Chapter 8
Of Accomplishments and Opinions
Morning arrived at Netherfield beneath a pale wash of silver light, the kind that belonged only to the hours immediately after rain.
The storm of the previous evening had passed sometime during the night, though its presence lingered still in the softened ground, the dripping hedgerows, and the light scent of damp earth carried through every open crack of the house.
Darcy had slept badly—not from discomfort, for Netherfield’s chambers were perfectly adequate, the bed well-made, and the fire properly attended. Under ordinary circumstances, he might have rested easily. These, however, were not ordinary circumstances.
Twice during the night he had risen and crossed to the window, staring out over grounds obscured by darkness and rain while his thoughts returned, with maddening persistence, to Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
More specifically, to the expression upon her face during the previous evening’s conversation in the sitting room.
Surprise, embarrassment, and something else besides. Had he spoken too openly?
The realization troubled him, not due to any remorse over the opinions expressed. Those had been sincere. The danger lay in how plainly he had revealed them before Miss Bingley, whose vanity had already taken sufficient injury to render her sharp-tongued and suspicious.
Even now, with morning light making reason easier than midnight reflection, Darcy could not absolutely repent of his honesty.
Miss Elizabeth had listened. More importantly, she had understood what he meant to convey.
That knowledge followed him downstairs long before the breakfast hour, through a house only beginning to stir itself awake.
A servant crossed the hall carrying fresh coal for the fires.
Somewhere deeper within the servants’ passages came the muffled sounds of preparation—the clink of china, the creak of doors, the subdued movement of a household arranging itself for the day.
Darcy paused near the front windows. The gardens beyond lay washed clean beneath the gray morning sky. Drops of water still clung to the last roses of the season, gathering heavily along crimson petals before slipping soundlessly into the dark soil below.
The sight drew him outward almost instantly. He told himself he desired fresh air after confinement indoors, though the excuse hardly satisfied him.
Within minutes he had exchanged the warmth of the house for the cool dampness beyond it, stepping carefully onto the gravel paths that wound through Netherfield’s gardens.
The air carried a freshness that sharpened the senses even as it chilled them, and though the season had turned decisively toward autumn, traces of summer stubbornly lingered among the flowerbeds.
Darcy followed the nearest path without conscious direction at first.
Then he rounded a bend near the southern terrace and saw her.
Miss Elizabeth stood alone beside a bed of pale roses, one gloved hand brushing absently against the bowed head of a bloom weighted by rainwater.
She had not fully dressed for company; her hair, though neatly arranged, lacked the severe precision expected later in the day, and several curls had escaped near her temples.
The simplicity suited her more than careful fashion ever could.
For one suspended moment, Darcy merely stared at her.
The morning light bathed the edges of everything around her—the roses, the damp stone paths, the distant hedges—and she herself seemed more vivid for it.
There remained traces of fatigue about her eyes, no doubt from sitting with her sister through much of the night, but even weariness failed to diminish her animation altogether.
She glanced up at the sound of his approach. Surprise flickered briefly across her face. Then caution followed it.
“Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy said, inclining his head.
“Mr. Darcy.” The reply was civil, though guarded enough to remind him how precarious his position remained.
He stopped several feet away, unwilling to crowd her into retreat. Every apology he had rehearsed over the last three days abandoned him in an instant, leaving only the sharp awareness that this was the first time since the assembly they had stood truly alone together.
No Miss Bingley to interrupt. No one to redirect conversation and no crowded room to shield either of them from honesty.
Darcy seized the opportunity before hesitation reclaimed it. “I hope you will forgive the liberty,” he began, “but as we are both abroad before the rest of the house has risen, may I ask whether you would permit me to walk with you?”
Her brows lifted slightly. “You may,” she said after a brief pause. “Though I confess myself somewhat surprised by the request.”
“The fault for that lies squarely on my shoulders,” Darcy admitted.
That answer drew the remotest change in her expression. Not quite amusement, though near enough to encourage him.
They began walking slowly along the gravel path.
For several moments neither spoke. The silence between them was not uncomfortable precisely, but it carried weight.
Darcy found himself unusually aware of every small detail—the sound of their footsteps against damp gravel, the movement of wind through the hedges, the slight rise and fall of her breathing as she walked beside him.
He inhaled deeply and steadily at last.
“I would be remiss,” he said thoughtfully, “if I failed to take this opportunity to offer my apologies for my abysmal behavior at the assembly.”
Elizabeth’s gaze remained fixed ahead.
Darcy continued before caution could interfere.
“I never should have spoken as I did. The words were both ungentlemanly and patently untrue. At the time, I considered them careless. Since then, I have discovered there are few things more capable of causing injury than careless speech. I regret it more sincerely than I can properly express.”
Still, she said nothing. The quiet stretched long enough for him to feel the full force of his own uncertainty. At last, she spoke.
“Thank you for the apology.” He was taken aback by the respondent's formality.
“But you do not forgive me.”
Elizabeth glanced toward him briefly before looking away again. “I shall endeavor to do so.” The distinction landed precisely where intended.
Darcy bowed slightly. “I deserve no better.”
“You deserve honesty,” she replied. “And honesty requires me to admit that words spoken in haste have consequences. Once said, they cannot be recalled or unheard.” The steadiness of her voice affected him more deeply than anger might have done.
Elizabeth continued after a moment, her tone reserved now though no less sincere. “I have never considered myself particularly vain, Mr. Darcy, but even so… my vanity was wounded. My confidence as well.”
Darcy stopped walking. The admission pierced him with uncomfortable clarity. Until now, he had understood his offense chiefly in terms of impropriety. Hearing its consequences spoken plainly transformed it into something far worse.
“I see now,” he said quietly, “how far-reaching my thoughtless remark truly was. At the time, I treated it as nothing more than careless conversation. That alone condemns me. All I can do now is endeavor to prove I am not such an ungentlemanly wretch as I appeared.”
To his immense relief, she laughed. The sound came unexpectedly, warm and genuine despite herself. “I am relieved to discover,” she said, “that you are at least capable of condemning yourself properly.”
“No one has performed the task more thoroughly than I.”
She grinned. “That is fortunate. It saves me the effort.”
Darcy’s mouth curved despite himself. The shift between them was slight but unmistakable. The sharpest edge of tension had eased, replaced by something more uncertain and infinitely more dangerous.
Interest.
They resumed walking.
The path curved gradually toward the eastern gardens where late roses climbed along low stone walls still darkened by rain. Elizabeth slowed briefly near one particularly vivid cluster, studying them with open appreciation.
“The season lingers longer this year,” she observed.
“I had not noticed until now.” Liar. Had he not marveled at the roses still blooming and wished to pluck one for her?
Elizabeth did not notice his grimace. “That is because gentlemen rarely notice flowers unless a lady compels them to.”
Darcy glanced at her. “Then I am fortunate to be instructed.”
She shook her head lightly. “You improve too quickly, Mr. Darcy. It makes reform suspicious.”
“I assure you my reform remains incomplete.” Though he would work to remedy the situation.
“That, at least, I find believable.” Again, the quick flash of amusement.
Darcy found himself wanting to prolong it indefinitely. After a few moments, he said, “Miss Bingley informed us of the conversation at supper before your sister became ill.”
Elizabeth sighed. “Then you have heard all my scandalous family history.” Her tone was thick with sarcasm.
“She mentioned that Mr. Bennet is not your father.”
“He is not,” she replied easily. “Though he has always behaved as one. I have never once felt less loved or less wanted because we do not share blood.”
The affection in her voice moved him unexpectedly.
“My true surname,” she continued, “is Barnett. Though Hertfordshire abandoned it years ago in favor of Bennet, and I long ago ceased objecting.”
“It suits you no worse.”
She glanced sideways at him. “You are determined to be agreeable this morning.”
He shrugged. “I am attempting reform.”
“A dangerous endeavor.”
Darcy regarded her with a steady gaze. “Would you discourage it?”
“Not entirely.”
The answer pleased him absurdly.
Elizabeth walked several more steps before speaking again. “My father was a tradesman. Imports and exports primarily. He had only just begun to prosper properly when he died.”
There was no embarrassment in her tone. Only honesty.