Chapter 18
Darcy finished the letter he had written to his steward, blotted and sealed it, and looked at his watch.
There were still thirty minutes until the hour he and his sister had agreed they would leave.
He had no more letters to write, no newspapers that he had not read from front page to back, nor the presence of mind to attempt a book.
He stood from the desk and strode out of the room to the foot of the stairs.
“Georgiana?” he called loudly.
Her head appeared over the bannisters. “Yes?”
“If you are ready, we could leave now and walk there. It is a fair day.”
“Oh…forgive me, I am not quite ready. Mrs Annesley is giving me an Italian lesson before I dress. I can finish it another time if—”
“No, no. It was only a thought. We shall take the carriage as planned. You carry on.”
“Are you going out, Darcy?”
He turned around to see the front door standing open and Fitzwilliam coming into the house, his cousin, Miss Hawkridge, with him.
“I am taking Georgiana to call on Miss Bennet. I must say, you have come home with a far pleasanter companion than you went out with. What have you done with Saye?”
“I left him with Johnson, arguing over who owes whom what after the other night. I escaped before it degenerated into the inevitable rematch—and found this pitiful creature wandering up and down the Promenade with her maid.”
Miss Hawkridge tossed her head saucily. “Avoiding unwelcome gentlemen callers is an onerous occupation.” In answer to everyone’s questioning glances, she supplied, “Mr Marsden. We made up a table together at the party, so of course he is now convinced I must be in love with him.”
“Rather ungenerous of you to leave Miss Larkin to deal with him,” Fitzwilliam observed.
“Oh, she preferred to remain at home.” With a significant glance at Darcy, she added, “She lives in hope that she will receive a more welcome caller soon.”
Darcy shared a look with Fitzwilliam, though he did not intend that it should be taken as a plea for help and groaned inwardly when his cousin said, “You might like to pare back your encouragement in that quarter, Georgette. Darcy’s interests lie elsewhere.”
“So it would seem.” Miss Hawkridge peered at Darcy more searchingly. “All this time I have been under the misapprehension that it was liveliness that would draw you in. Who would have guessed that a seafront inheritance was the key to your affections?”
Darcy frowned. Was that how it looked to Elizabeth—that his interest had only been piqued once she came into property?
“Gosh, I always forget how serious he can be,” Miss Hawkridge said to Fitzwilliam.
“I was joking, Mr Darcy. I am sure Miss Bennet was just as delightful before she acquired this house. Indeed, I rather like her and would not object to knowing her better. Perhaps Fitzwilliam and I might come with you to call on her?”
Thus, when Georgiana was eventually ready to depart, the four of them squeezed into the carriage together for the short drive across town.
Darcy had not given much thought to the direction Elizabeth had given, but as they approached the house, he felt increasingly uneasy.
This was the side of town, with its wooded hills and out-of-the-way paths, where he had been taking his exercise on some mornings.
The fear that he might have been seen only added to the apprehension he felt to see Elizabeth again.
Her sweet parting two nights ago notwithstanding, all had not gone smoothly at the party, and he was unsure what reception to expect.
A large one, it transpired. Mrs Millhouse, whose house it was, and Mrs Gardiner were both present, as were Miss Lydia Bennet and Mrs Forster.
With him, Fitzwilliam, Miss Hawkridge, and Georgiana filling almost every remaining seat, the parlour felt overly full.
It was with great pleasure that he accepted a proffered seat beside Elizabeth, but his joy was short-lived.
To his dismay, she seemed unwell, her countenance pale and her voice hoarse.
He did not like to remark upon it, but when she sneezed, it prompted her sister to ask whether she was sickening for something.
“A summer cold, Lydia, nothing more,” she replied.
“Oh, I hate colds,” Mrs Forster said. “They always make one look so inelegant.”
“Oh? Have you got a cold too?” Miss Hawkridge enquired, with not a hint of satire in her countenance. The barb went sailing over Mrs Forster’s head, but Darcy enjoyed the flash of amusement in Elizabeth’s eyes as she caught it.
“I apologise if we have called at an inconvenient time,” he said to her quietly.
“Not at all. It is my sister who owns all the inconvenience. We were not expecting her today. Let us hope she manages to exercise a modicum of propriety, though I know you will not hold much hope of it.”
She could only be referring to the letter he had written to her in Kent—to his censure of her family’s ill breeding—but to his surprise, there seemed to be no bitterness in her speech.
Only a certain wariness. It was a wariness he had seen in her often when they were in Hertfordshire, each time her family behaved poorly.
He supposed, now that he thought about it, that she could not possibly be ignorant of the way their conduct reflected upon her and, abruptly, he felt all the absurdity of having thought himself too gentlemanlike to remark upon her having a slight cold while being perfectly willing to spell out her familial hindrances and diminished prospects in callous detail.
“It can be a troublesome age,” he replied, “but I daresay you are the finest influence your younger sisters could hope for as they pass through it.”
She looked somewhat sceptical but thanked him all the same.
“You would not mind, would you, Lizzy?”
This interruption came from Mrs Millhouse, who was regarding Elizabeth expectantly.
“I beg your pardon, I was talking to Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth said, “Would I mind what?”
“If we went up to your room. Colonel Fitzwilliam was admiring the situation of the house, and I was just explaining that from your window, the woods look especially picturesque.”
“By all means. It would be cruel of me to keep such a charming view to myself.”
Mrs Gardiner and Miss Lydia remained downstairs, for they had seen the view before. The rest of the party followed Mrs Millhouse up two flights of stairs to a room on the west side of the house.
Darcy could not help but feel conscious, walking into Elizabeth’s bedchamber, albeit not on his own.
It was absurd to do so, for this was no different to Mrs Reynolds showing strangers around Pemberley; the tour she gave invariably included one or two of the bedrooms. But this was Elizabeth’s private space.
Where she wrote her letters, where she slept, where she dressed.
Where she was the person he most dearly wished to know: herself, without any of the impediments of society.
He tried not to appear interested in anything but the view, though as the others gathered around the window, his gaze would wander—to the writing slope on the table in the corner; the dusky pink pelisse hung on the back of the door; the slippers discarded untidily under the bed; the small pile of books on her bedside table.
He felt a jolt of pleasure to espy, lying next to them, the stone he had given her during the picnic on the beach.
He scarcely dared imagine what it meant that she still had it. Perhaps she merely found it interesting. Perhaps it augured something far more significant. He glanced at her, and found her watching him.
“You kept it,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” was her only reply, other than her shy smile and the faint blush of colour on her cheeks.
“What think you to this, then, Darcy?” Fitzwilliam asked, waving him over to join him at the window. He stepped aside to give an unhindered view of the hillside.
Darcy took one look and baulked. It was not just near to the area in which he had been running; it was the exact path.
He stifled a groan and schooled his features into a smile to conceal his dismay.
Of all the places he could have chosen to come, panting and sweating, as he forced his sorry corpulence into some semblance of healthfulness, it had to be the hill directly below Elizabeth’s window!
“A fair prospect, eh?” Fitzwilliam asked. “It reminds me of Pemberley with this unbroken view of the woods. Do not you agree?”
Darcy mumbled his agreement and retreated from the window.
Elizabeth had fallen into conversation with Georgiana and did not seem particularly interested in what he thought of the view.
He sincerely hoped this meant she had not observed him at his exercise, but consternation nevertheless rendered him stupid.
He sat in silence when they returned to the parlour, preoccupied with trying to convince himself that, if Elizabeth had seen him running, she would surely have remarked upon it.
“Pemberley overlooks woods, does it?”
He looked up. Elizabeth was leaning slightly towards him over the arm of her chair.
There was no secret amusement in her eyes, only worry.
The rest of the party had separated into smaller groups—even Georgiana, for whom the visit had ostensibly been arranged, had defected to Miss Lydia and Mrs Forster for conversation—leaving Elizabeth and him alone.
He sat straighter, feeling like a churl for having been so inattentive.
He answered cautiously, not wishing to seem puffed up or arrogant. “The house is very handsomely situated amongst wooded hills and natural water courses—and the odd cave. I am told my sixth great-grandmother chose the spot.”
“It sounds wonderful,” she replied. “No wonder you prefer it to a sea view.”
“I prefer Pemberley to every other place in the world, so it is an unfair comparison, really. It rains just as often, though.”
She laughed lightly. “Lady Preston warned me that it rained a lot in Brighton. How right she was.”