THE TURNING OF THE HEART
The previous day'sevents churned through Elizabeth’s thoughts in an endless loop: Mr. Bingley's obvious joy, Jane's quiet radiance, Mrs. Bennet's shrieking interruption—and Mr. Darcy, standing in the parlor with something urgent in his eyes, sayingthere is something I wish to tell you.
If only her mother had not interrupted!
But his expression when she left—that mixture of frustration and hope—haunted her still.
Perhaps we might speak later?
She had said the words herself. Had offered them like an invitation, a promise, a door left deliberately ajar.
And he had looked at her as though she had given him something precious.
Elizabeth pressed her hands to her face and found her cheeks warm despite the cold morning air. The lane stretched before her, empty and quiet, edged with hedgerows gone silver with frost. Elizabeth walked with her head down, lost in thought,replaying every conversation she had shared with Mr. Darcy over the past weeks.
His awkward attempts at conversation. His protective instincts, manifesting again and again—beneath mistletoe, in crowded rooms, wherever she needed shielding from embarrassment or harm. The way he looked at her when he thought she was not watching, his careful mask slipping to reveal something raw and wanting beneath.
And Mr. Wickham's stories, growing less convincing with each retelling. The smooth charm that now seemed calculated rather than natural. The pointed questions, the subtle implications, the way his eyes had gone cold when she defended Mr. Darcy at the holiday entertainment.
She had been wrong about both of them.
Elizabeth rounded a bend in the lane and stopped.
Mr. Darcy stood ahead, perhaps twenty paces distant, his tall figure unmistakable even in the gray morning light. He wore his greatcoat against the cold, his hat in his hands, and he was watching her approach with an expression of uncertain hope.
As though he had been waiting. How had he come to know her so well?
Elizabeth's heart gave a sharp, surprised beat.
“Miss Elizabeth.” His voice was lower than usual, edged with nerves she rarely heard from him. “I hoped I might find you.”
The admission sent a flutter through her chest. “You have been waiting?”
“I saw you leave Longbourn. From the road.” He gestured vaguely toward the distant house. “I was—that is, I had intended to call, but when I saw you walking alone...” He stopped, looking frustrated with his own ineloquence. “Forgive me. I do not mean to intrude.”
“You are not intruding.”
Something shifted in his expression. Was it relief, perhaps? Or maybe hope. “May I walk with you?”
Elizabeth did not hesitate. “I should like that.”
They fell into step together, moving along the frost-covered lane with a careful distance between them. The silence stretched, and she wondered if she should break it. Ask what he had wanted to speak to her about.
But Mr. Darcy spoke before she could gather the courage. “There are things Mr. Wickham may have told you.” His voice was quiet, almost painful. “Matters I have long wished to correct.”
Elizabeth's breath caught. She had known this was coming—had sensed it building for days—but hearing him speak the words aloud made them suddenly, sharply real.
“I am listening,” she said softly.
He walked a few more paces in silence, clearly gathering his thoughts. When he spoke again, his voice was careful, measured as though each word cost him something.
“Wickham was raised alongside me. My father treated him as a second son, paid for his education, provided every advantage a young man could wish for. He was... charming. Even then. Especially then.”
Elizabeth heard the echo of old pain in his voice.
“My father intended him for the church,” Mr. Darcy continued. “A valuable living was set aside for him—a comfortable position that would have provided security for life. But when my father died, Wickham refused it. He declared that he had no interest in taking orders, that the church was beneath him.” A muscle tightened in his jaw. “He demanded money instead. A substantial sum, in exchange for resigning all claim to the living.”
“And you gave it to him?”
