Chapter 19
Darcy woke the following morning cautiously optimistic.
Perhaps he ought not to have alarmed Richard when, in all likelihood, a night’s rest had healed the breach separating Elizabeth from him.
Mr. Bennet rose early to tend to his bees, and it had always been Elizabeth’s habit to enjoy long walks in the morning.
If he hurried, Darcy might see her walking over the fields.
She would turn to greet him, her smile wide and her eyes bright with recognition.
He would take her into his arms, and he would spin in circles and never let go of her again.
Eager to ride to Longbourn, Darcy crept down to the kitchen, wishing to break his fast and depart before the other residents of the house came downstairs.
Bingley’s cook was not surprised to see him in her kitchen.
Another would have insisted on sending a maid to serve him in the breakfast parlor, but she allowed him to sit at the table while she poached eggs and pulled freshly baked rolls out of the oven.
She had placed a dish of butter in front of Darcy when Bingley tiptoed into her domain.
A light spattering of whiskers dotted his cheeks; his hair jutted wildly from his head. His nightshirt was tucked haphazardly into his breeches. He looked deliriously happy.
The fissure in Darcy’s heart widened. He ought to have been slipping down to the kitchen at Darcy House for a tray to bring up to his bride that morning, too.
Grinning like a fool, Bingley sat beside Darcy.
“I ought to have known you would be up.” He nodded to the cook, who pulled out a tray and began piling it with dishes of jam and cream, rolls, scrambled eggs, ham, and strawberry tarts.
Elizabeth favored tarts. His London cook would not allow the pastries Darcy had asked her to make to go to waste.
“Are you off to Longbourn?” Bingley asked.
“I am. I hope to find Elizabeth much improved.”
Bingley nodded, his smile faded. “She is strong, and much too clever by half. Do not lose heart, Darcy. She will recover.”
Darcy appreciated his friend’s reassurance while recognizing the danger of allowing his hope to rise.
Bingley continued, “My sisters intend to depart for London today. But Jane and I discussed the matter and have decided to postpone our wedding tour until Elizabeth is fully recovered. You are welcome to stay here with us.”
“I could not impose on your hospitality.” Could not bear to see them so happily settled. “I will take a room at the Meryton Inn.”
Bingley’s back straightened. “With Lady Catherine taking over the establishment? I will not hear it. Pray do not leave on my account when this house is so big, and my wife and I have all the privacy we desire.” His cheeks flushed fiery scarlet.
Darcy’s heart pinged with envy … and hope.
Twenty minutes later, he dismounted at Longbourn.
Hill opened the door before Darcy’s feet touched the ground. The haste with which the older man saw to his duties, as well as the furrow creasing his brow and crinkling around his eyes, gave Darcy pause.
“Good day. Am I too early?”
Shaking his head slowly, his eyes drooping, Hill said, “Mr. Bennet suggested you would call early today.”
Darcy thought his heart would burst if he waited a second longer. “How is Miss Elizabeth?”
“That, I cannot say, sir.”
Tottering between despair and hope, Darcy followed the house servant into the drawing room where Elizabeth sat on the settee in front of the window, Mrs. Bennet positioned precariously on a chair opposite her.
The matron rose as soon as he entered the room. “Mr. Darcy, how lovely to see you so early. Does Lizzy not look fine?”
Soft morning beams glowed against Elizabeth’s skin, shimmering against her silky curls. He wanted to twirl a tendril between his fingers as he had done before, but he clasped his hands in front of him, mourning the loss of the freedoms he had once enjoyed with his betrothed. With his Elizabeth.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, he answered, “She does.”
Pleased with his reply, Mrs. Bennet guided him to the chair nearest Elizabeth, talking a flurry as she pushed him forward.
Elizabeth met his gaze then.
And he knew. He would not need the forget-me-not ring today.
Elizabeth woke the following morning with images of Mr. Darcy’s handsome face, tall strength, and unexpected humor fresh in her mind. Stretching under the warmth of her covers, her heart fluttered and loped in her chest. Surely, this was a promising beginning.
Slipping her hand under her pillow, she pulled out the piece of paper covered with his name and her many signatures. Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy. She rubbed her finger over the letters, the name rolling off her tongue. As smooth as a worn book cover and as sweet as a strawberry tart.
Eager to reaffirm what she hoped to be true, she donned a wrap and ran out to the hallway, nearly stumbling into Mrs. Hill. Grabbing the housekeeper by the shoulders, Elizabeth asked, “Please, Mrs. Hill, ask me a question about Mr. Darcy. Anything you please.”
After a few stammering starts, Mrs. Hill said, “What is his favorite meal?”
Elizabeth twisted her lips. “I hardly know.” Was that something she was supposed to know? Had previously known?
Mrs. Hill patted her cheek. “I daresay it was not the right question to ask, Miss. I believe it was your mother who informed me of his preference for roasted pork.”
Dashed hopes deflected, Elizabeth kissed Mrs. Hill’s cheek before continuing down the hall to the first open door.
Lydia lounged in her bed with a breakfast tray teetering on her legs. With all she had eaten the day before, it was a wonder she could consume more. She had fallen asleep on the settee, and Papa had had to help Thatcher carry her upstairs to her bed.
“Lizzy,” she greeted, slathering butter on her roll and spooning a blob of berry preserves on top.
“Ask me a question about Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said, sitting on the end of Lydia’s bed.
“Oh, that dreadful man,” Lydia said, chewing and swallowing. “After what he did to my poor, sweet George, you can hardly expect for me to wish to talk about him.”
What had Mr. Darcy done to Wickham? Elizabeth tried to remember. She recalled a strong dislike between the gentlemen, but it was more of a sense than a recollection.
Lydia continued, “However, I am determined to overlook Mr. Darcy’s displeasing temperament for your sake and for the sake of my child.
” She patted her stomach and shoved the rest of the roll into her mouth.
“George was the given name of Mr. Darcy’s father, was it not?
I think that would make a fine name for a boy, do you not agree? ”
Elizabeth did not know.
“His sister is named Georgiana, another variation,” Lydia mused.
Elizabeth could not remember.
“Of course, on the chance the baby is a girl, I could name her after Mr. Darcy’s mother. Anne is a fine name for a girl.”
Elizabeth nodded, her disappointment complete. Sleep had not cured her mind.
“I do not know how you cannot recall your own betrothed. I could never forget George. The first time I saw him looking so handsome in his scarlet regimental coat with the gold braids and brass buttons…” Lydia sighed, leaning against her mound of pillows with one hand over her heart.
Her words struck their mark, weighing so heavily on Elizabeth, only the refusal to hear more of Lydia’s taunts drove Elizabeth out of her sister’s bedchamber and down the stairs to the breakfast room.
She sat numbly while the maid arranged platters around the table and the footman hovered.
Elizabeth could not bring herself to lift a lid.
How long she sat there alone, she could not say, but her mother’s sharp voice interrupted Elizabeth’s melancholia. “Mr. Darcy is here.”
Half walking, half shoved by her mother, they crossed the hall to the drawing room where Mama pushed her onto a chair near the window.
“You will appear to greatest advantage here … and with space enough for you both,” she mumbled while she poked Elizabeth into position, pinching her cheeks and fussing with her ribbons and running to sit an instant before Mr. Hill announced their caller.
“Mr. Darcy to see you, Miss Bennet.”
Elizabeth kept her eyes averted. She could not look him in the eyes yet, but she was extremely aware of him. He watched her, a smile softening his face, his expression full of hope.
She wanted to weep. She was engaged to a pleasant gentleman with everything to recommend him, a man she must have loved dearly to have accepted his offer of marriage.
A man who did not stand entirely on society’s laws of propriety, given the early hour of his call — a laxity she approved wholeheartedly given her love for solitary walks.
Mama was quick to fill the silence. “Mr. Darcy, how lovely to see you so early. Does Lizzy not look fine?”
The way he looked at her set Elizabeth’s skin aflame.
“She does.” He was so definite. So confident.
Elizabeth hated to disappoint him, but neither was she content to avoid the truth and its consequences. To delay the inevitable when he warranted her honesty.
She turned to face him, and she saw the moment — the shift in his posture, the strain in his eyes — when he knew.
His memory escaped her still.
Stepping closer to her, he reached out his hand, then dropped it uncertainly. “I trust you slept well?” he asked.
The rapidity with which Mr. Darcy replaced discouragement with awkwardness was so unexpected, Elizabeth found her humor and remembered her purpose.
Tucking her hand, which tingled in anticipation of his touch, into her skirts, she returned his smile.
“I did, thank you,” she replied, patting the empty spot on the settee in invitation, “though I found it difficult to quiet my mind long enough to rest properly. I have considered several suspects. There is, of course, Miss Bingley. She despises me, and I could not help but think that she would love nothing more than to take my place beside you at the altar.”
Mama shrieked and grumbled.