused. “It may be agreeable to sit for a moment,” she said. She forced herself to admit she was a little tired from her restless night.
Darcy inclined his head. “As you wish.” He moved first, ensuring the bench was clear before she reached it. Elizabeth stepped forward, her hand brushing the edge before she lowered herself into place. The wood was warm beneath her, the sun having settled there for some time.
Darcy seated himself beside her, not too near, though near enough that she was aware of him without effort.
For a moment, neither spoke. The sounds of the others had softened, distance lending them a gentler quality. The air was still, the warmth steady rather than oppressive.
“You manage such situations with remarkable composure,” Darcy said at last.
Elizabeth turned her head slightly. “Which situations?”
“All of them.”
She smiled faintly. “That is a generous assessment.”
“It is an accurate one.”
Elizabeth considered this, then shook her head. “It is necessity, not virtue.”
“Many would not manage it so well.”
“Many are not required to,” she replied.
Darcy’s expression did not shift, though his attention seemed to deepen.
“And what would you prefer,” he asked, “if necessity did not dictate your course?”
Elizabeth let out a slow breath. “You persist in asking questions that have no practical answer.”
“And yet you answer them.”
“Only because you persist.” She rather liked that about him.
There was the faintest hint of amusement in his expression.
Elizabeth looked away, her gaze settling upon the indistinct line of trees beyond. “I would prefer,” she said slowly, “to have choices.”
Darcy did not speak.
“To determine my own course,” she continued. “To act without consideration of what I cannot do.” To marry and have children. For my mother to see me as something more than her poor girl.
“And what you can?”
She hesitated. “I do not always think of that first.”
Darcy’s voice softened. “You ought to.”
Elizabeth turned back toward him. “I have learned otherwise.” There was a firm weight to the words.
Darcy did not attempt to argue them. Instead, he regarded her with a steadiness that was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. “You undervalue yourself,” he said.
Elizabeth gave a small, almost incredulous laugh. “You overestimate me.”
“I do not.” There was no hesitation in his tone.
Elizabeth felt the words more keenly than she wished. “You cannot know that,” she said.
“I can see it.”
Her breath caught. She did not move.
Darcy’s gaze remained upon her, thoughtful, searching, as though he were tracing something not immediately visible. Then, slowly, he lifted his hand.
Elizabeth stilled. There was no abruptness in the motion, no presumption that might have startled her into immediate retreat. His fingers approached slowly, as though granting her time to withdraw.
She stayed.
His hand came to rest lightly against her cheek. The touch was gentle. Measured. Elizabeth drew in a soft breath, her heart striking hard against her ribs. His fingers moved slightly, tracing the faint line just beneath her cloudy eye, where the scar lay almost hidden against her skin.
The contact was brief. And yet it was not. Elizabeth’s hand rose without conscious thought, covering his where it rested against her face. For a moment, she did not know whether she meant to still him or to hold him there.
A sound carried across the path. A voice. She started. The moment shattered. Elizabeth pulled back at once, her hand dropping, her breath uneven. The space between them returned too quickly, as though it had never been bridged at all.
Darcy’s hand lowered. His expression, when she dared to glance toward him, revealed nothing. “Miss Bennet—” he began. She rose before he could continue.
“We ought to return,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.
Darcy stood as well. He did not reach for her again. They walked back in silence.
The others had not noticed their absence.
Lydia was still engaged in animated discussion, Kitty no less so, and Miss Bingley appeared thoroughly occupied in describing some detail of her attire.
Jane turned her gaze towards Elizabeth as they drew nearer, her demeanor one of focused attention, yet she remained silent.
Elizabeth managed a composed smile. The house came into view. Relief and something else—something far less welcome—settled within her. Once inside, she did not linger. “I believe I shall retire,” she said, turning toward her mother. “I have a headache.”
Mrs. Bennet’s concern was immediate. “You must take greater care. I warned you the air might not suit you. My poor girl—”
Elizabeth inclined her head, offering farewells and what reassurance she could before withdrawing. The words followed her only faintly as she made her way upstairs, the familiar path requiring little thought even as her mind refused to settle.
Her chamber door closed behind her. For a moment, she stood where she was.
Then she crossed to the bed and sank down upon it, lifting one arm to rest across her eyes as though to block out what she could not escape.
The memory returned at once. The warmth of his hand and the steadiness of his voice.
The certainty in his words. Elizabeth drew a slow, unsteady breath.
This was foolish. More foolish than anything she had yet allowed herself to consider. She had believed herself secure in her understanding of her future, resigned to a life that required acceptance but not sacrifice of the heart. She had been mistaken.
If she allowed this to continue—if she permitted herself to feel what she had begun to feel—there would be no safe retreat.
Her heart would not remain untouched. And if she gave it—She would lose it.
Elizabeth pressed her arm more firmly against her eyes.
She was in very real danger. And she knew, with a clarity that offered no comfort at all, that if she did not guard herself now, she would most certainly end in heartbreak.