Chapter 16
The morning sunlight slanted through the tall windows of the guest chamber, soft and golden as it fell across Jane’s slumbering form.
Elizabeth touched her sister’s forehead with gentle fingers and was relieved to find it no longer warm.
Jane’s breathing had grown easier through the night, and though her cough still lingered, the worst seemed to have passed.
“I believe a bit of fresh air for me will do us both some good,” Elizabeth whispered, brushing a loose curl from Jane’s temple. “You would not wish me to be too difficult a companion.”
Jane murmured something unintelligible and turned her face into the pillow, already drifting again into light sleep.
Quietly, Elizabeth slipped from her sister’s room and made her way downstairs. The morning was cool but not cold, and the grounds at Netherfield were inviting in their dappled hush. Dew glistened on the hedgerows, and a faint mist still clung to the fields beyond the garden.
She had not gone far down the gravel path when the sound of hooves and shifting tack reached her ears. Turning a bend lined with clipped boxwood, she found herself face to face with Mr. Darcy.
He had just dismounted, and the stable boy was leading his sleek black horse away toward the stables. Darcy still wore his riding coat, a bit dusted from the path, and his hair was wind-tossed, giving him a slightly less austere appearance than usual.
They both stopped, slightly startled, and then bowed.
“Good morning, Miss Bennet,” he said, his voice warm with civility, and—she thought—a trace of pleasure.
“Good morning, Mr. Darcy.” She smiled, indicating the gardens with a sweep of her hand. “I thought to take a walk before the household awoke.”
“I find I must ride early to avoid the same,” he said with a faint smile. “I am accustomed to a more quiet house.”
Elizabeth tilted her head curiously. “Do you have no family in residence at your estate?”
He shook his head. “Not at the moment. My stepmother and half-sister are in London, at Darcy House.”
“Ah,” Elizabeth said, tucking her hands into her wrap. “So, your current household must be remarkably still. I can only imagine the difference between yours and mine. Five daughters, Mr. Darcy. Five very lively daughters.”
That earned a soft chuckle from him. “Then I suspect your family is never quiet.”
“Not even in sleep,” Elizabeth replied with a laugh. “Someone is always moving, or muttering, or giggling. My father has retreated entirely to his library, and I cannot say I blame him.”
“Do you enjoy it?” he asked, his tone light, but curious. “Such constant company?”
Elizabeth considered. “At times. There is a certain comfort in chaos, I suppose. But I do sometimes long for quiet, which is when I must escape into the outdoors.” She glanced at him sidelong. “Which you must enjoy often, if you are the master of a great estate and have no sisters underfoot.”
“I do enjoy peace,” he said slowly, “but it can come with a cost. My sister is thirteen years my junior and has always been… quiet herself. A gentle disposition, but inclined to solitude.”
Elizabeth softened. “That must be a difficult burden for a girl of that age.”
“She has had good guidance,” he said. “Lady Anne is a remarkable woman, both maternal and firm. Though she is only ten years my senior, and not my mother by blood, I have the greatest esteem for her maternal instincts.”
Elizabeth blinked. “You speak of her with great affection.”
“I owe her more than I can express.”
They continued walking along the path, the gravel crunching softly beneath their feet. The morning sun filtered through the trees, and Elizabeth found herself studying him in profile—his calm demeanor, the faint line between his brows that spoke of careful thought.
He turned toward her slightly. “And you, Miss Bennet? You mentioned five daughters at home. I believe you are the second eldest, is that correct?”
“Yes,” she said, smiling. “Which means I am old enough to know better, and young enough to still be blamed.”
He smiled at that, and the two walked a few more steps in companionable silence. Elizabeth glanced at Mr. Darcy out of the corner of her eye. He did not seem inclined to speak, but his bearing was attentive, as though ready to listen.
So, she took the opening. “I suppose you might say that I am middle child with elder-sister tendencies. I often attempt to direct my youngest sisters in their behavior, much to their dismay.”
Darcy gave a soft sound of amusement.
“My eldest sister, Jane, is—well, you have met her. She is what she appears to be. There is no duplicity or calculation in her character.”
He nodded solemnly. “That is very rare. And admirable.”
Elizabeth smiled, pleased. “Mary is next—after me. She is… serious. Very serious. Always reading sermons or moral treatises. Papa says she believes dancing is a gateway to sin and that ballads are a threat to civilization.”
Darcy’s mouth twitched, but he only said, “And you?”
“Oh, I dance,” she said promptly. “And I sing. And I read a great many things besides sermons.”
She let the silence hang for a breath before adding casually, “Mary also enjoys a good religious argument. Lately she has taken up an interest in warning us against Catholics, though I have no idea what prompted it. Some pamphlet or another, most likely, or the recent changes in the rules for Catholic soldiers.”
She peeked at Darcy. He did not flinch, but his brow lifted a fraction, and his expression grew still.
Tilting her head, she smoothly added, “I do not share her sentiments. As I said last night at dinner, I believe that how one lives speaks more loudly than the name of the church on one’s parish door. ”
For a moment, Darcy said nothing. Then he looked over at her, the corner of his mouth curling faintly. “That is a most uncommon view.”
“I tend toward uncommon, much to my mother’s dismay,” she said airily.
“And the dismay of my two youngest sisters. After Mary comes Kitty and Lydia. They are close in age and—well, close in disposition as well. Full of energy and schemes. They rarely have an original thought between them, but they are clever at borrowing one from the other. Kitty follows Lydia everywhere.”
“Rather like Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley,” Darcy said before he could stop himself.
Elizabeth burst into laughter, surprised and delighted. “Indeed! I had the same thought yesterday when Mrs. Hurst came to Jane’s room to apologize for the entire situation. Kitty often looks just as pained when Lydia drags her into something foolish.”
“I daresay your youngest sister would make quite a mistress of a drawing room, then,” he said dryly.
“Or a disaster of it,” Elizabeth replied, smiling. “But she would enjoy herself thoroughly, which I suppose is something.”
They walked for some moments in silence, then Elizabeth, emboldened by the ease between them, asked, “Is it strange to find yourself in someone else’s home, away from your family? Especially when you are used to such solitude?”
“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But not this morning.”
She looked up at him, surprised—and perhaps just a little pleased.
He met her gaze evenly, then glanced away. “I hope your sister continues to improve.”
Elizabeth nodded. “She is already much better. Thank you.”
They turned another bend in the path, and the house came into view beyond the trees. The walk had passed quickly—too quickly, she thought.
Darcy seemed about to say something more, but then only nodded and said, “Thank you for the conversation, Miss Bennet.”
“The pleasure was mine, Mr. Darcy.”
She watched him go, thoughtful. He was not what she had expected—not at all. Reserved, yes, and often grave, but there was a steadiness to him. A quiet depth. And beneath it, the suggestion of humor, of conviction, of warmth.
Altogether… a very pleasant companion.
∞∞∞
The gentlemen entered the drawing room to the pleasant surprise of Miss Bennet sitting by the fire, swathed in shawls but alert and pink-cheeked.
Mr. Bingley visibly brightened and went immediately to her side with such eagerness that Darcy and Mr. Hurst exchanged the faintest of glances.
Miss Elizabeth, ever attentive, stood to make room, offering a soft word to her sister before stepping away.
She crossed the room to a second settee not far from the writing desk and sank down with the unhurried grace Darcy had come to admire. Her eyes scanned the pianoforte where Mrs. Hurst played a gentle tune—simple and inoffensive, but without Miss Bingley’s usual over-embellishment.
Darcy took a seat at the writing desk, removing a sheet of paper with the intention of continuing his letter to Georgiana.
He had scarcely written two lines—decent enough lines, he thought, though the ink pooled a little at the tail of a “g”—when a thought intruded: What would Miss Bingley say to this scene?
He imagined her standing at his elbow, murmuring some insipid compliment about his penmanship and offering—unasked—to trim his quill for him. He nearly snorted at the thought, but covered it with a slight cough.
Instead, his eyes drifted again to Miss Elizabeth.
She was observing the room with an air of quiet amusement, clearly listening to her sister’s conversation with Bingley even as she pretended otherwise.
A loose tendril of dark hair curled along her temple.
She reached up to tuck it behind her ear, and his hand stilled on the page.
Darcy set down the pen.
“I am pleased to see your sister well enough to join us,” he said, turning toward her. “Though I suspect that has more to do with your nursing than with any physic Mr. Jones might have offered.”
She glanced over, brow lifting with a touch of humor. “You are kind to say so, sir, but I am no physician. I could not do otherwise. Jane is very dear to me.”
“I do not doubt it.” He hesitated, then added with quiet conviction, “Lady Anne would have done the same for Georgiana.”