He could not stop thinking about her. Miss Bennet was no ordinary woman. She had a sharp mind and a compassionate heart, but there was something more to her, a mystery he had yet to unravel. Darcy felt himself growing more drawn to her every day, his curiosity sharpening into something deeper. And yet, despite his growing affection, there was a wall she had built around herself, one he could not yet breach.
Then he thought of how he had himself pulled away from her and chastised himself as a hypocrite.
As the week progressed, Darcy found himself settling into a routine at Hollydale. Each morning, he met with Thatcher, Freedman, Thompson, and the other men to discuss any findings and plan the day’s patrols. The reports were frustratingly similar: small disturbances in the woods, a few more items missing from the outbuildings. The items were small enough that they could not have even been certain the property had been taken rather than just misplaced had they not already been watching for thefts—but the small items never showed up in the cache. No matter how closely they watched, there was no clear sign of the interloper, so he was not returning to his store of stolen goods often.
Though Darcy had nothing of consequence to report, he still sought out moments with Miss Bennet to keep her informed. Brief moments, where neither of them seemed able to look one another in the eye.
On Friday, Darcy was returning from a ride around the property and saw a brief glimpse of Miss Bennet walking into the gardens, Thatcher following at a discreet distance. He dismounted and handed the reins to a stable boy beforebrushing his clothes off and directing his steps back in that direction.
When he stepped through the opening in the wall to the largest of the gardens, he hesitated. “Miss Bennet,” he called, not wishing to startle her.
She turned. At the sight of him, a polite little smile appeared on her countenance. She had been keeping herself more distant from him since that moment on the landing, spending more time with his sister instead. While a part of him was sorry for it, it did make it easier to focus on his purpose here. At least this morning she appeared able to greet him with more ease than she had of late.
“How was your ride, Mr. Darcy?” she asked.
He fell into step beside her. “Uneventful, I am afraid.”
She nodded. “Thank you for keeping me informed.”
He paused, carefully considering his words. “I am frustrated we have not yet apprehended the culprit.”
“I share your sentiments, sir. It is becoming increasingly difficult to keep these matters from my mother.”
Darcy nodded sympathetically. “I understand. However, your decision to protect her from anxiety is commendable.”
Their eyes met, and for a moment, Darcy forgot about his purpose and his promise to remain aloof until this matter was satisfactorily concluded. He was simply a man, walking with a woman he admired. He was acutely aware of Miss Bennet’s presence beside him, how the subtle scent of jasmine clung to her hair, the natural grace with which she moved.
“I must admit I am both frustrated and relieved by our lack of progress.”
Miss Bennet glanced up at him, her dark eyes curious. “Why is that, Mr. Darcy?”
“My sister is flourishing under your mother’s kind attentions and your own,” he remarked. Miss Bennet had taken it uponherself to teach Georgiana some fine embroidery—including a few stitches his sister had not yet learned—and to include her in a sewing project she and Mrs. Bennet had started at Hollydale to provide warm clothing for the children of the estate’s tenants. Georgiana now planned to ask Mrs. Reynolds about anyone at Pemberley who might be in need. She had also told him a great deal about their discussions, including a story about Miss Bennet making a shirt for her father that had a neck so small he could not pull it over his head. Georgiana had said Miss Bennet just laughed and promised her skills with a needle were far better now.
He missed hearing Miss Bennet laugh. Hopefully, all of this would be over soon, and he could ask to call on her as more than a concerned neighbour. He allowed himself to imagine, just for a moment, what that might be like.
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows when Thatcher walked back to her. Mrs. Travis was usually out of the house at this time of day, working in the chandler’s shop.
“No one home, Miss Bennet,” he said with a slight smile. “Not even the cat.”
It was a good thing she was an excellent walker. They could not have driven a carriage up this winding road—it was no more than a path, truthfully, that led them to Mrs. Travis’s cottage.
When she had seen Mrs. Travis on the green, the widow was wearing a shawl that had seen a great deal of wear. Inside the package Elizabeth held was a new one, made of a thick wool, very soft, that she hoped the widow would love. It was a deep blue, which she thought would set the woman’s eyes off well. And then she had sewed a cushion from the remainder of the cloth and placed it in a basket so that Selina would have a matching bed.The door was unlocked, and she just slipped it all inside, shut the door, and hurried back to Thatcher.
“Quickly,” she said with a laugh. “I do not wish to be seen.”
“I doubt anyone will see us all the way out here,” Thatcher replied, but he ushered her to a path through the trees anyway. She thought she saw him smile crookedly as she passed him.
It was the same at the Armstrong house. She had heard a few ladies at the bookshop talking about little Paul, only four, down with a terrible cough. His parents had no money for his medicine. Aunt Gardiner had taught Jane and Elizabeth how to make any number of remedies in their own stillrooms, and so Elizabeth had made two bottles of the syrup they used. Horehound, honey, and water—it was a crime such a simple mixture was not affordable for any family.
She tiptoed up to the front door to leave the bottles, and then hurried away.
When they had completed their rounds—and thanks to Thatcher’s help, they did so in almost no time at all—she smiled brightly at the footman, and he touched the brim of his hat.
“Duchess,” he said quietly.
He meant the Christmas Duchess, of course. Elizabeth shook her head, but she was pleased.
That evening, Elizabeth sat in the drawing room, her needlework forgotten in her lap as she observed the domestic scene before her. Her mother and Miss Darcy were engaged in an animated discussion about the fashion plates spread out on the table before them, while Mr. Darcy sat by the fire, a glass of wine next to him and a book open in his hand. Her heart longed for him to look up, to see her gazing at him.
