Chapter 8
Darcy had not endured idleness well at Pemberley; he bore it no better at Kelton.
The storm might have kept most men by the fire, content to leave matters to servants, but Sir Edward had gone out himself, declaring it his lady’s command, to the local inns.
There he inquired after any travellers hard put upon—especially ladies and families whose comfort could not be served in the crowded houses.
Four such parties had been found before noon.
Their coaches creaked into the courtyard one by one, burdened with snow, children, and weary faces.
Darcy and Richard were at hand from the first, lending shoulders where the coachmen and ostlers could not manage alone.
Harness stiff with ice, trunks mired in drifts, wheels wedged deep in rutted snow—all required more hands than usual.
Richard laughed with the men, taking up a rope to help drag a trunk, while Darcy went grimly to it, as if every sodden cloak and frozen boot were his own duty.
By late afternoon the hall bore the signs of battle won and only half-cleared: cloaks dripping upon pegs, boots lined in rows by the hearth, children subdued with cups of broth while mothers murmured thanks.
Darcy himself had seen two families shown into the lesser parlour and carried in firewood when the hearth there proved sullen.
Sir Edward laughed at his severity and Lady Montford praised his thoughtfulness, but Darcy shrugged off both. To be useful was the simplest relief.
He was standing with Richard near the great fire, speaking with Miss Kendrick—who had contrived to draw them into some discussion of which road would clear first—when the sound of carriage bells coming up the drive drew every head.
A coach, late and mud-spattered, lurched to a halt before the steps.
Servants bustled into the storm with lanterns. Voices rose.
Darcy turned without thought—until the first passengers stepped across the threshold.
First a broad-shouldered gentleman, cloaked and stamping snow from his boots. Then a lady, wan with fatigue, leaning heavily upon his arm. And last—so sudden the sight seemed to crack his very ribs—Elizabeth Bennet.
Snow clung to her bonnet; her cheeks glowed with cold; her eyes, shining with those deep glints of copper he remembered so well, swept the crowded hall before fixing on her hostess with a nod of gratitude. She ducked her face and guided the other lady forward with hands that trembled only slightly.
The sight struck Darcy like a musket shot. His chest seized; the heat of the fire scalded his skin; the clamour of the hall fell away until he could hear nothing but the rush of his own blood.
Elizabeth. Here.
Relief flared so sharply it hurt, followed at once by dread. Of all the houses in England, of all the storms to drive her abroad—why this one? Why now, when he had schooled himself never to hope again? Every nerve strained toward her as though to prove she was not an apparition.
Elizabeth’s gaze lifted at last. And blundered into his.
Her step faltered. Her face, already pale, drained further.
He saw the flicker of recognition, the hardening of her mouth, the careful dignity with which she carried the other lady forward.
It was not indifference. It was worse: the deliberate silence of a woman who had determined to withstand the shock of seeing him as if it mattered not at all.
Sir Edward’s voice filled the hall. “Mr. Gardiner, you are heartily welcome! Lady Montford, see here—our guests from London, caught by the storm like honest souls! We shall have you comfortable in a trice.”
Richard, coming in at that instant, uttered a delighted exclamation.
“Miss Bennet! What a treat to see you again! What brings you so far from Hertfordshire?” He strode forward, his face alight, and grasped her hand with warm words and the ease of old acquaintance.
Then, glancing quickly at Darcy, he seemed to expect the same glad recognition.
Darcy gave him nothing—no smile, no movement—only the rigid composure of a man determined not to betray himself.
Chastened, Richard cleared his throat and said, “But you must present me properly, Montford. You see, I already have the pleasure of acquaintance with Miss Bennet, but I am eager to be introduced to her family.”
“Indeed, indeed,” Sir Edward agreed, cheerful as ever. “Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, may I present Lady Montford’s cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam. And this—” he turned with expansive gesture, “—is his cousin, Mr. Darcy of Pemberley, my honoured guest.”
Darcy forced himself forward at last. He bowed crisply. “A pleasure, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. Miss Bennet.” His movements were exact, his voice even, but every syllable scraped his throat raw.
Elizabeth dipped a curtsy, her eyes lowered, as though she dared not look directly at him. As though she dared not claim an acquaintance with him.
The hall bustled louder now—Lady Montford ordering a room for Mrs. Gardiner, Mr. Gardiner answering with sober gratitude, Richard filling the air with genial phrases and meaningless questions for Elizabeth about their travels.
Darcy stood among them, mute. To have said her name aloud, to let her hear the break in his voice—unthinkable. He offered only what courtesy demanded, nothing more, and the effort cost him dearly.
Elizabeth passed from sight, her gown brushing the floor as she followed her aunt up the stair. Darcy’s gaze clung to her until the turn of the landing cut her off.
Only then did breath return, harsh and unsteady, as if he had been drowning.
Elizabeth scarcely remembered the stairs. Her hand rested on the rail, her eyes fixed on her aunt’s unsteady steps, but her mind reeled in another direction entirely. Darcy.
The name alone was enough to rob her of air. She had not imagined—not in her darkest or brightest fancies—that he might stand before her again. Certainly not here, among strangers, when she was weary from travel and bowed beneath the disgrace her family carried like a brand.
She had looked at him only once, and even that glance had pierced.
He was the same man—tall, reserved, every line of his figure composed—yet more than that.
His bow had been entirely without expression, as if she were nothing more than a passing acquaintance.
No spark of recognition, no shadow of what had passed at Hunsford. Only formality. Only distance.
At her side, Mrs. Gardiner leaned heavily upon her arm. “You must forgive me, Lizzy. I feel unequal to even the stair.”
“You are doing very well, Aunt,” Elizabeth murmured, steadying her, grateful for the excuse to keep her hands occupied. Mr. Gardiner followed close behind, speaking quiet assurances. His tone was warm with relief, though she scarcely heard the words until one rose above the rest:
“A Providence indeed, that Sir Edward sent his man to inquire at the inn. What fortune that his good wife should think of the ladies abroad in such weather!”
Mrs. Gardiner managed a tired smile. “Heaven bless her for it. A private fire, a comfortable bed—I thought we might never see them again.”
Elizabeth’s throat tightened. Fortune for them. Ruin for me. What her aunt named salvation had proved her damnation, drawing her beneath the very roof where Fitzwilliam Darcy resided.
At last, they reached the chamber allotted to them, a cheerful room in any other season, with fire newly kindled and fresh linens upon the bed. Mrs. Gardiner sank into the chair nearest the hearth with a sigh that was half relief, half defeat.
Elizabeth bent to unfasten her cloak, smoothing it with fingers that longed to tremble. “You will feel better once you are warm,” she said. Her voice sounded strange, too bright, too composed.
Mrs. Gardiner studied her a moment. “You are pale yourself, Lizzy. Did the stairs overtax you?”
Elizabeth kissed her cheek to escape answering. “Rest, Aunt. That is all either of us needs.”
Her uncle entered then, bringing a rush of practical cheer. He spoke of Lady Montford’s attentions, the servants’ efficiency, the supper to be served. “It is no small comfort,” he concluded, “to be received in such a house when the storm might have left us huddled in some draughty loft.”
Elizabeth smiled and agreed where she must, but each word fell like ash upon her tongue. Mercy, yes—but mercy edged like a blade.
Darcy was here.
She could still feel the cut of his bow, the emptiness in his eyes.
After Lydia’s folly, after the blight upon her family, what right had she to expect anything more?
That he had offered civility at all was proof of his generosity.
And yet she had hoped, foolishly, for some flicker of recognition—for some acknowledgment that what had passed between them mattered.
Instead, she had been granted nothing but formality.
When her uncle left again and her aunt dozed in the chair, Elizabeth went to the window.
Snow pressed thick against the panes, blurring the world into white.
Beyond it lay the hall where Darcy had stood, bowing as though they had never spoken in earnest, as though he had never once called her by name.
Her breath misted against the glass. “He despises me,” she whispered, so softly the storm itself could not carry it away. “And I think… I ought to despise him, too.”
The hall had scarcely settled from one arrival before another was announced.
Footmen ferried shawls and parcels as if the house had grown extra hands for the purpose.
Darcy, unwilling to be idle, carried a trunk up to the landing himself and saw two children supplied with broth before returning to the withdrawing room.
Lady Montford was there, directing a servant with a single nod that rearranged half the evening.