Chapter 12 Confrontations
CHAPTER TWELVE
CONFRONTATIONS
As was her custom, Elizabeth rose early and made her way to Oakham Mount, just as the first blush of dawn coloured the horizon. A footman from Netherfield met her almost as soon as she exited the gardens and followed her at a slight distance to offer some measure of protection.
The air was cool and fragrant, the world hushed save for the song of the birds.
There she found Mr Darcy awaiting her, his handsome figure in sharp contrast against the pale morning light.
The warmth of his smile as she approached sent a flutter through her chest that her brisk walk could not account for.
They met cautiously, both almost reaching for the other, but holding back ever so slightly. There was still a trace of hesitancy in their intimacy, for they were only beginning to learn one another. When they spoke, their voices were quiet, as though the stillness of the mount required it.
Their conversation wandered easily from trifles—childhood games, favourite books, the mischievous habits of Elizabeth’s siblings, and the outrageous behaviour of Darcy’s cousins—to more thoughtful turns. Each revelation they offered felt like a gift, received with careful delight.
“You must have been a most solemn boy at school,” Elizabeth teased, her eyes alight with mischief.
Darcy’s lips curved into a rueful smile. “So solemn, Miss Elizabeth, that I fear I must rely upon you now to teach me how to laugh properly.”
Her answering laugh rang softly in the morning air, and when he joined her, his own was rich and unguarded, the sound settling warmly into her heart. His gaze lingered upon her as though every word she spoke, every glance she offered, only deepened his admiration beyond recall.
“Truly, I was always a quiet child,” Darcy admitted softly, “only at ease with those I knew well—such as my cousin, Richard. At times, I have wondered if that is why my father preferred George Wickham’s company to my own.”
Elizabeth’s heart stirred with compassion for the little boy still buried within the man before her.
Almost without thinking, she laid a hand upon his arm in sympathy.
“Then your father was very short-sighted, sir,” she said gently, her eyes warm.
“For he overlooked a son of worth in favour of a flatterer. I daresay it is fortunate that you do not follow his example in the choice of your companions.”
A faint smile touched Darcy’s lips, but his eyes betrayed how deeply her words had moved him. Although Elizabeth did not yet have a name for it, in that moment she fell a little more in love with him.
With every brush of his sleeve against hers, every shared glance, there was an unspoken awareness of their growing connexion.
Elizabeth found herself watching the play of sunlight across his features, wondering when she had ceased to think him proud and had begun instead to find him captivating.
Darcy, for his part, could scarcely resist the urge to take her hand in his own, but he mastered the impulse and contented himself, for the present, with the simple joy of her nearness.
Nearly an hour slipped away before they realised how long they had lingered together. A reluctant parting followed—Darcy bound for Netherfield, Elizabeth for Longbourn—yet each carried into the day a tender assurance that their morning walks were no longer idle diversions.
When Elizabeth returned, she took breakfast with her family, still wrapped in the gentle haze of her meeting with Darcy.
The memory lingered as she ate, leaving her scarcely aware of those around her, and it was fortunate that her altered manner passed unnoticed by her mother, father, and younger sisters.
Jane, however, observed it keenly, and though she could not account for the cause, a faint unease stole over her—an unwelcome suspicion that her sister was keeping something from her, and that whatever it was had brought Elizabeth a happiness she herself longed to claim.
Resolved to speak with her, Jane sought her out after the meal and discovered Elizabeth in the music room, a book open in her hands though her gaze rested not upon the page.
For a moment Jane hesitated, uncertain how to begin, then, gathering her courage, she crossed the room and approached her sister.
“Lizzy,” she began softly. “I have something I must tell you.”
Glancing up, Elizabeth lifted her brows in surprise. “You sound very serious, Jane, dearest. What is the matter?”
Jane clasped her hands together, her composure faltering. “I spoke with Mr Wickham last evening. He—he warned me that Mr Darcy’s attentions towards you may not be what they appear. He knows Mr Darcy well, or at least he did until the two stopped speaking a few years ago.”
Elizabeth’s lips curved in a wry little smile. “Oh, Jane. Do not let Mr Wickham trouble your thoughts. I already know the truth of it. He is not to be trusted.”
Taken aback at Elizabeth’s manner, Jane blinked as she stared at her sister. “You… already know?”
“I do,” Elizabeth said, closing her book as she gave her sister her full attention.
“Mr Darcy told me the truth of his entire acquaintance with that man. Not only that, he has spoken to Papa about it and, if you recall, Papa warned us about the militia members in general and Mr Wickham in particular the other evening at dinner. He is a practised deceiver, a profligate and seducer who would say anything to make himself appear the injured party. Whatever he told you, I assure you it was for his own purpose and benefit, not yours—and certainly not mine.”
Jane’s colour rose. She had braced herself to guide, to protect, perhaps even to warn her sister of a danger unseen.
Instead, she felt the ground slip beneath her.
Elizabeth did not believe her words and, as usual, thought she knew best. She had dismissed Jane’s warning entirely.
Whatever satisfaction Jane had felt in knowing something her sister did not in holding secret knowledge now curdled into feelings of disquiet, and she could only murmur, “If you are certain, Lizzy…”
Giving her sister’s hand a reassuring squeeze, Elizabeth said, “I am quite certain. Pray do not give that man another thought.”
For a few minutes, the sisters regarded one another in silence.
Elizabeth weighed whether she ought to reveal her courtship with Mr Darcy and confess more regarding the reasons for her altered opinion of him, yet something in Jane’s manner restrained her from doing so.
For now, only her father and Mary were aware of the entire story, and she cherished the secrecy.
Others must learn of it in due course, but she almost wished her mother might remain in ignorance until the engagement was formally declared.
Sensing that Elizabeth withheld some private confidence, Jane soon withdrew, her heart still uneasy.
She had hoped her sister would listen, not set her aside so readily.
Her composure—so calm, so assured—left Jane diminished by comparison.
Elizabeth had dismissed Mr Wickham’s words with ease while Jane had turned them over endlessly, her mind unable to find rest. The contrast stung.
So too did the feeling that Elizabeth, once again, had shown herself the stronger of the two.
Elizabeth, with her quiet confidence, had secured Mr Darcy’s steady attention while Jane remained uncertain of Mr Bingley’s intentions.
It seemed cruelly unjust that Elizabeth, who had once professed disdain for Darcy, should now appear the object of his regard, while Jane—who had offered her heart with the utmost sincerity—was left to wonder if hers was even returned.
She pressed a hand to her breast, as though to quiet its restless ache.
She loved Elizabeth dearly—she always had—but in that moment her sister’s certainty felt like a reproach.
Gentleness and grace had long won Jane admiration, yet what use were they if they left her uncertain, overlooked, and afraid?
As Jane lingered by the window, her discontent continued to press upon her.
Elizabeth’s assurance, her knack for commanding notice, had always guided their conversations and their laughter.
Jane had accepted this without resentment—until now.
For once, she had thought herself the wiser, the one with knowledge to impart, only to be corrected, even patronised.
The sting of it lingered, sharper than she wished to admit.
She loved Elizabeth, yes—but love did not shield her from the ache of envy nor the guilty wish that, for once, her sister might be the one found wanting.
There was a part of her that felt some guilt for her accusations of her sister at Netherfield, but she was determined to learn all she could to prove herself right in this matter. .
Later that afternoon, Mr Bingley and Mr Darcy called at Longbourn. Mrs Hurst was with them, and she brought an invitation to a ball, to be held at Netherfield in a se’nnight.
Mrs Bennet was delighted and viewed this personal invitation as a sign of Mr Bingley’s admiration for her eldest daughter.
Between the effusions from her and Mr Collins, neither of the elder two Bennet daughters was able to say anything to their suitor, especially since Mrs Bennet was unaware that one of her daughters was being courted.
However, Mrs Bennet encouraged Jane to walk with Mr Bingley to the door, and Elizabeth, seeing an opportunity to speak to Mr Darcy, joined her sister in leading their guests out.
“Will you reserve the first and the supper sets for me, Elizabeth?” Darcy whispered into her ear as they followed behind the others.