12. Chapter Twelve #3
Once, when thinking of Mr. Darcy, she had felt mortification first. Then regret. Then gratitude complicated by pride, pride complicated by embarrassment, and embarrassment complicated by every new kindness he displayed.
None of those old arguments comforted her much anymore. She was very close to loving him. The realization arrived so abruptly that she nearly dropped the book altogether. Instead, she let her fingers remain where they were, near his on the book’s worn cover.
Charlotte’s voice came to her from months earlier: Jane should have shown more affection, more certainty, more encouragement.
Elizabeth had laughed then, partly because Charlotte’s views of marriage were always practical to the point of alarm and partly because Jane’s heart had never needed theatrical display to be real.
Perhaps a gentleman could be forgiven for requiring some sign.
Mr. Darcy, of all men, had already been refused once.
He would not presume easily again.
Elizabeth drew the book toward herself, slowly enough that his fingers slid away from the cover rather than released it.
“I have wanted this volume for a long while,” she said. “You have brought me to exactly the right place.”
His expression changed slightly. Hope, quickly checked.
“I am glad.”
“I am too.” She held the book against her waist and forced herself not to look away. “Very glad.”
It was not much.
It was also more than she would once have allowed him.
Mr. Darcy stood silent for a moment. “Then I must thank Mr. Alden for preserving my reputation as a guide.”
“I should not give him all the credit.”
The words escaped before she had polished them into safety.
He went still for a moment. “No?”
“No.”
Elizabeth’s cheeks heated at her own boldness, but she kept her ground. Barely.
Mr. Alden saved them both by dropping a stack of pamphlets behind the counter.
“Blast,” the bookseller muttered, then raised his head. “Pardon, miss.”
Elizabeth smiled wryly, partly from amusement and partly from gratitude for interruption. “No apology required. I have several younger sisters. Pamphlets are mild by comparison.”
Darcy took the books from her after she selected a third small volume of poems for Jane and carried them to the counter. Elizabeth protested that she could manage. He answered that he did not doubt it, which was no answer at all and somehow still made her blush.
When they emerged from the shop a quarter hour later, the village had grown busier. A cart rattled past carrying sacks of flour. Two women stood outside the draper’s window arguing over ribbon widths. Somewhere up the street Lydia’s voice rose in unmistakable triumph.
“Should we be alarmed?” Elizabeth asked.
“Almost certainly.”
“Miss Darcy is with her?”
“And Mrs. Gardiner.”
Elizabeth smiled pertly. “It is very fortunate my aunt appeared when she did. There is no telling what mischief Lydia might get up to unattended.”
“I have grown rather fond of Miss Lydia.”
Elizabeth stopped walking and stared at him.
“You have?”
“Yes.”
“Of Lydia?”
“Yes.”
“My sister Lydia?”
“I believe there is but one.”
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “She has grown upon you in the manner of a mushroom upon a fallen tree.”
“Am I the fallen tree?”
She swatted his arm lightly with the rolled paper around her purchases before propriety could stop her. “You know perfectly well what I meant.”
He fiddled with his sleeve, then back at her, openly amused. “Miss Lydia,” he said as they resumed walking, “possesses more loyalty than judgment. But loyalty is not a small thing.”
That quieted her more than she expected.
“No,” Elizabeth said after a moment. “It is not.”
“She has been good for Georgiana.”
“Yes.” Elizabeth watched two children chase each other past a row of cottages. “And perhaps Georgiana has been good for Lydia.”
“I think so.”
They walked a little farther, unhurried.
The lane sloped gradually toward the inn, though they were not in haste to reach it.
Elizabeth became aware of the books tucked beneath her arm, the brush of her glove against his sleeve when villagers passed and forced them nearer together, the ease of walking beside him in public without wishing to escape.
She ought to have been frightened by that.
Instead, she asked, “Will you tell me a story from your childhood?”
Mr. Darcy raised his brows. “My childhood?”
“Yes. You know several of mine now, and Lydia has revealed enough family history to supply all Derbyshire with gossip for a month. It is fair.”
“I was not a very entertaining child.”
“I shall judge that.”
He considered this while they walked past a stone cottage with lavender growing beside the door.
“I once hid in the old chapel ruins for half a day because my tutor assigned me a Latin exercise I considered beneath my dignity.”
Elizabeth raised a brow. “How old were you?”
“Eight.”
“An early display of arrogance.”
“Sadly, yes.”
“Were you found?”
“Eventually. By my father. I expected punishment.” Darcy’s expression softened with the memory. “Instead, he sat beside me in the ruins and corrected the exercise there. Every incorrect answer meant I had to carry one stone back toward the wall.”
Elizabeth smiled. “Practical discipline.”
“Humiliatingly effective. I never hid from Latin again.”
“Only from assemblies.”
Amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Those proved harder to escape.”
“Poor Mr. Darcy.”
“You are merciless.”
“I have been told so.”
They were nearing the inn now. Elizabeth could see Mr. Bingley near the doorway speaking to Mr. Gardiner, while Mrs. Hurst examined something in a shop window farther along the street. Miss Darcy and Lydia were nowhere visible, presumably still with Mrs. Gardiner.
Mr. Darcy slowed slightly.
“So,” Elizabeth said, unable to resist, “the great master of Pemberley was once a proud boy hiding among ruins to avoid grammar.”
“Latin.”
“Worse.”
“Much worse.”
She gave a soft burst of amusement, and the look he granted her carried such unmistakable pleasure that the sound died abruptly upon her lips.
For one suspended instant, she believed he might say something of consequence. Something beyond books or family or harmless wit.
Her fingers closed more firmly around the parcel in her hands.
Then a shop door flew open behind them with unnecessary force.
“Mr. Darcy!”
Miss Bingley descended upon them and her sister hastened to join her, her pelisse restored to order though indignation still lingered plainly upon her features. A faint mark remained near the hem of her gown despite every attempt to remove it.
“There you are,” she declared while approaching with determined haste. “You cannot conceive what I have suffered. Country boys are dreadful creatures. I have endured mud, noise, incompetence, and staring of the rudest description.”
Mr. Darcy assumed the expression of a man long acquainted with trial.
Elizabeth bit the inside of her cheek to preserve her composure.
Miss Bingley took his arm before he could step back. “You must escort me to the carriage. I do not trust another step through this village unaided.”
Darcy’s expression changed slightly when Miss Bingley spoke. The expression he sent her would have scandalized Rosings entirely.
Elizabeth gave the smallest shrug she could manage while keeping her mouth perfectly sober.
He was led away.
Mrs. Hurst followed with a sigh that suggested she had endured equal suffering by association.
Elizabeth watched them go, still holding her books.
Aunt Gardiner came to stand beside her.
“Well,” her aunt said after a moment, “Mr. Darcy appears very attentive.”
Elizabeth did not pretend to misunderstand. “Yes.”
Mrs. Gardiner put her hand on her niece’s arm. “And do you welcome it?”
Elizabeth examined the parcel in her arms. One corner of the brown paper had loosened, revealing the worn spine of Mr. Bennet’s book.
“I think I do.”
Her aunt said nothing for several steps.
Then, gently, “He is nothing like the gentleman you described in your letters from Hertfordshire.”
“No.” Elizabeth watched Mr. Darcy help Miss Bingley around a puddle while enduring an animated account of rural torment. “It turns out I am a rather poor judge of character.”
“I would not say that.”
“I would.”
Mrs. Gardiner touched her arm lightly. “Some characters are more easily mistaken than others. Some people hide their best qualities behind pride. Others hide their worst beneath charm.”
Elizabeth faced her then.
Wickham did not need to be named.
Neither did Mr. Darcy.
Her aunt’s expression held no censure, just understanding.
Elizabeth adjusted the parcel more securely beneath her arm. “Then perhaps I must learn to look longer before deciding.”
“A useful lesson.”
“A painful one.”
“Those are often the sort that remain.”
Up the street, Lydia burst from the milliner’s shop with a ribbon held high above her head and Georgiana laughing behind her.
Miss Bingley wheeled at the noise.
Mr. Darcy, still trapped beside her, cast a long-suffering look at Elizabeth again over the lady’s bonnet.
This time Elizabeth did not look away.
She smiled at him.
Openly enough for him to see.
His expression changed before Miss Bingley tugged him onward.
Elizabeth held her aunt’s arm a little tighter and pretended the village air had not suddenly become much warmer.