Chapter Twenty
Oakham Mount
Darcy
She wore one of the shawls.
He knew it at once: the fine Merino wool, light yet warm, its simple weave a contrast to the more elaborate patterns he had ordered from London.
Its pattern he recalled from a shopping excursion with Georgiana, and he had recalled it when he began his task.
It clung about her shoulders and shifted with the breeze like a second skin.
She looked both elegant and steadfast, a figure of grace and resolute strength.
They stood in silence for a moment, the wind their only companion.
Then he spoke and bowed, his voice low and roughened by the cold. “Miss Bennet.”
Elizabeth dipped into a graceful curtsy. “Mr. Darcy.”
Their greeting was formal, almost absurd in its familiarity, and yet it comforted him.
“I had not expected—” He faltered, then smiled, truly smiled, not the reserved curl of formality but something unguarded. “I longed for it, but I did not expect to see you here.”
“And I…wished to see you as well.”
The wind continued to whirl around them, tugging at the edge of her shawl. His gaze fell to it.
“You are wearing a lovely shawl.” His fingers brushed the wool at her shoulder.
“Yes. I chose it for practicality…and comfort. But I suppose beauty and sentiment factored in.”
“You look very well in it. It suits you.”
“I thank you, sir. It was a gift.”
A pause.
There was a promise in her look that emboldened him to step nearer. His heart beat so fiercely he fancied it echoed in his ears.
“I worried I had left you discomposed or offended; the thought returned to me with unease all the evening, and even in sleep I was haunted with visions of your reproof.”
Elizabeth met his gaze, steady and clear. “Only a trifle. But I did not object; you take too much upon yourself in supposing me so easily displeased.”
The words warmed him more than the sun could manage as his breath misted in the air between them.
Some stubborn yearning had urged him to Oakham Mount that afternoon.
When he espied her figure ascending the hill, shawl drawn close and bonnet tied snug against the wind, a rush of relief and awe filled his chest. He had pictured their meeting, but this—this unlooked-for moment—surpassed any expectation he had dared to indulge.
There was something in her eyes—encouragement, even yearning—that pulled him closer, though he did not move.
“I wonder if I might tell you more,” he said. “About my sister.”
Her head lifted. “Of course.”
“She reminds me very much of your sister Jane.”
Elizabeth blinked, plainly surprised. “You think so?”
“They are both gentle in their ways. Reserved, but not from indifference—only caution. Georgiana is painfully shy. She…she hides her heart behind timid smiles. But I believe they are alike in character.”
He saw Elizabeth’s pleasure in his words, the genuine smile that curved upon her lips stealing his breath. “Then I should like to meet her very much. It is only fair, sir, for you have met all four of mine.”
Darcy laughed; a true laugh, rich and unguarded. “Yes, I believe I have been well initiated into the Bennet household.”
Elizabeth joined in, her laughter bright as sunlight after a storm. The sound lingered between them, a fragile delight, until Darcy, aware of how near they stood, inclined his head toward a fallen log. “May we sit?”
“Gladly,” she replied.
They seated themselves side by side. The log was worn but dry, and the wind, though brisk, had abated.
The afternoon sun poured its mellow light upon them, and Darcy could not keep from studying Elizabeth.
Curls had slipped from her bonnet, glinting with amber and chestnut.
Her perfect complexion glowed in the golden rays, and every graceful turn of her head seemed to unman him.
He longed to take her hand, but instead folded his gloves in his lap.
“I have a confession to make,” he said, breaking the hush.
If I wish for her to love me, I must be entirely honest. Her reaction filled him with apprehension.
Would she be incensed? Would all their hard-won accord be undone in a moment?
I once said that I had a resentful temper—that my good opinion once lost is lost forever. What if she feels the same?
Elizabeth angled toward him, attention fixed upon him. “Go on.”
“When Bingley was in town at the end of November, I…I encouraged him to remain. I did not speak falsehoods, only expressed concern. I thought Miss Bennet indifferent. But he would not be dissuaded. I returned with him only because he refused to stay away.” He glanced at her, searching her countenance.
“But now, having observed her more closely, I see my error. Your sister’s affection is restrained, yet unmistakable to one who truly looks.
” Indeed, now that Bingley had declared his feelings, Miss Bennet’s sentiments were plain.
Elizabeth studied him, her features unreadable at first. Then she nodded, grave but not angry. “I cannot fault you for loving your friend, or for wishing to protect him. But Jane…Jane feels things deeply. She conceals them even from me at times. Do not mistake her serenity for want of feeling.”
Her words eased the tightness inside him. But then she added, almost hesitantly, “She received a letter from Miss Bingley. Right before you all departed.”
His spine stiffened. He knew of the letter; he had suspected it contained something other than a farewell.
“She wrote implying that your sister was to marry Mr. Bingley, and that you supported it. I knew, of course, she wrote nothing but falsehoods, but knowing what I do now… about your sister…”
She trailed off, watching him.
His jaw hardened. “That is an abominable lie. Georgiana has never had any attachment to Bingley. She has not yet been introduced to society at all, and they have scarcely been in company together.”
“I doubted it. Miss Bingley did not mean to spread the rumor widely—only to dissuade my sister.”
“She had no right,” he said sharply. “No right to use my sister’s name in such a scheme.” Darcy’s heart contracted. What would Georgiana think, were she to learn her name had been tied to Bingley’s? Good heavens, Bingley was now engaged. What a scandal that would be!
“I agree. But she did not succeed. Perhaps she might have, had you and Mr. Bingley not returned. And now—well, now it matters little, does it not?”
Darcy nodded, drawing a steadying breath to master his temper. “They are safely engaged, and I believe the marriage articles are signed. It will be well.”
Elizabeth tilted her head, a teasing lilt to her voice as she spoke again. “Do you often find yourself managing other people’s affairs, Mr. Darcy?”
He gave her a rueful look. “Too often, I fear. And seldom to good effect.” He pressed an ungloved hand over his face, cool against his heated skin.
She laughed, and he allowed himself to watch her, wonder stirring at the ease between them. The moment felt natural—inevitable. His heart beat with a longing perilously close to desire.
“Has your sister settled on a date?” he asked, shifting just enough that his knee brushed hers. The contact sent a thrill through him, and she did not pull away.
“My mother presses her to decide daily. Jane, for once, means to do precisely what pleases her most. She refuses to name the day until she and Mr. Bingley have spoken and are of one mind. My mother has made no secret of wishing for a spring wedding, so that we might procure fresh flowers. I do not believe my sister will delay until April.”
“Flowers may be purchased from a hothouse,” Darcy concurred with a nod. “Bingley is an amiable, obliging man, but I have observed in him a curious impatience. I cannot think Mrs. Bennet will persuade either party to delay.”
Elizabeth’s laugh filled him with delight, her profile bright with merriment. “Whatever they decide, I trust they will choose what suits them best. Nothing less would content either of them.”
Darcy quelled the impulse to declare himself then and there. She looked so beautiful—and with his gift resting upon her shoulders, she was the very image of perfection. He recalled his resolve of the previous night.
Only three days remain. Three miserable dog’s days.
“Are there to be any more parties?” The question escaped him in haste, a desperate effort to divert his thoughts before he laid his heart bare.
“Only one,” Elizabeth replied. “The Longs are hosting the gathering this year. Have I told you how the four-and-twenty families nearly came to blows over the vaunted Twelfth Night celebration?”
Darcy’s eyes lit with curiosity. “No, I do not believe you have.”
“You know, of course, that the festive season brings an unusual number of gatherings to our part of the country. Mr. Bingley once remarked it rather resembled town, in its own modest way. Many years ago, when Sir William was newly knighted and eager to display his consequence, he hosted the most extravagant Twelfth Night soiree Meryton had ever seen. The following year, the Gouldings, determined not to be outdone, planned a celebration to rival the Lucases’.
“Unfortunately, they were not alone in their ambition. No fewer than five families scheduled grand affairs for the very same evening, leaving the neighborhood in a quandary. How was one to choose? If Mrs. Long attended Lucas Lodge, she would offend her dear friend Mrs. Goulding, and if she favored the Gouldings, then the Miss Searles would certainly take umbrage. It was a social dilemma of the highest order.”
Elizabeth paused, a spark of mischief lighting her eyes.
“Naturally, no hostess could be prevailed upon to change her date. It was my father who proposed a solution. His voice, as I recall, was uncommonly grave when he said, ‘Why do we not take turns? There are eleven other days in the Christmas season upon which to entertain, are there not?’”
She adopted his dry tone to perfection, and Darcy grinned, already anticipating the jest.