Chapter 7
Elizabeth sat beside Jane’s bed, pressing a cool cloth to her sister’s forehead. The fever had broken during the night, leaving Jane weak but lucid.
“I wanted you here so desperately, Lizzy.” Jane’s voice was still hoarse.
“My pleasure.” Elizabeth refreshed the cloth in the basin. “Seeing you so ill frightens me terribly.”
Jane’s smile was wan but genuine. “I am improving already, from having you here.” She paused.
“Lizzy, I will admit to some frustration since it is irritating to be so close to Mr. Bingley and be unable to see him properly. He has been so attentive. At his request, his housekeeper, Mrs. Nicholls, waits upon me constantly. I am… I am treated with generosity.” She gestured toward the table next to her bed.
“I could never possibly enjoy this many sweetmeats or tea.”
Jane’s expression turned sly. “Mr. Darcy has also been solicitous about my welfare. Apparently, he is about yours as well since I heard his voice in the corridor before you entered.”
Elizabeth’s hands stilled on the cloth. “He politely showed me to your room.”
Jane reached for Elizabeth’s hand. “No, it was so much more than that. I heard him speak your name, and I heard him offer to provide whatever you need for your comfort and my care. The way he watches you in a room full of people…” She broke off, coughing into her handkerchief.
When she recovered enough to continue, her voice was rougher.
“I have witnessed this myself. Miss Bingley fairly bristles when he is near you, which happens whether we are at Lucas Lodge or elsewhere.”
Heat crept into Elizabeth’s cheeks. “He is being courteous.”
“Lizzy.” Jane squeezed her fingers. “I have eyes. So does everyone else in Meryton. Mr. Darcy has been seeking your company for weeks now. Why do you resist seeing what is so plain to everyone else?”
“Because…” Elizabeth stopped, her feelings in a tangle. “Because he insulted me, Jane. Quite deliberately.” Good heavens! Could she not think of another reply? She had been over her ire for weeks.
“Lizzy,” Jane continued. “He has spent considerable time making amends. He recognized his faults and is striving to be a better man. Is that not the most admirable quality a gentleman could possess?”
Unable to argue with such gentle wisdom, Elizabeth worried her bottom lip with her teeth. “Jane, I…”
“You should not spend all your time in this room with me, Lizzy. I need rest to recover properly, which I cannot do if you hover. You should go down to the others. Spend time in company.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to protest, but Jane’s knowing grin stopped her.
“Lizzy, if Mama has her way, she would have me languish here for weeks to secure Mr. Bingley’s attachment.”
Despite herself, Elizabeth laughed. “She would, would she not?”
“With that said, I have no wish to be ill a moment longer than necessary.” Jane grew serious. “Please, dearest, for both our sakes, allow yourself to see what I already see.”
“And what is that?”
“That, like Mr. Bingley, Mr. Darcy is an admirable man.” Jane was earnest. “We are very fortunate, I think, to have such gentlemen in Meryton. Do not let pride or past hurts blind you to what might be right in front of you, Sister. You have too much to lose if you do.”
Jane’s words settled over her like a warm cloth. Perhaps she was correct. Perhaps it was time to open her eyes and see Mr. Darcy for the man he truly was.
“Rest now,” Elizabeth said, kissing Jane’s forehead. “I will wait until you sleep before I attend my hosts.”
Preparing to leave the room, her thoughts were not on her sister at all. Instead, they were on a certain artist who might possibly be in some quiet corner of Netherfield, bent over a desk with ink-stained fingers, thinking of her.
She rather hoped he was.
Elizabeth joined the others in the drawing room after Jane had fallen asleep peacefully. The moment she entered, Mr. Darcy’s eyes found her. He stood near the fireplace, but his attention was entirely on her approach.
“Miss Elizabeth,” Mr. Bingley rose immediately, his smile warm. “I trust Miss Bennet is resting comfortably?”
“She is, thank you. Now that her fever has broken, I believe she will return to good health soon.”
“Excellent news!” Mr. Bingley beamed. “I am hoping you choose to remain to care for your sister. If you both stay at Netherfield for at least a few more days, you can see to her recovery. Your presence much improves the house.”
“How kind you are, sir,” Elizabeth said, taking the seat he offered near the fire, which happened to be adjacent to where Mr. Darcy stood.
Miss Bingley’s voice pierced the quiet of the room. “Miss Eliza, I was quite shocked to see the state of your petticoat. Six inches deep in mud! I cannot imagine walking three miles through such conditions. But then, you country girls are so much hardier than London ladies.”
The insult was thinly veiled, and everyone in the room heard it.
Before Elizabeth could respond, Mr. Darcy said, “I find it admirable when a person acts decisively in service of those they love, without regard for personal comfort or appearance. This demonstrates a strength of character that is far more valuable than any amount of delicacy.”
His eyes never left Elizabeth’s face as he spoke.
Miss Bingley’s expression soured. “Oh, I am certain you are right, Mr. Darcy. You always are. Though I do think there is something to be said about maintaining proper standards of…”
“I am not always right, Miss Bingley,” Darcy interrupted. “My errors are many.” Looking back at Elizabeth, he said, “Perhaps you would prefer to spend your time with your sister reading. Bingley’s library, though modest, has some interesting volumes.”
“I would very much enjoy a new book,” Elizabeth said, grateful for the reprieve from Miss Bingley’s barbs.
“Then allow me to show you to the library. I am familiar with Bingley’s collection and can make a recommendation to suit your tastes.” He extended his hand to help her rise. Elizabeth took it without thinking. His fingers were warm, steady, and for a moment, neither moved.
“How very attentive you are, Mr. Darcy.” Miss Bingley’s voice was strung tight. “Though surely a servant could…”
“I am happy to be of service,” Darcy said, still not looking at Miss Bingley. He led Elizabeth to the door.
As they stepped into the corridor, they heard Miss Bingley’s sharp exhale of frustration.
“I apologize for Miss Bingley’s behavior. She can be…thoughtless.”
“You defended me,” Elizabeth said, surprised by how much his words had affected her. “You did not need to do that, especially to her.”
“I did need to,” he said simply. “I highly approve of your decision to walk to Netherfield to care for your sister. I could not stand by and hear you criticized.”
They walked in silence down the corridor. She was acutely aware of his presence beside her, of the inches between them that were charged with possibility.
“The library is ahead,” he said as they rounded a corner. “There is something I should tell you first.”
“What is that?”
He stopped walking, turning to face her. In the dimly lit corridor, his eyes were almost black, intense, and searching.
Elizabeth’s heart raced.
“My project. For you. I…” He paused, mustering his courage. “If you permit it, I would very much like to show you.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. “Show me what?”
“Come with me,” he said. “Please.”
Without quite knowing why, Elizabeth followed him deeper into Netherfield.
He did not lead her to the library. Instead, he stopped before a door near the end of the corridor, one she had not noticed before. His hand hesitated on the handle.
“This is Bingley’s study,” he said. “He has allowed me to use it during my stay. My valet, Parker, is inside, so we will not be alone.” He cleared his throat. “I have been…” He paused, struggling for words. “I have been spending my evenings here.”
He opened the door, and Elizabeth entered. An older man sat reading in the corner, not looking up when they walked in but clearly aware of their presence.
The room was small but comfortable, lit by several candles clustered on a large mahogany desk near the window. When Elizabeth saw what lay on the desk, she could only stare.
Drawing paper. Dozens of sheets, some completed, some half-finished. Others crumpled and discarded. Ink bottles in various shades sat next to pans of paint. Fine brushes arranged with careful precision. In the center of it all was a drawing in progress.
The chessboard.
Turning to face him, she asked, “Why?”
He stood just inside the doorway, his expression unguarded.
“I needed to show you because I could not find the words I needed to say.” He gestured to the scattered papers. “That morning, when you defeated me, forcing me to see myself clearly, changed everything. You changed everything.”
Elizabeth’s hand went to the desk, steadying herself. Among the chaos, she spotted earlier attempts. Some had her wrist in the wrong position. Others showed the proportions of her fingers wrong. Proof that he had worked and reworked each piece until it was exactly right.
She glanced at him, puzzled by the depth of emotion in his voice.
“I could not stop thinking about you. About that morning. About the way you held yourself with dignity even in your anger. About how you gave me exactly what I deserved and somehow made me grateful for it.”
She picked up one of the crumpled papers and smoothed it out. The trim of her sleeve was slightly off. He had been teaching himself to capture her precisely.
“You spent all this time drawing me.” She met his eyes. “Thinking about me.”
“Every second I could spare.” He was close now, close enough that she could see the ink stains on his fingers, the evidence she had been noticing for weeks.
“I wanted you to see what I saw. Not the woman I dismissed at the assembly, but the woman I have come to—” He stopped, the words too large for the moment.
“Come to what?” Elizabeth’s heart was pounding.
His eyes met hers, dark and intense. “Admire. Respect.” He paused. “Love.”
The word hung in the air between them.
“You love me?” Elizabeth repeated, trying to make sense of his admission. “You are drawing me because you love me?”
He gestured to the incomplete piece on the desk. “This, as you are aware, is Fool’s Mate. Do you understand what I am trying to say?”
She looked at the position of the pieces. “You walked into my trap. Four moves.”
“Yes.” He moved closer still, until they were standing side by side at the desk.
“Four moves. Four moments that changed everything. The first—when you challenged me. The second—when I realized I was blind to your trap. The third—when you claimed my queen, and I understood how badly I underestimated you. The fourth—when you declared checkmate, and I knew, in that instant, that I would never be the same.”
He turned to face her fully. “Four moves, Elizabeth, and my heart was yours.”
Her eyes widened at hearing her given name from his lips.
“I know I have no right to your regard,” he said, laying out his vulnerability for her to see.
“I know what I said at the assembly can never be unsaid. But Elizabeth—” Her name sounded like a prayer.
“I have spent every day since trying to become the man who might deserve you. I have drawn these pieces not as an apology, but as a promise that I see you, that I value you, that I…”
“Love me,” she finished, her voice barely audible.
“Yes.” The word was simple, absolute. “God help me, yes.”
Elizabeth stared at him, the man who defended her to Miss Bingley without hesitation, who looked at her now as if she were the only woman in the world.
“I do not know what to say,” she said.
“You do not need to say anything.” He moved back, giving her space. “I do not expect…I am not asking for…” He ran his hand through his hair. “I simply needed you to know. To understand what you have done to me, what you mean to me.”
She counted the pieces on the desk. One was missing. “You sketched the whole chessboard, then divided the drawing into pieces?
“I did.” He lifted the corner of the paper. “Before I gave one of the pieces to you, I filled in the details.”
She had to ask. “The ninth piece, what will it show?”
His smile was slight. “You will have to wait and see. That is, if you wish to continue receiving them.”
“And if I do not?”
A bolt of pain crossed his face. “Then I will stop. Immediately. All of this…” He gestured to the papers on the desk. “Would be consigned to the fire. I would never—”
“No!” The word burst from Elizabeth before she could stop it. “You cannot…” She stopped, realizing what she had revealed. Heat flooded her cheeks. Elizabeth drew a steadying breath. Boldly, she studied his face. “Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, I want to see the ninth piece.”
Hope flickered—no, blazed—in his expression. “You do?”
“Yes. I want to see how this story ends.”
“Then you shall.” He selected a finished piece, handling it with reverent care before offering it to her. “This is the sixth. Three more remain.”
“Three more encounters?”
“If you will grant them to me?”
Elizabeth reconsidered Jane’s words, of what she stood to lose if pride and past hurts blinded her. Of this man standing open and honest before her, so different from the proud gentleman who insulted her weeks ago.
“I will.”
The smile that transformed his face was worth every moment of uncertainty.
“Thank you for giving me this chance.” He gestured at the evidence of his devotion. “For not running away when you saw all this.”
“I nearly did,” she said with a small laugh. “However, anyone who would spend this much time and effort to show me their true character deserves to be heard.”
A stone weight lifted from her heart, a weight she had not known she carried. She did not love him, not yet. Nevertheless, the beginning of it, the possibility of it…pleased her.
“I should return to Jane,” she finally said, though she did not move.
“Of course.” He did not move either.
“The others will wonder where we are.”
“They will.”
Still, neither of them moved.
Finally, with visible effort, he stepped back and opened the door. “I will escort you back to her room.”
As they left the study, Elizabeth glanced back. His valet looked up from his book with a small, knowing smile before returning to his reading. The papers on the desk lay undisturbed.
Two hands reaching toward the same piece. Two hearts moving toward the same future? She simply could not yet know the answer.
Three more pieces remained. She could hardly wait.