Chapter 56
Darcy hesitated a moment in the hall. Elizabeth had come down from the nursery and Bennet had left Gardiner’s study to speak to her. He had returned and said Elizabeth would be pleased if Darcy would call on her.
Pleased. What did she mean by that? Pleased to see him? Or perhaps pleased to talk and say she wished to arrange her life without him bothering her again? He could hardly bear it.
Then her aunt came from the sitting room. “Do go in, Mr Darcy. Lizzy is waiting to pour your tea.”
He bowed at her. “I thank you.” He stood on the threshold until Elizabeth raised her gaze and saw him. She smiled hesitantly. Was she as anxious as he?
“Good morning,” he said. “I thank you for agreeing to allow me to call.”
She beckoned him in, and indicated the chair beside hers. Not the intimacy of a sofa, he noted, but close enough.
Elizabeth turned and poured his tea — she already knew his preferences, he noted.
“Mr Darcy, I have noticed your struggle not to call me by any name that might offend me.” Her smile was sad.
“You know I wanted to leave behind the name Darcy, and I think you believe I may be offended if you call me Elizabeth. You feel that madam is too formal, but then, conversation is difficult without being able to refer to me in some way.” Her voice was light, not censorious.
He smiled wryly. “You are very astute.” But he still didn’t know what to call her.
She laughed lightly. “When you are thinking of me, how do you refer to me in your mind?”
He winced in embarrassment. “Forgive me. I think of you as Elizabeth.”
She did not show any sign of noticing his embarrassment. “Then I would prefer it if you called me that. Your attempts not to call me anything at all, while for a good reason, is not comfortable for either of us.”
Darcy held his breath. The right to call her Elizabeth. It was a gift. He bowed his head. “I am honoured — Elizabeth.”
“You see? It is not so very difficult.” She was much more relaxed here, he noted, than she had been in Lincolnshire, or, from what he remembered, at Pemberley.
He could speak of that, he hoped. “Are you happy you have come here? You appear more content.”
“I am.” She restlessly turned her teacup in its saucer, round and round.
“Are you certain you are happy for me to call? I would not wish to cause you any anxiety.”
She placed the teacup back onto the table. “I am sorry if I seem distracted. Everything is the same, it is just that I am different.”
“Of course. We have all changed much in the last years. But there is time, as much as you need.” He glanced around. “I believe you are welcome here for as long as you wish to be.”
She smiled then. “I am, and I am content for a while. But there is much that must be thought of. I cannot take too long about it, as I have already caused everyone around me much distress.”
Darcy leaned forward. “And that is all because of me. I am to blame for the pain and unhappiness I caused you, which made you flee me and Pemberley. No apology can possibly be enough for all that I did after our marriage. I cannot conceive of how difficult you must have found your situation, and I made everything so much more burdensome for you.” Darcy hung his head.
How could he possibly win atonement for his wrongdoing?
Elizabeth’s voice softened. “I, too, must make my apologies for what I wrote. I did not think, nor make allowances for the time you needed to recover from those terrible injuries you suffered.”
“I was convinced you wished me to stay distant from you,” Darcy confessed. “That you must despise a man who needed you, a lady, to come to my aid, and then a man who needed to be treated carefully, fearfully.” He shivered. “You must have felt utter horror at being married to such a man as I was.”
She leaned over and touched his arm. “Do not castigate yourself in this manner. I will not … not deny that the things you did caused me unhappiness, but I think I begin to understand them better now. And the past is in the past.”
Hope rose within him; a hope that lightened his burdened heart. “You are too generous, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth, oh, the honour of being able to address her thus.
“We have much to discuss over the next days, weeks, and months. You must set the pace, I will not hurry you in any way.”
She smiled and glanced up at the clock on the mantel.
“My aunt is having the modiste call here this afternoon. She knows I would be embarrassed to go out in the clothes I have. But I may borrow her coat tomorrow, perhaps. If you are free to call, perhaps we might drive to Hyde Park. I have missed the chance to walk out.”
“I would be honoured to escort you there, Elizabeth. Few people promenade in the mornings, so the crowds will not have gathered and there will be little, if any, interruption.”
“I would like that.” She smiled up at him and his heart stuttered.
He rose to his feet. “Then I will leave you now to rest before the modiste arrives, and will anticipate our walk.”
She looked up. “One thing I would like to ask you. May I maintain a correspondence with your sister? She is newly settled in Minting, and my absence may cause her some distress at the loss of a new friend. I will be careful not to give her any reason for what has happened, and tell her to ask you if she has questions.”
He sat down again, and could not prevent reaching for her hand before he stopped himself. “I would be very grateful if you feel able to write to her.” He remembered Bennet’s note in her lap desk:
‘a steady and prolific letter writer’
and felt shame at his actions all over again. “You may tell her whatever feels right that she should know.”
“Thank you.” She smiled again. “I will look forward to our outing tomorrow.”