Chapter 19
Elizabeth
Elizabeth heard the hoofbeats before she saw the horse.
She was on the lane between Meryton and Longbourn, walking back in the grey light of late afternoon.
She had been walking since dawn — the second dawn, the second day of searching.
Her feet were numb in her boots and her throat was raw from calling and her hope was down to the thin, stubborn thread that was the only thing keeping her moving.
She had covered every path again, every farm, every ditch within two miles.
She had walked the Haye Park road and the Meryton road and the lane to Lucas Lodge and the path that wound through the fields behind the Longbourn estate, all of it for the second time. She had found nothing. Again.
The afternoon was fading. The sky was low and grey and the wind was picking up, carrying the smell of rain. She should go home. She should eat something. She should sleep.
She could not face the empty blanket at the foot of her bed for another night. She could not.
The hoofbeats came from behind her. Fast. A single horse, coming from the direction of the Haye Park road, riding hard. Elizabeth stopped and turned and shaded her eyes against the grey light.
A dark horse. A tall rider. The horse was lathered. The rider was leaning forward in the saddle with the urgency of a man who had somewhere to be and could not get there fast enough.
Darcy.
He saw her. He reined the horse to a halt at the Longbourn gate, twenty yards ahead of her, and dismounted before it had fully stopped.
He was dishevelled. His coat was open. His cravat was loose and crooked and his hair was disordered from the ride, dark strands falling across his forehead.
His boots were splashed with mud. He did not look like a gentleman of ten thousand a year.
He looked like a man who had ridden hard across three miles of Hertfordshire countryside and did not care about a single one of the conventions he was breaking.
He was holding his coat closed with one hand.
The other hand held the reins. He looked at Elizabeth, and his face was flushed from the cold air and the ride, and his expression was something she had never seen on him before.
Not the stiffness. Not the reserve. Not the rigid mask. Something open and urgent and afraid.
He opened the coat.
Truffles blinked in the sudden light. She was small and grubby.
Her ears were flat against her head and her legs were tucked against Darcy's shirt and she looked out at Elizabeth with the enormous, bewildered eyes of a creature who had been lost in a cold place and was now warm and did not understand how the world had rearranged itself.
Elizabeth made a sound. It was not a word. It was not a cry. It was something torn from the centre of her chest, raw and involuntary, the sound a body makes when relief hits it like a wave. Her knees went soft. She reached for the pig.
Darcy lifted Truffles from inside his coat.
The pig was warm from his body heat. She smelled of straw and cold air and Darcy's wool coat and the faint, close smell of a pig who had been frightened and then comforted.
Darcy placed her in Elizabeth's arms with a care that was almost tender, his hands supporting the pig's weight until he was sure Elizabeth had her.
Elizabeth held her. She held her so tightly that Truffles squeaked, and then she loosened her grip and held her more gently, and the pig pressed against her chest and burrowed into the space between Elizabeth's chin and her shoulder and made a sound that was half grunt and half squeal and entirely the sound of an animal coming home.
Elizabeth could feel the pig's heartbeat.
Quick and light against her own chest, the flutter of a small animal who had been through something terrible and come out the other side.
But the pig was warm — warm from Darcy's coat, warm from being held — and her body was already soft with trust, already settling, already home.
"Where?" Elizabeth's voice was a whisper. Her throat was too raw for anything louder. "How?"
"A farm near Haye Park. Three miles south. She had been taken there yesterday afternoon."
"Taken?" The word snagged. "But who —"
She stopped. She looked at Darcy's face.
His jaw was set. His eyes were dark with something that was not grief and not anger but some combination of both, held in check by the force of will that governed everything he did.
And in his expression she saw something that answered her question before she could finish asking it.
"Miss Bingley," Elizabeth said.
Darcy did not confirm or deny. He did not need to. His face said everything his words would not.
Elizabeth held Truffles against her chest and felt the fury arrive.
It came slowly, building beneath the relief the way a tide builds beneath a calm surface.
Caroline Bingley. Caroline, who had smiled at dinner parties and closed doors in the pig's face and made pointed remarks about livestock and drawing rooms. Caroline, who had taken the creature Elizabeth loved and paid a stranger to remove her and left her in a cold pen in a muddy farmyard three miles from home.
She would deal with Caroline. Later. Now she needed to hold her pig and breathe and understand that the man standing in front of her had ridden three miles to a stranger's farm and confronted a farmer and carried a piglet inside his coat because it mattered.
Because she mattered.
"Why?" she asked.
Darcy could have said something safe. Something about neighbourly duty. Something about the principle of preventing theft. Something correct and measured and empty, the kind of thing he said in drawing rooms when the world was watching.
"Because she did not deserve it," he said. His voice was low and rough, scraped raw by the ride and by something else. "And because you would have been —"
He stopped. He swallowed. His jaw worked, the muscles tightening and releasing, and Elizabeth saw the effort it cost him to stand in a lane in the fading light and reach for the honest thing instead of the safe thing.
"Because it mattered," he said.
The words were inadequate. They were a fraction of what he meant.
Elizabeth could see the rest of it in his face, in his hands, in the way he stood there with his coat open and his cravat ruined and his expression bare, and she thought: He rode three miles and confronted a farmer and carried a pig against his heart, and he cannot tell me why because telling me why would require him to say the thing he has been trying not to say for weeks, and he is standing here in the cold trying to say it and failing, and the failing is the most real thing I have ever seen him do.
"Thank you," Elizabeth said. Her voice cracked on the second word. She pressed her face against Truffles' head to hide the cracking. "Mr. Darcy. Thank you."
He nodded. His jaw was tight. He looked as if he wanted to say something else, something larger and more dangerous than thank you or you're welcome, something that required the kind of bravery that had nothing to do with horses or anger and everything to do with standing in a country lane in the fading light and being honest about things that terrified him.
He did not say it. Not yet. She could see the words forming and being pulled back, the old habit of caution clamping down over the new, fragile impulse toward truth. He stepped back. He gathered the horse's reins. He mounted.
"Good evening, Miss Elizabeth," he said. His voice was steadier now, the formality settling back over him like a coat being buttoned. "Take care of her."
He rode away. Elizabeth stood in the lane with her pig and watched him go, the dark horse and the tall rider growing smaller against the grey sky, and she thought: I have been wrong about everything. Everything.
She walked home. The lane was quiet. The wind had dropped. Truffles was warm and heavy against her chest, her breathing slow and even, her eyes half-closed. She was asleep before they reached the gate.
Jane was at the gate. Mrs. Bennet was in the hallway. Mr. Bennet was in his library doorway with his spectacles pushed up on his forehead. They saw the pig in her arms and the tears on her face and nobody said a word.
Jane took Elizabeth's arm and led her inside. Mrs. Bennet said something about supper. Mr. Bennet said nothing. He looked at the pig and looked at Elizabeth and looked at the direction Darcy had ridden, and his expression was the one he wore when he was revising an opinion.
Elizabeth carried Truffles upstairs. Jane followed with a basin of warm water and a cloth.
They cleaned the pig together. Elizabeth washed Truffles' hooves and her belly and the scratch on her snout, and Jane held the pig steady, and Truffles bore the washing with the resigned patience of an animal who understood that the price of being loved was occasional hygiene.
The scratch was shallow. It would heal. The cold had not gone deep enough to do damage.
Truffles was exhausted and her eyes had a haunted look that Elizabeth had never seen in them before, the look of a creature who had learned that the world contained people who would take you from your home and leave you in a cold place.
Hill appeared in the doorway with a bowl of warm milk and a plate of bread. She set them on the floor without speaking. Her face was tight with guilt.
"It was not your fault, Hill," Elizabeth said.
"The door was unlatched, miss. I should have —"
"It was not your fault."
Hill nodded. Her eyes were red. She left, and Elizabeth heard her footsteps on the stairs, heavy with the slow tread of a woman who had been trusted with something precious and felt she had failed.
Elizabeth sat for a moment. Then she put Truffles on the bed, where the pig immediately burrowed into the blankets. Elizabeth went downstairs.