Chapter 29
Elizabeth threw her quill down with a loud sigh of exasperation. The words simply would not come.
She turned around on the stool pulled up before the little vanity-turned-writing-desk, smiling wryly at the room around her.
Perhaps it was no wonder she could not write in so small a space — not to mention so loud a cottage.
Lydia’s voice could be heard even through the closed door, giggling with Kitty over their most recent glimpse of the militiamen.
Jane was as considerate of her writing as anyone well could be, but it was her room, too, and in the absence of any other private space in the cottage, she could not always leave it for Elizabeth’s sole use.
Then there was her mother’s fretting and matchmaking — and her suggestions that, with the new printing of her novel or at least when the next was published, they ought to move into a house as large and grand as dear old Longbourn.
Perhaps it would be best for everyone if she returned to London.
With the renovation of the house on Gracechurch Street complete, the Gardiners’ home was made even a little larger and finer than it had been before.
She could once again have her own bedroom, quiet and homey, in which to write.
All at the cottage would benefit from sharing the space among five women instead of six, and she would gain blessed privacy in which to nurse her heartbreak.
Meryton was the place she had told Mr Darcy everything, the last place they would ever meet as friends, and for that, she could not forgive it.
No wonder she could not seem to write so much as a page.
There was a chance, of course, that London would fix none of her problems. She might very well be stuck with writer’s block for the rest of her life, wondering what might have been between her and Mr Darcy, in another life.
If he could have forgiven her, or if she had been brave enough to tell him sooner.
If her father were alive, so that she had never needed to have a secret life at all.
But that was foolishness and would come to nothing. If Mr Darcy had wished to see her again after her confession, surely he would have done so. Days had passed without even the slightest word. He had spared her his recriminations, it seemed, only to sentence her to a silence still more awful.
Elizabeth bit her lip. How could she blame him, after all her lies? Painful as it was, she deserved it.
“Such melancholy thoughts do no one any good,” Elizabeth reproached herself aloud. “I will be sensible. I will find a way to go on.”
With that, she stood up from the desk decisively. For once, she was at home alone. Her mother and sisters had gone to Meryton to visit her Aunt Phillips. Elizabeth, though invited to go likewise, had intended to take advantage of precious quiet time to write.
That had certainly proved less successful than she had hoped.
Elizabeth sat back down and plopped her head into her hand, looking at the meagre scribbling of ideas she had compiled for her next book.
She had a good idea now of what her readers wanted.
Even so, inspiration eluded her. Would she be doomed to write the same hero again and again, in the image of Mr Darcy?
Her readers would no doubt get bored with her and move on to the next young, bright author.
And then her family would be destitute, forced to give up the cottage and live with her uncles, as a burden.
She let out a frustrated sigh and put her quill down again, getting up to pace at the foot of the bed her mother and Jane shared. “Forget him!” she said aloud to herself. “There is nothing to be done! You must not let your heart run away with your good sense!”
For fully a quarter-hour, she tried to convince herself of the benefits of what had happened.
She would not have to live in fear of her secret coming to light, for it was already known.
Mr Darcy certainly could not accuse her of cowardice.
She had done what she knew was right and told him the truth.
If he could not bear up under that truth, that was no fault of hers.
And still, her heart throbbed with a dull ache. She sat back down and buried her face in her hands. “What am I to do?” she whispered aloud.
A second later, a voice sounded behind her, startling her so much that she nearly upended the chair she had been sitting in and would have landed on her backside if she had not gripped the edge of the vanity. “Perhaps I can be of assistance?”
“Mr Darcy?” Elizabeth breathed, hating the desperation in her voice. She gripped the edge of the vanity to keep herself upright. “What are you doing here?”
“Your cook let me in,” he explained, looking rather ill at ease. “Please forgive me for the intrusion. I saw no one inside and walked on until I found you. I wonder if you might allow me a private audience?”
“Well, as there is no one else in the house, that can be arranged,” she said with a nervous laugh. “Although perhaps we might go down to the little parlour?”
“Of course,” he said, and stepped back, allowing her to lead the way.
Her heart beat wildly in her chest. What did he have to say?
Her heart soared with hope, but Elizabeth forced herself to remain calm.
Perhaps he had come to give her a tongue-lashing before leaving forever.
If he could not stand to be in the same county as her, she could hardly blame him.
Elizabeth took a steadying breath as they entered the drawing room and turned to motion for him to take a seat.
“Please,” she invited. “Shall I call for some tea?”
“This will be brief,” he said, as solemn as she had ever seen him.
Elizabeth gulped. “Very well.” She sank into a chair and clasped her hands tightly in her lap, praying for the strength to face whatever might come.
“I was pleased to find that you were home alone,” he said haltingly. It would seem he did not know where to begin. “Not that I would not wish to see your sisters and mother.”
“Of course, I would not think that,” Elizabeth replied awkwardly.
What had he come to say? If he had come to condemn her, she wished he might get on with it.
She could barely look at him; he was so handsome.
Her heartbeat quickened when she risked a look into his dark eyes.
The kindness she had always loved to see in them was no longer for her.
She had betrayed his trust and could not claim to deserve his forgiveness.
“You may well be surprised at my coming like this. Particularly now that I have learned you are alone here. I apologise for the irregular call.”
“There is no need to apologise,” she said breathlessly. “My mother will be very sad that she missed you. As will my sisters.”
“Yes, well —” he let his words trail off, and instead of staying seated, got up and began to pace. Was he just as nervous as she was?
Elizabeth frowned. What did he have to be nervous about?
She was the one who had gone and made a mess out of everything.
She watched him for a moment, and when he did not speak, she tried to prompt him onward.
“Has something happened at Netherfield? Is your sister well?” she asked, suddenly afraid for her young friend.
“Oh, yes, do not concern yourself. She is well. And I am sure she will come to visit you soon,” he replied absently.
Elizabeth frowned in surprise. “You would still permit your sister to come and see me? Even knowing what you know now?”
“Of course,” Mr Darcy replied at once. He stopped his pacing and looked her in the eye. “I can endure no longer. I must tell you the reason I have stayed away for so long. And when I have done so, I hope you will allow me to throw myself at your feet.”
Elizabeth was shocked beyond words for a moment. She had to gather all her composure before she could speak. “I do not know what you mean, Mr Darcy.”
He shook his head, then raked his fingers through his hair, as if he did not know how to go on. “I have been reading your books,” he said.
“You — read my books? Mrs Laurence’s books?
” Elizabeth replied in astonishment. She could not think of anything else he could have meant by such a statement.
But he had so often dismissed her books as unworthy of his interest. Why would he care to read her work now, especially when he must be furious at discovering her lies? “I do not understand.”
“I have not come to see you before now because I have done little else but read. That is why I have not come since we last spoke.” His eyes softened, and he came to sit beside her.
She was undone, unable to believe what was happening.
Mr Darcy took her hand. “I was so very wrong about your books, Miss Bennet. These past days, I have been unable to put them down. I have stayed up late into the night until my eyes stung and I could read no more. I would sleep for a few hours and then pick it right back up again. I am no longer surprised at why my sister is such a devoted fan of your work.”
His smile was warm and undoubtedly genuine.
“She finally convinced you to read them?” Elizabeth asked.
“It is true; she urged me to read your first novel. But I found that after I had finished the first one, I had to know what the next held.” He took her hand and pressed it, making her heart beat all the more dangerously.
“I could not wait to return each morning to the worlds you had created. I finally understand what my sister was talking about.”
Elizabeth wondered if she were dreaming. Perhaps at any moment, she would wake up and be thrust back into a world where Mr Darcy was angry with her and she would never see him again. She held her breath, searching his face. “I still do not understand.”