Chapter 8
Elizabeth woke the next morning with the sixth piece tucked carefully in her reticule. There was a lightness in her chest she had not felt in weeks.
When she checked on Jane, she could not hide her growing happiness.
“You are glowing, Lizzy,” Jane said, her voice still raspy. “Sit, please. Tell me everything, I beg you.”
Elizabeth hesitated, then confessed enough.
Jane’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Lizzy. How wonderful.”
“I do not love him yet. Not quite. But I think… I think I might be beginning to.”
Jane squeezed her hand. “I can see it in your face. You look at him differently now.”
Elizabeth recalled him standing in the study, raw and honest. “Perhaps I am seeing him clearly for the first time. He spent weeks working on those drawings, Jane. Hours spent bent over a desk, thinking of me.”
“That is love, Lizzy.”
“Is it?” Elizabeth worried her bottom lip. “Or is it…I do not know. Fascination? Determination to win a challenge?”
Jane’s gentle laugh filled the room. “Lizzy, at Lucas Lodge, he looked at you as Mr. Bingley looks at me. That is not fascination, dearest. That is devotion.”
Elizabeth was pleased with her sister’s comment. She wanted to believe in Mr. Darcy’s devotion.
“I am frightened,” she said. “What if I am wrong about him? What if I allow myself to feel this and he…”
“What if you do not allow yourself to feel it, and you lose something precious?” Jane countered. “You have fought love enough, Lizzy. You have been cautious enough. Now is the time to simply trust.”
Trust. Such a small word for such an enormous leap.
“I will try,” Elizabeth said.
“Good. Now, go down to breakfast. I suspect a certain gentleman will be eager to see you this morning.”
“Jane!”
“Go,” Jane urged, her eyes dancing despite her pallor. “And Lizzy? Do not fight this. Allow yourself to be happy, please.”
Elizabeth kissed her sister’s forehead, then made her way downstairs, her heart beating faster with each step.
The moment Elizabeth entered the breakfast room, Mr. Darcy’s attention found her like a compass needle finding north. He stood at the sideboard, his expression relaxed.
“Miss Elizabeth,” Mr. Bingley rose with his customary enthusiasm. “Good morning! I trust you slept well. How is Miss Bennet faring this morning? Does she have everything she needs? Do I need to send for the apothecary to attend her? Do you think she might be well enough to join us today?”
Elizabeth smiled. “I thank you for asking, sir. Jane is much improved. She is weak yet. But recovering.”
“Excellent news!” Bingley beamed. “Cook has outdone herself this morning. Please be seated anywhere you choose. We do not stand on ceremony.”
Elizabeth moved to the sideboard, acutely aware that Mr. Darcy stood a mere foot away.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he murmured, his words for her alone. “Might I prepare you a plate?”
A small gesture. However, coming from a man who had servants to perform the task, it was significant.
“Thank you,” she said, meeting his gaze.
The smile that crossed his face was brief but devastating in its warmth.
As he selected items for her, Miss Bingley’s voice cut across the room like a blade wrapped in silk. “How domestic, Mr. Darcy. I had no idea you possessed such skills. Though I suppose in the country, one must adapt to all manner of peculiar customs.”
Her insult was clear. Serving a woman of Elizabeth’s station was beneath him in Miss Bingley’s estimation.
Mr. Darcy did not even glance at her. “I find it no hardship to attend to those I…” He paused, then finished smoothly, “Those whose company I value.”
He handed Elizabeth the plate, and their fingers brushed. The contact was brief, but a current of lightning bolted up her arm.
“Thank you, sir.”
“The pleasure is entirely mine.”
Miss Bingley attacked her eggs aggressively.
Once seated, Mr. Darcy claimed the chair beside Elizabeth. The meal proceeded with Miss Bingley growing increasingly frustrated as every conversational gambit she launched toward Mr. Darcy was met with polite distance. His focus was solely on Elizabeth.
“Will you be walking this morning, Miss Elizabeth?” he asked. “The grounds at Netherfield are quite pleasant, and the weather is clear.”
“I need to remain with Jane.”
“I believe that Miss Bennet would want you to take the air,” Mr. Bingley interjected cheerfully. “Fresh air aids recovery, both for the patient and her devoted sister. You must not exhaust yourself with constant attendance. An hour’s walk would do you good.”
Elizabeth glanced at the man seated alongside her. Seeing hope in his eyes, she said, “Perhaps a brief walk if Jane is resting comfortably.”
“Excellent!” Bingley said. “Darcy, you must show Miss Elizabeth the view from the east rose garden overlooking the pond. The ducks are a delight to see at this hour.”
“It would be my honor,” Mr. Darcy said.
Miss Bingley set down her teacup with enough force to rattle the saucer.
Dipping her head to hide her grin, Elizabeth finished her meal in anticipation of spending time with him.
The morning air was crisp, the plants and shrubs heavy with dew. A maid trailed far enough behind to allow for private discussion.
Bless Bingley’s enthusiastic, meddling heart. The garden was a perfect setting for giving her the next piece.
The fact that she had not fled in horror when he confessed his love had filled him with such relief that he had worked on the seventh piece late into the night, needing to capture the emotion while it still burned bright within him.
He had not expected her to say she loved him in return—not yet, perhaps not ever—but she had touched his hand.
That small gesture had given him hope enough to light the world.
“Do you have regrets, Elizabeth?” he asked, unable to bear the silence between them any longer. “About what I told you in the study?”
She faced him fully, her expression thoughtful rather than alarmed. “Why would I?”
“Because I revealed too much, too quickly. I should have been more cautious, more measured.” He struggled to find the proper words. “Richard always says I leap rather than step carefully when my feelings are engaged. That my intensity can be…overwhelming.”
“Are you overwhelming me now?” Gratefully, her tone was playful.
“I hope not.” He met her eyes, willing her to understand.
“I cannot seem to help myself where you are concerned, Elizabeth. I have tried to proceed slowly, to court you properly with the drawings, to give you time to become accustomed to the idea of…” He stopped, aware he was doing it again.
“And there. You see? I cannot even discuss my intensity without being intense about it.”
The corner of her mouth curved upward. “I had noticed.”
“Does it trouble you?”
She considered the question with the seriousness it deserved.
“At first, yes. When I believed you were merely playing some elaborate game, your intensity felt dangerous. Manipulative, even.” She glanced down at her hands, then back to him.
“However, now I understand it is simply…you, the way your mind works, the depth of your feelings when you allow yourself to feel them…” She paused.
“No, it does not trouble me. Though it does rather take my breath away sometimes.”
“In a good way or a terrible way?”
“I have not yet decided,” she said, her smile brilliant. “Do you regret telling me?”
“No.” The word came out without hesitation. “Never. I regret only that I may have burdened you with the knowledge before you were ready to receive my proclamation.”
She was quiet for almost a full circle of the fountain at the center of the roses. His heart hammered against his ribs. Had he said too much again? Pushed too hard? Moved too quickly?
Then she stopped walking, turning to face him. He forgot how to breathe.
“I cannot claim the same feelings,” she said. His heart plummeted. “Not yet. But Fitzwilliam…”
His given name from her lips startled him. It was unexpected, though it pleased him beyond measure. He would never tire of hearing it from her.
“Quid pro quo, sir. Since you choose to address me familiarly, do you mind that I did the same to you?”
“Mind? Never.”
A barely perceptible relaxation of her shoulders, a warming in her eyes, let him know without words that she appreciated his immediate response.
She had been testing him, he realized. Seeing if he would retreat from the intimacy he had initiated, if he would balk when she claimed the same privilege.
He had passed.
“I want to…” She hesitated, choosing her words with unusual care. “To see if what I am beginning to feel might grow to equal what you have offered me.”
The relief was so intense it almost staggered him. He closed his eyes briefly, struggling for composure. “That is more than I dared hope for,” he managed.
“Is it enough?”
Enough? “You are giving me a chance, your honesty instead of easy platitudes. It is everything,” he said, and meant it with every fiber of his being.
He reached for her hand, then stopped himself. Propriety. The maid. He could not compromise her, not when she was giving him the gift of possibility. They resumed walking. Gradually, his racing heart steadied.
“Pray tell me about your estate, Fitzwilliam.”
Pemberley had always been his pride, his responsibility, his burden. Describing it to Elizabeth, watching her face as he spoke of the tenant families and the improvements he planned to make, it became a future he could offer her. A home he wanted to share.
“And your sister?” she asked. “Tell me about Miss Darcy.”
The question sent warmth through his chest, knowing she was curious about his life, his family, and the people who mattered to him.
“She is almost sixteen, shy, musical, and far too trusting.” The familiar pain tightened his throat. “I have perhaps been overprotective since our father died. She has no mother to guide her, only Richard and me. I fear I am inadequate to the task of raising a young woman.”
“You love her,” Elizabeth said simply. “That is not inadequate.”
If only it were that simple.
“Love is not always sufficient protection.” The words sounded bitter in his ears.
“Why not?” She was gentle, inviting confidence.
He had not spoken to anyone outside the family about Georgiana's near elopement.
Even Richard knew only the barest facts.
But Elizabeth was asking, and he wanted to tell her.
He needed her to understand why he was careful with trust, protective to the point of severity, and cautious with those he did not know well.
“She was nearly deceived by someone I once trusted into a…a quick journey to Scotland,” he said carefully. “Someone who once was a friend. It was only by chance that I discovered the scheme in time to prevent her ruin.”
He easily recalled the tears staining Georgiana’s face when he confronted Wickham at Ramsgate. How close they came to disaster.
“How terrible for her,” Elizabeth said. “For both of you.”
Her sympathy soothed him. She understood. Not the details since he could not share those, not yet, but the weight of the events. The fear. The responsibility.
“It taught me to be even more cautious,” he said. Then, meeting her eyes, “And yet with you, I find I cannot be cautious at all. I can only be honest.”
“I prefer honesty.”
“Do you?” He smiled despite himself. “That is well, because I seem incapable of anything else in your presence.”
It was true. Every carefully constructed wall he had built around himself crumbled when she was near. She had defeated his reserve in far fewer moves than she had in the first game she won at chess.
She began telling him about her own family then—her frustration with her mother’s schemes, her love for her father despite his sardonic distance, her hopes of seeing more of the world than Hertfordshire.
“You would love the Lake District,” he said, imagining her there with an ardor that bordered on physical pain. “The landscapes are extraordinary. Perhaps—”
He stopped himself just in time. He wanted to say, ‘Perhaps we could travel together, and you could see them with me as my wife.’ Too much. Too soon, Darcy!
“Perhaps?” she prompted.
“Perhaps someday you might see them,” he finished carefully.
But he saw understanding in her eyes. She knew what he had not said. And it did not appear to frighten her. Thank heavens!
They walked on, and Darcy committed to memory the way the morning light caught in her dark hair, the sound of her laugh when he made an unexpectedly dry observation about Bingley’s enthusiasm, and the way she listened—truly listened—when he spoke, as if his words mattered to her.
This was what he had been drawing in his study every evening. This feeling of being seen, of being known, of being worth knowing.
If he could capture this in the final pieces, if he could show her what he saw when he looked at her—not only beauty, but intelligence, courage, compassion, fire—perhaps she would comprehend why he loved her.
Why he would always love her. Why four moves were all it took to checkmate his heart completely.