Chapter Twelve
Darcy did not soon put aside the memory of the previous afternoon.
It lingered with a clarity that resisted dismissal, not as a moment of impropriety, but as one of consequence.
He had not intended it. That much was true.
Yet intention did little to diminish the fact of it.
His hand had lifted of its own accord, guided less by thought than by something quieter and more certain, and for a brief space of time, he had touched her face.
He could still recall the warmth of her skin beneath his fingers.
The faint difference in texture where the scar lay, barely perceptible, and yet unmistakable to him now that he had known it.
The slight stilling of her breath. The way her hand had risen to cover his, not in rejection, but in something far more difficult to define—an instinctive answer to his own movement, as though she had not yet decided whether to accept or deny it.
And then the retreat.
Darcy stood at the window of his chamber, his gaze unfocused upon the grounds below as he considered it again.
The morning light stretched across the lawns of Netherfield in long, pale bands, the air still carrying the coolness left behind by the previous day’s rain.
A groom crossed the drive at a distance, leading a horse toward the stables, but Darcy scarcely saw him.
There had been no anger in her withdrawal. No offense. Only something like alarm, as though she had glimpsed a possibility she was not prepared to entertain.
He understood that.
He did not, however, regret the moment.
If anything, it had clarified what had previously been only forming. His interest in Miss Elizabeth Bennet was no longer a matter of passing admiration or idle curiosity. It had settled into something more intense. More personal. More difficult to ignore with each passing hour.
He drew a slow breath and straightened from the window.
The hour required his attention elsewhere. The picnic at Longbourn had been arranged with enthusiasm he could not entirely attribute to chance, and though he might once have found such an engagement trivial, he anticipated it now with a degree of interest he did not trouble to deny.
If she would be there, then it was not trivial.
The parlor at Netherfield was already occupied when he descended.
The air within was warmer than the corridors, the fire laid though scarcely needed, and the faint scent of polished wood and morning chocolate lingered in the room.
Miss Bingley stood near the hearth, her posture elegant, though her expression bore the unmistakable marks of irritation she had not troubled to conceal.
Mrs. Hurst sat nearby, adjusting her shawl with languid precision, her movements unhurried, as though nothing in the world required haste.
Mr. Hurst occupied a chair beside her, his head tipped slightly forward in a state that suggested sleep or something very near to it.
Bingley paced the length of the room, his good humor strained but not extinguished, while Georgiana sat near the window, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her gaze moving between the speakers with attentive interest.
“Ah, Darcy,” Bingley said at once, turning with evident relief. “You are just in time.”
Miss Bingley inclined her head only slightly. “We were discussing a matter of some consequence.”
Darcy stepped forward, pausing near the back of a chair. “Indeed?”
“My brother,” she said smoothly, “has formed a most imprudent attachment.”
Bingley let out a breath that might have been a laugh on another morning. “Caroline exaggerates.”
“I do not exaggerate,” she returned. “I observe.”
She turned toward Darcy more fully, her expression composed into something that suggested concern rather than censure.
“Mrs. Collins is a widow. That alone presents difficulties. She has a child, which complicates matters further. A gentleman must consider his own heirs. Her connections are inferior—an uncle in trade, a family dependent upon her father-in-law. And she has not been long widowed. Such attentions, so soon, invite speculation.”
Mrs. Hurst inclined her head slightly. “It is not an advantageous match.”
Miss Bingley continued, warming to her subject. “And beyond all that, she has been mistress of a household not her own. It cannot be supposed she would relinquish such authority easily. There would be expectations. Claims. Attachments that might prove inconvenient.”
Bingley stopped pacing and faced her. “You make it sound as though I have no judgment at all.”
“I make it sound as though you have too much feeling,” she replied.
He turned toward Darcy. “Well? What say you?”
Darcy did not answer immediately. His gaze shifted briefly to Georgiana, who watched in silence, then back to Bingley. He had no difficulty discerning that Miss Bingley’s objections were less about Mrs. Collins’s character than her usefulness to their ambitions.
“I think,” he said at last, “that Mrs. Collins is a steady woman.”
Miss Bingley’s brows rose, though her expression remained composed.
“She is a gentleman’s daughter,” Darcy continued. “Her conduct reflects it. Her son will inherit her family’s estate, which secures her position. She has managed a large household under difficult circumstances, and she has done so with judgment.”
Bingley’s face brightened at once. “Exactly.”
Darcy did not add what remained unspoken. That any connection to the Bennet family would not be unwelcome in his estimation. That his own interests lay not where Miss Bingley supposed. That while Bingley might consider Mrs. Collins, Darcy himself thought rather more of her sister.
Miss Bingley regarded him coolly. “You are very ready to defend her.”
“I state what I observe.”
Before she could reply, Mrs. Nicholls appeared in the doorway, her presence quiet but effective. “The carriage is ready, sir.”
“Excellent,” Bingley said, turning at once toward the door.
Miss Bingley adjusted her gloves with precise movements. “Let us have this rustic entertainment concluded.”
Darcy offered no comment.
The journey to Longbourn passed in uneven conversation.
Miss Bingley positioned herself beside Darcy with rigorous precision, as though the arrangement were entirely accidental. The carriage moved steadily along the road, the wheels softened by the damp ground, and the light filtering through the windows shifted with each turn.
“One hopes,” she began, “that the novelty of dining outdoors will suffice.”
“It is a country picnic,” he said. “The weather alone recommends it.”
Georgiana glanced up from her seat opposite. “I have always found such gatherings very agreeable.”
Miss Bingley smiled faintly. “At Pemberley, no doubt, they are conducted with refinement.”
“At Pemberley,” Georgiana said, her voice soft but clear, “we enjoy ourselves.”
Darcy turned his head slightly, not concealing his approval.
Bingley laughed. “Well said.”
Miss Bingley’s attention returned to Darcy. “You cannot truly approve of the influence these ladies have upon your sister.”
“On the contrary,” he replied, “I am pleased to see her spirits improved.”
Georgiana’s expression brightened, though she said nothing further.
Miss Bingley’s lips pressed together. “If you say so.”
They were received at Longbourn with warmth.
Mrs. Bennet greeted them with evident satisfaction, her voice rising with each word of welcome. Mrs. Collins stood beside her, composed as ever, her manner calm though her eyes brightened at the sight of Bingley. Elizabeth stood to her left.
Darcy felt the now familiar shift in his awareness as his gaze settled upon her.
“Mr. Darcy.”
“Miss Bennet.”
Before more could be said, Mr. Collins approached with solemn enthusiasm.
“My dear Mr. Bingley, it is a pleasure to observe the growing attachment between you and my daughter by marriage. Such a connection must prove advantageous to all concerned.”
The moment that followed was strained.
Bingley blinked. Jane flushed. Miss Bingley stiffened.
Darcy remained still.
Georgiana stepped forward at once. “Will Thomas be joining us?”
Jane turned to her with visible gratitude. “Yes.”
The tension dissolved.
They moved toward the little wilderness, the air fresh beneath the trees, the ground still holding traces of damp from the previous day’s rain. The scent of earth and new growth lingered faintly, and the shade provided a welcome refuge from the brightness beyond.
Darcy approached Elizabeth. “May I?”
She accepted his arm.
Miss Bingley joined them immediately on his other side, speaking of some acquaintance in town. Darcy listened without attending. Elizabeth’s soft laugh reached him, and he found his own spirits lift in answer.
He assisted her to a seat upon the rug, adjusting a cushion behind her with determined solicitude.
“Thank you,” she said.
The company soon divided into smaller groups, as such gatherings always did.
Miss Bingley made her attempt, her tone smooth but edged. Elizabeth answered with composure, her replies measured and calm. Darcy did not allow the remarks to pass unchallenged. The exchange remained outwardly polite, but the undercurrent was unmistakable.
At last, Mrs. Hurst called to her sister, and Miss Bingley withdrew with visible irritation.
“You acquitted yourself admirably,” Darcy said.
“I am accustomed to such exchanges.”
“That does not make them acceptable.”
“No,” she said, “but it makes them manageable.”
Darcy studied her. “You undervalue yourself.”
“I value myself appropriately.”
“I cannot agree.”
She turned toward him. “You are determined to contradict me.”
“I am determined to be accurate.”
Her smile returned, though it did not linger.
A leaf drifted down between them, turning slowly before settling upon the rug. Darcy reached for it and offered it to her. She accepted it, her fingers brushing his.
“You believe you have little to offer,” he said. “I believe you are mistaken.”
“You are kind.”
“I am honest.”
She did not avert her gaze.
“You possess judgment, steadiness, and a strength of character that does not yield. These are not small qualities.”
“They are not those most valued in a wife.”
“They are the only ones that ought to be.”
For a moment, neither spoke.
Lydia’s laughter carried across the clearing, bright and unrestrained, and the moment between them eased without entirely disappearing.
Elizabeth turned slightly, her attention drawn once more toward her sisters, though not before a brief glance returned to him—uncertain, searching, and quickly withdrawn.
Darcy did not move.
He had not imagined it.
And though the afternoon continued as it must, with conversation and movement and the ordinary comforts of society, he found himself aware that something had shifted—quietly, but not without consequence.
It was not yet a certainty.
But it was no longer a question, either.