Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
The next morning, Elizabeth looked about the breakfast table with a mix of sadness and joy, a disquieting sensation.
She missed Mary. It was odd. For so long, she had felt…
shamed, if she was honest, by her dour sister.
Now that her place at the table was empty, Elizabeth missed that steady anchor.
Further, Mary had been anything but dour since meeting Mr Collins, and Elizabeth was only too pleased to have seen her sister riding off with her husband to a new life together.
In Mr Darcy’s carriage, no less! What a shock to all who had only recently met Mr Darcy that he would so generously offer his personal conveyance and then walk back to Netherfield with Mr Bingley.
When she thanked him, he had waved her comment away as if it was nothing, but it was not nothing. It was a kindness she did not believe was in his character, yet, what did she know of his character? It was confounding. How could one man be entirely pleasant and unpleasant at once?
Elizabeth set down the knife she had been using to spread jam on her toast. Mary’s chair had been removed from the table.
That was what made the room seem wrong. What a thing to imagine all five chairs where the girls had sat since they were out of the nursery being removed as each of them married, leaving only one for Mama and one for Papa.
“Mary looked so lovely yesterday,” Jane said with a sigh.
“Of course she did,” said Mama. “All of my girls are beauties.”
Elizabeth chose not to remind Mama that she had spent years frustrated with Mary’s lack of care for her appearance, and more than once had insulted Mary’s facial features, saying a smile might improve what was otherwise lacking.
“A daughter married,” Mama said, puffing up like a peacock as she reached for her teacup.
Elizabeth looked to Jane, who studied her buttered toast assiduously.
She knew her sister was considering Mr Bingley.
The two clearly liked one another, but he had not yet made an offer.
Elizabeth thought it best, for too many young people rushed into the bonds of matrimony without really knowing one another, and they were truly bonds: forever and inextricable.
“Let us go for a walk this morning,” Elizabeth proposed to Jane.
Jane shook her head. “I do not wish to weary myself before tea.”
Elizabeth and Jane had been invited by Mr Bingley to tea at Netherfield, but that would not stop Elizabeth.
She could be back and dressed appropriately in plenty of time, and so she excused herself and went out to the woods.
The scent of partially rotted leaves and moss was somehow comforting to her, and she enjoyed avoiding puddles and sitting on damp logs and boulders.
She could sing silly or pretty songs loudly or quietly, could spin around in circles with her arms outstretched watching the leaves turn to a blur, be still and ponder the troubles of the day as well as the nature of life itself in perfect silence, or watch the passing of birds and listen to woodland creatures skittering about.
What she rarely considered was how alone and vulnerable she was when she was in the depths of the woods.
She had a vague notion, but pushed it from her mind in pursuit of the pleasure she gained from being amongst the trees.
Only in this moment when a strange noise reached her ears did she ever consider the potential danger.
A snap from behind her.
A twig breaking.
A wild beast about?
A deer?
A person?
A man?
She braced herself and turned.
“Mr Darcy!”
Her heart was racing, but she felt complete relief.
“I am sorry, Miss Elizabeth, to have come upon you unannounced.”
She walked towards him. “No need for apologies, Mr Darcy. You are within your rights to enjoy these woods.” She looked at the bare trees and declared, “Is it not magnificent?”
He looked up. “Yes. I love the woods in all seasons, but the quiet of winter is different. It is like the world is waiting, reaching out to the heavens to ask for spring. It makes me feel oddly at peace.”
Elizabeth smiled. “You are a poet, Mr Darcy.”
He looked at her, shaking his head, and she noticed his cheeks were flushed.
“This ought not shame you, sir. Poets are far more vital to the world than lawyers or bankers.”
He offered a laugh. Or was it a scoff? “Come now, how are poets more vital than those who make it possible for us to live in magnificent houses and drive about in fine carriages? Without them, such transactions could not be made.”
“I suspect men will always find ways of trading and dealing, but only the truly gifted are poets, and the world benefits from the way they see magic in plain sight as well as that which is hidden.”
She thought he might argue against this, but he asked, “And which do you prefer: beauty that is obvious or beauty that is hidden?”
She pondered a moment. “I cannot choose. I simply appreciate that beauty exists.”
He nodded, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Do you come out to the woods to write poetry?”
“I am no poet. I am merely an appreciator of the art.”
“Have you a favourite?”
She looked upward as if the words were written on the branches overhead, searching her memory.
“For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude.”
To her surprise, he began to speak, and together they finished the verse:
“And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.”
“Heavens, Mr Darcy, you know Wordsworth?”
He nodded, though his face was set into far more seriousness than she thought one reciting poetry ought to show.
She said, “Those words were as if he could read my soul.”
“Yes,” he said, his eyes brightening. “Yes. That is it exactly!”
They stood looking at one another and a softness crossed his face.
He stepped closer to her. “I need to apologise again for my behaviour at the assembly.”
“You do not. Your first apology was sufficient.”
“No,” he said quietly. “I have agonised over it, and—”
“You have?”
He nodded. “I suspect you have considered how I treated you more than once?”
She nodded back, unsure of what else to say.
“I feel…” His brow furrowed. “I want…”
She waited for more, but when none came, she said, “Perhaps it is best if we put that all behind us.”
He let out a breath of relief.
“Mr Darcy, my honesty sometimes takes people aback, and though I have been told to cease—”
“You must never cease being yourself. There is no one— I have never met—” He pressed his lips together. “It is intoxicating.”
He stepped closer still, then very close indeed. He meant to kiss her. She was sure of it.
“Miss Elizabeth, I…”
She closed her eyes and stood on her tiptoes, waiting.
But nothing.
She dropped down and opened her eyes. He was frozen in the same position.
Had she misread him? Presumed? She would die of shame if he had not meant to kiss her.
He breathed.
He breathed again.
“I fear,” he whispered, “what might transpire if I follow my instincts to kiss you.”
“Do you fear doing me harm?” she asked quietly.
His head shook the slightest bit, and though she thought she need not fear this man, it did occur to her that they were alone and there was precious little she might do to defend herself.
“Then what do you fear?”
His eyes met hers. “Falling in love with you.”
“Oh,” she said. She reached for his hand, which was warm and strong. “Would that be tragic?”
He squeezed her hand, and her breath caught.
He inched closer, and while their bodies did not yet touch, she could feel his warm breath on her cold cheeks.
“Perhaps.” He squeezed her hand again then pulled out of her grasp.
She assumed he would walk away, but instead, his knuckles stroked her cheek before he tipped her chin up and brushed his lips against hers.
He whispered, “I do not trust that if I kiss you properly, I shall ever allow myself to stop.”
She lifted herself back onto her toes and pressed her lips to his.
He kissed her. And kissed her. And the world fell away, swirling and tipping and tipping and swirling. She marvelled that she could keep her balance, but he was there holding her, rooting her to this spot where all was right and good.