Chapter 11 #2
Miss de Bourgh’s eyes widened, clearly unaccustomed to such a profusion of words, as Mr Collins bowed low before returning the handkerchief with a flourish. From her place near the windows, Lady Catherine’s eyes narrowed into slits.
“Thank you, Mr Collins,” she said curtly. “You may sit down.”
Then, flicking her gaze towards her daughter, she gave a sharp nod. Miss de Bourgh accepted the basket with visible reluctance. She hesitated, surveying the remaining tokens, before extracting a gold signet ring. Turning to Mr Darcy, she said shyly, “I believe this is yours, sir?”
Before Mr Darcy could respond, Colonel Fitzwilliam called out easily, “An excellent guess, as Darcy does possess one very like it. But in this case, the ring is mine.”
Two vivid spots of colour rose on Miss de Bourgh’s countenance, and Lady Catherine’s expression soured further as her daughter murmured, “I—forgive me for my mistake.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam tilted his head, his smile genial but expectant. “Well, what will it be, then, Cousin? Are you to reveal a truth or pay a compliment?”
Miss de Bourgh glanced quickly at her mother, then at the ring in her hand, before blushing a deeper shade of crimson. “You are…always kind to me,” she said in a low voice. “And very amusing.”
There was a brief hush, followed by a few polite murmurs of approval. Colonel Fitzwilliam stood, offering a courtly bow before walking over to retrieve his ring, but Elizabeth did not miss the tight set of Lady Catherine’s mouth.
Mr Darcy was next. Elizabeth watched with keen interest as he accepted the basket from Miss de Bourgh and settled it before him on the table.
He examined its contents with his usual gravity, his brow slightly furrowed in consideration.
After a pause, he reached inside, withdrawing a faded lilac ribbon.
He held it for a moment, the silk reflecting the light. “This,” he said, his voice low but sure, “belongs to a person of uncommon worth. Someone whose courage always rises in proportion to the obstacles they face, and whose strength lies not in display but in resilience.”
His gaze lifted, steady and intent. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
A hush settled over the gathering, and Elizabeth felt a surge of warmth rising along her neck. Her pulse quickened as her eyes held his, until at last she dipped her head, managing a faint but even smile.
From the corner of her vision, she caught Lady Catherine’s expression, her lips pressed thin, eyes narrowing with unveiled disapproval as they flicked between her nephew and Elizabeth. The look was fleeting but barbed enough to leave its mark.
“Well said, Darcy,” Colonel Fitzwilliam murmured, clearing his throat as though to relieve the stillness.
Mr Darcy pushed back his chair, striding to the place where Elizabeth sat and returning the ribbon with a brief bow. Elizabeth’s heart, however, continued to race as his sister reached timidly for the wicker hamper.
Miss Darcy’s slender fingers hovered over the contents for a moment before she reached in, pulling out a gentleman’s pocket watch on a fine gold chain. She turned it over in her hand, then raised her gaze, shy but resolute, towards Mr Bingley.
“I believe this is yours, sir,” she offered. “And I should like to thank you…for being so kind as to escort me to Kent. It was my first journey without my brother or my cousin, and I was quite nervous, but you made it all seem easy.”
Mr Bingley’s smile was sincere, his reply equally so. “The honour has been mine, Miss Darcy.”
A delicate pink stained her countenance as he moved in her direction to retrieve the watch before resuming his place.
Now it was Elizabeth’s turn.
Only three items remained in the basket: a small branch, a plain linen handkerchief, and a wooden button.
Her fingers hovered uncertainly. Her thoughts were still unsettled from Mr Darcy’s unexpected words, and for a moment she could scarcely recall who had yet to be chosen.
At last, her gaze fixed on the sprig of yew, its dark, aromatic presence instantly familiar.
She lifted it with care, turning it thoughtfully in her hand.
“This,” she began, her voice quieter than usual, “I believe was taken from the maze here at Fairbourne Grange. So I must guess…Miss Darcy?”
The girl offered her a gentle smile but shook her head.
Elizabeth’s pulse quickened as she turned to the lady’s brother. “Mr Darcy?”
He nodded in confirmation. Her skin prickled, and she allowed herself to meet his eyes only briefly before continuing, her words steady but subdued.
“I cannot hope to equal Mr Darcy’s eloquence in his compliment to me, but I will say this—I have recently realized that first impressions are not always to be trusted. And Mr Darcy’s character, I believe, is one that improves appreciably upon closer acquaintance.”
She forced herself to hold his gaze for a moment more before lowering her eyes. The compliment was simple, but she hoped it might be understood.
A rustle of skirts and the sharp snap of a fan broke the silence. Lady Catherine’s eyes fixed upon Elizabeth with a look that hovered between incredulity and disdain. She uttered no words, but the tightening of her mouth conveyed all that was necessary.
Mr Darcy tipped his chin in acknowledgment, his expression unreadable. Elizabeth hurried to return the sprig of greenery, grateful for the murmur of voices that rose again, covering, for the moment, the pounding of her own thoughts.
As Elizabeth resumed her seat, her gaze flicked instinctively to Jane, who met her eyes with a lifted brow. She acknowledged her sister with a faint smile, just as Jane reached for the basket. After a moment’s consideration, she selected the neatly folded handkerchief.
“This must belong to Miss Darcy,” Jane said amiably. “And I commend her grace and composure, qualities I admire very much, particularly in new company.”
The young girl blushed delicately and whispered a soft but sincere thank you as Jane returned the handkerchief and passed the basket to Charlotte.
Only one item remained: the wooden button. Charlotte plucked it out with a crooked smile.
“Mr Collins, I presume?”
Mr Collins puffed up with visible gratification. “Indeed, madam. I carry it always, for it once secured the cuff of a coat belonging to the late Reverend Wadsworth, my most esteemed mentor.”
Charlotte hesitated a beat before offering her compliment.
“Then I shall say that Mr Collins is…unfailingly consistent. One always knows what to expect, and that is no small thing in a world so full of surprises.”
A ripple of polite laughter followed, and Mr Collins beamed, clearly receiving the remark as high praise.
As the final token was returned and the basket set aside, conversation resumed with renewed ease.
Yet Elizabeth remained thoughtful, her fingers grazing the ribbon now tucked discreetly in her lap.
From his place at the foot of the table, Mr Darcy’s gaze lingered, as though something had shifted between them.
Before she could dwell on it, Lady Catherine rose abruptly, her skirts swirling like a gathering storm. “I believe,” she declared, her tone sharp with authority, “it is high time we were on our way. The day is waning, and I shall not have Anne fatigued by excessive diversion.”
The words fell with an unmistakable edge, casting a shadow over the assembled company. The spell of the afternoon was broken.
As everyone stirred to collect themselves, Elizabeth cast one last glance at Mr Darcy. The moment they had shared still thrummed beneath the surface. She did not know what it meant, but she could not shake the sense that some private conversation between them had only just begun.