CHAPTER NINETEEN #3
Once Georgiana was settled in the guest chamber, with a warm tisane at her bedside, a healer sent for, and a gentle fire in the grate, she whispered a childlike thanks and let her heavy eyelids flutter closed as she succumbed to illness and exhaustion.
Yet, as Elizabeth closed the door to Georgiana’s room, the brief sense of accomplishment, of having performed a necessary act of charity, quickly evaporated.
She knew she had to speak with Darcy.
The image of his cold fury when she had informed him of their visitors rose unbidden in her mind. And that had been before she had invited his sister, his sister who had so deeply betrayed him, into his home.
An unpleasant trepidation crept in Elizabeth’s stomach. To face him now, to deliberately engage with his displeasure, felt like a dangerous step backward. But she must see it through.
She found him, not in his private study as she might have expected, but in the lesser library, a room that held for Elizabeth few positive memories. He was standing by one of the tall windows, staring out at the estate, his back partially to the room.
“Mr Darcy?” she said, pausing in the doorway.
“Elizabeth,” he acknowledged softly. He did not turn fully to face her, merely inclined his head a fraction, offering her only his side profile.
It was an austere landscape of rigid planes and sharp angles – the stern line of his jaw, the uncompromising set of his lips – all thrown into harsh relief by the grey light filtering through the window.
She offered a small smile, attempting to inject a sliver of lightness into the atmosphere. “Might we have a word? Though I do not suppose we could remove to another room for this particular discussion. The lesser library has, on occasion, proven a volatile setting for our conversations,” she said.
“We may remove to any room you wish. But if your purpose is as I suspect, then I find myself rather partial to remaining.” A faint smile touched his lips. “I have become, through no small amount of unfortunate experience, rather well practiced in restoring this particular room to order.”
Elizabeth huffed a wary laugh, a brief release of the tension inside her. His attempt at humour, however dry, however weary, was unexpected. And perhaps, just perhaps, a sign that the storm she had anticipated might not be as violent as she had feared.
They took seats in the winged chairs, facing one another across the small table.
Elizabeth gathered her resolve, and asked, “Are you angry with me? With my decision to allow Georgiana to stay?”
“Angry?” he said, his voice thoughtful, “No.” He paused, as if weighing his words with a care that was new between them.
“You are the Mistress of Pemberley. It is your right, your prerogative, to extend hospitality within these walls as you see fit. Even to those whose past actions might render them less than welcome in my own estimation.”
She released a shaky breath.
Darcy continued, “I must confess I was not prepared to see them. To make such a decision in that moment. I thank you for taking the immediate burden of that choice. You have given me the time I needed, though I did not realise it.”
His gratitude was so unexpected it left her momentarily breathless. At first she could only stare at him, her heart contracting with a tenderness that was almost painful.
He held her gaze, his own now clear and steady, full of a quiet kindness.
And in that quiet, she realised just how much she wanted more.
More than his gratitude. More than his simple amity.
She wanted the raw sincerity and unexpected tenderness she had glimpsed in his study.
She wanted to hear the deep baritone of his voice soften when he spoke to her, to feel the controlled strength in his touch linger for a moment longer than necessary.
Most of all, she longed for the resolution of that single, breathless moment when he had leaned closer, the kiss that had been a breath away from happening.
She wanted, quite simply, proof. Proof that the vulnerability she had glimpsed last night was the sober truth of his heart, and not a falsehood lent to him by the alcohol. She needed to know that some small measure of his regard had survived the destructive force of her words in the carriage.
But the man she had glimpsed in the firelight seemed to have retreated with the dawn. The man before her now offered only the cool, safe light of friendship. He was courteous, kind, and entirely guarded. If he still felt any ardour for her, his expression betrayed nothing of it.
And she should have expected nothing less.
How could any man, after the things she had said, possibly continue to show his heart openly?
She had met his vulnerability with viciousness; she had practically demanded this withdrawal.
His careful amiability was the direct consequence of the rejection she had so forcefully delivered.
In many ways, this was even worse than antagonism. It was a constant reminder of everything he was and everything she could not have. The disappointment was a cold, heavy feeling that settled in her stomach.
If his friendship was all he had left to offer her now, she resolved to accept it.
She would play the part of the contented friend, offer her wit and her smiles, and pretend that their easy camaraderie was enough.
She tried not to think of how every shared laugh would be a bittersweet echo of the connection she now craved.
To be so near to him, to be granted the light of his mind and the honour of his company, yet be barred from the warmth of his heart, felt like an unbearably cruel fate.
It took a conscious effort to gather herself, to find refuge in a smile. If this was the part she was now doomed to play, she would at least play it with a certain style.
“Well, Mr Darcy,” she said, her voice regaining a trace of teasing, “this newfound civility in the lesser library will hardly do, will it? The books, I suspect, are holding their breath, anticipating a resumption of hostilities. We shall quite disappoint the room if we do not, at the very least, engage in one small argument before the day is out.”
He gave a wry smile — her heart ached to see it — and said, “By all means, madam. Name the topic.”