Chapter 8
Elizabeth
Mr. Darcy arrived in Hertfordshire six days after I did.
I learned of his presence from my mother, who burst into the breakfast room in such a state that Kitty spilled her chocolate when she turned around.
“Netherfield is open again!” she exclaimed. “Mr. Bingley returned last night, and Mr. Darcy is with him. Mrs. Long heard it from her valet, who got it from the stable boy. Why am I always the last to know anything important?”
Jane stopped buttering her bread.
I looked at her. She immediately lowered her eyes, but the flush in her cheeks betrayed the very emotion she would have blamed herself for revealing.
“Perhaps Mr. Bingley is only here for a few days,” she said.
“A few days is plenty of time to call on one’s neighbors,” my mother replied. “Especially when a young woman he nearly married lives three miles from his house.”
“Mama,” Jane murmured.
“I am only speaking the truth.”
For once, she was not entirely wrong.
They came the next day.
Mr. Bingley’s arrival transformed the drawing room into a theater. My mother spoke too loudly, Kitty giggled, Lydia asked three questions about the officers before greetings were even finished. Jane remained calm, but I knew her hands well enough to see they were trembling.
Mr. Darcy entered behind his friend.
Our eyes met.
He bowed with perfect formality.
“Miss Elizabeth.”
“Mr. Darcy.”
Nothing in his voice revealed that he had asked me to become his wife, that I had accepted, then nearly broken our engagement. Nothing—except the intensity of his gaze and the tension in his jaw.
Mr. Bingley, on the other hand, concealed nothing. He looked at Jane with anxious joy, like a man returning to a beloved place from which he feared being cast out. When she spoke to him, his face lit up.
Darcy observed him, then looked at Jane. I saw the exact moment he understood. My sister’s gentleness was not indifference. Her reserve could not entirely hide her love from someone who was finally willing to see it.
The conversation scattered into smaller groups. Lydia began recounting a recent ball. Mr. Bingley moved closer to Jane. My mother asked me to bring a book to Mr. Darcy, though he had shown no desire to read.
I crossed the room and handed him the volume.
“My mother thinks you are in need of distraction.”
He took the book without looking at the title.
“She is mistaken.”
The response, spoken so softly that only I could hear, sent a shiver down my arms.
“You arrived yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“Have you spoken to Mr. Bingley?”
“In London. I told him everything.”
“Everything?”
“That Miss Bennet was in London, that I had helped conceal it from him, and that my judgment of her feelings might have been mistaken. He decided on his own to return.”
I looked at Mr. Bingley. Jane had just smiled at something he said, and he seemed unable to take his eyes off her.
“Thank you.”
Darcy stiffened slightly.
“Do not thank me for correcting an injustice I committed myself.”
“Many men prefer to cling to their mistakes rather than admit they made them.”
His eyes returned to mine.
“Your opinion taught me that such comfort costs too dearly.”
I had no reply.
My mother called Mr. Darcy over to discuss the beauty of Longbourn’s park. He moved away. For the rest of the visit, I caught his gaze on me several times. Each time, he looked away first.
After their departure, Jane drew me into our room.
“Lizzy,” she said, “Mr. Bingley asked if he could return tomorrow.”
“And what did you answer?”
“That Mama would be happy to receive him.”
“Jane!”
She smiled in spite of herself.
“What could I say?”
“That you would be happy to see him.”
“That would be too direct.”
“After months of suffering, a little clarity would not be criminal.”
Her smile disappeared.
“He told me he didn’t know I was in London. He thought… He thought I didn’t care for him.”
“And now?”
“Now he knows better.”
I pulled her into my arms.
“I’m sorry, Jane.”
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
“I knew Mr. Darcy had intervened.”
She pulled back.
I told her what I could reveal. Her surprise ran deep, but her anger was gentler than mine.
“He made a mistake,” she said. “But he also told Mr. Bingley the truth when he could have stayed silent.”
“You forgive him already.”
“I don’t want to hold onto resentment when everything can still be set right.”
“You’re far better than I am.”
“No. I’m just too happy to stay angry.”
The next day, Mr. Bingley returned alone in the morning and left an engaged man before dinner.
My mother wept, laughed, asked how many carriages they would own, and dispatched a servant to Meryton before Jane had even finished her announcement. My father kissed Jane with an emotion he hid behind a remark about patience being rewarded.
Amid all the joy, I thought of Darcy.
He wasn’t there to receive Bingley’s gratitude or Jane’s thanks. He had corrected his mistake and withdrawn.
I found him that evening near the gate of Longbourn.
I had stepped out to escape my mother’s wedding plans. He stood beside his horse, as if hesitating to enter.
“Mr. Darcy.”
He turned.
“Miss Bennet. I came to congratulate your sister, but I fear I’ve arrived at an inconvenient hour.”
“In our house, convenient hours are whenever my mother has an audience.”
A hint of a smile softened his face.
“Then I’m in danger.”
“Considerably.”
We stood facing each other. The horse pawed at the ground.
“My father received your letter,” I said.
“Has he accepted?”
“He wants to negotiate the terms with your man of business. He refuses any advantage that might look like a gift.”
“I expected as much.”
“He also refuses to let this matter influence my decision.”
Darcy lowered his eyes.
“He’s right.”
“You still don’t ask what that decision will be.”
“You asked for time.”
“And what if that time cost you all hope?”
He raised his head.
“Hope I don’t deserve isn’t mine to claim.”
This answer irritated me as much as it moved me.
“You’ve become very humble since Hunsford.”
“No. Only less certain that what I want is enough to decide what’s good for you.”
The wind lifted a lock of my hair. He started to reach for it, then held back his hand. I noticed. My body noticed even more.
“Jane and Mr. Bingley are engaged,” I said.
“I know. Bingley sent me a note so enthusiastic it could have lit Netherfield without candles.”
I laughed.
Darcy looked at me, and the warmth in his expression erased, for a moment, everything that separated us.
“I’m glad you came back,” I murmured.
He went still.
“For Bingley?”
Prudence would have told me to say yes. I thought of his honesty, the help he’d offered without conditions, the letter in which he’d placed his sister’s wounds in my hands.
“Not only.”
His breath caught.
He took a step toward me, then stopped at the precise distance propriety demanded.
“Elizabeth…”
The door of Longbourn opened behind us.
“Lizzy!” Lydia shouted. “Mama wants to know if Mr. Darcy is coming to dinner, and if he really has ten thousand a year!”
Darcy closed his eyes for a second.
I covered my mouth to hold back my laughter.
“You see,” I said, “the danger was real.”