Chapter 17
Elizabeth woke with the same tight knot in her chest she had carried to bed.
The unease had not softened with rest; if anything, it had sharpened, as though her thoughts had spent the night honing themselves against one another.
Jane slept on, peaceful at last, her breathing even, her color returning.
Elizabeth watched her for a moment, reassured, then rose quietly.
She dressed with little care for ornament and went down before the household had fully stirred. The air outside was cool and bright, the sort that promised clarity if one only walked far enough into it. She set off at once, her stride brisk, her thoughts restless.
She had not gone far before she saw him.
Mr. Darcy was already on the path, not in his riding coat this time, but in a dark morning jacket, his gloves tucked into one hand. He looked almost startled when he noticed her appear out of the morning fog, then distinctly pleased.
“Good morning, Miss Elizabeth,” he said, inclining his head.
She returned the greeting with a curious smile. “You are not riding today?”
A faint flush touched his cheeks, so slight she might have missed it had she not been watching him closely. “No,” he said. “I thought you might wish for a walk this morning. Given… last evening.”
Elizabeth stopped short, genuinely surprised. Then warmth spread through her, quick and unwelcome and entirely pleasant.
“You anticipated correctly,” she said. “I find that movement is sometimes the only remedy for unsettled thoughts.”
“I have observed as much,” he replied quietly.
She laughed, soft and unguarded. “You are perceptive, sir.”
They fell into step together, turning down a narrower path that led away from the formal gardens. The hedges grew taller here, less carefully trimmed, and soon the entrance to the old maze appeared before them. Its paths were half reclaimed by ivy and bramble, the symmetry softened by time.
Elizabeth paused. “I had forgotten this was still here.”
“You know it?” he asked.
“I do. I spent many hours here as a child, when Netherfield was occupied before. It was far less overgrown then, though no less capable of swallowing one whole.” She smiled at the memory. “Shall we?”
He gestured ahead, and they walked in companionable silence for a time, the sound of their steps muffled by grass and fallen leaves. At last, Elizabeth spoke.
“I wished to ask you something,” she said. “If you do not mind.”
“I should mind very much if you did not,” he replied.
She glanced at him, amused, then grew thoughtful. “What do you think of Miss Bingley being restored to the household?”
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He did not answer at once.
“I confess,” he said finally, “that I have reservations.”
“That is precisely what I feared,” Elizabeth said. “I am hoping it will not be too difficult. You know her far better than I do.”
“Yes,” he said slowly. “And that knowledge is what gives me pause.”
They turned a corner, the path narrowing, hedges brushing close on either side. Sunlight filtered through the leaves in broken patterns.
“It is curious,” Elizabeth continued, “how one may be so very certain of a person one moment, and uncertain the next. Mr. Bingley last evening was not the man I believed him to be.”
Darcy exhaled. “Nor was he the man I believed him to be.”
She stopped again, turning to face him. “Then you noticed it too.”
“I did,” he said. “In all the years of our friendship, I have never seen him so resolved. So immovable.”
“Which do you think is the true Mr. Bingley?” she asked. “The agreeable gentleman who shrinks from conflict, or the man who spoke with such authority when it mattered?”
Darcy considered this as they resumed walking. “I believe,” he said at last, “that both are true. The question is which will prevail when the two are set against one another.”
Elizabeth nodded slowly. “That is what troubles me.”
“It troubles me as well,” he admitted.
Elizabeth had just begun to reply when the uneven path betrayed her. Her foot caught on a root half-hidden beneath the ivy, and she stumbled, only slightly—but enough.
Darcy’s arm came out at once, steady and sure, his hand closing around her forearm before she could recover herself.
He did not pull her sharply, nor did he release her too quickly.
Instead, he adjusted his hold, his arm settling naturally so that hers rested against it, and they continued on together as though nothing remarkable had occurred.
Elizabeth, however, was keenly aware that something had.
The warmth of his arm, the quiet solidity of him beside her, sent a strange flutter through her chest. It was not embarrassment, exactly, nor alarm—but an awareness so sharp she nearly forgot her surroundings.
She had never noticed such a thing before, not even when dancing.
This was different. This was… disconcerting.
To cover the sudden confusion of her thoughts, she spoke quickly.
“We should speak of happier things,” she said. “Tell me about your family. Your estate. What was it like growing up in Derbyshire? I have heard of its beauty from my aunt, who was raised in Lambton.”
Darcy welcomed the change at once, though his arm did not withdraw.
“Derbyshire is quieter than Hertfordshire,” he said. “Wilder, perhaps. There is a kind of grandeur to it that does not announce itself. Pemberley sits above the river, and as a boy I thought there was no finer place in the world.”
She listened intently as they walked, the path widening now, the hedges thinning.
“I was not raised alone,” he continued. “My cousin George Wickham lived nearby, and we were companions from early childhood. His father was my mother’s younger brother, who worked at Pemberley as the steward. He was clever and charming, and for many years I believed him my equal in all things.”
Elizabeth glanced up at him. “And then?”
“And then,” Darcy said carefully, “we went to university. I was treated as the heir I was, and he was not. The difference changed him. Or perhaps it only revealed what had always been there.”
“Is he your only family?”
“To an extent, yes. My mother’s family is descended from the Fitzwilliam line—her mother was an earl’s daughter who eloped with a footman and was disowned for her actions. Her elder brother sired my stepmother, Lady Anne. So, my mother and stepmother are first cousins, though they never met.”
“That sounds quite complicated.”
He gave a solemn nod. “I know the current earl very little. His son, my cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam, and I are quite close. He is two years younger than I am, and we attended the same university. He is one of the truest friends I possess. I am grateful he sought me out when he came to school.”
“Not the eldest son, then, given his position in the military,” Elizabeth remarked.
“He is the second son by a year,” Darcy replied. “His rank comes prominently from his own effort. There was little money to purchase advancement. The earl’s coffers are… strained. I have offered assistance, but my cousin prefers to earn his rank.”
Elizabeth smiled. “That speaks well of him.”
“It does,” Darcy agreed. “Integrity is prized among the Darcys. I sometimes think Providence allotted all of what was designated to the Fitzwilliams to my cousin, and left the rest of his family rather poorly supplied.”
She laughed softly. “Are you close with his elder brother, then, as well?”
Grimacing, Darcy shook his head. “The viscount is a year younger than myself. He attempted, more than once to assert his superiority over us both. Once too often, perhaps. In a heated moment, Colonel Fitzwilliam remarked—rather pointedly—that the viscount had been born only a few months after his parents’ marriage. ”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened.
Darcy stopped short, color rising swiftly to his face. “I should not have repeated that. I beg your pardon. It was not—”
She tightened her hand gently around his arm, still linked with hers. “You have not offended me.”
He looked at her in surprise.
“It only makes me think,” she continued, more softly, “how unhappy such a household must have been. For all of them.”
His expression eased. “Yes. That is precisely it. My cousin spent as many holidays at Pemberley as he could manage once he was old enough to choose. He grew close to my father. He is now joint guardian to my sister, Georgiana.”
“Not your other cousin? The one who was raised with you?” Elizabeth asked carefully.
“No,” Darcy said. “Lady Anne was uneasy with him. She perceived something I did not at the time. Though my father did not understand her reasoning, I believe respected her judgment enough to trust it.”
Elizabeth considered this. “That says a great deal about him, that he was willing to follow his wife’s lead in the matter.”
They walked on together for a long while after that, the conversation drifting easily from one subject to another, the morning light brightening around them. Elizabeth found, to her surprise, that an hour had passed almost without her noticing.
And she was keenly aware, all the while, that she had not once wished the walk to end. But all too soon, they emerged from the tangled green of the maze, the hedges thinning into the gravel path that led toward the front of the house.
They had scarcely taken three steps when the peace of the morning was shattered.
“Mr. Darcy!”
The voice rang out from the direction of the front door—sharp, strident, and unmistakable.
Elizabeth froze. Darcy closed his eyes and gave a faint groan, causing Elizabeth to giggle slightly. She hastily covered her mouth as Miss Bingley came striding toward them from the front door, her steps brisk, her posture rigid, her expression already drawn into a look of offended urgency.
Darcy let out a long, suffering breath. “It appears,” he said gravely, “that I am being hunted.”
Elizabeth pressed her lips together, her shoulders shaking. “By a most determined predator.”