CHAPTER 4
It was Elizabeth's habit to walk as early as she could rise, and this morning was no exception.
Having endured, the evening before, a dinner made tedious by her mother's raptures and her youngest sisters' high spirits, both entirely consumed by the prospect of soldiers arriving in the county, she was glad enough this morning for the quiet of Hertfordshire's gentle hills and familiar woods.
Among her favourite walks was the ascent to Oak Hill, a long but easy climb that rewarded the effort with a fine prospect of the surrounding country, the lake below, the brisk little streams that fed it, the neighbouring fields, and the broader farmland beyond.
She began her climb just as the sun was rising, its light filtering softly through the dense wood.
She walked, as was her habit, in silence; and though she was seldom without some object of natural beauty to admire, her mind was very often occupied besides with thoughts of its own, reflecting or debating some point or other.
Indeed, she had long observed that her thoughts were never louder than on such walks, though she herself remained entirely still.
That morning, as she walked, Elizabeth turned over certain, distressing accounts she had lately read, of crimes committed by soldiers newly returned from the Continent, their conduct laid before the public in language that did not scruple to call such men fit for the madhouse.
She could not but fear that men of this character might find their way to her own quiet corner of the world.
But surely, she reasoned, the greater part of them would prove honourable men.
So entirely absorbed was she in this train of thought that she failed to hear the approach of a horse ridden hard around a bend in the path.
The way she had taken ran through close wood until it opened, without warning, upon a crossing with another.
She had scarcely stepped into the open ground when she found herself facing a very large animal, and could do nothing but stand fixed to the spot as the creature reared, shrieking in alarm, very nearly unseating its rider.
Elizabeth cried out in her own surprise, her hands flying instinctively to shield her head.
The rider, to his credit, kept his seat, though he called out sharply in his own astonishment, having no more expected to meet a person in his path than she had expected to meet a horse in hers.
When the animal had at last settled upon all four legs, Elizabeth stepped quickly to the side of the path, her hands still half-raised, and called out at once to apologise for her carelessness.
"Sir, I beg your pardon; I have startled your horse most severely. I was lost in thought, and did not think to look for another upon the path."
It was only as she raised her eyes to the rider's face that she perceived, with no small dismay, that she stood before none other than Mr. Darcy, the very gentleman who had slighted her so pointedly at the Meryton assembly, and who had danced with no one beyond his own party the whole evening through.
Of all the persons in Hertfordshire to encounter this morning! Her stomach churned, seeing the look of anger on the gentleman’s face before her.
Elizabeth felt a sharp temptation to observe, with some asperity, that a gentleman might exercise rather more caution upon a path shared by others; but her better judgment prevailed, and she offered only the briefest of nods. "Paron me, good day to you, sir."
He said nothing. The rider only regarded her, his countenance set in an expression she took, not unreasonably, given his conduct at the assembly, for haughty displeasure.
Concluding, after a further moment's silence, that he did not intend to speak, Elizabeth judged herself at liberty to leave him where he stood, and, gathering her skirts, crossed to the far path and continued her ascent.
Elizabeth could not know that Mr. Darcy remained fixed to the spot behind her, his composure rather more shaken than his countenance would allow.
His heart had very nearly failed him at the thought of what his horse might have done; and no sooner had relief begun to settle than it gave way to something closer to anger, upon recognising in the lady before him the same Miss Bennet he had first remarked at the assembly, and the reflection that he might have been the means of harming her did nothing to soften his temper.
He remained there for some moments, watching her continue up the path with what he could only call a very ill-judged composure, before he found his voice.
"Miss Bennet.” She did not acknowledge his called, so he spoke again, this time a louder, more stern tone, “Miss Bennet! I beg you will stop a moment."
Elizabeth was strongly tempted to walk on. She permitted herself only the smallest sigh before turning to face him, "What is it you wish to say, Mr. Darcy? I have already apologised, sir, for my inattention."
Her tone, civil though it strove to be, left him for a moment entirely without words, as though he, Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, were himself an inconvenience to her morning, rather than the reverse.
Elizabeth, receiving no answer, allowed herself a curt nod and turned once more to continue up the trail.
He had never, in the whole course of his life, been addressed by a young lady in so unceremonious a manner.
It was, he told himself, entirely her own fault; she might have been killed.
What could she have been thinking, to walk into the path of a horse at speed?
That she should then address him with such want of proper feeling struck him as scarcely to be borne.
A few steps further, and his voice rang out again, sharper than before. "Miss Bennet!"
Elizabeth felt her shoulders draw up at the sound, and turned a second time, her cheeks rather warmer now, her breath a little quickened as she strove to master her rising temper. She saw that he had dismounted, and stood now beside his horse, the reins held fast in one hand.
"Yes, Mr. Darcy?"
"Pardon me, madam, but that was excessively reckless.
Had Apollo been less well trained, the consequence might have been very grave indeed.
How could you fail to hear us approach?" His brows drew together as he continued, "You appeared from the trees as though from nowhere, directly into our path.
We might have done you a very serious injury.
Can you not comprehend the danger of it? "
His words came sharp with accusation, though Elizabeth, standing at some little distance, could not perceive that the hand holding the reins was not entirely steady, that his anger was in no small part the residue of fear, and no small measure of alarm besides.
She, for her part, had also had her fill of both that morning, and was not disposed to receive his reproof meekly. "Mr. Darcy, allow me to remind you that I have already offered my apology, sir."
Her voice, as she went on, gathered rather than lost its strength.
"But I should be remiss not to observe, in turn, that you rode through our lane at a pace I can scarcely call prudent.
In this neighbourhood, sir, we do not race through wooded paths, knowing as we do that they are shared by man and beast alike.
I will own I have never seen anyone ride so swiftly, nor with so little regard for who else might be upon the path.
I must beg you, sir, to consider your pace more carefully hereafter, for the sake of those with whom you share it. "
Mr. Darcy made no immediate reply. After a moment, however, he appeared to recollect himself.
"Miss Bennet, you have my apology. I confess I did not consider how these paths might be used by the neighbourhood.
I would only ask that you take greater care in future, and never again walk into the path of a horse at speed. "
Elizabeth studied him a moment; his countenance grave, dark hair fallen across his brow, his eyes still bright with some feeling. She drew a steadying breath. "That, sir, I can readily agree to. Good day to you."
She did not wait for his reply, but turned a third time and set off briskly up the trail.
Whether he continued to watch her go, she could not say with certainty, though she did not hear his horse move off at once; only after some moments did the sound of hoofbeats reach her, growing fainter as he rode away.
What a disagreeable man, she said to herself with a rather unladylike huff.
The encounter had entirely displaced her earlier reflections upon the militia, her thoughts turning now, with some heat, to the character of Mr. Darcy himself. He is wholly without consideration for others, she decided. What could he have meant, riding through the woods at such a pace?
Her resentment carried her the rest of the way to the summit of Oak Hill, where she attempted to seat herself upon one of the great weathered stones scattered about the ground, relics, she had read, of some ancient people, but found she could take no comfort in the view this morning.
She rose again almost at once and paced instead, turning over the events of the last quarter-hour.
Thank heaven he stopped in time, she reflected, still feeling the flutter of her surprise at his unexpected presence. Soon though, she began to chastise herself, how did I fail to hear him? Goodness, he must think me a very great fool. This second line of thinking caused her greater agitation.
Her thoughts moved in this manner some while, between relief, and vexation, and no small measure of self-reproach, until she had settled, to her own satisfaction, that the fault, though not entirely his, lay chiefly with Mr. Darcy; had he ridden at a more reasonable pace, the whole affair might have been avoided, or at the least resolved without alarm to either party.
It vexed her, all the same, to own that she had been sufficiently lost in thought to miss what ought to have been the unmistakable sound of a horse moving at speed through the wood so near her path.
When she had paced long enough to weary of her own thoughts, Elizabeth judged it time to descend, the sun climbing higher and her family soon to break their fast. She took the familiar trail down, watching rather more carefully now for any other riders inclined to career through the wood, though she met with none upon her way home.
At Longbourn, she found by the evidence in the breakfast room that her family had already begun their meal. She helped herself to what pastries and eggs remained before joining them.
"Lizzy, late again to breakfast! Why must you go tramping about the countryside at such an hour? Have you no consideration for my poor nerves?" cried Mrs. Bennet.
Elizabeth, drawing a steadying breath and resolved upon composure, replied, "Good morning, Mama. A walk each morning sets me up for anything; I feel quite refreshed. How did you sleep?"
"I shall never understand you, Lizzy. It is too much entirely."
"You need not worry, Mama, I never go half so far as I should like, and always keep near Longbourn." She bestowed a brief kiss upon her mother's cheek before adding, "Now, have you had any further news of the militia?"
Elizabeth had, by long practice, become rather skilled in the art of turning her mother's conversation from subjects she preferred to avoid, and she employed this talent now without scruple, choosing the one topic certain to command her mother's whole attention.
She had determined, upon her walk home, that she would disclose the morning's adventure to no one, certainly not to her mother.
She might, in time, confide it to Jane, though not today; she had lived through the encounter often enough already in her own mind to have no wish to relate it again so soon.
Mrs. Bennet, meanwhile, had launched into all she had gathered from Mrs. Lucas concerning the militia, and Elizabeth, attending with something less than her full mind, offered only enough encouragement to keep her mother happily employed.
She moved to the settee, where her sewing lay from the day before, while Jane regarded her with a look of such sweetness, and such evident understanding, that Elizabeth knew at once her sister had guessed the whole trick of the redirection.
Elizabeth answered with the smallest lift of her brow, acknowledging as much, and took up her needle where she had left it.
It was only as she began to sew that she noticed her fingers were not quite steady; a small remnant, she supposed, of the morning's alarm, not yet entirely settled.