Chapter Thirty #2
“Then surely someone there must know what became of Julia and her family. Even if they have left the place, neighbours or servants might know where they went.”
“That would ordinarily be the simplest course,” Darcy said. “But Richard has already found something which may lead us nearer to Miss Harding. I would rather allow him to pursue it before beginning another inquiry.”
Elizabeth could see the sense in that. “Very well. I shall trust your judgement.”
Something in his expression changed at the words, though so briefly she could make nothing of it.
They walked on in silence for a little while, Elizabeth turning the matter over in her mind before she spoke again. “I confess, I have felt Julia’s absence rather less keenly these last several days.”
Darcy looked towards her.
“Not because I miss her less,” she added quickly. “I do not. There has simply been less emptiness in my days.”
“I am glad.”
“You ought to ask why before accepting the compliment.”
His brows lifted. “Was it intended as one?”
“Perhaps.”
Darcy waited, and Elizabeth became conscious that she had placed herself in a difficulty entirely of her own making.
“I have had rather more pleasant occupation for my thoughts lately,” she admitted.
For once, Mr. Darcy appeared to have no answer ready.
Elizabeth glanced at him and found the effect sufficiently gratifying to reward her boldness.
“Miss Elizabeth.”
“Yes?”
“You frequently accuse me of deliberately discomposing you.”
“I do.”
“I begin to suspect some hypocrisy in the accusation.”
She laughed. “Then perhaps your cousin had better succeed quickly. I should hate for my concern over Julia to suffer entirely from your presence.”
“I shall impress the urgency upon him.”
“You had better.”
His smile remained as they continued, and Elizabeth found herself touched all over again by what he had done. Darcy had not merely listened when she spoke of something which mattered to her. He had remembered afterwards and quietly attempted to help.
It was impossible not to love such a man.
Ahead of them, Bingley assisted Jane across a stile with such unnecessary care that Elizabeth suspected he would have carried her bodily over it had propriety permitted.
“Do you think they know?” she asked.
“Know what?”
“How obvious they are.”
“I doubt Bingley cares.”
“And Jane?”
Darcy considered her sister. “Miss Bennet is more difficult to read.”
“Not to me.”
“No. I imagine not.”
Elizabeth watched Jane smile at something Bingley said. “There is something rather enviable in being so certain of another person's affection.”
Darcy's attention shifted to her. “Do you think so?”
She became aware too late of the direction into which she had led the conversation. “I meant generally.”
“Of course.”
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “Do not look so pleased with yourself.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
His smile confirmed it.
They crossed the stile and continued into the field beyond, Jane and Bingley again moving ahead.
Elizabeth found herself considering what she had said.
Certainty had never seemed particularly important until lately.
Her parents' marriage provided little recommendation for choosing upon attraction alone, while Charlotte had always argued that happiness in marriage was largely a matter of chance.
Elizabeth had never agreed with her, though she could not have said precisely what she expected instead.
“What do you think makes a happy marriage?” she asked.
Darcy looked at her with some surprise. “That is a considerable question.”
“You may take more than five seconds to answer this one.”
“How generous.”
“I thought so.”
He considered it. “Respect. Affection. Similar principles, though not necessarily similar opinions.”
Elizabeth smiled. “How fortunate.”
“You disagree?”
“Not at all.” Elizabeth brushed away a fly that had ventured too near. “But gentlemen of your station are often persuaded that duty ought to have some part in the choice.”
“Not in that choice.” His gaze settled upon her. “I would not sacrifice my happiness to duty in marriage. Nor should I wish to marry a woman who agreed with me merely because she thought my position entitled me to obedience, or because my consequence made her afraid to oppose me.”
“Then I may be exceptionally well qualified.”
“That particular qualification recommended itself very early.”
She laughed. “You say that now. Ask me again after twenty years of disagreement.”
“I hope to have the opportunity.”
Her laughter died softly.
There was nothing playful in his expression, and for a moment Elizabeth saw the possibility with startling ease.
Years rather than weeks. Pemberley rather than Longbourn.
Arguments over books beside another fire, Darcy still looking at her with that quiet amusement while she informed him that he was wrong.
The picture delighted her more than she would have expected. For several moments Elizabeth allowed herself to dwell upon it.
Their conversation eventually wandered into lighter matters, though Elizabeth carried the thought with her.
They exchanged some amusement over Jane and Bingley’s behaviour, disagreed over Darcy’s inexplicable dislike of cured fish despite his fondness for oysters, and had nearly reached Longbourn before Elizabeth realised how quickly the afternoon had passed.
By then they had rejoined Jane and Bingley, and Jane’s heightened colour suggested that her conversation had been no less agreeable. They returned to Longbourn in excellent spirits, Elizabeth’s cheeks cold from the wind and her mind still pleasantly occupied by much of what Darcy had said.
The gentlemen remained for a short while over tea. When Bingley had finally completed a rather prolonged goodbye to Jane, Darcy crossed to Elizabeth while the others were occupied with their own farewells.
“I shall see you tomorrow.”
It was not quite a question.
“I suppose that depends upon whether you can discover another excuse to call,” Elizabeth teased.
“I abandoned excuses several days ago.”
“So you did.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
Elizabeth smiled. “Tomorrow.”
She watched him go with the peculiar satisfaction of knowing that he meant it.
That evening, Mr. Collins returned unusually late from Lucas Lodge and in considerably better spirits than those in which he had departed.
He spoke at dinner of Miss Lucas's excellent understanding, her remarkable civility and the gratifying attention with which she had listened to his account of Hunsford.
Elizabeth caught Mary's eye across the table and very nearly laughed.
Whatever comfort Charlotte had offered him, it had apparently been effective. Elizabeth thought little more of it. Her own thoughts were elsewhere.
Six days had passed since she had agreed to Darcy’s courtship, and she had seen him upon every one of them.
Somewhere in those days, Elizabeth had ceased wondering what precisely she felt for him.
Perhaps the feeling itself had begun earlier, so gradually that she could not have said when admiration and affection had become something more, but after that afternoon she could no longer pretend ignorance of it.
She loved him.
The certainty had come upon her most clearly while they spoke of marriage. She had listened to him describe the sort of life he wished to share with a wife, had imagined herself living it with him, and not once had she wished the conversation elsewhere.
She loved his steadiness, his intelligence, the unexpected humour he revealed more readily with her, and the quiet manner in which he remembered what troubled her and attempted to ease it without being asked.
More dangerously still, she had begun to love the simple expectation of him, the knowledge that tomorrow would bring another knock at the door and Mr. Darcy with it.
For a man she had never intended to fall in love with, he had made remarkably quick work of her.
And now he had taken it upon himself to help find Julia, simply because he knew how much her silence troubled Elizabeth.
There was so much she wanted to tell her friend.
Later that evening, Elizabeth brought out her writing things and sat down to write another letter to Julia.