Chapter Five
The spring morning presented itself with almost aggressive cheerfulness.
Sunlight filtered through newly leafed branches, creating shifting patterns across the path.
Birds called to one another, their songs carried on a breeze that smelled of growing things.
Yet Darcy found his attention less on the scenery than on the woman beside him.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet walked beside him, her hand resting lightly on his arm, and he should have been entirely pleased.
He was pleased, in the main. But something nagged at him, a sense of wrongness he could not quite identify.
Elizabeth smiled up at him, and the expression was warm, open, encouraging.
Everything he might have hoped for, yet it struck him as slightly off, like a portrait painted by a skilled artist who had never met their subject.
The smile reached her eyes, but something in the quality of it felt unfamiliar.
“What a lovely morning,” she said, her voice carrying genuine enthusiasm. “I cannot recall when I last enjoyed such perfect weather for walking.”
Darcy glanced at her, surprised by the conventional sentiment.
But perhaps her illness had left her thoughts less sharp than usual.
He had been genuinely alarmed when Mrs. Collins reported her sudden affliction, had called at the parsonage last night only to be told she was sleeping.
The memory still carried a weight of disappointment.
He had been ready. Had spent the previous few days rehearsing what he would say, how he would express feelings that had grown beyond his ability to contain them.
Miss Bennet’s illness had forced postponement, and he had passed a restless night questioning whether delay was wisdom or cowardice.
Now she walked beside him, apparently recovered, and the perfect opportunity had presented itself. Yet something held him back.
“I am glad to see you so improved,” Darcy said carefully. “You gave us all concern yesterday.”
“Did I?” She looked up at him again, that same warm smile in place. “How kind of you to worry. But as you can see, I am perfectly well now. Better than well, in fact. I feel quite wonderful.”
The words themselves were unremarkable, but her manner struck Darcy as odd. Elizabeth typically deflected excessive concern with wit or gentle mockery, not with this earnest gratitude. He found himself studying her face more closely, searching for some explanation.
She met his gaze without her usual challenging spark, her expression open and pleasant. Too pleasant, perhaps. Elizabeth’s particular charm had always resided partly in her willingness to disagree, to tease, to maintain her own opinions. This compliant warmth felt foreign.
“You seem in particularly good spirits,” Darcy observed, keeping his tone light though his attention remained fixed on her reaction.
Something flickered across her face, too quick to identify. Wariness, possibly. Or calculation. But it vanished almost immediately.
“I suppose I am feeling the relief of recovery,” she said, her hand tightening slightly on his arm. “Being ill, even briefly, makes one appreciate health all the more. And the morning is so beautiful, and the company so agreeable. Why should I not be in good spirits?”
The answer was perfectly reasonable, yet it settled over Darcy like ill-fitting clothes.
Elizabeth had never before described his company as particularly agreeable.
She had tolerated him at best, treated him with cool civility that occasionally warmed into secret glances of shared amusement at the foibles of others, moments he treasured and hoarded like a miser with gold.
But agreeable? That was Colonel Fitzwilliam’s territory, not his.
They walked in silence for a few moments, and Darcy used the opportunity to observe her more carefully.
Small details accumulated, none significant alone but collectively troubling.
The way she held herself seemed different, her posture almost too careful.
Her laugh, when it came in response to some observation he made, sounded slightly wrong in pitch or duration.
The expressions that crossed her face seemed rehearsed rather than spontaneous.
Darcy tried to dismiss his unease as imagination. Elizabeth had been ill. Perhaps that explained the subtle changes, the sense that something fundamental had shifted. Illness could alter people temporarily. He was reading too much into minor variations.
Yet the feeling persisted. He had spent many hours now covertly observing Elizabeth, had studied her with an attention he would have found embarrassing to acknowledge.
He knew the precise angle of her eyebrow when she prepared some particularly cutting remark.
Knew the way her lips twitched when she was suppressing a smile.
Knew the quality of her gaze when she looked at something that genuinely interested her.
This woman beside him wore Elizabeth’s face and form, spoke with her voice, used her words. But the essential quality that made her herself seemed muted.
“What has put you in such good spirits?” Darcy asked, unable to contain his curiosity. “Beyond the weather and recovery from illness, I mean. You seem unusually cheerful.”
He watched her face carefully, noting the way her smile faltered for just a moment, the brief flash of something that might have been alarm before she mastered her expression.
“I hardly know how to answer such a question,” she said, her tone aiming for lightness but landing closer to defensive. “Must there be a specific reason for cheerfulness? Can one not simply feel happy without requiring deep analysis?”
The response was more characteristic, that slight edge returning. Yet even this felt performative, as though she were imitating the sort of thing Elizabeth might say rather than speaking from genuine feeling.
Darcy found himself at a loss. His instinct insisted something was wrong, but his reason could identify no concrete evidence beyond these vague impressions. He could hardly tell her that she seemed unlike herself based on nothing more substantial than a feeling.
“Forgive me,” he said finally. “I did not mean to question your happiness. I am merely pleased to see you recovered.”
She smiled at him again, that warm, encouraging smile that should have delighted him but instead only deepened his unease. “You are very kind, Mr. Darcy. I appreciate your concern for my wellbeing.”
Kind. Elizabeth had never before described him as kind. Proud, certainly. Disagreeable, frequently. But kind? The word sat wrong in her mouth.
They continued walking, the conversation drifting to safer topics, but Darcy’s attention remained divided.
Half of him participated in the discussion of Lady Catherine’s gardens, while the other half continued its examination of the woman beside him, searching for some explanation that would resolve his confusion.
Everything appeared normal, pleasant, exactly as a morning walk should be. Yet Darcy could not shake the conviction that something was profoundly wrong, that the woman on his arm was not quite who she appeared to be.
Colonel Fitzwilliam appeared around the bend ahead, his stride easy and confident, and Darcy felt an immediate, uncharitable surge of irritation at the interruption.
Now his cousin would insert himself into the conversation with his effortless charm, and Darcy would lose whatever ground he had gained in this peculiar morning.
Fitzwilliam raised a hand in greeting as he approached. “Darcy! Miss Bennet! What luck to find you both taking the morning air. I had thought to walk alone with my thoughts, but this is infinitely preferable.”
Darcy returned the greeting with a nod, acutely aware of Elizabeth’s hand still resting on his arm.
He expected her to smile warmly at Fitzwilliam, perhaps to make some witty remark about rescuing her from Darcy’s dull conversation.
She had always shown particular enjoyment of his cousin’s company, had responded to the colonel’s teasing with genuine animation that she rarely displayed with Darcy himself.
Instead, her fingers tightened on his sleeve, and when Darcy glanced down at her face, he saw something that looked remarkably like irritation cross her features.
The expression vanished quickly, replaced by a polite smile, but Darcy had seen it clearly.
Elizabeth was annoyed by Fitzwilliam’s arrival.
The observation struck him with force. In all their previous encounters, Elizabeth had gravitated toward Fitzwilliam’s easier manner, had engaged with him far more readily than with Darcy.
She had laughed at his jokes, drawn him out about his military experiences, treated him with warm friendliness she conspicuously withheld from Darcy.
To see her now looking irritated made no sense.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth said, her tone pleasant but lacking genuine warmth. “How nice to encounter you.”
How nice. The words were perfectly civil, yet somehow managed to convey the opposite sentiment. Darcy stared at her, this confusion adding to his growing catalogue of wrongness.
Fitzwilliam seemed oblivious to any coldness in her greeting. He fell into step beside them, positioning himself on Elizabeth’s other side. “I trust you are fully recovered from yesterday’s illness, Miss Bennet? You gave us all quite a fright.”
“Quite recovered, thank you.” Her response was clipped, almost dismissive.
“Excellent, excellent.” Fitzwilliam glanced across at Darcy with a grin.
“I must say, Darcy, you look remarkably pleased with yourself this morning. Could it be that you are finally learning the art of pleasant conversation? Miss Bennet appears to be enjoying your company, which is something of a miracle given your usual talent for silence.”