Chapter 7
SEVEN
“—and much as the ancient ruins of Rome and the masterpieces of Florence impressed me, I think it was the beauty of the landscapes, where rolling hills are terraced to grow olives and grapes, and tall, narrow cypress trees lining roads and lakes that most amazed me.”
“It sounds overwhelming,” Elizabeth murmured.
“I would love to see Italy, to walk its towns and seaside, and the countryside and gardens...all of it. It is unlikely I shall, but perhaps if I am fortunate and do not cause my aunt and uncle Gardiner to dislike me, I may accompany them to see the lakes and even, dare I say it, the rocky bits of Scotland.” She laughed.
“Lydia wishes to marry a redcoat, but she fails to understand encampments are not a pleasurable adventure.”
“A difficult life and no life for a lady.” Mr Darcy poked at the fire. “I meant to paint pictures for you, not incite melancholy.”
Elizabeth shifted and moved her toes closer to the hearth.
“You have done nothing of the kind, sir. You have excited my imagination with your vivid tales and descriptions.” He had done far more; his low, warm, rich voice had stirred something in her as he talked of places and people and imaginings of experience she wished she could enjoy.
As Mr Darcy spoke, it raised in her a feeling of comfort.
In the quiet lazy back and forth of their conversation, here in the dim light, where neither could truly see the other, there was a freedom to speak, to feel.
There was fatigue in their voices, yet a shared liveliness of spirit.
Only her family knew her subdued, sleepy voice, she thought, yawning.
Truly, she should go to bed. The roar of Mr Philips’ stuttering snore sounded, louder than ever, and she clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter.
Mr Darcy chuckled. “Your aunt may paint, but your uncle is a most impressive practitioner of snoring. Even my cousin, who has been in barracks much of the past five years, would applaud him.”
“Snoring seems to be an affliction among men my father’s age.
They lose their hair and gain a new means of imposing their presence on a household.
” She dipped her hand into her pocket and pulled out two small tufts of cotton.
“Take these for your ears. A bit of cotton stuffing from my pillow helps dampen the sound.”
“I will disappoint you, madam,” he said wryly as he accepted her gift. “Darcy men do not lose their hair, nor do they snore.”
He will disappoint me? “It is your wife and valet who will bear your ire over a balding pate and a bed-shaking snore.”
“Yes,” came his reply. The room grew quiet; with the fire low and her candle nearly out, it was now too dark to see his expression, and she wondered whether she had heard a note of disappointment in his voice. Or perhaps he had been overcome by weariness and fallen asleep.
How had she come to be here, curled on the parlour floor talking to Mr Darcy by firelight, neither fearing for her reputation or her dignity?
Two days ago, she had not thought his manners warm or pretty.
In these past hours, confined within a strange house, with people far below him in manner and consequence, he was vastly improved in civility and humour; he seemed a different man entirely.
She was enjoying his company, perhaps too much, and did not wish to break the spell cast between them.
“Lizzy,” came the voice of her aunt. “Lizzy, are you well?”
Elizabeth lifted her head from the pillow and looked round the dark room, shivering.
In the dim moonlight, she quickly realised she was not in her chambers—nor was that a pillow cradling her head.
Mr Darcy! Panicked, she turned and reached to awaken him, but upon seeing him asleep, she hesitated; his eyes closed, hair tousled, a small smile on his lips, he looked far more boyish than the proud gentleman she had known the past month.
He has much to be proud of, including his fine looks, she thought, admiring the impressive breadth of his shoulders and the firmness of his chin.
“Lizzy, are you well?”
She pushed on Mr Darcy’s shoulder, mindful that only a thin layer of linen separated her hand from his flesh, solid and warm and real. “Mr Darcy, please wake up.”
He looked up, his eyes heavy with sleep, before suddenly recalling himself. “Yes?”
She put her fingers to his lips and in a hushed voice, said, “My aunt calls for me. I must go upstairs and explain that I was stealing a biscuit. When you hear me cough two times, you may come out and go to your room.” Seeing he was now fully awake, she dropped her hand, half-mortified.
“Remember to use the cotton for your ears; my uncle will snore for hours longer.”
Mr Darcy remained still but his eyes were bright and piercing as his hand rose to hers, pressing her fingers gently and kissing them. Something like lightning thrummed through her, making her catch her breath; she felt almost lightheaded, unable to gather a thought.
Mrs Philips’s quavering voice supplied an awkward end to their evening idyll. “Lizzy?”
Elizabeth tore herself away and moments later was on the stair, quietly calling, “Aunt, I am here.”
After assuring the drowsy lady that she was not unwell but had only gone in search of a snack, Elizabeth coughed twice to signal to Mr Darcy that it was safe for him to retire.
She then stepped into her own chamber and climbed into her bed, glancing at the clock to see it was not yet three o’clock.
Hours till dawn and she was wide awake, her mind awhirl with the confidences and amiable exchanges she had shared with Mr Darcy.
He was a gentleman, but not the one I thought I knew; was it the darkness of the room and the late hour, our shared predicament and amusement that caused such camaraderie?
It feels like more, she thought. Lifting her hand, she pressed her fingers to her lips, marvelling at his tenderness, in awe of her own desire.
A week ago, she had imagined their feelings were equal: he despised her, and she disliked him. Now everything was altered, was it not?