Chapter 21 #2
Jane nodded, squeezing her hand. “The roads were already drying this morning. Perhaps later today…” Her voice trailed off as a fresh wave of pain creased her features, and she closed her eyes, breathing through it.
“As long as we are home by tomorrow, Lizzy, I will be well enough.”
Elizabeth brushed a damp curl from Jane’s forehead. “Rest now, dearest. I will see what can be done.” She pressed a kiss to her sister’s temple before leaving quietly.
Closing the door behind her, Elizabeth walked back down the corridor, her mind turning with the details of arranging Jane’s return home. She turned a corner, pausing as voices drifted from the breakfast room, the door slightly ajar.
“…Miss Elizabeth showed up without invitation and was not even announced properly,” came Miss Bingley’s sharp, petulant tone. “And how did she even get here? Their carriage is in the carriage house.”
“She walked,” Bingley replied, his voice firm but tinged with annoyance.
There was a gasp from Mrs Hurst. “It is nearly three miles to Longbourn! She walked the whole way? In this weather? Surely, she is in no state to be seen.”
“She must look rather savage,” Miss Bingley scoffed, a cruel edge in her amusement. Elizabeth’s cheeks warmed as she listened, fingers tightening on her skirts. Then the lady’s voice turned falsely sweet, aimed like a dart. “You saw her, sir. Do you agree with our assessment?”
A pause.
“No,” came Mr Darcy’s cool, measured reply.
“Miss Elizabeth looked quite well—perhaps a little blowsy, but her eyes were brightened by the exercise.” There was a softness in his tone Elizabeth had never heard before.
“It shows a great deal of familial affection to journey across the fields after a storm to ensure herself of her sister’s wellbeing. ”
Miss Bingley’s indignant huff filled the silence, and Elizabeth decided she had heard enough. She pushed the door open, stepping into the room with as much dignity as she could muster.
The ladies barely acknowledged her, their expressions stiff. Elizabeth turned her attention to Mr Bingley, her voice calm as she reported, “Jane wishes to return home to rest. She believes she will recover more comfortably there.”
Mr Bingley’s expression was one of gentle regret.
“The roads are not yet dry enough, Miss Elizabeth, but by tomorrow they should be quite passable. I hope it is not too great an imposition for Miss Bennet to remain one more night. I would be honoured if you would remain as well.” His gaze softened.
“It is the least I can do for the lady I am courting.”
Elizabeth’s composure softened, a warm flush touching her cheeks. “Thank you, Mr Bingley. You are very kind. I will remain, then, and write a note to Longbourn requesting a few of my things.”
She glanced over at Mr Darcy and found him watching her, his dark eyes warm, a look of something like quiet approval softening his usually stern countenance.
Confusion churned in her chest, for had he not been avoiding her since their outing to the ruins?
The sudden warmth she felt under his gaze was unwelcome and left her feeling flustered.
Lifting her chin, she turned away, her voice a touch sharp as she said, “If you will excuse me, I shall return to Jane.”
“Please join us for tea later,” Mr Bingley called gently.
Elizabeth paused, forcing herself to offer a small smile. “Of course, Mr Bingley.” With that, she slipped from the room, her heart pounding, her thoughts a tangled storm of confusion, warmth, and unspoken questions.
Darcy remained at the table after Elizabeth’s departure, his gaze still lingering on the doorway through which she had vanished, the echo of her soft footsteps settling into the quiet of the breakfast room.
He was only vaguely aware of Caroline’s sharp intake of breath before her voice pierced the stillness.
“Well,” she drawled, lips curling with disdain, “I saw no evidence of Miss Elizabeth’s eyes being ‘brightened by the exercise,’ as you so graciously observed, Mr Darcy.
Her hems were six inches deep in mud, if they were an inch, and she looked positively wild, with curls poking out from beneath that dreadful bonnet. ”
Bingley, who was stirring his tea, paused to glance up, his expression one of mild disapproval. “I, for one, approve of her sisterly devotion,” he remarked, setting his spoon aside with deliberate calm.
Caroline’s head snapped towards him, her eyes narrowing.
“What could you possibly mean by that remark, Charles? Surely you do not think it prudent for a young lady to tramp across the fields alone, looking as if she had been caught in a gale?” She raised a hand, dismissing his attempted reply.
“You are forever too ready to overlook the impropriety of these country manners.”
She turned her attention to Darcy, a smile sliding into place, brittle and practised. “Mr Darcy, what are your plans for the day?”
Darcy’s gaze flicked from the window, where the grey sky pressed heavily against the glass, to Miss Bingley’s eager expression. “I shall write a few letters,” he replied vaguely, “particularly to my sister, Georgiana.”
“Oh, do include my compliments,” Caroline purred, adjusting the fall of lace at her sleeve. “And tell her I anticipate seeing her again soon.”
Darcy inclined his head politely. “I will convey your regards.” Without waiting for further conversation, he rose. “If you will excuse me.”
He left the breakfast room, the rustle of his coat and the sound of his steps the only noise in the corridor as he made his way back to the guest wing.
His footsteps echoed lightly on the polished floors, the scent of woodsmoke lingering from the fireplaces in the halls.
Entering his chambers, he closed the door behind him, the soft click of the latch sealing him away from the morning’s chatter.
Darcy crossed to the window, looking out over the sodden grounds of Netherfield, the sky heavy with remnants of the storm. Pulling a chair close, he sat, resting his elbow on the arm and pressing his fingers to his lips, his thoughts a tangle he could no longer ignore.
Elizabeth.
A few years ago, he would have dismissed any notion of her with a cool, practised certainty.
She was not what he had envisioned for himself—no wealth to recommend her, no powerful family to advance the Fitzwilliam Darcy interests.
Yet here he sat, unable to cast her from his mind, recalling the lively intelligence in her fine, dark blue eyes, the quiet strength of her bearing, the way she had set aside her own comfort to walk through mud and rutted fields for her sister.
Having become acquainted with grief, with the suffocating weight of loss, Darcy found himself unable to fathom setting aside the possibility of happiness for paltry reasons of wealth and connection.
The idea of marrying for affection, for mutual regard, for companionship…
it no longer seemed a youthful fancy but a necessity for a life well lived.
His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Lady Catherine. She had long assumed he would marry Anne, her ambitions for Rosings Park and Pemberley firmly entwined. Would she view any lady Darcy pursued as a replacement, as an interloper? Or would she welcome the match, provided it was respectable enough?
Darcy shook his head with a rueful half-smile.
Why was he even thinking about marriage?
He barely knew Miss Elizabeth. Yet he could not deny that he wished to know her better, wished to speak with her, to walk with her, to discover the depths behind the lively expressions and quick wit that had so thoroughly captivated his thoughts.
He was forced to admit to himself—reluctantly, honestly—that he would have noticed Elizabeth even if her young brother did not bear the look of a Fitzwilliam. That mystery remained, of course, lingering at the edges of his mind, but the lady herself had become an intrigue entirely separate from it.
Darcy exhaled, leaning back in his chair, his gaze distant. The question now was not whether he would pursue Miss Elizabeth Bennet, but why. Was it out of duty to find answers about the child, or was it the lady herself drawing him?
Perhaps if he did the first, he might find the second.
And perhaps, in seeking the second, he would find the courage to embrace what he truly wanted.