Chapter 8
Eight
The following morning broke fair and mild, the sort of day that all but insisted upon a long ramble.
Elizabeth dressed early in cheerful anticipation of a planned walk into Hunsford village, where she welcomed the prospect of a pleasant airing and a visit to the small bookshop on the high street.
Mr Collins’s library, while extensive in number, was lamentably deficient in quality, and she had already exhausted the few volumes worth a second reading.
Charlotte, however, awoke complaining of a headache, and though she protested that it was of no great consequence, Jane insisted upon staying behind to attend her. And so it was that Elizabeth set out alone.
She did not mind the solitude. The path into the village was a familiar one, winding past hedgerows and neat fields touched with the fresh green of spring.
There was a unique pleasure in walking unaccompanied, the gentle rhythm of her steps affording her time to think, or, in some instances, to clear her mind of thought altogether.
She had nearly succeeded in doing so by the time the rooftops of Hunsford appeared in the near distance.
The bookshop lay just beyond the baker’s and across from the haberdasher’s—a narrow little place with crooked windows and a brass bell that jingled faintly as she pushed open the door.
The air inside was tinged with the scent of wood polish, and the hush that met her felt like a balm to her scattered thoughts.
Elizabeth quickly removed her gloves and began to browse the shelves with interest. Her gaze travelled over the titles, pausing now and then to inspect a spine more closely. She was engrossed in a volume of Shakespeare’s Sonnets when the bell above the door rang out again.
She turned instinctively—and nearly dropped the book in her hands.
Mr Darcy stood framed in the doorway, his tall form briefly outlined by the bright morning light behind him. He appeared equally surprised to see her.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, recovering first with a slight bow. “I did not expect to find you here.”
“Nor I you,” Elizabeth replied, sliding the book back onto the shelf. “Though I daresay the surprise is mine more than yours. I had not imagined you would have need of a village bookshop. I have heard Lady Catherine extol the virtues of the Rosings library on more than one occasion.”
A wry twist touched Mr Darcy’s lips. “Her ladyship is never shy in praising her own possessions,” he answered. “But a large collection is not always a discerning one.”
“Ah, I see. So you came here in search of quality, then?”
Again, his mouth lifted in a small smile. “Actually, I am here to purchase some new music for my sister. Georgiana is an accomplished pianist. I thought to surprise her with something she has not yet attempted.”
“That is very thoughtful,” she said after a moment. “In which case, I shall not keep you from your errand.”
With another bow, Mr Darcy moved to the opposite end of the shop, and Elizabeth turned back to the shelves.
Drifting towards the rear, she wandered between the rows, drawing out one volume after another.
The soft rustle of pages and the faint scent of paper filled the air, and she soon lost herself in the imagined worlds spread before her.
She nearly jumped when a low baritone sounded at her ear.
“May I be of any assistance?”
Startled, she turned to find Mr Darcy at her shoulder. The space was so cramped that she could feel the warmth of his body and smell the herbal scent of his shaving soap beneath the musk of wool and starch. For a moment, her words stalled in her throat.
“N-no thank you,” she managed at last, though the response emerged more quietly than she intended.
Without replying, Mr Darcy reached out, drawing the book from her hands. He glanced at the title, one brow lifting in mild interest.
“A worthy choice, though a touch melancholy, I think.”
Sliding it back into its place on the shelf, he turned to her with a grave expression.
“Come,” he said simply, before rounding the nearest corner.
With long, unhurried strides, he began to move down the narrow aisle, his fingers trailing lightly along the spines.
There was a certainty in his manner, as though he knew the shop well, or, at the very least, knew precisely what he was about.
Elizabeth followed, watching as he pulled one book then another from the shelves as he went.
At last, he seemed satisfied. Turning back, he extended the small stack in her direction.
“These,” he said simply.
Elizabeth regarded him curiously before accepting the books, lowering her gaze to examine the titles. Cherished favourites were nestled beside more recent publications. Her fingers traced the lettering on the uppermost volume.
“They are all…” She looked up again, the words slipping away.
Unbidden, her thoughts turned to their dance at the Netherfield ball, to his tentative attempt at conversation and her arch reply.
“Books? Oh, no! I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same feelings.”
How smug she had been, how certain of her own judgment. Perhaps in this reality the words had never been uttered, yet she chastised herself for them all the same.
A light clearing of the throat recalled her to the present. Her skin tingled with heat as she said softly, “I have read and enjoyed many of these, though two are new to me. I shall take them.”
Mr Darcy inclined his head. “Then allow me—”
Her eyes flew to his. “Oh no! Thank you, but I could not possibly—”
“I insist,” he said, already reaching for the volumes. “Consider them a wedding gift.”
The words seemed to surprise him as much as they did her; his hand stilled, his expression tightening as though he scarcely believed what he had uttered. A rush of mortification swept through her, yet she forced a smile, determined to make light of the blunder.
“I do not believe it is customary, sir, for the groom to present tokens to his guests,” she said gently. “Rather, I believe it is generally done the other way round.”
Colour rose from under his collar. “Yes, of course. You are quite right. Forgive me. I did not think.”
There was a moment’s pause before he continued, “Once you have made your purchases, may I, at least, have the honour of escorting you back to the parsonage?”
Elizabeth hesitated briefly, then gave a small nod. “If you wish.”
“Good. If it is agreeable, I shall return the remaining books and meet you just outside the door.”
With a grateful glance and her selections in hand, Elizabeth turned towards the counter.
Several minutes later, Elizabeth stepped out into the sunlight, blinking against the brightness as she adjusted her grip on the brown-paper parcel in her arms. The door clicked shut behind her, and the low murmur of the shop gave way to the bustle of Hunsford’s high street.
She barely had time to gather her bearings before Mr Darcy appeared, leading his horse by the reins.
They set out at a measured pace, his strides matching hers easily. As they walked, Elizabeth felt the steady gaze of several passing villagers, but she kept her eyes resolutely fixed on the cobblestones beneath her feet, willing herself not to notice.
It was a relief when they turned off the busy road and onto a quieter lane flanked by hedgerows and the soft rustle of early spring leaves. For a time, they walked in silence, broken only by the occasional jangle of the horse’s bit.
At last, Elizabeth began, her voice tentative. “Mr Darcy, I feel I must beg your pardon for what I said inside the shop. I did not mean… That is, it was presumptuous of me to imply that I would be a guest at your wedding. I fear I spoke without forethought—as I often do.”
Mr Darcy turned towards her, his expression kind. “You need not excuse yourself. The celebrations will be small, merely an intimate breakfast at Rosings following the ceremony, but I would be honoured if you would all attend.”
Elizabeth glanced up, murmuring softly, “You are very generous.”
He gave a slight shake of his head. “Not at all. It is only fitting, given your connection to Mr Collins and the role he is to play. And…” He hesitated a moment. “It would please me.”
Elizabeth’s heart gave a brief flutter, though she chastised herself at once.
To be moved by such words, when he referred to her presence at his wedding to another woman was nothing short of ridiculous.
In any case, surely it was no more than politeness, or simple obligation.
Yet her thoughts still swirled with the strangeness of strolling beside him like this, in such easy confidence.
“I have not seen you on your morning walks of late,” Elizabeth said at last, striving for an easy tone.
Mr Darcy glanced over at her. “No. Much as I have missed the habit, my time has not been my own. There has been little opportunity for leisure in recent days.”
“Oh?” she asked lightly. “Rosings cannot demand all your attention, surely?”
He gave a faint smile. “Not Rosings, no. But there has been much to do before the wedding. I have had meetings with my solicitor, to finalise the settlement papers, and yesterday I rode out to Tunbridge Wells to acquire the licence.”
Elizabeth’s steps faltered. “Ah, yes. Of course.”
Her fingers tightened around her parcel, but she forced her voice to remain steady as she continued, “I hope the next few days allow you more time for yourself, so that you might resume the practice.” After a slight hesitation, she continued, “Does Miss de Bourgh enjoy walking as well?”
“She does not,” he replied. “Her health is delicate, and she finds little pleasure in exertion of that sort. She does, however, enjoy driving her phaeton, when the weather is fair.”
Elizabeth nodded, unsure how to respond. After a moment, she said, “And following the wedding? Does she look forward to making her home in Derbyshire?”
A frown flashed across Mr Darcy’s brow. “We have not discussed it at length,” he answered.
“I believe a change of scenery, not to mention some distance from certain…influences, will do her good. Though I fear,” he added, his lips tightening, “any such benefit may be short-lived. Lady Catherine has declared her intention of accompanying us to Pemberley to assist her daughter in adjusting to her new situation.”
Elizabeth said nothing at first, letting the stillness stretch between them as they continued along the lane. The rhythm of their steps and the faint thud of the horse’s hoofs filled the quiet, but her thoughts churned as she reflected on Mr Darcy’s impending marriage.
While it was true that Miss de Bourgh was neither lively nor of robust health, there was something soft and unassuming in her manner. She seemed a gentle soul, delicately formed and hesitant in company, and Elizabeth had never known her to be anything less than civil.
It was this thought that summoned an uneasy recollection, as the careless remark she had made upon first encountering Lady Catherine’s daughter flashed through her mind.
“I like her appearance. She looks sickly and cross. Yes, she will do for him very well. She will make him a very proper wife.”
Her cheeks warmed at the memory of those flippant, unkind words. She saw now that beneath Miss de Bourgh’s frail appearance and awkward manner lay a profound reserve—a fear of misstepping that was wholly understandable, given the formidable woman who had raised her.
And it struck Elizabeth, with an uncomfortable jolt, how quickly she had once dismissed Mr Darcy in much the same way, judging his character within moments and holding fast to that opinion ever since.
The notion unsettled her more than she cared to admit, for it suggested she might not know the gentleman nearly so well as she believed.
Realizing that neither of them had said anything for some time, and eager to redirect her thoughts, she turned to her companion, speaking with forced brightness. “I am eagerly anticipating tomorrow’s excursion. I have often heard Fairbourne Grange praised for its natural beauty.”
Mr Darcy returned her gaze, the corners of his mouth easing.
“I have only been there on one occasion myself, and it was some years ago.” He paused for a moment before continuing in a quieter tone, “I am especially glad that you will be of the party, as I had hoped for the opportunity to introduce you to my sister.”
Elizabeth’s surprise at this assertion was great, but her expression instantly softened. “I shall be very pleased to meet her.”
Mr Darcy nodded, his gaze moving to the lane ahead.
“She has had a difficult year. There was a disappointment last summer. An ordeal I wish she had never had to endure. She was deceived, most cruelly, by someone who had gained her trust. I cannot say more, but—” He paused, drawing a steadying breath.
“I believe it would do her good to have a lady near in age, someone kind and”—a faint smile tugged at his lips—“someone with spirit, who might draw her out.”
Elizabeth looked away, uncertain of how to respond, but Mr Darcy went on before she had the chance.
“I had always hoped,” he said, almost absently, “that if I were to marry, it would be to someone who could be a true friend to Georgiana. A sister in all but name, and one she might look up to and confide in. Anne is gentle and obliging—unfailingly so—but she has lived quietly, under close supervision. She has never truly moved in society, and I do not know how she will take to the responsibilities of being mistress of Pemberley, or to the task of guiding my sister into the world.”
Elizabeth glanced at him, surprised by the candour of his admission. “It is a great deal to ask of anyone,” she said. “But I am sure your sister could not wish for a more devoted brother.”
He gave a faint smile, but his gaze remained distant.
As they crested a rise in the lane, the familiar gables of the parsonage roof came into view beyond a copse of trees. The sight stirred a sudden awareness in Elizabeth that their walk was nearly at an end.
She turned to him, her expression composed but kind. “Thank you, Mr Darcy. For the escort and for your guidance at the bookshop. I am glad I made the trip into the village.”
“The pleasure was mine,” he replied. “I have enjoyed our conversation.” He paused, then added with a nod, “I shall look forward to seeing you tomorrow at Fairbourne Grange.”
Elizabeth offered a brief curtsey, then turned towards the parsonage gate, acutely aware of his gaze upon her as she made her way to the door.