Chapter Thirteen
The morning had grown uncommonly fine by the time Darcy escaped his aunt’s demands, the spring air carrying that particular crispness that made walking a pleasure.
He had intended to ride out with Fitzwilliam, but his cousin had apparently gone off somewhere after breakfast without explanation, leaving Darcy to endure Lady Catherine’s lengthy discourse on drainage improvements alone.
The irritation of abandonment faded as Darcy turned his steps toward Hunsford, his pace quickening without conscious decision.
Sunlight filtered through newly leafed trees in patterns that shifted with each breath of wind.
Darcy had not planned to call at the parsonage today.
Had told himself he should maintain some distance after the strangeness of the previous day.
But his feet carried him along the familiar path regardless, and he found himself arriving at the modest house before he had properly formed an excuse.
The door stood slightly ajar, and through it came the sound of feminine laughter that made something in his chest tighten with recognition.
The servant who answered his knock showed him through to the parlour without ceremony, and Darcy paused in the doorway.
Elizabeth sat in the chair nearest the window, sunlight catching in her dark hair and illuminating her profile as she spoke with Charlotte Collins.
She wore a simple morning dress in pale yellow muslin, and her hands moved expressively as she described something that had apparently amused her.
Charlotte sat opposite, teacup balanced in her lap, smiling with what looked like genuine pleasure.
“Mr. Darcy,” Charlotte said, noticing him first and rising with appropriate courtesy. “What a pleasant surprise. Please, do join us. We were just taking tea.”
Elizabeth turned at the mention of his name, and Darcy found himself searching her face with desperate attention, cataloguing details that might indicate whether this was the real Elizabeth or the strange impostor who had inhabited her form these past days.
Her eyes met his directly, and he saw in them a sparkle he recognised, a liveliness that had been absent during their previous encounters.
The warmth in her expression appeared genuine rather than calculated, and when she smiled at him, it reached her eyes.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said, and her voice carried that teasing quality he had come to associate with her.
“You have discovered our secret morning indulgence. Mrs. Collins makes excellent tea, and I have been monopolising her company shamefully. You must join us and provide her with rescue from my chatter.”
It was exactly the sort of thing Elizabeth would say, self-deprecating while simultaneously drawing attention to her own enjoyment, inviting him to participate rather than simply welcoming him with bland politeness.
Darcy felt some of the tension that had been gathering in his shoulders begin to ease.
“I would be delighted,” he replied, accepting the seat Charlotte indicated. “Though I suspect Mrs. Collins finds your company far from burdensome.”
“Oh, indeed,” Charlotte responded, pouring tea into a cup for him. “Elizabeth does herself a disservice. Her conversation is never mere chatter.”
Elizabeth laughed merrily. “Charlotte is too generous. She has been subjected to my observations about the variable quality of Kent’s hedgerows for the past quarter hour. That surely qualifies as chatter of the most tedious sort.”
“I find hedgerows a perfectly acceptable topic of conversation,” Darcy said, accepting his tea. “Far superior to many subjects that occupy drawing room discourse.”
“Such as?” Elizabeth prompted, and he saw the challenge in her expression, the invitation to verbal sparring that he had missed more than he wanted to admit.
Before Darcy could respond, the parlour door burst open with enough force to rattle the hinges, and Mr. Collins bustled in with his characteristic lack of grace.
The parson’s round face beamed with obvious pleasure, and Darcy suppressed a sigh of frustration.
He could hardly ask the man to leave his own parlour.
“Mr. Darcy!” Collins exclaimed, executing a bow so deep it looked uncomfortable. “What an honour! What a condescension! That you should favour us with your presence in our humble home. My dear cousin Elizabeth, you see what consequence our connexion to Lady Catherine brings.”
Elizabeth’s expression flickered with something that might have been amusement or irritation, smoothing too quickly for Darcy to be certain which. She inclined her head toward Collins with apparent patience.
“Mr. Darcy’s visit is indeed kind,” she said, her tone carrying studied neutrality.
Collins settled himself onto the sofa with enough vigour to disturb Charlotte’s tea, forcing his wife to steady her cup.
He launched immediately into enthusiastic praise of Lady Catherine’s morning activities.
Darcy let the words wash over him without truly listening, maintaining an expression of polite attention while his thoughts remained fixed on Elizabeth.
She had returned her gaze to the window, watching something in the garden with apparent interest, and Darcy took the opportunity to study her profile unobserved.
The curve of her cheek caught the light, and he noted the healthy colour there, the vitality that seemed to radiate from her even in stillness.
“Do you not agree, Mr. Darcy?” Collins said suddenly, and Darcy realised with mild embarrassment that he had lost the thread of conversation entirely.
“Forgive me,” Darcy said, setting down his teacup with deliberate care. “I was distracted by the view from the window. The gardens are looking particularly well this spring.”
It was a transparent excuse, but Collins accepted it with enthusiasm. Elizabeth glanced at Darcy then, and he caught the hint of a smile tugging at her lips, a shared recognition of Collins’s absurdity that felt like a moment of genuine connexion.
The conversation continued in fits and starts, Collins dominating with his usual mixture of obsequiousness and self-importance while Charlotte attempted to redirect toward more general topics.
Elizabeth participated with apparent ease, her contributions carrying wit without the aggressive flirtation that had so disturbed Darcy the previous day.
She teased Collins gently about his devotion to Lady Catherine, deflected his pompous observations with humour rather than compliance.
Darcy found himself relaxing into the familiar rhythm of it. The strangeness of previous days seemed to fade in the face of this return to form, and Darcy allowed himself to hope that whatever temporary alteration had affected her had passed.
“I imagine you must be eager to return to Longbourn,” Darcy ventured during a brief pause. “To see your family again after such an extended absence.”
He watched her face carefully, searching for signs of the attachment to home and family that any properly feeling person would display. Elizabeth’s expression shifted, becoming more subdued, and she looked down at her hands before responding.
“I am due to return home soon,” she said quietly, and something in her tone made Darcy lean forward slightly. “But I confess it is not thoughts of home that occupy my mind this morning.”
“No?” Darcy prompted, aware that his voice had dropped lower, that the question carried more weight than casual inquiry.
Elizabeth looked up then, meeting his gaze directly, and what he saw in her expression made his breath catch. Sadness, unmistakable and sincere, mixed with something that might have been regret. Her eyes held his for a long moment, and Darcy felt the parlour around them fade into insignificance.
“No,” Elizabeth said, and her voice carried quiet conviction. “It is rather the thought of leaving the company here at Rosings that makes me melancholy. I have come to value certain acquaintances more than I anticipated when I first arrived in Kent.”
Darcy’s heart quickened at Elizabeth’s words, hope flooding through him.
She meant him. Surely she must mean him.
The company at Rosings included his aunt, Anne, Fitzwilliam, but Elizabeth’s gaze had been fixed on him alone when she spoke, her expression carrying an intimacy that excluded the others from consideration.
She would miss him. Would regret their separation.
He had pursued her regard through careful attention and studied civility, through arranging encounters that appeared accidental.
Had endured the torture of her apparent indifference, her refusal to be impressed by his consequence.
And now, finally, she was indicating that his feelings might not be unrequited.
“Indeed, indeed!” Collins exclaimed, apparently interpreting Elizabeth’s melancholy as agreement with whatever point he had been making.
“You must surely feel the loss most acutely, dear cousin, when you return to the modest society of Longbourn after experiencing the superior company available here in Kent. Why, the contrast between Lady Catherine’s distinguished circle and the simple country neighbours you are accustomed to must be quite marked! ”
The words struck Darcy like cold water. He felt his jaw tighten with irritation at Collins’s tactlessness, at the insult to Elizabeth’s home and family delivered with such oblivious enthusiasm.
The parson beamed around the parlour as though he had said something particularly clever, entirely missing the way Charlotte’s expression had gone carefully neutral and how Elizabeth’s hands had curled slightly against her skirts.
“Mr. Collins,” Charlotte began, her voice carrying gentle reproof, but her husband continued without pause.