Chapter Sixteen
Darcy’s boots struck the path to Hunsford parsonage with the steady rhythm of a man attempting to convince himself he felt calm.
The morning had dawned fine and clear, spring sunlight catching in droplets of dew that clung to new grass.
His hand moved to his waistcoat pocket for perhaps the twentieth time that hour, fingers confirming the presence of his mother’s ring through layers of fabric.
The small weight of it pressed against his ribs with each step.
He had rehearsed his proposal throughout a sleepless night, words arranging and rearranging themselves until they had lost all meaning.
But Elizabeth deserved better than a memorised speech.
She would expect honesty, sincerity, the genuine expression of feelings he had tried and failed to suppress for months.
Darcy’s throat tightened at the thought of actually speaking those feelings aloud.
The parsonage came into view through the trees. Darcy straightened his shoulders and forced his hand away from his pocket. He would find a way to speak with Elizabeth alone this morning, would ask her to walk with him.
The servant who answered his knock showed him through to the dining room, and Darcy stepped through the doorway already searching for Elizabeth’s figure among the breakfast table’s occupants.
He found her at the far end of the table, but his gaze caught and held on the woman seated near Mr. and Mrs. Collins.
Miss Jane Bennet.
Darcy stopped so abruptly that the servant nearly collided with him from behind.
His carefully maintained composure fractured as recognition crashed over him.
Miss Bennet sat there in a pale blue morning dress, her fair hair caught up in a simple arrangement, and her presence felt like evidence of crimes Darcy had tried to convince himself were justified.
He had separated her from Bingley. Had argued that her affections were not engaged, that she showed no particular preference despite Bingley’s obvious attachment.
Had convinced himself that protecting Bingley justified any collateral damage to Miss Bennet’s feelings.
And now here she sat, composed and lovely, while guilt settled over Darcy like a physical weight.
“Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Collins exclaimed, rising with his characteristic lack of grace. “What an unexpected honour!”
Darcy forced his attention away from Jane Bennet and executed a bow that felt wooden. “Mr. Collins. Mrs. Collins. I hope I do not intrude upon your breakfast.”
“Not at all,” Collins assured him with obsequious enthusiasm. “You are always welcome.”
Charlotte rose with more dignity than her husband. “Please, Mr. Darcy, do join us. There is plenty of food remaining.”
Darcy’s gaze moved inevitably back to Miss Bennet, who had risen as well and now stood with her hands folded before her. She looked exactly as he remembered from Netherfield.
“Miss Bennet,” Darcy said, and his voice emerged more formal than he had intended. He executed another bow, this one deeper than strict necessity required. “I had not realised you were visiting Kent. I hope your journey was comfortable.”
“Quite comfortable, thank you, Mr. Darcy,” Jane replied. “I arrived only yesterday evening.”
“Indeed?” Darcy said, though the word came out stiff. “The journey from London is not inconsiderable.”
He was being ridiculous, he realised. Speaking to her as though she were some grand lady rather than simply his friend’s former interest and Elizabeth’s beloved sister. But guilt made him formal.
Jane inclined her head. “Colonel Fitzwilliam was kind enough to escort me from London. His company made the journey most agreeable.”
So that was where his cousin had been yesterday.
But why? Darcy’s attention shifted to Elizabeth, who had not risen from her seat at the far end of the table.
She sat with her hands wrapped around a teacup, her gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance.
The physical distance between the sisters struck him immediately.
Elizabeth had positioned herself as far from Jane as the table’s dimensions allowed.
“Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy said, moving toward her end of the table. “Good morning.”
Elizabeth looked up at him then, and her smile carried warmth that eased some of the tension in his chest. “Mr. Darcy. How lovely to see you this morning.”
“I hope I am not interrupting your breakfast,” Darcy said.
“Not at all,” Elizabeth replied, but her attention had already drifted away, her gaze returning to that middle distance.
Charlotte gestured toward the sideboard. “Please, Mr. Darcy, help yourself.”
Darcy accepted a plate more from politeness than hunger and took a seat near the middle of the table.
The arrangement struck him as deeply strange.
Jane sat near the Collinses, engaging them in quiet conversation.
Elizabeth remained at her end of the table, tracing the rim of her teacup with one finger in repetitive circles.
“Jane,” Elizabeth said suddenly, her voice cutting through the general conversation with unexpected sharpness. “Did you sleep well? The beds at the parsonage must be quite different from what you are accustomed to in London.”
Jane turned toward her sister, and something in her expression made Darcy think of someone approaching a nervous horse. Careful. Cautious. “I slept perfectly well, thank you, Lizzy. Charlotte’s hospitality is most generous.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Elizabeth replied, but the words emerged clipped, stripped of warmth. She took a sip of her tea, her gaze sliding away from Jane’s face.
Darcy watched this exchange with growing confusion.
Elizabeth adored her sister. Had walked three miles through mud to reach Jane’s sickbed at Netherfield, had nursed her with devoted attention.
Yet now she sat at the opposite end of the table, responding to her sister’s presence with something that looked remarkably like avoidance.
The door opened once again, and Colonel Fitzwilliam strolled in with easy confidence.
“Darcy!” Fitzwilliam exclaimed with mock reproach. “You came down without me. Most uncivil.”
Despite his unease, Darcy felt a smile tug at his lips. “My apologies, Fitzwilliam. I had not realised you required an escort.”
“I require civilised company,” Fitzwilliam corrected, moving toward the table. His gaze swept the assembled party and caught on Jane, and something in his expression shifted. “Miss Bennet. What a pleasant surprise.”
He moved immediately to the chair beside Jane. “I had thought perhaps you might have decided to rest this morning after yesterday’s journey.”
“I am quite recovered, Colonel,” Jane replied, and a hint of colour touched her cheeks. “Your company yesterday made it far less taxing.”
“I am delighted to hear it,” Fitzwilliam said, and his voice had taken on a warmth Darcy could not recall hearing. “I confess I found the journey remarkably pleasant myself.”
Darcy’s attention moved to Elizabeth, curious to see her reaction to this obvious flirtation.
What he saw made unease prickle along his spine.
Elizabeth’s fingers had tightened around her teacup with enough force that her knuckles showed white.
Her jaw had set in a hard line, and she was watching the interaction with an expression that could only be described as irritated.
“We were just discussing the village,” Charlotte said. “Jane expressed interest in seeing the church this morning.”
“The church?” Elizabeth’s voice cut through with unexpected sharpness. She set down her teacup with enough force that it rattled. “Surely Jane must be exhausted from her journey. She should rest this morning rather than traipsing about Kent.”
Jane turned to look at her sister. “I am not tired at all, Lizzy. I would very much like to see the village.”
“Nevertheless,” Elizabeth said, her tone brooking no argument. “It would be most unwise to overtax yourself so soon after travelling.”
Darcy found himself rising without conscious decision. If Elizabeth wanted to avoid showing her sister the village, perhaps it was because she had other plans.
“Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy said. “The morning is remarkably fine. Perhaps you might be persuaded to walk out with me, while your sister rests from her journey? The gardens at Rosings are particularly beautiful this time of year.”
Elizabeth’s expression transformed, irritation giving way to eager acceptance so quickly that Darcy felt a flash of relief. “I would be delighted, Mr. Darcy.”
She rose from her chair with fluid grace, already moving toward the door. Darcy glanced toward Fitzwilliam and found his cousin watching Jane with warm attention.
“Fitzwilliam,” Darcy said. “Perhaps you might remain here and keep Miss Bennet company while Miss Elizabeth and I walk out.”
Fitzwilliam’s face lit with obvious pleasure. “I would be honoured. If Miss Bennet would not find my company tiresome.”
“Not at all, Colonel,” Jane replied, and the shy smile she gave him made something uncomfortable twist in Darcy’s chest.
As Darcy moved toward where Elizabeth waited by the door, he caught Jane giving her sister an odd look, something searching and concerned. But Elizabeth had already turned away.
Darcy offered Elizabeth his arm, and she took it without hesitation. They stepped out into the spring morning together.
Darcy did not look back.
Darcy’s hand had returned to his waistcoat pocket before they had even cleared the parsonage garden gate.
Elizabeth walked beside him with easy grace, her hand resting lightly on his arm, and she seemed entirely at ease.
She chatted pleasantly about the morning weather and the state of the paths, and Darcy responded with words he could not have repeated moments later.
His cravat felt too tight. Darcy’s free hand moved to his neck, fingers tugging at the linen in a gesture he immediately regretted as too obvious. Elizabeth glanced up at him with mild curiosity but said nothing.