Chapter 13 #2
Every time she passed through a doorway, his heart tumbled through his chest; every time she bent to her aunt’s side, some word of comfort on her lips, his throat ached with things he could not say.
He wanted—egad, he did not even know what he wanted.
Only that he could not bear this distance another hour.
Across the room, she shifted—a small turn of the head, a faint furrow in her brow—and the sight of it struck him harder than any argument could have done.
He meant to move toward her then, to bridge the space, but another gentleman had already risen to bring Mrs. Gardiner a chair. Elizabeth smiled up at the man, bright, unguarded, and Darcy’s resolve collapsed.
He stopped short, the foolishness of his impulse burning through him. What would she think—him rushing forward like some anxious suitor while half the household looked on? He turned instead toward the window, his reflection dim in the frosted glass.
But he had stood too long among the idle chatter by the window.
The company had divided into clusters—cards in one corner, carols in another, talk everywhere.
The room glowed with lamplight and the red shimmer of the fire, every surface crowded with some token of the house’s overflowing hospitality: music sheets, teacups, half-folded shawls left where their owners had been called away.
Across the room, Elizabeth moved among them with quiet purpose. She paused to return a dropped glove to its owner, to smile at some jest she had half-heard, and then drifted toward the hearth where a servant had abandoned a tray of books and candles to make room for a platter of sweets.
Darcy told himself he was only crossing to return the tray to safety. The fire was too near, the candle too low; it would be a simple, sensible act. But when he reached her side, he forgot the pretext.
The noise of the room seemed to dull when she was near.
She was leaning slightly toward the fire, the light catching the curve of her cheek, her eyes lowered as she turned a page.
He caught a glimpse of the title—Roche’s Children of the Abbey—before the fire cracked sharply, flinging a burst of sparks across the fender.
One ember landed on the rug, another on the fold of her gown.
He did not think. His hand shot out, brushing the spark away before it could mark the fabric. The faint scent of singed wool rose between them.
Elizabeth turned, startled, the colour rising fast in her face. “Mr. Darcy—”
He had not realised how near he was until she spoke his name. “Forgive me. I—there was a spark. A… An ember, that is. On your gown, I mean.”
Her gaze dropped to the tiny, blackened thread at her hem. “I see. Then I am in your debt.”
“You are not.” His voice came too low, unsteady. “I only hope I did not alarm you.”
A small laugh escaped her, more breath than sound. “No more than the fire did.”
For a heartbeat, they stood in the same space, the rest of the room continuing around them as if behind glass—the laughter, the music, the storm outside.
His pulse thudded at the base of his throat.
She turned slightly, meaning to set the book aside, and the faintest wisp of her hair brushed his sleeve.
He stepped back as if from heat. “You were reading,” he said, the words escaping without thought.
Her eyes met his, bright with nerves and colour. “Only idly. There is little else to do when one is surrounded by music one dares not join.”
His gaze fell to the book still open in her hand. “Roche,” he said. “The Children of the Abbey. My sister read it once.”
Elizabeth turned the book in her hands, the lamplight glancing off the worn leather. “Then I am glad to have her company. I had forgotten how dramatic it is—secret marriages, betrayals, mistaken identities. There is enough misfortune in it to make any reader feel content with her lot.”
He almost smiled. The sound of her voice—light, teasing, alive—unravelled something in him he had thought well contained. “If misery is to be measured by quantity, Miss Fitzalan must stand among the greatest sufferers in literature.”
“She bore it nobly,” Elizabeth said. “No one believed her, yet she forgave them all in the end. I cannot decide if such patience is heroic or foolish.”
“Not foolish.” The thought struck before he could restrain it, rising sharp and sure.
Her eyes flicked to his face. He could not read what he saw there—surprise, perhaps, or curiosity—but the look pierced straight through him.
“I think,” she said after a moment, “you are more charitable than I.”
“Hardly.” His pulse beat at his throat. “But I have learned that forgiveness costs more to the one who gives it than to the one who receives it.”
Her fingers brushed the book’s edge; he watched the movement like a man trying to read a signal. If she understood him—if she guessed what he meant—she gave no sign.
“You speak from experience, Mr. Darcy?”
He hesitated, the truth crowding to the surface. The words he wanted to say—I speak of you—burned there, waiting. But the room was full of noise, the air too close, the distance between them too small for honesty. “Perhaps,” he managed.
She said nothing more. The silence held for a moment, full and perilous. The fire cracked, throwing a shimmer of heat against her sleeve.
He groped for something lighter, safer. “I confess, I never finished it. Does the book end well?”
She glanced down, smiling faintly. “As all novels must. The heroine forgiven, the wrongs repaired, everyone made happy by Christmas.”
His throat tightened. “Real life seldom arranges its endings so neatly.”
“No,” she said softly, eyes still on the page. “Real life expects us to make do.”
He wanted to speak again—to contradict her, to tell her that some endings might yet be mended—but the words tangled uselessly behind his teeth. Every breath he drew felt too deep, too revealing.
Then a servant passed between them, a clatter of china scattering the fragile moment. She stepped back, the spell of near-intimacy dissolving.
“You will think me a terrible monopolist,” she said, polite again.
He bowed. “You have reminded me why I ever liked conversation at all.”
Her gaze lifted once more, brief but bright, as if she had not expected him to be so plain. Then she inclined her head and turned away, the book still in her hands.
Darcy remained where he stood, the heat of the hearth forgotten. He could not move, not yet—not while her words still echoed, or while he could still feel the moment where understanding had almost, almost bridged the silence between them.
Elizabeth closed the chamber door softly behind her, the latch catching with a muted click.
The corridor felt still after the noise of the evening, her own thoughts louder than any footstep.
All day—by some strange turn of fortune—she and Mr. Darcy had been thrown into one another’s path: the shared task at the hymnals, the brief exchange by the fire, the conversation that had begun in civility and ended in something she could not name.
He had not seemed so fearsome as before—still proud, still grave, but no longer distant.
And though she would have sworn he disliked her company, he had not appeared unwilling to remain in it.
The discovery unsettled her more than any argument ever had.
She lingered in the corridor, palm pressed flat against the wood as if she could hold comfort within. When she turned, she started—Mr. Darcy himself stood only a few paces away, a small, lacquered box in his hands.
He looked almost guilty, as though she had caught him in some secret errand.
Then his composure settled into place. “I had meant this for Mrs. Gardiner,” he said, lifting the box slightly.
“Lady Montford’s cook discovered a tin of sugared almonds among the Christmas stores.
I thought…” His voice dropped, gentling.
“Perhaps they might give her a little cheer.”
Elizabeth’s surprise was so keen she could not at first answer.
Of all things she might have expected—Darcy with a token from the kitchens, least of all.
She stepped closer, her hand half-raised before she remembered herself.
He extended the box with careful formality, leaving ample space between them.
“That is very good of you,” she managed at last. “My aunt has always liked them.”
His gaze lingered, steady and searching, as though he might speak more. Elizabeth felt the air thicken between them, heavy with words neither dared begin. He looked on the verge of asking, and she—foolishly, dangerously—found herself wishing he would.
Instead, he said only, “I hope it will continue to cheer her.”
Elizabeth smoothed her hand over the box lid, wishing her pulse would steady. “She is… grateful to be here. If she cannot be with her friends, it is a mercy she can be at Kelton.”
He hesitated, then, almost abruptly: “And you? Do you find Kelton tolerable?”
“I—yes, of course. Lady Montford has been all kindness. The house is…a little crowded, perhaps. But I think we are all grateful to be safe.” Her smile trembled. “It is better than being stranded at a posting inn, at least.”
“Yes.” He gave the single word as though more had been meant to follow, but it died there. His eyes lingered, searching, and for a moment she thought he would risk more.
She looked down at the box again, desperate to fill the silence. “This is very kind of you. My aunt has always liked such things. She will be touched by the thought.”
Darcy’s hand flexed once at his side, restless, before he managed, “It is little enough.”
Another pause. Too heavy. Too expectant.
Elizabeth felt her heart knocking against her ribs, demanding she speak before he did.
The first thing that came to her lips was the one she least wished to say.
“I was glad to hear your sister is well. One of the ladies spoke of her music—I hope she continues to play?”
For the smallest instant, he looked startled, almost unguarded. His mouth opened, then shut again, as if the first answer had been the wrong one. “She… no. Not often.” The words came unevenly, and he seemed to catch himself at once, correcting with stiff precision. “She does play. At times. Yes.”
His gaze dropped, his hand tightening briefly against his side. When he spoke again, the words were too careful, pared down to civility. “It is good of you to ask.”
The silence that followed was unbearable. That was not what she had meant to say, not what he had meant to answer. Something more had been hovering between them—she had felt it—and now it was gone.
Elizabeth dropped her gaze to the little box, clutching at it as though it could excuse her blunder. “My aunt will be very touched by this,” she said, too brightly. “It is a kindness she will not forget.”
“Yes.” His reply was clipped, the quiet shuttered again.
She shifted, wishing to say anything, everything, but every word seemed both too much and not enough. He bowed instead, a bare dip of the head. “Good night, Miss Bennet.”
She curtsied, quick and awkward. “Good night.”
Her feet carried her past him, though she longed—achingly, foolishly—for some reason to linger.
The brush of air as she passed felt perilously close to something more, something neither of them dared name.
And when she reached the turn of the passage, her throat ached with the words she had not spoken, the words he had not asked.
It was better this way. Better to preserve silence than to risk words that might undo them both. But even as she reached her aunt’s chamber, she knew the truth: it was not relief she felt, but loss.
She set the little box beside her aunt’s shawl with care. The almonds were nothing—a trifle, a sweet—but the thought behind them lingered, warm and unsettling, as if the touch of his hand still rested against her own.