“The situation is far too complicated for me to entertain such thoughts,” Darcy replied. “I hope only that we might learn to get along tolerably well in future.”
“Who knows? Perhaps things will end up very good indeed.”
Darcy shook his head. “Elizabeth is beautiful, intelligent, possessing a fiery spirit and considerable wit. But too much stands between us now. Besides, she most certainly does not care for me.”
They had reached the village centre, where the ancient church stood surrounded by its weathered cemetery. A long queue of people stretched from the church doors, and Bingley pulled up his mount with curiosity.
“What is happening there?”
“Every Wednesday they hold a soup kitchen,” Darcy explained. “Lord Hartford arranged for all the tenants to contribute a small portion to the church fund in exchange for reduced rents. The church provides hot meals and essential supplies to those in need.”
As he spoke, Darcy’s attention was caught by a familiar figure moving among those serving the meals. Elizabeth stood at one of the tables, ladling soup into wooden bowls with practiced efficiency. Her hair was simply dressed, and she wore a plain brown dress that had seen better days—clearly chosen for practicality rather than fashion.
“By Jove!” Bingley exclaimed. “Is that Lady Elizabeth?”
Darcy stared, genuinely surprised. “I had no idea she participated in this.”
An elderly woman hobbled past them, clutching a small basket that clearly contained her allotment from the church. Darcy dismounted and approached her.
“Excuse me, madam. Is Lady Elizabeth here every week?”
The woman turned, revealing a toothless smile that transformed her weathered face. “Oh yes, sir. Lady Elizabeth has been coming for years, she has. Sometimes she, Lady Jane, and Lady Mary deliver things to people’s homes, too. Lady Mary, bless her, will read from the Bible if you ask her—ever so pious, that one. But Lady Elizabeth, she’ll pick up a broom and help you clean your house if you need it.”
Darcy thanked the woman and remounted, his mind reeling. He had known nothing of this aspect of Elizabeth’s character—her willingness to engage in practical charity, to workalongside the common people rather than simply directing their efforts from a distance.
“You look as though you have seen a ghost,” Bingley observed with amusement.
“I am beginning to realise how little I know about my wife,” Darcy admitted. “Her interests, her habits, her character beyond our brief acquaintance.”
“Perhaps in due course you will discover more,” Bingley said thoughtfully. “And who knows? You may yet find a way to bridge the gaps between you.”
As they rode away from the village, Darcy cast one last glance back at the church. Elizabeth was still there, her movements efficient and purposeful as she served those who depended on the weekly charity. The sight stirred something unexpected in his chest—not quite admiration, for he was still too wounded for that, but a recognition that his wife possessed depths he had never suspected.
The question that haunted him as they returned to Longbourn was whether those depths might someday include space for forgiveness, or whether the lies between them had already grown too thick to penetrate. For the first time since their disastrous wedding breakfast, Darcy allowed himself to wonder what might have been possible between them under different circumstances—and what might still be possible, if he could summon the courage to seek the truth rather than hide from it.
Chapter Twenty
Elizabeth
21st November 1811
The needle slipped through the silk with trained precision as Elizabeth worked at her embroidery.
Across the drawing room, Darcy sat at the mahogany table, his quill scratching steadily across paper.
A sigh escaped her lips before she could stop it.
Darcy looked up from his correspondence, his dark eyes attentive. “You seem troubled. Is something amiss?”
Elizabeth set down her embroidery, suddenly weary of pretending absorption in needlework. “It is only that Charlotte Lucas has accepted my cousin’s proposal of marriage.”
“Congratulations are in order, then.”
“I’m not entirely certain of that.” Elizabeth replied. “I fear it is a terrible match. Charlotte is seven-and-twenty, and I believe she has accepted Mr Collins only because she thinks no other offers will come.”
Darcy’s expression grew thoughtful. “That may well be true. Seven-and-twenty is the age when most ladies must begin to consider such practical concerns.”
“Yes, but I had hoped that Charlotte would be able to marry for love.”
