Chapter 13 #2
Still conflicted, Bennet placed each object back into the crate, his movements slower now, more reluctant, like he were sealing away not only gold and silver but a decision he was not yet prepared to face.
He returned the box to the corner of the room and hid it once more beneath the crates of books, the familiar volumes now complicit in his secrecy.
Wearily, he returned to his desk and sank into his chair. Oh, what am I to do? he thought, rubbing a hand over his eyes, the candlelight blurring into indistinct shapes.
Would he ever find the correct way forward—or had he already stepped onto a path from which there was no easy return?
Elizabeth walked into Meryton with the vague hope that movement might quiet her thoughts. It did not.
The town was alive with conversation, more animated than usual for a weekday morning. Shop doors stood open despite the chill, and small knots of people lingered where errands might otherwise have been concluded quickly. She slowed her pace as voices carried to her with startling clarity.
“…Roman coins, they say—green as moss, but unmistakable…”
“…Turner lad found them near the common. If there is bronze, there may be better metal deeper down…”
“…No one ever reports such things. Why should they? Melt it down, sell it quietly—no harm done…”
Elizabeth felt a tightening in her chest. She passed the milliner’s shop, then the apothecary, her ears catching fragments she would have preferred not to hear.
“…Heard of a farmer near Bath—kept his find to himself and was the better for it…”
“…The Crown takes the lion’s share if it is told. A man would be a fool to invite that sort of attention…”
Her unease deepened with every step. The gossip was not malicious, nor even unusual. It was spoken lightly, almost cheerfully, which made it worse. There was no outrage, no reverence for law or history. Only speculation. Opportunity. Fortune.
By the time she had circled Meryton’s main street and reached the edge of town, Elizabeth turned her steps away from the lane to Longbourn’s front drive and toward the familiar rise of Oakham Mount.
The path was narrow and well-worn, and she climbed with more haste than care, her skirts brushing against dry grasses and low branches.
At the summit, she paused, breathless, not from the climb alone.
From there, she could see it all laid out below her. The patchwork of Longbourn’s fields, orderly and familiar. Beyond them, the common, uneven ground dotted with scrub, rocks, and thin stands of trees. And past that, just visible through the autumn haze, the outer reaches of Netherfield’s park.
Movement caught her eye—people. More than there ought to be at that hour.
Men crossed the common with spades slung over their shoulders.
Boys lingered, pretending idleness while watching where others dug.
A woman stood with her skirts gathered, pointing animatedly at the ground as though directing an excavation.
The land she had always thought of as neutral and unremarkable was suddenly alive with purpose.
All because of me. It was a nonsensical thought, for no one knew her role in this fever that seemed to be overtaking the community.
Elizabeth sank onto a fallen log near the crest and dropped her head into her hands.
Her thoughts raced. Her father’s stubborn resolve.
The law she could not forget. The careless way strangers spoke of melting history into coin.
Is it wicked to wish to protect those you love, or wicked to show no regard?
“Miss Elizabeth?”
She startled and looked up.
Mr. Darcy stood a few paces away, his coat unbuttoned, his horse tethered farther down the path. Concern was plain upon his face, unguarded and immediate.
“You look distressed,” he said gently. “May I ask what troubles you?”
Elizabeth hesitated, then forced a small smile. “I was thinking.”
“So I gathered.”
She exhaled slowly. “Do you believe, sir, that moral obligation and the law are always aligned?”
His brow furrowed. “In principle, I should hope so. The law is meant to codify moral duty.”
“But when it does not?” she pressed. “When obedience to the law would materially harm those to whom one is bound by affection or responsibility to protect?”
Mr. Darcy was silent. He considered the question with evident seriousness, his gaze drifting back toward the common below.
“In such cases,” he said at last, “one hopes the law allows for justice. And when it does not…” He paused. “I have always believed that the moral course and the lawful one rarely diverge for long.”
Elizabeth’s lips pressed together. “And if they do?”
He looked at her then, truly looked, and she saw that he had no easy answer to give.
“I cannot say,” he admitted quietly.
The honesty of it struck her more deeply than any certainty could have done. She turned her gaze back to the land below, where spades rose and fell in a hopeful rhythm.
Neither spoke for a moment.
At last, Mr. Darcy said, “Whatever weighs upon you, Miss Elizabeth, I do not think it a small matter.”
She nodded, grateful and troubled in equal measure.
Elizabeth remained seated upon the fallen log, her gaze still fixed upon the activity below, when Mr. Darcy stepped closer.
After a moment’s hesitation, he lowered himself onto the end of the log at a respectful distance, careful not to crowd her.
The quiet between them was not uncomfortable, but thoughtful, almost like both were reluctant to disturb it with careless words.
The breeze stirred the leaves overhead, sending a faint rustle through the branches.
From their vantage point, the sounds of digging and distant voices carried upward in softened echoes.
Elizabeth folded her hands in her lap, drawing encouragement from the solid presence beside her.
It occurred to her how little exertion was necessary to share his quietude, how instinctively comfortable it was, as if they were already familiar with each other's presence.
Mr. Darcy broke the stillness at last. “I hope you will forgive my frankness,” he said, his tone measured but earnest. “Our acquaintance is of short duration, and yet I find myself wishing it were otherwise.”
Elizabeth turned her head slightly, meeting his gaze. His expression held none of the hauteur others so readily ascribed to him—the very expression he had begged her to understand upon their first meeting. Instead, there was a sincerity that caught her off guard.
“I should like,” he continued, “to call upon you at Longbourn, if you would permit it. I would, of course, first seek your father’s approval. It would not be proper to do otherwise.”
For a brief moment, Elizabeth could not speak. A warmth spread through her, swift and undeniable, settling somewhere deep in her chest. She lowered her eyes, suddenly shy, and allowed herself a small smile.
“I believe my father would receive you civilly,” she said at last. “And I should be pleased as well.”
Mr. Darcy inclined his head, relief and quiet pleasure evident in the movement. “Then I shall call at the earliest appropriate opportunity. I would not wish to presume, but neither would I delay unnecessarily.”
She dared another glance at him and found his attention wholly fixed upon her, giving the appearance that the restless activity below no longer held any interest. The knowledge sent a flutter through her that she made no attempt to suppress.
They rose together a few moments later and began the descent from Oakham Mount at an unhurried pace.
Though neither spoke again of obligation or law, Elizabeth felt that something important had shifted all the same.
Amid uncertainty and unease, she had been offered something steady and genuine.
Her thoughts were less heavy for the first time since the discovery on the common.