Chapter 14 #2
Something in her voice—something strained, something unguarded—seemed to halt him more effectively than any refusal.
He inclined his head.
“As you wish.”
She departed without further delay. She turned and made her way back toward the house, her steps measured, her composure drawn tightly about her once more.
Only when she reached the door did her breath falter.
Only then did she allow herself to feel the full weight of what had passed.
And the fear that she had been right all along.
Darcy remained where she had left him.
For several moments, he did not move at all.
The air about him felt altered, though nothing in the landscape had changed.
The same damp breeze stirred the branches overhead and the same muted light filtered through the clouds.
Yet the stillness pressed upon him with a weight he could not immediately dispel.
He replayed her words with unwelcome clarity.
I do not want your pity.
The accusation struck more deeply than any open reproach might have done. Not because it was delivered with anger, though there had been some of that, but because it revealed something he had not fully accounted for.
She believed it.
Not merely in the moment, not merely as a defense against discomfort. She believed that his regard—his growing, unsteady, increasingly difficult-to-ignore regard—was born of pity.
Darcy drew a slow breath and let it out.
He could not dismiss her reaction as unreasonable. He had spoken, more than once, of what she had endured, of what she had overcome, and he had meant it as admiration. As respect. As acknowledgment of strength where others might have faltered.
Yet to her, it was something else.
He closed his eyes briefly.
He had mis-stepped.
Not in feeling—he would not concede that—but in expression. He had allowed himself to speak in a manner that left room for misunderstanding, and Elizabeth Bennet, who had learned through necessity to guard herself against precisely such misunderstandings, had taken him at his word.
Or rather, she had taken him at what she believed his word to mean.
Darcy straightened at last. Remaining where he stood would accomplish nothing. Whatever had passed between them could not be resolved here, alone, with only his own thoughts for company.
He turned and made his way back toward the house.
The drawing room appeared much as he had left it, though the atmosphere shifted almost immediately upon his return.
Miss Bingley’s gaze found him at once.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said, her tone light, though her eyes held a sharper interest. “We feared we had lost you to the elements.”
“I had no such intention,” he replied.
Mrs. Hurst regarded him with mild curiosity. Bingley, who had been standing near Jane, glanced between them with an expression that suggested he had missed something and did not much like the omission.
Elizabeth had not yet returned.
Darcy took his place near the window, his posture composed, though his thoughts remained anything but.
Conversation resumed, though it did not hold his attention. He found himself listening without hearing, aware of each passing moment with a degree of impatience he did not trouble to disguise.
When at last Elizabeth reentered the room, her expression was entirely composed.
Too composed.
She resumed her place as though nothing of consequence had occurred, responding to Lydia’s remarks, inclining her head at something Jane said, her manner unexceptionable in every regard.
No one would have guessed.
Darcy did not trust himself to look at her again.
The visit did not extend much longer.
Mrs. Bennet, satisfied with the success of the afternoon, made no attempt to detain them beyond what politeness required.
Bingley lingered as long as he reasonably could, his attention still fixed upon Jane.
Miss Bingley, by contrast, appeared eager to depart, her civility thinning with each passing minute.
At last, farewells were exchanged.
Darcy bowed. “Miss Bennet.”
“Mr. Darcy.”
Nothing in her tone betrayed what had passed between them.
It was a courtesy.
Nothing more.
The carriage ride to Netherfield was lacked the cacophony than the journey there.
Bingley attempted conversation more than once, but it faltered, meeting with little response. Mrs. Hurst settled into her usual silence. Georgiana watched her brother with concern, though she did not speak.
Miss Bingley, however, did not remain silent for long.
“I cannot think,” she began, with a small, dismissive laugh, “what possesses some people to thrust themselves so persistently into notice.”
Darcy did not look at her.
Bingley shifted. “Caroline—”
“No, I am quite serious,” she continued. “There is a certain impropriety in it. One must know one’s place, must one not? And to parade one’s… difficulties, as though they were distinctions—”
“That is enough.”
Darcy’s voice cut through the carriage with authority.
Miss Bingley fell silent at once, more from surprise than obedience.
He turned his gaze toward her then, his expression composed but unmistakably firm.
“You will cease such remarks,” he said. “Miss Bennet is a lady entirely undeserving of your censure. If you cannot speak of her with kindness, you will not speak of her at all.”
The words settled heavily in the confined space.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Bingley leaned back with a grin that was both relieved and approving. “Bravo,” he said. “I have been waiting to hear that.”
Miss Bingley flushed. “I did not suppose—”
“No,” Bingley said, more sharply than was his habit. “You did not suppose. That is precisely the difficulty.”
He turned toward his sisters. “If Hertfordshire society is so disagreeable to you, you are most welcome to return to London. I shall not detain you.”
Mrs. Hurst’s brows rose slightly, though she made no reply. Miss Bingley pressed her lips together, her expression tightening, but she said nothing further.
The remainder of the journey passed in silence.
Netherfield received them with its usual efficient order.
Darcy did not linger in the common rooms. He offered his sister a brief word, assuring her that he would see her in the morning, and withdrew to his chambers with more haste than he would ordinarily have allowed himself.
Once there, he did not immediately sit.
He crossed the room once, then again, his thoughts unsettled, refusing to arrange themselves into anything approaching clarity.
He had been mistaken.
Not in feeling. Never in that. But in understanding what those feelings required.
Elizabeth Bennet would not accept admiration framed in terms of endurance. She would not be comforted by assurances that she bore her circumstances well. She had no wish to be measured by what she had overcome.
She wished—
Darcy stopped. He did not yet know precisely what she wished. But he knew what she did not. He came to a halt near the window, his gaze turning outward though the light had already begun to fade.
He would not leave matters as they stood. To do so would be to confirm her worst assumption.
No. He must show her. Not through argument or contradiction. But through action that left no room for doubt.
His decision, once formed, settled him.
He would walk out on the morrow.
The weather might be poor. The roads uncertain. It did not signify.
If there was even the smallest chance that he might encounter her—
He would take it.
And this time, he thought, his hand resting lightly against the back of a chair as his resolve steadied,
He would not be misunderstood.