Chapter Eighteen
I t was the twelfth day of her convalescence, and Elizabeth had resigned herself to yet another day of restless captivity when Aunt Gardiner entered.
“I am taking you to the gardens,” she said decisively.
Elizabeth blinked. “You are?”
Aunt Gardiner nodded. “I have no intention of allowing you to be shut away indoors any longer. You will crawl out the window if you are kept in your rooms even one day more.”
Elizabeth sat forward at once, still sore but a good deal better than she had been. “I would not say crawl precisely,” she said, though she was far too eager to be convincing.
Aunt Gardiner arched a brow. “You have spent the past four days gazing wistfully through that window, even during Charlotte's visit yesterday. Had I not intervened, I feel certain I should have found you attempting some ill-advised escape down the trellis.”
Elizabeth laughed, already reaching for her pelisse, the one with the long sleeves. It fit over her injured arm without disturbing the bandage. “And had you discovered me in so undignified a position, you would, of course, have rushed to my aid.”
“Indeed not,” her aunt replied serenely, offering her arm. “I should have left you hanging there, as a cautionary tale for others.”
Jane, who had been listening with quiet amusement, shook her head. “Lizzy has some experience with just such an occurrence, Aunt Gardiner.”
“There is no need to tell that story today, Jane,” Elizabeth replied airily. “I am certain you can tell Aunt all my secrets at a later time.”
“As lovely as they are,” Elizabeth declared, “I have had quite enough of these rooms. May we visit the garden directly?”
Aunt Gardiner allowed herself to be playfully cajoled from the room, her expression all gentle indulgence. They left Jane and descended the stairs at a measured pace. Elizabeth walked a little stiffly, but was gratified to find herself steadier than she had expected, even though she had to lean lightly upon her aunt’s arm.
“Remember, if you will, that you are to walk in the gardens and not beyond,” Aunt Gardiner warned as they stepped into the hall. “If you attempt anything foolish, I shall summon Lady Catherine herself.”
Elizabeth shuddered. “That is a cruel threat.”
“Yes, well,” her aunt replied, patting Elizabeth’s hand, “I am not so easily deceived. I have seen that look in your eye before. You have the air of a woman with intentions.”
Elizabeth resisted the urge to glance towards the staircase. “I do not know what you mean.”
Aunt Gardiner’s smile deepened. “No? I should have thought it rather obvious. Come, my dear. You are far too pale, and it would be a sad thing indeed were you to fall over before completing whatever grand scheme presently occupies your mind.”
Elizabeth huffed and coloured but said nothing, allowing herself to be led through the great doors and into the morning air.
The change in surroundings was absolutely transporting. Elizabeth drew in a slow breath. “How I have missed this.”
Her aunt gave a satisfied nod. “It is remarkable how a little fresh air can lift one’s spirits.”
Elizabeth tilted her face toward the sunlight. It had not only been the confinement that had worn on her, though of course it had. It was the thinking she had done about Mr. Darcy’s conundrum. She wanted to think she was special to him, but she could not be sure, truly sure, that he had meant anything by it at all. Not until she spoke to him again.
All this uncertainty was exhausting. But the sunshine revived her. “I shall be much easier to bear after this, I am sure.”
Aunt Gardiner smiled sweetly. “Yes, my dear. I rather think you shall be.”
They walked a little further, past the well-tended flower beds and neatly trimmed hedgerows.
Elizabeth did not mean to look back towards the house.
And yet, before she could stop herself, her gaze drifted upward—toward the grand facade of Rosings, toward the rows of tall windows gleaming in the morning light.
She did not know precisely which window belonged to him, but she looked all the same.
Aunt Gardiner followed her gaze and said nothing for a moment.
Then, lightly, she remarked, “I believe I shall sit on the bench in the shade and enjoy the day, if you are content to wander the garden yourself.”
Elizabeth glanced at her. “I am well enough, Aunt Gardiner.” She stepped forward, drinking in the simple pleasure of standing beneath the open sky and savoured the feeling of the breeze gently moving her curls and cooling her skin. Even the birds seemed in delightful spirits, their lively chatter weaving through the rustling leaves like a melody.
She strolled at a measured pace, following the gravel path that curved around the rose garden. Elizabeth let her fingers trail lightly over the blooms, relishing the simple pleasure of touch, of movement, of being a part of the world again.
Aunt Gardiner seated herself upon a shaded bench beneath a sweeping elm. Elizabeth offered her a grateful smile before turning towards the garden’s deeper paths, where the scent of damp earth and budding greenery beckoned her forward.
She told herself she would not look back toward the house.
And yet, she did.
Her gaze lifted almost of its own accord, drawn upward to the rows of tall windows gleaming in the sun. The house loomed behind her, imposing as ever, but her interest was not in Rosings. It was in one particular person who resided within its walls.
Her thoughts tangled in a familiar knot. How was it possible to feel so much gratitude, admiration, and vexation towards a single man? She had decided that she was falling in love with him. And yet, at every turn, she was met with doubt that it was truly returned. He had been heroic, yes, but she had learned it was simply in his nature to be so. He had been kind to her, but he was also kind to Miss de Bourgh. He had engaged her in light-hearted banter, but—no, that was different. She had seen how he was with others, and the playful Mr. Darcy she had encountered in recent days was not a man the rest of the world was permitted to see. He had said he admired her. That could mean anything, but then his words in the cart. Miss de Bourgh seemed to believe he cared for her, but until she could speak with him . . .
She exhaled sharply, shaking herself from her reverie. This outing was meant to cheer her, so she ought not to waste time on a puzzle she could not resolve on her own.
Turning back towards the winding garden path, Elizabeth found her feet leading her towards a small ornamental pond. The water shimmered in the light, rippling gently in response to the gentle stirrings of the wind, delicate white petals from a nearby pear tree floating on the surface.
She knelt carefully at the water’s edge, dipping her fingertips into the cool surface. A bird landed a few feet away, tilting its head at her in what she could only interpret as mild curiosity. She smiled to herself.
Somewhere behind her, Aunt Gardiner shifted on the bench, though she made no move to interrupt. Elizabeth knew her aunt too well to mistake her silence for ignorance. She had undoubtedly seen where Elizabeth’s gaze had drifted before, had marked the way her expression clouded at thoughts she did not wish to voice. She was grateful that neither her aunt nor Jane had pressed her to reveal her thoughts, for until today she had not been sure herself.
She loved Mr. Darcy, and he had said he admired her. But did he love her?
Fitzwilliam Darcy had always considered himself a proud man. A man of careful deliberation, of rational choices, of calculated steps.
That was, until the moment he found himself being smuggled out of Rosings Park like a fugitive in nothing more than a banyan hastily tossed over his shirt and breeches. He had been confined to his chambers for twelve days and still could not wear a coat. Every one he owned was cut too tight to wear over the bandage on his back.
Fitz half dragged him down a side corridor and then stopped, holding up a hand.
“This is absurd,” Darcy muttered.
“This is necessary,” Fitz corrected, his tone maddeningly cheerful.
Darcy did not respond. Aunt Catherine had been entirely against the notion of him leaving his room even for a stroll up and down the hall. Fitz had allowed her to believe that they had acquiesced to her superior medical knowledge.
She still complained that Darcy was a terrible patient.
It was only through his cousin’s ridiculous determination and perhaps a bit of Darcy’s own desperation that he had allowed himself to be pulled into this farce before his aunt could descend upon him with some fresh outrage.
Fitz had come up with a plan. He would escort Darcy to the garden without alerting his aunt, who prided herself on knowing everything that was happening inside the house. So they were skulking down the servants’ stairs and hurrying down the main hall, through the library doors, and out into the rose garden.
Simple. Efficient. Not at all beneath his dignity.
They had nearly reached the side entrance when Fitz suddenly grabbed his arm and hauled him unceremoniously into an alcove.
Darcy inhaled sharply at the sudden movement. “Fitz—”
A hand clamped over his mouth. “Shh.”
He wrapped his fist around one of Fitz’s fingers and peeled it away.
“Ow,” Fitz hissed, and shook out his hand. “I am trying to help you, you arse.”
From down the hall they heard Aunt Catherine’s marching tread, accompanied by the swish of heavy skirts and the unmistakable sound of exasperated muttering.
Darcy froze.
“He did not eat it?” Lady Catherine’s voice carried toward them. “Ungrateful, stubborn boy.”
Darcy rolled his eyes. He had not consumed a single bowl of the gruel she insisted he eat. It had become a daily ritual for her to order it and for him to send it back to the kitchens. Fitz’s grip on his shoulder tightened in silent mirth.
They remained motionless as Lady Catherine swept past, only daring to breathe again once the sound of her footsteps faded down the corridor.
“Go,” Fitz whispered, giving him a small but firm shove toward the door. “Before she comes back and decides to lock you in your room. You know that once she has hidden the key on her person that no one will attempt to retrieve it.”
Darcy did not need to be told twice. He stepped out into the garden, inhaling deeply as the cool morning air washed over him. He was still bruised, still aching, but the sense of freedom he felt and the pleasure of the spring sun in a fragrant garden was better medicine than any other he had taken. He paused at the open gate, steadying himself against the stone wall as his eyes swept the garden.
Then he saw her.
Elizabeth.
She stood at the far end of the path, her back turned toward him as she looked up at the windows. He held his breath.
Was she looking for him?
She wore a simple gown, pale blue with a darker, long-sleeved spencer, and though her posture was easy, he could see the stiffness in her gait, the careful way she moved.
She was still in pain.
It made him angry, but he quickly mastered the emotion. She was here. She was alive. That was what mattered.
He took a careful step forward, then another, suppressing a wince. Despite his attempt at silence, a small shift of the gravel beneath his boot betrayed his presence.
Elizabeth turned. Her cheek was still marred by a fading, yellowish bruise. His jaw tightened.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said at last, her voice unreadable.
Darcy inclined his head, schooling his features. “Miss Elizabeth.”
Her gaze swept over him in return, assessing, calculating. “You should not be out of your rooms.”
“Nor should you.”
Her lips curled up, but her eyes held something else—something cautious, tentative. “I have been out of bed for several days already and could not remain indoors a moment longer.”
He smiled. “I do not doubt it.”
Elizabeth glanced in the direction of the house. “How did you manage to escape Lady Catherine?”
Darcy exhaled, shaking his head. “With great difficulty. I believe Fitz considers this his very finest military manoeuvre.”
That startled a real laugh from her, warm and bright. He had missed that sound.
“Then I must offer Colonel Fitzwilliam my thanks,” she said lightly, but then her expression softened. “Truly, Mr. Darcy, are you well?”
He ought to have given some perfunctory response—some assurance that he was healing, that all would be right in time.
Instead, the truth slipped past his lips before he could stop it.
“Not until now.”
She inhaled sharply.
“If I had lost you,” he continued, his voice rougher now, “I could not have borne it.”
Elizabeth lowered her eyes. “I was frightened.”
Darcy swallowed hard. “I would have done anything to protect you.”
“I know,” she whispered. “But I was frightened for you . I thank you for indulging me in my games. It eased my mind to see you capable of good humour.”
“I felt the same,” he told her. “I was very happy to participate, for it allowed me to communicate with you even if we could not speak.”
Another silence. The breeze stirred the leaves around them, carrying the faint scent of roses.
Elizabeth lifted her head again, her dark eyes searching his. “I have thought a great deal about your final conundrum.”
He nodded seriously. She had not replied to it, and her communications had stopped. “You solved it?”
“I did. It was something I had to think about.”
“Did I confuse you?” He thought he had been rather clear himself, but he knew how wrong-footed he sometimes felt with her.
She glanced up at him. “I did not know what to think.”
“Have you come to a conclusion now?”
“I believe I have.” She straightened. “I was recalling the conversation we had when we were beneath the rubble, and I find myself wondering about something you said.”
Darcy stiffened slightly. “I said many things, Miss Elizabeth. Perhaps you might enlighten me as to which statement you mean?”
She huffed a quiet, embarrassed laugh. “You are impossible.”
He smiled slightly, something like hope swelling in his heart. “I have recently suffered a head injury. You must make allowances.”
Another laugh, this one softer. Then she met his gaze fully. “Just before we were rescued, you said that you wished to ask me something.”
Darcy’s breath left him. She remembered.
He took a careful step forward. “I did.” He could actually see Elizabeth summoning her courage as her slight shoulders straightened and she lifted her chin.
She swallowed before she spoke. “Would you— I should like to hear that question.”
His chest tightened and he reached for her hand. “Miss Elizabeth,” he said, his voice low and steady, “I admire and love you. I have done almost from our first meeting, though I was in the middle before I knew I had begun.”
She took a sharp breath, and a hint of colour rose in her cheeks.
Encouraged, he went on. “I love your wit. Your spirit. Your mind. Your kindness. I love you in a manner I never thought possible for me to love.”
She was silent, and he quickly thought back over his words to be sure he had not said anything amiss.
Then, softly, she added, “And the question?”
He felt the blood rush to his own cheeks. He had left out the most important part. “I had a different question then. But now . . . I would be honoured if you would agree to become my wife, Miss Elizabeth. Is it too soon to ask if you will marry me?”
“Yes. I mean no.” Elizabeth exhaled and smiled brightly up at him. “Yes, Mr. Darcy. I will marry you.”
Darcy wished to demonstrate his happiness as a man violently in love with a woman ought, but he was in a banyan, and she was still in pain. So he leaned forward slowly, carefully, to brush his lips against hers.
She was deeply red now, the flush spreading down her neck and—Darcy had to beat back an image of where else that blush was travelling.
No sooner had he regained his composure than she gazed at him mischievously. “I suppose I could not say anything but yes. You were nearly crushed on my behalf, after all.”
Darcy let out something between a laugh and a wheezy breath of relief.
“Quite right,” he agreed, unable to suppress his own smile now. “Surely that ought to count for something.”
Elizabeth shook her head at him and laughed softly. She was happy, and his heart was filled with love for her.
“You are absurd,” she said.
“Yes,” he replied. “And you love me.”
She looked at him for a long moment. Then, softly, she said, “Yes. I do.”
Darcy closed his eyes briefly, overwhelmed by the sheer force of his joy. When he opened them again, Elizabeth was still watching him, a quiet stillness in her gaze.
Neither of them moved.
A heartbeat. Two.
Then, Elizabeth shook her head with a smile and squeezed the hand he still held.
“Come, Mr. Darcy. I believe you have a great many people to inform of your betrothal.” She glanced behind him, and Darcy turned to see a handsome woman a few years older than himself rising from a bench in the far corner of the garden.
“My aunt,” Elizabeth said softly. “I shall introduce you.”
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Darcy’s world felt right.
Unfortunately, his cousin’s voice shattered the moment.
“There you are!” Fitz’s voice rang out from the terrace above. “Hurry it along, cousin—Lady Catherine has discovered you are not in your chamber. If we do not return now, she may very well order a full search party, complete with hounds.”
Darcy groaned.
Elizabeth bit her lip to suppress a laugh. “Well, we cannot have that.” She tugged gently on his hand. “Come, Mr. Darcy. Let us deliver the news before your aunt declares me an ‘incomparable nuisance’ who sneaks you out of your chamber and has me forcibly removed from the premises.”
Darcy smirked as they started back toward the house, side by side. “I regret to inform you, Miss Elizabeth, that she already refers to you as such.”
Elizabeth only laughed.
Above them, the sky stretched vast and blue, unmarred by even the faintest wisp of cloud. A soft breeze stirred the branches, carrying with it the hum of bees and the distant trill of a songbird. Everything—every colour, every scent, every sound—felt sharper, brighter, as though Darcy was seeing it all for the very first time.