20. Matters of the Heart #3
Mrs. Bennet gave permission with such eagerness that Elizabeth suspected she expected another kiss before dinner.
Jane offered to accompany them, but Mr. Bingley arrived at that moment, proving either providence or excellent timing.
He came in with his usual good humor, greeted the room, and fixed upon Jane with such immediate pleasure that Elizabeth smothered a laugh.
Darcy noticed too.
“I think your sister will forgive your absence,” he said as they stepped outside.
“I am beginning to suspect my absence has often been convenient.”
“Bingley has spoken of little but Miss Bennet for days.”
“And I missed it.”
“You had other concerns.”
“That is a generous way of saying I have been absurd.”
“I would not call you absurd.”
“Very wise.”
“I might think it in private.”
She looked at him sharply. His mouth, solemn a moment earlier, gave way to amusement.
Elizabeth shook her head. “You grow bold, sir.”
“I have received encouragement.”
Her cheeks warmed again. “We shall not speak of that.”
“I had hoped we might speak of nothing else.”
“Mr. Darcy.”
“Very well.” He offered his arm as they reached the garden path. “We shall be respectable.”
She took it. “For at least five minutes.”
They walked beneath the apple trees where the grass had grown damp from the morning mist. The house remained visible through the branches, which satisfied propriety, though the distance gave them room enough for a little honesty.
Darcy spoke first.
“I behaved poorly when last we parted.”
“Yes.”
He let out a breath that was close to a laugh. “You do not trouble yourself to spare me.”
“Would you prefer flattery?”
“No.”
“Then yes.”
“I asked you to choose between your family’s judgment and mine. That was unfair.”
Elizabeth’s fingers gripped his sleeve. “Thank you.”
“I did not see it clearly until afterward.”
“That is often the most inconvenient time to see clearly.”
“It has been my experience.”
She looked up at him. “You will truly consider speaking with Mr. Wickham?”
“I will.”
“Not merely because I kissed you.”
His stride faltered.
Elizabeth wished the ground would open and swallow her.
“I beg your—no. You told me not to beg pardon.”
“I did.”
“Then I shall say that I have made myself ridiculous twice in one morning.”
“You have not.”
“I have.”
“You have made me very happy and somewhat incapable of ordinary thought. That is not the same.”
She could not answer for several steps.
Darcy’s hand covered hers where it rested upon his arm. The gesture was brief, proper because of its brevity, but it steadied her.
“I cannot promise to believe Wickham,” he said.
“I know.”
“I cannot promise even to like him.”
“I had not entertained such a wild hope.”
“But I will consider whether hearing him is owed to the truth, if not to the man.”
“That is all I ask.”
“It is not all you wish.”
“No,” she admitted. “But I am learning that wishes make poor demands.”
He regarded her with an expression she could not fully read. “And I am learning that pride produces poor justice.”
The admission moved her more than any declaration could have done.
They stopped near the low wall at the edge of the garden.
Beyond it, the fields rolled toward Meryton, half gold, half green, with the road cutting between hedges.
Somewhere in that direction lay Mr. Philips’s office, Mr. Wickham’s future, and a false bill from Ramsgate that might prove either coincidence, malice, or the first thread of an answer.
Elizabeth leaned her free hand against the cool stone.
“I believe you honest,” she said.
Darcy’s face altered.
“I know you do not say things lightly,” she continued. “When you speak of your sister, I hear the truth in it. When you warn me, I know you mean to protect. But I must believe what I have seen too.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“I am trying.”
A small answer. A difficult one.
She valued it accordingly.
“Then I shall try as well.”
“To trust me?”
“To trust that you are trying.”
His fingers closed once over hers, then released as voices sounded from the house. Lydia had come to the door and was calling something about Mr. Bingley being unable to name a single ribbon shade correctly. Jane’s softer protest followed, then Kitty’s laughter.
Elizabeth and Darcy turned back.
“Five minutes,” he said.
“What?”
“You said we would be respectable for at least five minutes. I believe we managed seven.”
Elizabeth laughed, and the knot of dread that had lived beneath her ribs for days loosened by a fraction.
“An excellent beginning.”
“I shall endeavor to improve.”
“You and Mr. Wickham both.”
Darcy gave her a pained look.
“I beg you not to compare us too often.”
“Then do not give me occasion.”
He looked as though he wished to argue, thought better of it, and offered his arm again.
They entered the house together.
Nothing was solved. Not the bill, not Ramsgate, not Wickham, not the question of what Darcy would do when pride and justice pulled against each other.
But as Elizabeth stepped back into the noise and warmth of Longbourn, Darcy beside her and Jane smiling over Mr. Bingley’s hopeless confusion with ribbons, she permitted herself one fragile hope.
Truth had begun to move.
And perhaps, if they were very fortunate, love might survive long enough to meet it.