Chapter Eight
Longbourn
Elizabeth
Elizabeth had barely slept the night before, tossing and turning into the early hours.
Throughout the evening, she had drifted about the room, speaking with her aunt and uncle, turning pages for Mary on the pianoforte, and singing carols with Jane and Mr. Bingley.
Mr. Darcy had occupied himself with others, a fact that left her unaccountably frustrated.
Why do I care? she mused, annoyed with herself.
He is nothing to me. He can be nothing to me.
Still, her gaze sought him often, and she observed his manner with a critical eye.
At every moment, she expected him to revert to the proud, haughty gentleman he had been in the autumn; yet instead, he continued to improve.
Even Mrs. Bennet no longer sniffed in disdain whenever he entered the room.
Gone was the distant, arrogant Mr. Darcy, and in his place stood an affable, gentlemanly—if reserved—man whom Elizabeth could almost admire.
More and more, she found herself contemplating him, wondering if her conflicted feelings might ever be untangled into something comprehensible.
Mr. Bingley called often upon his betrothed, affording Elizabeth many opportunities to sketch Mr. Darcy’s true character.
Yet the question remained unanswered: which version of that unfathomable gentleman was his genuine self?
No matter, she told herself as she stretched that morning, the conundrum the first conscious thought in her mind.
I shall continue my assessment and know the answer soon enough.
Blinking sleepily, she repeated the same ritual she had followed each morning of late, reaching for her dressing gown and tying the sash at her waist. Elizabeth slipped her feet into a pair of slippers and shivered as she crept to her chair.
There, upon the small table, lay the expected package.
She untied the twine and removed the brown paper, tossing it into the fire.
A familiar velvet box lay within. She opened it and found another scrap of paper, a single stanza written upon it.
On the third day of Christmas,
Wisdom and beauty combine,
Three pearl combs
To grace thy locks so fine.
Nestled within the box were three pearl combs.
Two matched in size, suited for evenings out; the third was smaller, perfect for wear at home.
The pearls were set in silver, each piece polished so finely that Elizabeth could see her reflection upon its surface.
They were as lovely as the previous gifts, and she touched them reverently, wondering who could admire her so deeply.
It is certainly not Mr. Wickham, she stubbornly had to admit once more. To her surprise, she felt relief rather than disappointment. A sudden restlessness came over her, and she snapped the jewel box shut before rising to hide it in her wardrobe.
With the gift safely tucked away, she quickly dressed in a walking gown and donned her pelisse and gloves.
Though she fetched her bonnet, she did not wear it; she only looped the ribbons around her fingers as she stepped out of the house toward the path that led to Oakham Mount.
The day promised to be bitter, but she craved the clarity of mind that walking often afforded.
Flattered as she was to be the object of such attentions, she disliked not knowing who attempted to woo her.
Pausing partway up the mount, she spoke aloud into the still morning.
“There must be a reason for the secrecy.” Leaning against a nearby tree, she folded her arms, her air thoughtful and intent.
“Perhaps his family does not approve. Or maybe he has not the fortune to marry a woman with no dowry.” That possibility she dismissed outright.
Her admirer was evidently a man of consequence; the gifts he had bestowed thus far were not trifling.
Am I already acquainted with the gentleman?
What if he is not a gentleman, but a wealthy tradesman?
The idea struck her as absurd. She knew no wealthy tradesmen beyond her uncle and a handful of his associates.
She recalled one Mr. Timmons, introduced to her last summer.
A tall, reasonably attractive man of three-and-thirty, he had paid her some attention while she visited London with her relations.
Yet her interest had been slight; indeed, she regarded him as an indifferent acquaintance and believed he felt much the same.
Still, the timing now cast her assumptions into doubt.
The first gift had arrived on the morning of the twenty-fifth, the day after the Gardiners’ arrival.
Could Uncle have been entrusted with tokens of affection from one of his associates?
Why would Mr. Timmons wait? Elizabeth frowned.
Had he thought me too young last year and only now feels ready to pursue me?
Still no closer to finding an answer, she pushed away from the tree and continued up the hill.
It was far too cold to remain in one attitude for long.
With long strides, she made her way to the summit, breathing heavily as the incline lessened and the ground leveled.
Elizabeth crossed the small clearing atop the mount, observing animal tracks in the light dusting of snow and pacing to preserve her warmth.
The sound of an approaching horse disturbed her musings.
When she lifted her gaze and caught sight of Mr. Darcy astride a large brown and white gelding at the edge of the clearing, she quickly donned her bonnet.
The sunlight streamed across the open space, catching in the horse’s glossy coat and the polished brass fittings of the bridle.
Upon seeing her, Darcy dismounted with practiced ease and looped the reins around a low-hanging branch.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he greeted, bowing his head with courtesy.
His voice was warm, gentler than she expected, though she wondered whether the early hour lent her imagination too much sway.
“How do you do this morning?” He tipped his hat, then added, “’Tis a lovely day, if a trifle cold.
Beau needed a good gallop, and so I left the warmth of Netherfield to chase the frost across the fields. ”
“That is quite poetic, Mr. Darcy.” Her eyes were bright with appreciation.
She could admire a well-turned phrase, and he appeared unexpectedly fluent in them this morning.
“I, too, was called by the morning air. Tell me, does your horse—Beau, is it?—wake with the dawn as I do, or must you rouse him from his stall to meet your sense of duty?”
He laughed; it was a low, rich sound that sent a pleasant thrill through her.
“Beau is short for Beaudric. My sister saw the name carved upon a weathered stone in a country churchyard and declared it must be given to my next horse. One can hardly refuse an eight-year-old, particularly when she is so earnestly insistent.” He glanced affectionately toward the animal.
“Beau is a noble steed and an excellent companion; he is not as spirited as others I have ridden, but faithful and only mildly temperamental. He waits on me very patiently, I assure you.”
Elizabeth nodded, her expression thoughtful.
“He seems to be a fine specimen. We have only Nellie to ride, an old mare more content in the stable than under saddle. I dare say I can walk faster than she can canter. Thus, you discover the reason for my wandering the countryside with windblown hair and skirts weighted with six inches of Hertfordshire mud.” She laughed lightly, recalling Miss Bingley’s withering remarks on the subject.
Mr. Darcy’s eyes caught the light, an odd glint in them that arrested her.
At first, she believed he disapproved, and a spark of irritation stirred within her.
But then she looked again, more carefully, and saw that the intensity in his gaze held no censure.
Her cheeks warmed—no small matter on such a chill morning.
“I find a lady’s eyes are brightened by frequent exercise,” he murmured, stepping nearer. “There is nothing to be ashamed of. Your devotion to your sister is to be admired.”
Elizabeth felt a strange flutter rise within her.
The compliment, spoken with gentle sincerity, surprised her.
“I thank you, sir, though I must confess I once believed your opinion to be quite the opposite. My arrival at Netherfield seemed…less than welcome to most of its occupants.” She paused, uncertain whether her honesty had overstepped civility.
His expression changed, and she felt she could read it clearly—shame. The sight was unexpected. She had not imagined Mr. Darcy capable of such vulnerability.
“I believe I owe you a rather large apology.” His eyes lowered to the ground as he nudged his boot across the snow, exposing the yellowed grass beneath.
“From our very first meeting, I have not conducted myself as a gentleman ought. I insulted you grievously—without provocation. There is no excuse for my petulant, ignorant behavior. Though I have attempted some form of reparation since, I know I have not done enough.”
Her mother had once proclaimed that a late apology was worth as little as a false one, but Elizabeth had never quite believed that. Sincerity was a currency of its own. And here stood Mr. Darcy, in all seriousness, offering his regret without defense or deflection.
“Thank you, sir. I admit I harbored...unflattering opinions of you after that night. But an earnest apology does much to repair the injury. Ought we to begin again—and go on as friends?” She smiled then—openly, warmly.
“Friends,” he repeated, straightening a little, as though the word had settled something deep within him. “Yes, that is a good beginning.”
He bowed, a deep, formal gesture as though they had only just been introduced. “Miss Elizabeth, my name is Fitzwilliam Darcy. How pleased I am to make your acquaintance.”
She smothered a laugh, curtsying with equal grace. “The pleasure is mine, sir.”