Chapter Twenty
Oakham Mount
Darcy
Darcy had intended to speak to Mr. Bennet the previous afternoon, if no opportunity presented itself to speak privately with Elizabeth.
He had done neither. By the time the visit ended, they had discussed books, Netherfield, Pemberley, and half a dozen subjects of no consequence, while the one matter which had brought him to Hertfordshire remained untouched.
He had slept badly and risen before the rest of Netherfield, telling himself that a long walk might restore some order to his thoughts.
There was truth enough in the excuse. He had seen almost nothing of the surrounding country since his arrival, and a man could hardly claim to know a neighbourhood from the inside of its drawing rooms, however much he might have read of it in another person's letters.
What he was less willing to acknowledge was that he remembered precisely which hill Elizabeth had once described to Julia as her favourite prospect in Hertfordshire.
Oakham Mount.
He had no reason to suppose she would be there that morning. The knowledge, however, did not prevent him from asking a stable boy which path led towards Oakham Mount.
The walk carried him beyond the more cultivated grounds surrounding Netherfield and along narrow lanes bordered by hedgerows already beginning to show the colours of autumn.
Oakham Mount itself proved less imposing than its name suggested, a long, steady rise above the surrounding countryside, its upper slopes broken by scattered trees and a well-worn path that suggested Elizabeth was not the only person who favoured the prospect.
As Darcy climbed, the country opened behind him, fields and distant rooftops appearing between the thinning trees until, near the summit, much of Meryton and the neighbouring estates lay spread below.
He had nearly reached the top when a figure ahead caused his steps to slow.
For one absurd instant, Darcy thought his own expectation had supplied what his eyes wished to see. Then the woman shifted slightly, the morning breeze catching the skirt of her gown, and he recognised the dark curls beneath her bonnet.
Elizabeth.
Darcy stopped.
He had known she loved this place. He had even allowed that knowledge to determine his direction that morning. Yet actually finding her there produced a shock entirely disproportionate to an event he had privately hoped might occur.
Elizabeth stood a little apart from the path, looking across the fields below. The sound of his boot against loose stone caused her to turn, and surprise immediately crossed her expression.
“Mr. Darcy.”
“Miss Elizabeth.” Darcy inclined his head and moved a little nearer, though he left a proper distance between them.
“It would seem coincidence is determined to keep crossing our paths, or perhaps Hertfordshire is rather smaller than I had supposed.” Her surprise gave way to amusement. “We have contrived to meet three times in four days.”
“I hope you do not hold me responsible for all three.”
“Not entirely. You may be forgiven the assembly, since half the neighbourhood was there, and yesterday you had Mr. Bingley to answer for. This morning, however, I am less certain.”
Darcy felt the justice of the accusation rather more keenly than she could possibly intend.
“I set out to see something of the country,” he said with half a smile.
“And found Oakham Mount?”
There was nothing suspicious in the question, yet Darcy felt its accuracy more than she could know. “I had been told there were several good walks in this direction.”
Elizabeth regarded him for a moment before turning back towards the prospect. “Then whoever advised you did well. Since you have climbed this far, you ought at least to be rewarded for it.”
Darcy moved nearer at her invitation, following her gesture towards the fields and hedgerows below. Longbourn was partly concealed behind a copse of trees, while Meryton lay farther off, its church spire rising above the clustered roofs.
“It is a fine prospect,” he said.
“Only fine?”
Darcy glanced at her. “Have I offended local pride already?”
“Very nearly. I should warn you that I am excessively partial to this place.”
“Then I shall amend my judgement. It is an excellent prospect.”
“That is worse. Now I know you are merely being civil.”
“You leave me very little opportunity of pleasing you, Miss Elizabeth.”
“On the contrary. You need only agree with me sincerely.”
“A demanding condition.”
“Not at all. I am right surprisingly often.”
Darcy laughed, and Elizabeth looked at him with momentary surprise before laughing herself. “There. I begin to believe Mr. Bingley did not entirely misrepresent your character yesterday. He assured Papa that you occasionally enjoy yourself.”
“I shall have to speak to him about betraying my confidence.”
They began walking slowly along the crest of the hill.
Conversation seemed easier here than it had in the Longbourn drawing room, without half a dozen other persons listening or Mrs. Bennet ready to seize upon every silence.
Elizabeth spoke of the surrounding country with the easy affection of someone who had known every path since childhood, and Darcy found himself listening even when much of what she told him was already familiar from her letters.
“I used to argue about this view with a friend,” she said after a while. “She preferred the eastern side.”
Darcy’s step faltered at the declaration, his attention sharpening immediately. Whether she spoke of Charlotte Lucas or Julia Harding, he could not know with certainty, though he strongly suspected the latter.
“She insisted the river improved everything, while I maintained that losing the church from the prospect was too great a price for it.”
“And neither of you surrendered?”
“Certainly not. What would have been the pleasure in that?” Elizabeth smiled, though the expression softened almost immediately.
“Julia was particularly skilled at ending an argument whenever she suspected I might eventually win it. She would simply smile and change the subject before I could press my advantage.”
Darcy said nothing.
“I used to find it exceedingly vexing.” Elizabeth's gaze travelled towards the eastern side of the hill. “I would give a great deal to be vexed by it again.”
Tell her now.
Darcy glanced towards her. The affection in her voice was unmistakable, but so too was the sadness beneath it. He knew from the letters how deeply Julia’s silence had troubled her, yet hearing Elizabeth speak of it was altogether different from reading words written in solitude.
He ought to tell her. Indeed, there could hardly be a better opportunity.
Yet another question had already formed in his mind, and Darcy knew that once he asked it, there would be no pretending that he had merely listened to what Elizabeth chose to offer.
He knew the answer already. To ask would be to encourage her confidence while deliberately concealing why the subject interested him.
He asked it nevertheless. “You no longer see this friend?”
“No.” Elizabeth’s smile faded. “She left Hertfordshire some months ago.”
Darcy knew considerably more than that, but he forced himself to receive the information as any new acquaintance ought. “Was her removal expected?”
“Not at all. She had been ill for some time and was kept apart from everyone for fear the illness might spread, but I never expected her to leave so suddenly with her aunt.”
Darcy waited. There was something distasteful in deliberately drawing from her information he already possessed, yet when Elizabeth said nothing further, his curiosity overcame the warning.
“So, you have lost the acquaintance?”
“I hope not.” She gave a small laugh, though there was little amusement in it. “That is the difficulty. I do not know.”
Darcy turned more fully towards her.
“I heard afterwards that she had gone to Somerset with her aunt,” Elizabeth continued.
“I have written to her there rather faithfully, I might add, though Julia would probably accuse me of boasting if she were here to hear it.” Her expression softened briefly before becoming serious again. “But I have received nothing from her.”
Darcy’s chest tightened. “Nothing?”
“Not a word.”
He knew that too. He knew how many times she had written, how long she had waited between replies that never came, and how often she had attempted to explain Julia’s silence to herself. Yet standing beside her now, Darcy discovered that knowing these things did not make hearing them easier.
“And you continue to write?”
Elizabeth looked at him, and Darcy immediately regretted the question. There was perhaps too much interest in it.
“I do,” she said after a moment. “Though I confess I nearly stopped.”
“Why did you not?”
She looked back across the valley. “Because stopping seemed too much like deciding what her silence meant, and I am not yet prepared to do that.”
Darcy said nothing.
“It is foolish, perhaps,” Elizabeth said.
“No.” His answer came too quickly.
Elizabeth turned towards him.
Darcy recovered himself. “I meant only that there may be any number of explanations for a silence which have nothing to do with any conclusion you may have.”
Her expression changed slightly at that, the same searching look he had noticed more than once since meeting her. “You sound very certain.”
“Not certain.” Darcy looked towards the distant fields. “Only unwilling to condemn a person without knowing the circumstances.”
“That is charitable of you.”
If she knew the circumstances, Darcy thought, charitable would hardly be the word she chose.
Elizabeth was quiet for a moment before saying, “I think that is why I continue writing. Until I know otherwise, I would rather believe there is some explanation I have not yet been given.”
Darcy felt the full discomfort of the words, for the explanation she lacked was standing beside her.
Yet he did not give it.
Instead he asked, “You were very close with this Miss Julia then?”
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “Very.”