Chapter 13
Scots Pine
The next two days passed in a rather mundane way.
Mr. Darcy was still missing, which caused Elizabeth more concern than she had believed she would feel for the man.
She even thought of penning the letter to Colonel Fitzwilliam all by herself…
until she remembered that she did not have an address to send it to.
And she was not going to ask Lady Catherine for it if she could help it.
But then, on the afternoon of the third day, when she decided to go read a book in the garden under the shade of the large Scots pine tree, Mr. Darcy suddenly appeared.
“Goodness, Mr. Darcy!” Elizabeth cried as her heart practically leapt out of her chest. “Someone should tie a bell to you!”
“I apolo–”
“Yes, yes, I know!” she said, standing up and dusting her skirts. She glared at him.
“Where were you? I thought something had happened!”
Elizabeth twisted her shaking fingers into her skirt as she took in his appearance. For the most part, Mr. Darcy looked the same as always. But there was a new gauntness to his face. She frowned. “Are you unwell?”
“I…” Mr. Darcy started. And then he simply stared at her.
A slow blush crept onto Elizabeth’s face at the intensity in his gaze. As if he could read something that surprised him.
“...I do not know,” he said.
“Where were you?” Elizabeth repeated more quietly. The thump-thump-thump in her chest had begun to slow down.
“I…” Mr. Darcy frowned and then looked around them. “Am I in the parsonage?”
She nodded.
He did not say anything for a moment. Just took in the trees and bushes, before his eyes settled on the book she had left at the foot of the pine, next to her reticule.
“I hope I am not interrupting you, Miss Bennet.”
Elizabeth shook her head. She let go of her skirts and tried to strike an image of composure. Her fingers twinged as blood rushed back into them.
“It has been two days since I last saw you,” she said. “I was… worried.”
They stood silently across from each other. Their gazes locked. There was a softness in Mr. Darcy’s eyes that Elizabeth had never seen before. And then she noticed the faint pink creeping across his face.
“I do not know where I was,” he said. “The last thing I remember was standing next to you… in your room before the mirror.”
Surprise lifted Elizabeth’s eyebrows.
“Oh.”
She quickly picked up her reticule from the ground. Then she partially pulled out the folded pages and pencil from within. “I have been carrying these with me in hopes you will appear.” Her face heated suddenly. She bit her lip.
“Ah… sorry to keep you waiting,” Mr. Darcy said.
They both shifted uncertainly, across from each other.
In another moment, they were both seated on the garden bench only a little distance away from the Scots pine.
“Well,” Elizabeth said. She had her sheaf of pages in her lap, cushioned over her book. Pencil in hand. “I am ready when you are, Mr. Darcy.”
They started to work on the letter.
At first, it was a simple enough task.
They had to make the letter urgent enough so Colonel Fitzwilliam would not ignore it, or set it aside. Elizabeth decided to do away with civilities while remaining formal. But soon they reached the point where she had to prove she was indeed communicating with Mr. Darcy’s spirit.
“Gracious, Mr. Darcy! I would have never imagined you capable of this.”
Elizabeth nearly snorted as she finished writing about the “Fitzwilliam secret stash” and how a young Darcy had kicked his older cousin into an overfilled ditch because of a dispute over jam and scones.
“I aim to please,” he said, a satisfied smirk on his face.
Elizabeth stared at him for a moment. And then burst into laughter.
“A jest, Mr. Darcy? I would not have believed you capable of that either if I had not heard it myself.”
Mr. Darcy smiled ruefully at her. “There is much about me you do not know, Miss Bennet.”
“So it seems,” Elizabeth said, sobering immediately.
He was not wrong.
She had only started to realize that.
Mr. Darcy looked at her questioningly, but she shook her head.
They continued with their task. And after a while Mr. Darcy requested that she finish the rest of the letter in his words. It would lend more authenticity… or so he said.
Elizabeth just hoped Colonel Fitzwilliam would believe it. She was risking much by writing to an unrelated man. That too about such an outlandish thing!
But it was only once they reached the part where Mr. Darcy began to speak of his sister…
—and Elizabeth had barely scratched out a line on the page—
…when he suddenly seemed to choke up, and vanished once more!