Chapter Five
The hour was early, and the sea air held the chill of morning still clinging to the breeze.
Elizabeth stepped out from the little gate at the edge of the cottage garden and followed the narrow path down to the beach.
James, the footman appointed to attend her, lingered a few paces behind.
He had been instructed to accompany her at a respectful distance, and he did so with quiet diligence. Elizabeth scarcely noticed him.
The stillness astonished her. Even the waves, constant in their motion, did not roar but rolled with a low and measured sound, as if content to greet the shore without haste or force.
The horizon melted into a sky softened by early light, and a pale mist hovered at the edge of sight.
She drew in a breath of salt air as if it might clarify her thoughts.
She walked slowly along the damp sand where the tide had receded, her boots leaving a faint trace.
She paused now and again to admire the pattern of shells left behind by the tide or to watch the seabirds wheel above the cliffs.
The farther she moved from the village, the more profound the silence grew, broken only by the sea’s steady voice and the distant cry of gulls.
In time, she came upon a cluster of rocks that jutted out toward the surf.
One in particular was broad and flat and placed just near enough to the water’s edge to enjoy its music without fear of a sudden soaking.
With a pleased little smile, she climbed to it with care, seating herself upon its sun-warmed surface.
From this spot, she could watch the gentle dance of water and light.
The breeze toyed with her ribbons. On impulse, she untied her bonnet and placed it beside her on the rock.
The sea-breeze lifted her curls about her face, and for a long while she sat in silence, her gaze fixed upon the waves.
Thoughts drifted through her mind without urgency.
Her aunt’s story of the day before had moved her more than she had admitted aloud.
There was a melancholy in the recollection of lives lost, and a quiet reverence in knowing one’s family had endured so much before her time.
Yet now, at this very moment, she felt peace.
There was no London clatter, no pressing obligation, no watchful eyes.
No books to be tallied, no bickering sisters, no wary glances from Mama.
Here, she need only be herself, and even that felt new.
Farther up the shore, tucked among the rocks where the land rose slightly from the sand, another solitary figure sat watching the sea. Mr. Darcy had arrived first and had chosen this spot precisely because it promised solitude. His thoughts, however, had not remained on the sea for long.
Instead, they drifted back to the dinner at Matlock House two evenings before.
He had been invited again the night after the theatre, and had accepted without hesitation, though he scarcely knew why.
The party had been smaller than usual, only Lord and Lady Matlock, their son, and himself.
The formality of the occasion had been softened by familiarity, the candles set lower, the conversation unforced.
It had begun as such dinners always did, with remarks on the weather, on the thinning crowds in town, and on the business anticipated in Brinmouth. Darcy had spoken little, content to listen, until at last his aunt’s attention had settled upon him with quiet intent.
“You appeared fatigued the other evening,” said Lady Matlock. “More so than the theatre alone would account for, I think.”
“You are not a man to advertise unease, Fitzwilliam,” said Lord Matlock. “If something has occurred, we ought to know it.”
Darcy did not answer immediately.
“There was an incident at Lady Tilstone's gathering,” said Richard. “A rather determined attempt arranged between mother and daughter. Darcy was the object of it, and had I not arrived when I did, the evening might have concluded very differently.”
“You mean to say she sought to entrap him.”
“In every sense.”
Darcy inclined his head.
“Richard is being charitable. It was his intervention that spared me greater embarrassment.”
“Such tactics ought to be beneath any woman who pretends to breeding,” said Lord Matlock.
“One would hope so.”
The subject was allowed to drop. Yet even now, seated upon the shore, Darcy remembered what came next.
Lady Matlock had been quiet for some moments, turning her wineglass slowly between her fingers, her gaze resting not upon the table but upon the mantel beyond.
“I had a sister once. Elizabeth. She was ten years my senior.”
“I remember her, in part,” said Richard. “More clearly her daughter, my cousin Margaret. I was very fond of her.”
“You always were inclined toward older attachments,” said Lord Matlock. “Your cousin was eleven years your senior, if I recall.”
“Seeing Madeline's niece the other evening brought them both to mind,” said Lady Matlock. “There was something in the young lady's face that startled me. Not a likeness one could define, perhaps, but enough to give pause.”
Darcy looked at her.
“I did not know your niece had a child.”
“She did. Margaret herself did not know it until she travelled north to visit my sister, who was already very ill. Her husband was with her. Philip, his name was. They lived somewhere in the south, near London. Discovering she was with child gave my sister hope, and they remained until the birth.”
“We visited then, did we not?” Richard asked.
“We did. All of us. For a time she seemed improved. We allowed ourselves to believe she might recover. But before Margaret's confinement was complete, her condition worsened. She lived only long enough to hold her granddaughter. They named the child for her.”
“And the child?” Darcy asked. “What became of her?”
“When Margaret recovered, she and her husband set out to return south. They never arrived. There was an accident. It was believed all were lost. Stephen withdrew entirely after that. He never recovered from it. The fever took him some years later.”
For reasons he could not entirely explain, the matter had never quite left him. He had not seen the young lady clearly at the theatre, only enough to be unsettled by the expression she wore. There had been joy in it, unstudied and sincere, and it had lingered longer than he wished to admit.
Roused at last from his thoughts, he became aware that he was no longer alone.
A young lady had wandered to the same stretch of beach and now sat quietly upon a rock not far from the surf, her figure attended at a discreet distance by a footman whose posture suggested watchfulness rather than intrusion.
She had removed her bonnet and placed it beside her, and for a moment Darcy’s attention rested there without particular intent.
The wind rose suddenly, sharper than before, and caught the bonnet where it lay. It lifted it from the stone and sent it skimming across the sand, ribbons trailing in its wake.
Darcy rose at once and intercepted it before it could be carried farther.
As he did so, he looked toward the young lady.
She had risen as well, her eyes following the bonnet’s path until they met his.
He walked toward her with the bonnet in hand.
The footman stepped forward slightly, but Darcy acknowledged him with a nod and continued on.
Elizabeth met him partway, her steps faltering for an instant as recognition dawned. He extended the bonnet to her.
"It seems the wind favours mischief this morning."
"Indeed it does," she replied. "Thank you, sir."
She took the bonnet, her fingers brushing his. They stood facing one another, neither quite willing to step away. Her eyes held his, curious and uncertain. He was almost sure she was the lady from the theatre. He could not find the words to speak what pressed upon him.
With a slight bow, he said, "Good morning, madam."
She curtsied in reply.
Darcy turned and walked away, heading back across the sand.
At the last moment, he allowed himself to look once more in her direction.
The young lady still stood where they had met.
She had not replaced the bonnet but held it loosely, her gaze fixed upon it.
Then she looked up, and he quickly looked away.