Chapter Thirty-Two
Darcy next saw Elizabeth from a distance—a figure clad in pale grey against the early green of the park, her figure moving with that unmistakable blend of grace and alertness that had undone him from the beginning.
He had met his aunt in the park. Spring had begun to soften London at last. The trees showed a tender wash of new leaves, the paths were dry beneath foot, and the air carried the faint promise of warmth without yet delivering it.
It was a morning made for walking—public enough to be proper, muted enough to permit real conversation.
Miss Bennet and Bramley were several paces ahead, engaged in what appeared to be earnest but gentle discourse.
Bramley bent his head often to hear her, his attention fixed upon her with a seriousness that would once have amused Darcy and now filled him with something closer to respect.
Miss Bennet walked at ease beside him, her steps unhurried, her manner open but not careless.
Whatever heartbreak she had suffered, it had not hardened her.
Lady Hertford had left Elizabeth’s side and claimed a bench beneath a spreading chestnut tree, her gloved hands folded around her parasol as though she were presiding rather than resting.
She watched the promenade with a keen, appraising eye, but when Darcy approached and bowed, she inclined her head graciously.
“Walk with her, Mr. Darcy,” she said, already waving them on. “I shall enjoy the sunshine.” Lady Matlock joined her.
Elizabeth turned at Lady Hertford’s prompting, surprise flickering briefly across her features before she masked it with composure. She inclined her head, then fell into step beside him without hesitation.
For a few moments, neither spoke. Darcy was acutely aware of the sound of their footsteps, of the faint rustle of her gown, of the careful space she kept between them—neither distant nor intimate.
She looked well. Not radiant in the manner of a ball, but fresh, thoughtful, very much herself.
A simple bonnet framed her face, and a soft breeze stirred a loose curl at her temple.
“I am glad of this opportunity,” Darcy said at last. “The season allows for little quiet.”
“That is quite true,” Elizabeth replied lightly. “London prefers noise and movement. Stillness makes it suspicious.”
He smiled, grateful for the ease in her tone. “And yet you walk here often.”
“When I am permitted.” Her glance toward Lady Hertford was neither resentful nor deferential—merely factual. “It is one of the few places where one may breathe without being examined.”
He nodded, then ventured, “You are very much established in Town now.”
She considered him a moment. “I am present,” she corrected. “Establishment implies intention.”
Heaven help me, she never misses anything. “And your intention?”
She lifted a shoulder. “To endure the season with as much grace as possible.”
He hesitated, then said contritely, “I owe you an apology.”
Her step slowed imperceptibly. “For which offense?”
“For patronizing you,” he said plainly. “For assuming I understood your circumstances—or you—when I did not. I spoke as though I were entitled to explanations I had not earned.”
Elizabeth looked ahead as she answered. “That is an accurate assessment.”
He accepted the rebuke without flinching. “I would ask your forgiveness nonetheless.”
She stopped then, turning fully to face him. Her expression was not cold but searching. “Tell me something, Mr. Darcy. Would you have apologized so readily if I were not—” she gestured vaguely, “—well connected?”
The question struck him squarely. He did not evade it. “I ought to have,” he said. “I should have in Hertfordshire.”
The wind stirred again, lifting the hem of her gown, tugging lightly at the ribbon of her bonnet. She studied him, as though weighing not only his words but the cost of them.
“I appreciate the honesty,” she said at last. “It is rarer than apologies.”
Relief loosened something tight in his chest. They resumed walking.
“For what it is worth,” she continued, “I am grateful for a familiar face in Town. One can feel quite unmoored amidst all this—” she gestured to the wide sweep of the park, the passing carriages, the carefully arranged leisure, “—splendor.”
Familiar. The word settled warmly in him. “I am glad to be of service,” he said, and meant it more deeply than she could know.
They walked in companionable silence for a time before Darcy ventured, “Your cousin seems well.”
Elizabeth’s lips curved faintly. “She is improving.”
“And she remains with you?”
“Yes. Jane is staying with me.”
“I am pleased to hear it.” He hesitated, then added, “You may wish to know—Bingley has entered a courtship.”
She stopped again, this time more abruptly. “Indeed?”
“With Miss Millicent Burrows. One of Miss Bingley’s friends.”
Elizabeth’s eyes flashed. “How…predictable.”
He winced. “I take it you disapprove.”
“I take it,” she said crisply, “that men who trifle with women’s affections and then retreat into convenience deserve very little goodwill.”
He exhaled. “Bingley believed—believes—that Miss Bennet’s feelings were uncertain. I did not dissuade him.”
Her gaze sharpened. “Because she did not declare herself?”
“Because she waited,” he said softly. “As women are taught to do.”
Elizabeth laughed, but there was no humor in it. “And now she is punished for her propriety.”
He could not deny it. “I was very wrong.”
“She has resolved to move on.” Elizabeth’s concern was evident in her tone. “Jane does not dwell where she is not valued.”
The words struck deeper than she intended. Darcy looked at her—really looked—and saw how much of herself she had concealed behind wit and composure.
“I regret my part in it,” he said. “More than I can express.”
“I know,” she replied, surprising him. “And yet knowing does not mend what is broken.”
Ahead of them, Jane laughed at something Bramley said, her expression open, unguarded. Darcy watched Elizabeth watch her cousin, saw the mixture of relief and protectiveness in her face.
“At least,” Elizabeth said softly, “something good has come of my being here.”
He turned to her. “Do you regret it?”
She considered the question. “I regret many things. But not Jane’s happiness. Nor—” she paused, then met his gaze, “—the chance to know you better now.”
His heart stumbled at the admission. There was nothing but honesty in her expression.
“Will you tell me—is it too much to ask for an explanation? Everyone around me seems to have pieces of the tale, but no one knows everything.” He knew he acted impulsively, but he wished to understand.
“You refer to the story of my life, I suppose. There is no harm in sharing with you. I sense you will keep my confidence.”
Her reply cheered him. “You have my word. I would be your friend, if you allow it.”
“Even though you wish for more?”
Darcy’s heart seized. “Yes.” It would be enough for now.
“Very well.” Elizabeth was silent for a moment before she spoke.
“I was born to Rebecca Bennet and Nathan de Bourgh. My mother was the daughter of a country gentleman with a modest dowry. She was their only girl, and their means of elevating their status. You see, my Bennet grandparents were determined to raise the family’s standing.
They were ambitious and were unafraid to use my mother as a pawn in their schemes.
“When my mother came out, Nathan de Bourgh had recently inherited Netherfield Park.” This was news to Darcy. Was Elizabeth the true owner of Netherfield?
She continued. “My grandparents insisted on a season in town for my mother. They outfitted her accordingly, and took her to London. My uncle protested. He wished for my mother to marry for love and mutual affection. They had promised each other as children. But I digress. Nathan de Bourgh happened to be at the same ball as my mother. He wanted her immediately. He was a second son, and since he had an independent fortune, he did not need his family’s approval.
His parents were long dead, and his brother approved of the match without question. His sister-in-law, however, did not.”
“Lady Catherine.”
Elizabeth nodded in confirmation. “Their marriage was not a happy one. I was born soon after they wed. My father was a frequent guest of the Prince Regent. Though he was but a gentleman, Nathan de Bourgh must have had something the prince wanted. According to my aunt, they were regularly at Carlton House, or part of the prince’s retinue.
That is how my mother met Princess Caroline. ”
Darcy gaped. “Princess Caroline? Prinny’s wife?”
“In name only, yes. My mother recognized herself in the princess. Before my parents’ death, they became more than friends. They were closer than sisters. That is how my aunt tells it.”
“Your aunt, Mrs. Bennet?”
“No, Mr. Darcy. My aunt, Princess Caroline. You see, when my mother died, the princess gathered her courage and begged the prince to take physical guardianship of me and allow her to raise me. Princess Charlotte had been removed from her mother almost immediately following her birth. My aunt was lonely, and now her closest friend had died. Much to her surprise, Prinny agreed. My uncle, to his credit, refused to lose connection to his niece. That is why I visit Hertfordshire every year.”
Darcy was stunned. “You were raised by the Princess of Wales?”
Elizabeth nodded. “Yes. My childhood was…complicated. I became the prince’s means to manipulate and control Princess Caroline.
If she upset him or refused his edicts, I was removed from the house.
Having Lady Hertford as a chaperone was just another way to spite my dear aunt.
Though I have no objections to Lady Hertford, I am not unaware that her loyalties are to the prince first. I believe she was chosen in an attempt to change my loyalties. ”
“And our Crown Prince means to use you for political connections?”