Then Elizabeth slipped her hand out of the crook of his arm. She looked away, and the fragile moment between them snapped like a sugar crystal.
“Forgive me, I think I am talking nonsense,” Elizabeth told him with an embarrassed laugh. “I should return to my room. I had a late-night visit from my cousin, Mary. She could not sleep, and so I let her stay with me last night. I do not want her to feel abandoned when she wakes up.”
“Of course,” Darcy replied. Little as he wished to let her go, he had no right to keep her. Indeed, it had been wrong of him to walk so long alone with her, and to speak so personally. After all, Elizabeth was a guest under his roof, and therefore under his protection. She bowed, then made her way back to the terrace through the maze of flowers and small trees.
Darcy watched her go to ensure she reached the house without incident, then continued on his way. What had he been thinking, pressing her so? She was a lady of breeding and would never have revealed the depth of her feelings for him, if indeed she had any, without him first making a declaration of his feelings.
And why had he spoken of his father? Even though he was gone, his aunts still had high hopes of his marrying well. And Miss Bennet was certainly not the well-connected heiress they expected for him. The more he thought of their expectations, especially those of his condescending Aunt Catherine, the more he felt he did not care what they thought. Lady Catherine had always made it clear that she hoped he would marry her daughter Anne one day.Thatwould never come to pass, whatever his aunt thought.
But what of what he wanted? It was his life, and he was the only one who could live it. The question was, ought he to live by the dictates and expectations of others? Or could honour and duty be squared with an increasing desire to strike out and live for himself?
Chapter 15
Constance slumped against the wall of the hidden staircase, wondering if what she heard was the wind whistling through the long-forgotten secret passage or one of Kentworth Abbey’s many ghosts. Gathering her resolve, she straightened up and hurried on, deeper into the corridor. It was cold, so cold, as though the very walls breathed out an icy breath. Cobwebs were thick in all the corners, making her wonder how long it had been since another mortal had trod this path.
At a turn in the passageway, a cold draught blew across Constance’s face, making her stumble back in surprise and alarm. The flame of her candle flickered, then went out. She let out a hollow gasp as she realised she was lost in total darkness, crowded in by the heavy stone walls. Alone.
“Could you use some assistance, my lady?”
Her heart thrummed uncontrollably in her chest. It was him! Lord Alfred! She would know his voice anywhere: deep and comforting, with kindness woven through every syllable.
“How did you find me?” Constance asked as he turned and retrieved another candle from the little shelf in the alcove he had stepped out of a moment before.
“I followed you. These tunnels have a way of curving back around on themselves. Surely you’ve heard of the ghost of the young woman who was lost in them during the Dark Ages?”
He smiled wryly, then took her hand. Lord Alfred was so handsome, his dark hair in perfect array, even in the middle of the night. And his dark, searching brown eyes made her heart pitter-patter in her chest —
Elizabeth let out a frustrated sigh, setting her quill down on the beautiful little writing desk. She ran her fingers through the curls that had escaped from her coiffure and stood. To her increasing frustration, the heroic Lord Alfred would not behave at all. When she had first started scribbling notes about the main characters in her next book, Lord Alfred had been flirtatious and charming, the sort of man to befriend everyone he met. She had enjoyed the thought of her hero being a dashing colonel, wounded and trapped in a haunted abbey out of nightmares, and yet remaining cheerful despite everything.
He was not supposed to be quiet and well-read, with a surprising sardonic wit. He was not supposed to be the sort of man who said little, but did much. Even his looks seemed to be changing. She had meant Lord Alfred to have golden hair and laughing green eyes, but his hair had turned a wavy brown, and his eyes insisted on being dark and piercing.
He seemed, in fact, to be developing an alarming resemblance to Mr Darcy.
Elizabeth sat down again with a huff and began crossing out lines of Lord Alfred’s description. She must rewrite the manuscript that had perished in the fire, and she mustnotallow herself to be distracted by her daydreams.
There was nothing to be done but allow her mind to rest and try to realign her thoughts with the original manuscript she had begun. She put her writing away in the safety of the little cubby drawer, lest anyone should stumble upon it. Soon, the manuscript would grow too big to fit all the pages. But for now, the little hiding place made her feel more confident in her secret’s safety.
Elizabeth propped her head in her hand and looked out the window at the brightening landscape. Though every time of day was beautiful at Pemberley, early mornings were the best of all. Truly, it was no hardship to rise before the others to write, even on days when she had stayed at her desk until late the night before.
She sighed, wondering about her family. Were they well, were they happy, was all much the same in the little cottage? Surely Jane must write soon. Elizabeth had sent a brief letter to Meryton after the fire, informing them both of the disaster and of their safe escape. Knowing how her mother and sisters would worry over them, she had followed it up with another, much more cheerful letter shortly after they had arrived at Pemberley. Describing their hosts’ generosity had taken a little care, least Mrs Bennet imagine things she should not. Though her mother would certainly consider the unmarried Mr Darcy to be one of the benefits of the place, Elizabeth knew better. She would not embarrass their generous host with foolish dreams.
At least there had been much she might safely write about. She had described the long walks they had taken every day about the grounds after tea, when the children were up to the nursery for their naps. And then there was attending church on the first Sunday they had been in Lambton, and the delicious meals prepared by the French cook. Mary would be jealous ofthe very fine pianoforte Mr Darcy had bought for his sister, and of Elizabeth for playing two-handed pieces with Miss Darcy. At home, Elizabeth had never taken the time to become very proficient at the instrument, leaving Mary alone to lead the way. But now that she was at Pemberley, Miss Darcy had encouraged her to practice, ever patient with Elizabeth’s stumbling fingers. Surprisingly, she was improving, slowly but surely.
And then there had been her description of Mr Darcy and his kindness to them. It would not have done him justice to omit a mention, and yet Elizabeth was sensible of the danger. It would not do to alert Jane to her true feelings for him. That could only make her sister worry over her at best, knowing it to be quite impossible for any deeper relationship to grow between them — and Elizabeth hated to think of what might result if their mother was equally cognisant of her feelings.
She had therefore said as little of Mr Darcy as she felt could be reconciled with the favour he had done them. And if, in her caution, she had not quite done him justice, surely that was better than the risk incurred by praising him as she really felt he deserved.
Elizabeth sighed in frustration and told herself to focus. Mr Tilney was an understanding man, for a publisher, but his patience would not last forever. If she were to get the finished manuscript to him by the adjusted deadline in the autumn, she would have to spend a considerable amount of time each afternoon at her desk. But it had been difficult to excuse herself from the company of her friends, and especially Mr Darcy.
“Now, behave,” she said, looking at the quill she had snatched up from the desk. She must think of the romance between her hero and heroine. It was the only romance sheought to concern herself with, for romance between herself and Mr Darcy was impossible.
It was all quite impossible. Elizabeth felt she must clear her mind before trying again. Giving up, if only for the moment, she replaced the quill to sit near the inkwell and went to change.
Once tidy enough to meet the others, Elizabeth went downstairs to the drawing room. Even though it was still quite early, she found Miss Darcy there, practicing as the early morning sunshine streamed through the glass panes.
Miss Darcy looked up and exclaimed with delight upon seeing her. “Oh, Miss Bennet! Come quickly. My brother ordered away for more sheet music, and it was delivered late last night. Come and try this two-handed piece with me.”
Elizabeth was happy to oblige. She sat down to give the piece her best attempt. That, indeed, was not very good, but it did provide them with some laughter. With practice and helpful suggestions from Miss Darcy, the piece sounded more and more as it should.
