Chapter 1
Although the morning had begun badly, Miss Elizabeth Bennet was quite certain it could not possibly grow worse.
She had not slept, although she thought she had achieved a faithful performance of slumber when the maid came in to stoke the fire, remaining motionless beneath the counterpane, eyes closed, hands folded beneath her cheek.
Contrary to how she might have appeared, even in the dawn’s light, the agitation of her mind was still painfully great. In truth, her mind had been ablaze with reviewing the events of the previous evening, for she could not avoid the real cause of her headache lingering into the morning.
It had been many hours since she had decided that not even Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy deserved the force with which she had refused his proposal.
“From the first moment of my acquaintance with you, your manners impressed me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, laying the groundwork of disapprobation on which succeeding events have built an immoveable dislike. I had not known you a month before I realized that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed upon to marry.”
“You have said quite enough, madam,” he replied to stop her from saying more, she guessed.
The recollection of his expression in that moment had not faded with the dawn.
If anything, the remembrance had achieved a more perfect clarity with each of a hundred reanimations behind her closed lids: a peculiar mixture of outrage and disbelief.
Beneath that was a vulnerability so raw that she felt it in her own heart every time she thought of it.
After taking a moment or two to collect himself, he had said, “I perfectly comprehend your feelings and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been. Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time. Accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.”
That she should receive an offer of marriage from Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy was astounding.
That he should have been in love with her for so many months? So much in love as to wish to marry her despite all the objections he had cataloged the previous evening?
Her astonishment increased with every review of it. It was almost incredible.
She had to admit it was gratifying to have unconsciously inspired so strong an affection.
But his abominable pride, and his shameless admission of what he had done with respect to separating Jane from Mr. Bingley could not be forgiven.
In addition, the unfeeling manner in which he had mentioned Mr. Wickham, who had been treated with a cruelty that Mr. Darcy had not even attempted to deny.
These considerations soon overcame the pity that the deliberation of his attachment continually excited in her breast throughout the night.
While she wished her words could be unsaid, or at least softened, there was nothing she could do to make it so.
Sitting up, Elizabeth decided she needed to stop tormenting herself over it. She had always found motion a tonic for such maladies as this, so accordingly, she resolved to take advantage of the early spring sunlight.
Lacing her boots, she tied her bonnet and furrowed her brow in defiance of the headache. Slipping through the side door of the parsonage, she escaped before Charlotte could notice.
The grounds at Hunsford Cottage were humble in acreage but complicated in structure as a result of Lady Catherine’s improvements.
From what Elizabeth understood, what had begun with the ambitious reshaping of a single garden walk had been refined into a network of formal beds with Charlotte’s encouragement of her husband spending a good deal of his free time out of doors instead of underfoot.
Elizabeth was, of course, expected to keep to the most visible promenades, but she was used to long rambles and had long ago discovered the less-frequented routes through Rosings Park.
Her boots crunched on the half-frozen moss as she inhaled the scent of peat and the damp of last night’s fog bank deeply.
Her favorite of these walks was the so-called “observation path,” a term she had invented for Charlotte’s amusement, which wound behind a screen of boxwood and permitted an excellent view of Rosings Park’s grounds.
This morning, however, the memory of the proposal haunted the place, since Mr. Darcy had often found her there during her stay at the parsonage. In hindsight, she understood what she had missed during those encounters, though at the time she thought it was just bad luck.
Today? While she must assume the feelings that led him to find her in the park were now resolved, to be safe, Elizabeth chose the overgrown footpath behind the south garden, which was so little used that she had heard from the groundskeeper that it sometimes vanished entirely in the late-summer undergrowth.
She left the parsonage behind; dense tangles of hawthorn soon eclipsed its modest brick face. The air was cold, and the sky above the hedgerows hinted at bright sunshine to come.
Elizabeth allowed herself to believe she had at last escaped both her own thoughts and the residual embarrassment of having refused the offer of one of England’s most eligible men.
The pulse in her brow slowed. The quiet was so complete that she could hear her own breath. Further away, she detected the faint, intermittent clatter of sparrows pecking in the thicket.
At the end of the walk, a sloping field of grass gave way to reeds.
A footfall behind her alerted her that she was not alone. It was not the weightless patter of a servant, nor the brisk tread of Charlotte, but something heavier, more deliberate.
Her heart seized, for she knew before she turned that it would be Mr. Darcy. The knowledge struck her with a sharper headache.
He was standing on the path, not twenty paces distant, hat in hand, his hair less orderly than he usually allowed. His coat was dark with the faint shimmer of wool, still damp from the morning’s dew.
He looked neither hopeful nor contrite, simply present, as if the universe had ordained that wherever she went, he must materialize.
The force with which he occupied the path made it impossible to believe he had found her by accident.
They stood for a moment in complete silence. Then he bowed deeply, the way men did in salons but rarely in fields. He straightened with visible effort.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, his voice low. “I beg your pardon for intruding. May I entreat a word with you?”
Whilst in the privacy of her room, she had prepared several replies for when she next saw him, ranging from the withering to the icy, but at this exact moment, none presented itself. Instead, she inclined her head with a composure she did not feel.
Mr. Darcy advanced with so much caution that she barely heard his step upon the gravel. A slight motion at the corner of his mouth might have passed for the shadow of a smile had it not borne so near a resemblance to pain.
“I have written what I could not say yesterday. If you would—” Here his voice caught infinitesimally. “Please permit me to place this in your keeping. I ask that you do me the honor of reading it.”
He held out a letter, folded and sealed in the correct manner.
The paper was uncommonly thick, and the seal unfamiliar.
It was a dark impression, not the Darcy arms from his signet ring she had seen him press into letters to his sister at Netherfield Park, but something less ornate.
The envelope shook very slightly in his hand.
Elizabeth took the letter. For one instant, their fingers brushed, and she felt a chill pass quickly up her arm, so sharp it might have registered as pain. Yet, she did not drop the letter.
She nodded her pledge to read it.
Mr. Darcy stepped back. “Thank you,” he whispered, and bowed again, less deeply.
She expected him to retreat at once, but instead he remained.
Being in the habit of observing others, it struck her that if she had been watching any other couple in the lane, she would have thought he was unwilling to deprive himself of these last moments in her presence.
His gaze was unblinking. She could not tell if he was angry, wounded, or simply taking a mental inventory of her for future reference.
Her breath caught as she thought, Is it possible he does not despise me?
No, that impression had to be wrong. After the horrid way she had refused him, it could not be true.
“Good day, Miss Elizabeth,” he said, and this time, his words carried the full weight of farewell. He put his hat on, turned away, and walked up the path. He did not look back.
Elizabeth’s breath caught. Watching him until he vanished beyond the bend, she turned away, tucking the letter deep into an inner pocket, where its rectangular solidity pressed cool against her ribs.
For a few minutes she wandered about, unable to decide whether she wished to read the letter immediately, or to hurl it into the nearest fire and pretend she had never seen it.
But she had promised. And ultimately, curiosity won out.
The possibility of a private justification—or, more thrillingly, an apology—proved irresistible.
But it could not be read in the open, where anyone passing might recognize the handwriting and bear witness.
At the parsonage, the possibility of Charlotte entering her room unannounced was not merely theoretical.
It would be much better to find a location out of doors that offered a bit of privacy.
She turned back toward the gardens, considering her options.
The solution appeared with the suddenness of a lightning flash: Lady Catherine’s hedge maze.
Elizabeth had discovered its existence only by accident, on a day when she was attempting to find paths where Mr. Darcy might not find her.