Chapter 3
FOUR
Oakham Mount.
Elizabeth
Nothing composed Elizabeth's mind so effectually as an early morning walk, when the lanes were empty and the chance of encountering anyone was as slight as Hertfordshire permitted.
The Bennets had returned home late the previous evening, and the events at Lucas Lodge had left her with very little sleep.
It was not Georgiana Darcy who occupied her thoughts. The young lady had been perfectly agreeable, shy, sincere, and considerably easier company than her brother. Elizabeth had enjoyed their conversation and found herself genuinely pleased to have renewed the acquaintance.
It was the brother who had refused to leave her in peace.
She had lain awake turning over his words with the same methodical attention she devoted to anything that unsettled her, examining them from every perspective until she was satisfied she had overlooked nothing.
…the noise, the movement, the number of conversations happening at once. Some people find it fatiguing. Others manage it with considerable skill.
She had acquitted herself well. She always did.
She had answered him lightly, diverted the conversation, and revealed nothing.
Yet the words themselves, the particular shape of them, the care with which they had been chosen, lingered in her mind in a manner she could not dismiss.
It was not what he had said. It was what he had nearly said.
The slight pause before the word skill. The manner in which he had watched her receive it.
He had been testing something. Of that she was almost certain.
Which made no sense.
There was no possible way he could know.
Her family did not speak of it. Jane would sooner hold her tongue forever than mention such a thing to Mr. Bingley, and her father and Mary made it a principle never to discuss the matter.
Her mother referred to it when it suited her purpose, but she was hardly in a position to confide in Mr. Darcy.
As for Kitty and Lydia, though they possessed neither discretion nor good sense in abundance, Elizabeth could not imagine either of them discussing the subject within the hearing of anyone connected to him.
She had concealed it for years with a thoroughness that left little to discover. She moved through crowded rooms, managed conversations, placed herself accordingly, read lips when necessary, adapted, adjusted, and passed unnoticed because she took care that she should.
Yet Mr. Darcy had been in Hertfordshire scarcely a fortnight, and somehow his questions had left her with the uncomfortable impression that he knew.
How could he?
At first light Elizabeth abandoned any pretence of further sleep and set out for Oakham Mount.
The path was familiar enough to require little thought.
The morning was cold and clear, the fields still silvered with frost, and she walked briskly.
By the time she reached the summit she had managed, if not to resolve the matter, at least to place sufficient distance between herself and Longbourn that her reflections seemed less pressing.
She had been there perhaps ten minutes when she became aware of the approach of a horse upon the path below, more sensation than sound, transmitted through the frozen ground beneath her feet, and turned in time to see a rider emerge from the trees.
She felt a chill entirely unrelated to the morning air. That the rider should prove to be Mr. Darcy seemed precisely the sort of misfortune the day was determined to provide.
He saw her at the same moment. He checked his horse briefly, then continued at a walk and dismounted without any particular haste, as though encountering her here at such an hour were an entirely ordinary occurrence.
It was not an ordinary occurrence. Of that she was quite certain.
"Miss Bennet." He inclined his head. "Good morning."
"Mr. Darcy." She returned the courtesy. "I had not expected to encounter anyone here at this hour."
"Nor I," he replied. "I ride out most mornings. I find I prefer the open country to the grounds at Netherfield."
Elizabeth was not entirely persuaded. She had walked out almost every morning since his arrival in Hertfordshire and had never before met him upon the road.
"As do I," she said, and immediately wished she had chosen another response, for it was precisely the sort of small agreement that invited further conversation, and she had very little desire to encourage it.
He secured his horse to a nearby branch and came to stand a few feet away. Without conscious thought, Elizabeth shifted slightly, making room for him on her left side, the same quiet adjustment she made in every conversation, so habitual by now that she no longer noticed herself doing it.
Darcy noticed.
She saw it in the brief pause before he stepped into the place she had made for him, the fraction of a second during which he merely observed, and then said nothing.
"I am glad to have encountered you, Miss Bennet." He flexed his fingers briefly, as though restoring warmth to them. "I wished to thank you."
She looked at him.
"My sister was in considerably better spirits last evening than she has been for some time," he continued. "I believe your conversation was the cause of it. I am very grateful."
Elizabeth was silent for a moment. Whatever she had expected him to say, it had not been that. She had prepared herself for further questions, for studied indifference, for that peculiar attention which felt so remarkably like scrutiny. Gratitude had not occurred to her.
"Miss Darcy is very easy to talk to," she said, recovering herself. "I enjoyed her company."
"She enjoyed yours," he replied. "Very much."
He paused, as though deciding where next to steer the conversation. Elizabeth tensed without quite realising she had done so.
"I hope you may find occasion to spend time with her again, whenever it is convenient to you. I would not impose upon you. Only, she does not form attachments easily, and I believe she would benefit from the acquaintance."
Elizabeth looked out across the valley.
She thought of Georgiana's careful questions, of the manner in which she listened, and of the particular quality of her attention. She thought about Mr. Darcy standing at the edge of the room watching them with an expression she had been unable to read from a distance.
Miss Darcy had seemed cheerful enough in conversation, yet there had been moments when her smiles appeared hard won. Elizabeth found herself wondering what sorrow or disappointment had taught so young a lady such caution.
And she found herself wondering why he was so anxious that his sister should know her better.
"I should be very happy to," she said.
He inclined his head. "You are very kind."
The silence which followed was less uncomfortable than those they had shared at Lucas Lodge. Elizabeth was not entirely certain what to make of that.
"You come here every morning," he said at last.
"Most mornings."
"And when the weather is unfavourable?"
"I come regardless," she replied. "My mother considers it a defect in my character."
The corner of his mouth moved. "I imagine you consider it a necessity."
She glanced at him.
"I find walking settles my thoughts," she said. "Nothing more extraordinary than that."
"Of course."
She became aware once more of that quality in him, the watchfulness, the patience, the sense of a man waiting rather than merely standing still.
She had observed it at the assembly, at the gatherings where they had encountered one another since, at Lucas Lodge, and now here upon a hilltop, and she remained no nearer to understanding what exactly he was waiting for.
What she did know was that she had no intention of providing it.
"I ought to return," she said. "My family will wonder where I have gone."
"Of course." He stepped back. "Good morning, Miss Bennet."
"Good morning, Mr. Darcy."
She began down the path. Her pace remained steady, and she did not look back. She was nearly halfway down the slope before she allowed herself to dwell once more upon his words from the previous evening.
Others manage it with considerable skill.
He had been in Hertfordshire scarcely three weeks. She had concealed the matter most of her adult life. There was no conceivable way he could know.
And yet there he had been, upon her favourite path, at her preferred hour, on the very morning she had chosen because she wished to think without interruption.
The expression that had crossed his face when she shifted to place him on her better-hearing side troubled her more than she cared to admit.
It had looked remarkably like recognition.
Elizabeth reached the gate at Longbourn and pushed it open.
Then she informed herself, very firmly, that she was being foolish.
She did not entirely succeed in believing it.
? ? ?
Darcy
He had known where he was likely to find her, or at least hoped he did.
Only the previous evening, Bingley had remarked that Miss Elizabeth was fond of walking out regardless of the weather.
Georgiana, on the drive home from Lucas Lodge, had quietly observed that Miss Elizabeth had spoken of Oakham Mount as her favourite place for walking in the neighbourhood.
He had stored away both pieces of information without examining too closely why he had done so.
That morning, rising before the rest of the house, he had told himself only that the ride would be beneficial.
The air was clear, the ground firm beneath the horse's feet, and there was no particular reason not to take the Oakham road.
It had been little more than a conjecture, one he had not been entirely certain would prove correct.
It had.
The ride back to Netherfield passed quickly. Darcy paid very little attention to the road.
His thoughts were occupied instead with the image of Elizabeth Bennet shifting almost imperceptibly to her left as he approached, making room for him on that side with the ease of someone who had performed the action so often that it had ceased to require thought.
He had noticed it. He had marked it without comment and said nothing.
Their conversation had proceeded as though nothing of consequence had occurred.
Yet something of consequence had occurred.
For a fortnight he had turned the matter over in his mind, telling himself he might be mistaken, that he had seen only what he expected to see rather than what was truly there. He could no longer persuade himself of it.
The movement had been too natural, too practised, too entirely unconscious to signify anything else.
And now that he considered it, it was not the first time he had observed it.
At Lucas Lodge, when he had approached her near the refreshment table, she had shifted in precisely the same manner, placing him to her left with a movement so subtle he had not thought much of it at the time.
Indeed, upon reflection, he could scarcely recall an occasion during the previous fortnight when he had seen Miss Elizabeth in conversation and not found the person to whom she spoke occupying that position.
Whether speaking with Charlotte Lucas, her sisters, or any other member of the company, she invariably arranged herself in the same fashion.
She heard better from her left side. That was the only reasonable argument.
His mother had done precisely the same before her better side had yielded to silence as well.
He dismounted at the Netherfield stables and surrendered his horse to a waiting groom without a word. The house remained quiet. Taking the back stairs, he removed his coat and gloves before proceeding to his room.
His valet had prepared a bath.
Darcy lowered himself into the water and stared at the ceiling, considering what he now knew with something approaching certainty.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet was hard of hearing.
She had concealed it so successfully, and for so many years, that no one beyond her immediate circle appeared to possess the slightest awareness of it.
At least, he presumed those within that circle must know.
It was difficult to imagine otherwise. She moved through the world with a confidence and composure his mother had required years to acquire, and she had done so without guidance, without the assistance of anyone who truly understood the challenge before her, entirely alone and entirely without embarrassment.
His thoughts turned to Georgiana.
To the fears Wickham had planted and left to flourish.
To the questions she had asked repeatedly since Ramsgate, whether any gentleman would ever truly value her, whether her future had already been diminished, whether a defect of health, should she ever suffer one, might place happiness beyond her reach.
He thought of the answer he had been seeking and had not known where to find.
He had found it that morning, upon a hilltop shortly after sunrise.
Emerging from the bath, he dressed with his valet aid and took his place at his private breakfast table with quiet satisfaction.
He would speak with Georgiana.
He would find some means of bringing her more frequently into Miss Elizabeth's company, and Miss Elizabeth's example might accomplish what his own reassurances had thus far failed to achieve.
It was a sensible plan.
It was the correct plan.
He reached for his coffee.
Then, entirely without invitation, he found himself thinking of Elizabeth Bennet eyes.
Dark, direct, and entirely unimpressed by him, which was, he was discovering, a quality to which he was wholly unaccustomed and about which he could not seem to stop thinking.
She had looked at him upon that hilltop with the same frank and unhurried attention she appeared to bestow upon everything, and he had looked back.
For one brief moment, the theory, the plan, Georgiana, and every other consideration had fallen away, leaving only those eyes, the cold morning air, and the valley below wrapped in mist.
He set down his coffee.
Getting closer to Miss Elizabeth Bennet was for Georgiana, he reminded himself.
That was the purpose.
The only purpose.
He would do well to remember it.
He picked up his coffee once more.
Her eyes were remarkably fine.
Darcy set the cup down again, pushed back his chair, and went in search of some occupation sufficiently demanding to fill the remainder of the morning.