Chapter 17 #3
He did not answer beyond inclining his head, but when he lifted her from the carriage, he moved with such steadiness, such entire freedom from display, that she found herself less embarrassed by the circumstance than she had expected to be.
The ease with which she had begun to trust him in these moments when trust had become unavoidable seemed to make embarrassment no longer necessary.
The passage into the house was soon made. Charlotte directed them at once toward Elizabeth’s room, and there Mr Darcy set her down with the same care he had shown throughout. Only when she was properly seated did he step back, as though the distance was now once more required.
“I hope,” he said, “that you will feel less discomfort after some rest.”
“I have no doubt of it,” Elizabeth replied. “And I am very sensible of all the trouble I have given you.”
“It has been no trouble.”
The sincerity of his tone made the thought of further contradiction feel almost like ingratitude.
Then, too, they had already reached an understanding in the carriage.
She looked at him, intending to answer lightly, but found herself checked by the seriousness of his expression.
It was not worry exactly, though some remains of concern certainly had not left him.
Rather, it was as if he felt too much to speak easily.
With a tact Elizabeth valued highly, Charlotte busied herself with arranging cushions and speaking to the maid about what might be wanted, thus providing a kind of screen behind which a few quieter words might pass.
“I must thank you again,” Elizabeth said, lowering her voice. “Not only for helping me, but for doing what I could not request, and might well have been so unreasonable as to refuse.”
A faint change came over his expression, not quite a smile, but something warmer than his usual reserve. “You were not unreasonable. Only hurt, and rightfully careful of your modesty.”
Charlotte turned back toward them then, and whatever else might have been said was lost. “You must excuse me, Mr Darcy,” she said regretfully, “but I really believe Lizzy must rest now.”
Mr Darcy inclined his head at once. “Certainly. I will not intrude upon her recovery.”
He took his leave with all propriety, yet when he bowed to Elizabeth, there was something more than ceremony in his manner, as though the parting were not, to him, entirely a formality.
When he was gone, Mr Collins filled the space he left with a fresh effusion on Lady Catherine’s kindness, Mr Darcy’s attentions, and the singular distinction of having so important an accident take place within reach of Rosings Park.
Charlotte bore it for a few moments, then contrived to remove him by suggesting that Lady Catherine might expect a fuller report than had yet been sent.
The room was quieter the instant he disappeared.
Charlotte came and sat beside Elizabeth. “Well,” she said, taking her hand for a moment before letting it go again, “you have managed to make your first full week in Kent rather more eventful than I intended.”
Elizabeth laughed, though softly. “You must forgive me. I had not the least notion of providing entertainment.”
“I am not thinking of entertainment. Does it pain you very much?”
“Less now than it did at first.”
“That is something.”
Charlotte regarded her for a moment longer, and Elizabeth knew her too well not to recognise the curiosity she was choosing, out of kindness, to restrain.
“You need not look so discreet,” Elizabeth said. “I know very well that the whole thing must have appeared ridiculous.”
“Not ridiculous,” Charlotte returned. “Only memorable.”
Elizabeth turned her head slightly against the chair and closed her eyes for a moment, not from fatigue alone, but from the wish to put some order into thoughts which had become less manageable than usual. “It ought to have been merely awkward,” she said at last.
Charlotte said nothing at first, but Elizabeth could feel that she was listening closely. “And was it not?” she asked after a moment.
Elizabeth opened her eyes again. “No. But what it was, I hardly know.” The honesty of the answer surprised her almost as much as it could her friend.
Charlotte’s expression altered, though only a little. “Then I think,” she said, with her usual calm good sense, “that you need not decide it today.”
“No,” Elizabeth replied, though the quiet certainty of what had unsettled her remained. “Perhaps not.”
When Charlotte left her at last to rest, the room grew still enough for thought, and thought, now that it had the opportunity, did not spare her.
She had known for some time that her opinion of Mr Darcy had changed.
Respect had come first, and gratitude after it, and from both had grown a degree of ease which would once have seemed impossible.
Yet what had passed that afternoon did not belong to either.
She could not think of his lifting her in his arms, of the carriage ride back, or of the quiet attention with which he had watched her without feeling again that same disordered awareness.
It was not merely that he had acted kindly. He had acted as though her comfort were of immediate importance to him. As though she were important to him.
Elizabeth turned her face toward the window, where the late light had begun to soften against the glass, and told herself with all the firmness she could command that nothing had yet happened that should alter the whole course of her judgement.
A man might be attentive without feeling deeply.
A woman might be grateful without danger to herself.
There was no wisdom in giving consequence too soon to what might still be explained by circumstance.
Yet even as she attempted the argument, she knew it lacked its former strength.
Something had changed, but she was not yet ready to name it, nor to believe that Mr Darcy might feel as much as herself.