“I trust you slept well,” she ventured at last, though the polite enquiry sounded hollow even to her own ears.
“Well enough, thank you,” Darcy replied without lifting his gaze from his plate. His voice carried the same distant courtesy he might employ with any casual acquaintance—polite, proper, and utterly devoid of warmth.
Elizabeth set down her teacup with slightly more force than necessary, the delicate china ringing against its saucer. “Mr Darcy, about yesterday’s events—”
“There is nothing whatsoever to discuss,” he interrupted, his tone sharp enough to slice through her attemptedconciliation. “You expressed your sentiments quite clearly and comprehensively.’”
Heat flooded Elizabeth’s cheeks as her own words were thrown back at her. “I spoke in anger—in the heat of emotion.”
“You spoke with perfect honesty,” Darcy said, finally raising his eyes to meet hers. The dark gaze that had once held warmth and understanding now contained only a cold assessment that made her stomach clench with regret. “I am indeed the son of a steward who has married an earl’s daughter. Society will undoubtedly draw their own conclusions about my motives, precisely as you have done.”
“That is not—I did not mean—” Elizabeth fumbled for words that might repair the damage she had wrought, but Darcy was already rising from his chair with fluid, controlled movements.
The array of untouched dishes seemed to mock them both—the silver chafing dishes keeping eggs and bacon warm, the basket of fresh bread with its accompaniment of butter and preserves, the delicate pastries arranged on tiered stands.
She watched Darcy survey the abundance with what appeared to be distaste rather than pleasure. “Are you not enjoying the fare fit for a gentleman?” she said, the words emerging with a bite she immediately regretted.
Darcy’s hand stilled on the back of his chair. “I confess myself more accustomed to simpler fare. At home, we typically broke our fast with porridge and perhaps some bread. This elaborate display seems rather excessive for two people, particularly when much of it will inevitably go to waste.”
“Porridge?” she said, surprised.
“Yes, I am accustomed to salted porridge, nothing more substantial,” Darcy said quietly, his voice devoid of defensiveness. “Such heavy fare in the morning has never agreed with my constitution, and I would prefer to maintain that simplicity, if you have no objection to such rustic habits. You are welcome to have whatever you like, of course.”
Elizabeth paused, her teacup halfway to her lips, struck by an unexpected wave of recognition. “I confess, I have always preferred simple porridge myself. But my mother insisted it was not fitting for a lady to break her fast with such humble fare, particularly when we might have guests.”
Something flickered in Darcy’s expression—surprise, perhaps, or the ghost of understanding. “You are now lady of your own house,” he said, his tone gentling slightly. “You may eat whatever pleases you, in whatever manner suits your preference. I shall certainly not prevent you from following your own inclinations in such matters.”
The unexpected kindness in his voice caught Elizabeth off guard, and for a moment her defensive hostility wavered. But then the memory of their bitter exchange rushed back, and she steeled herself against the temporary softening.
“Well, I ought to be grateful for small mercies,” she said.
Darcy moved towards the door with measured steps, then paused without turning to face her. “Elizabeth,” he said, and the sound of her given name in his voice made her breath catch. “I want you to understand something with perfect clarity. I did not intend to trick you into this marriage. When I discovered you that night, you were in distress. My only thought was to offer assistance. I could not possibly have known that someone would open the terrace door at precisely that moment.”
She opened her mouth to speak—perhaps to apologise for her harsh and unfair accusations, to acknowledge that his explanation rang with the clarity of truth, to admit that her anger had led her to attribute malice where none existed. Darcy straightened and moved decisively towards the door.
“If you will excuse me,” he said, his tone once again formal and distant, “I have pressing estate matters requiring my attention. Until we have a new steward, I shall have to tend to matters myself.”
And with that, he was gone, leaving Elizabeth alone with her thoughts, her regrets, and the reproachful abundance of their untouched breakfast. She stared at the closed door through which he had departed, her heart hammering against her ribs with something that felt suspiciously like panic.
She had achieved what she thought she wanted—distance from this unwanted husband, confirmation of her own independence and superiority. So why did his withdrawal feel less like a victory and more like the hollow ache of loss?
***
An hour later, after Darcy had departed, Elizabeth decided that perhaps some fresh air might drive away the melancholy that had taken residence in her heart and mind. She was lost in thought when the sound of carriage wheels drew her attention. A carriage stopped on the road and the door opened. Her heart lifted as Jane emerged, looking elegant as always despite the early hour.
“Lizzy!” Jane hurried towards her, arms outstretched. “I hoped I might catch you taking your morning walk. You always did prefer the early hours for solitude. You look tired, sister.”
“I feel tired,” Elizabeth admitted, linking her arm through Jane’s as they continued down the path. “And rather ashamed of myself, if I’m honest.”
“Whatever for?”
Elizabeth hesitated, then decided upon complete honesty. Jane had always been her closest confidante, the one person who might understand the turmoil in her heart. “I said terrible things to Mr Darcy yesterday. Cruel, unkind words that I can barely bring myself to repeat.”
Jane’s expression grew troubled. “What sort of things?”
“I accused him of being a fortune hunter. Of using my distress to elevate himself above his natural station.” The words tasted bitter in Elizabeth’s mouth. “I called him beneath my notice, Jane. I was vicious and unfair, and I cannot seem to forgive myself for it.”
They paused beside a stone bench beneath an old oak tree, its leaves beginning to turn with the approach of autumn. Jane settled beside her, taking Elizabeth’s cold hands in her own warm ones.
